I know if I don’t capture the feelings now, I still might be able to later — but they will never feel as they do now.
Today. My last day of work. That elevator — the sound made me want to cry.
A hot day, not too different from today. 23 years ago.
5th Floor, Building 2 — right outside my door was the elevator bank. Mary Susie Conti — the woman I was replacing — was loading up my head with all that I needed to learn.
I was paying rapt attention, but every so often I sussed out the environment. It felt so different to be in an office in the middle of the day instead of home with my two small children, who were now 45 minutes away in a new daycare. Every time I thought of them, my heart hurt just a bit, and I had to intentionally put it out of my mind.
The feel of the air with the open window (at a time when we were allowed to open windows — now I can’t imagine), the humidity in the office, and the sound of the elevator’s electronic voice blathering all day:
“Fifth Floor Going Down… Fifth Floor Going Up.”
Over the next few days and weeks, I slightly startled the 50 or so times a day I heard that electronic voice announcing the floor it landed on and which direction it was going.
Eventually, it became background noise and I didn’t hear it at all. But when I did tune in, no matter the day or time of year, I was transported back to being 26 years old and learning my new job from Mary Susie Conti.
For the past 8+ years, I haven’t come into the office much. I was on a reasonable accommodation and working from home long before COVID. But I have to say — it always felt like home when I did go in.
I honestly believe one of the reasons I got the job is because of that “home”-like feeling.
When I interviewed for that first job, I went through a series of interviews back to back. Martha Shea was the first person who interviewed me.
Right off the bat, she made it known that if I didn’t pass her muster, the two doctors I would soon interview with would take her consideration into account.
She also made sure to tell me she was prior military and instantly started off by asking about my own military experience.
I was slightly intimidated, but something about her already felt familiar. She was my kind of people — I could tell.
I don’t even know how I wasn’t prepared for the question: “Why do you want to work here?”
I mean — for heaven’s sake — if a person can’t answer that, they shouldn’t get the job!
Martha asked me that question and my truly unprepared, but terribly raw response — when I looked around — was:
“Because it feels like home.”
Martha cracked a genuine smile and asked me why.
I looked around, asking myself the same thing to understand why I had that feeling.
I saw the government-issued 3-month calendar, where you save paper with the months on both sides. The chairs. The carpet. The signage. The halls. The overhead pages. Men with military regalia ambling down the hall. The feeling I always got crossing from a state line onto federal property.
So that is what I said. I first pointed to the calendar on the wall, then the chairs. I mentioned something that was broken in a corner and talked about how it all felt familiar.
I didn’t think about puffing everyone up with “helping veterans,” giving back, stories of grandfathers who fought in wars — or all the other things I subsequently heard over the years when I eventually became the interviewer.
My answer was candid and from the heart.
If my interview were a cartoon, Martha would have started off in a knight’s costume — complete with armor — to intimidate me. Then it would have fallen off, and you would have seen her heart literally melting.
She proudly walked me down the hall to the person who would eventually become my first supervisor at the VA.
With a hand on my shoulder, she introduced me in a way that made it clear she liked me and wanted to take me under her wing.
I already felt protected — and that I was with my people.
Today, I drove into for the last time.
The sunrise down the street from me. A new dawn to a brand new type of day for me.
I saw people parking, taking out their bags and lunches, putting on badges. These people were donned in suits, scrubs, lab coats — and everything in between.
I vividly remembered those early days of parking in that same lot. The uniforms, cars and smells were so unfamiliar at the time. Now they are all second nature. All these years I have been taking the same steps into the same building and heading to the elevators —
“1st Floor, going up.”
Today, I ran into one of my coworkers walking into the building.
We got on the elevator together, and I heard that same electronic voice, unchanged in all these years.
I asked him about his two young girls. He filled me in and then asked how old my children were now.
28 and 26. My youngest is now as old as I was when I first started working there.
I worked there for their entire lives. In some ways, I missed their lives because of that place.
I don’t know who I am without it.
Some people would say I worked there a lifetime (23 years).
Others, who have 40, 45 years in the government, would still consider me a newbie.
It’s all relative. But for me — between the military and the Department of Veterans Affairs — it’s been my whole life.
I had jobs in different buildings and offices. Not too many were close to an elevator bank.
Today, as I left, it was:
“7th Floor, going down.”
It felt like:
“Esterina, now going down and out — into the wider world.”
I sat in the parking lot for a long time. I read the cards I was given, sitting in my car with the air conditioning blasting.
I felt nostalgic — but very excited.
Driving away was the hardest part. No tears, but a large lump in my throat.
A piece of my heart will always be there — in those buildings, carpets, walls, files.
And just like that — “7th Floor Going Down” — one chapter closes, and another begins.
As I sit here on the Metro North Railroad next to my husband on this very sunny, very windy Sunday, late April morning, I’m filled with wanderlust and a sense of possibility. As we speed by I notice trees, mountains, houses, cars, waterways, docks… so many ways of living and modes of travel.
The subway this morning, leaving New York City, back home to Connecticut
My heart aches to experience it all. I sit and watch, feeling stuck where I am; on a moving train that is going too fast. I am unable to really see, experience or touch any of it. Destination known.
I marvel at how at any stop I could really get off. How I could take another train to another destination and experience something new. I could…. Why don’t I? Why haven’t I?
I am a government employee.
A Fork in the Road.
That is the title now infamous email sent to government employees on January 28th. It quite possibly could open doors, new roads, endless possibilities. However, the doors and possibilities are soured by the ruthless ways civil servants have been discussed in the past few months.
I am government employee with a possibility of taking early retirement. I am 49 and was not planning to retire for a while. But the possibility cannot stop lingering on my mind. I want to see the world! I want to get out from under the grind, off the crazy train. The past few years, but particularly the past few months have dampened the passion of flames I once had for work. It was long burning down, but the new administration has left but the smallest of sparks still attempting to burn.
I have given my entire adult life to the United States government. At 18 I went into the Coast Guard. At 22, I continued into the active reserve pool and became a weekend warrior while raising two babies. At 26, I became a civil servant where I have worked ever since.
I’ve been on a train, on the path set out by many. Get an education, get a job, start a family, get the bigger house….
In the past 31 years with very little help from the supposedly educational funds and benefits that tempted me into the military in the first place I obtained a Professional Secretarial Certification, a Bachelors in Business Administration, an MBA, and a certification Healthcare Analytics.
There were countless other trainings I took through work or on my own. Regardless of where I took these trainings, I immediately gave everything I learned back to the government through my work. Up to and including teaching yoga.
I chose the government because like many undiscussed Americans, particularly second generation Americans, I grew up not have basic securities met. We always had food, though food security was something my parents often struggled with. There were enough clothes and enough help to feel ok. We did not have healthcare and my parents did not have jobs with paid vacation or sick time. Retirement is still out of the question for my 74 year old father. My mother passed away at 49, in part to smoking; but more in part to not having access to healthcare.
I chose the military for the benefits. Paid education, vacation days, and healthcare. The military also seemed as if it were fair and just, that there were rules that had to be followed and consequences for breaking those rules. My home seemed to be a place where there were no consequences and no rights for women or children. As a teenager with looming uncertainty of my future, the military recruiters at the tables stationed around my high school looked healthy, happy and secure in themselves. I wanted that for myself too.
I still don’t know if recruiters purposely mislead or they themselves do not know, but many of the things I was told were only partial truths. Healthcare is not for life unless you are destitute once you separate from the armed forces. The Montogomery GI Bill hardly paid for a semester let alone an education. I was not able to apply for specialty school right out of bootcamp as an E-3, a benefit I personally took advantage of because I had spent 3 years in junior ROTC. The immediate bump from E-2 to E-3 wasn’t a huge benefit, but the one that likely made what was a tough decision at the time for me. A decision that ended up being a very good one for my life.
Swearing into the United States Military at MEMPS in Brooklyn NY August 9, 1994
From that time, and into my career, and until this very day; there were spouted benefits. Benefits that lured me in, but were not what they seemed to be. Benefits that few who are the gatekeepers to obtaining these benefits even seem to know about.
My earliest experience was the lack of knowledge at my first duty station on being an E-3. Then seemingly gregarious barriers to putting my name on a wait list for specialty school. I did everything I was supposed to as quickly and efficiently as I could. It seemed to surprise people that I had the oomph to push through the barriers and keep pressing until I got the answers I was seeking. It seemed unnecessarily difficult, but that was only the start of many years ahead of pretty much the same.
I met and married my first husband who was also in the military at the age of 19. We had no plans of having children anytime soon, but I did know about the benefit to females of taking two years off to raise a child and coming back to finish any required time that was owed to the government.
When my husband and I were re-located and co-located from the west to east coast, the new dispensary that I was assigned did not carry the birth control pill I had been on for years. I was prescribed a new pill and immediately experienced unwanted side effects. When I went to the dispensary to discuss these issues; they took some bloodwork to ensure I was not pregnant, prescribed a new type of pill, and asked me to not take any pills until my next cycle.
My newlywed husband and I were careful, but obviously not careful enough because I never did start that next cycle. I was unintentionally pregnant at 20 years old. My new duty station (which was for the first time in my career on land [opposed to on ship]) helped me to apply for the two year program to raise a child. The administrators and I could not foresee my request being denied because I owed 2 exactly two years and my husband was also a service member.
The request was denied without an explanation. We were flabbergasted. The men and their wives at my at my station were so supportive and helped me and my husband with taking care of our newborn child. I will forever be grateful for the rallying and support provided.
October 1996, pregnant with my first born
My baby Thomas at just over a year old with his daddy
Two years later my owed time was up and I had the option to reenlist. For the majority of non-Air station based jobs, most Coast Guard members were required to be stationed on a ship alternating with land stations. Unless they specifically wanted to be on ship duty or if circumstances called, folks were allowed to be stationed on land for back to back tours.
The military does married couples the honor of trying to station couples together or close by. My husband’s tour was also up. His job required him to be at an Air station which were far and few between. Air stations at the time also required a 1 in every 3 or 1 in every 4 evening overnight obligation. My job as a cook was one of the few jobs in the Coast Guard that did not require overnight stays at all. It was the only way we were able to get by raising our son until that point. That and the help from the members of my station.
Service members have some input on where they would like to go by filling out what was referred to as a “Dream Sheet”. We filled out our dreams sheets and requested to go anywhere in the world as long as I could be stationed at a land station nearby an Air station so I could be home every evening with our son. It should not have come as a surprise when this reasonable request was denied. Yet it was a surprise and felt like a blow.
The Commanding and Executive Officers who were fond of my hard work, impressed that I finished a secretarial certificate and was taking college classes, and who were already upset from the denial for the maternity leave I asked for were also infuriated. The Commanding Officer (unprompted) wrote a letter asking for my request to be reconsidered because he felt I was just the kind of person that the Coast Guard should want to keep. He received a response back saying that it was my turn to go on a boat and if I didn’t like it, I did not have to re-enlist.
I did not reenlist.
I enlisted into the Active Reserves for four years instead. My husband stayed in and I became a military spouse. We had another baby and I finished my bachelor degree.
Four years later in 2002, both my husband and I had completed all required obligations to the military. It was not long after 9/11 and we decided to take a plunge into the civilian world.
Finding work in your twenties hot out of the military with little other work experience and family obligations is not easy. I was interested in federal employment because of the benefits and pension.
I applied to dozens of government and private sector positions. It took about 6 months to find a temporary grant funded government position.
During my first few years as a civil servant I applied for the programs and leadership trainings that were available, but I was denied participation because I was not a permanent employee. I went back to school (out of pocket) while working full time and raising 2 children for an MBA.
I used the information I was learning in school and my personal drive constantly to make my job, my role, and in turn my organization a better place. In 2007 I finished my Masters degree and landed a full time permanent position. About 5 minutes later I was asked to teach and mentor students in the programs I had never taken and had been denied access to. I was not snarly or punishing because I paid for and took my own initiative to learn what they denied me access to. I excitedly obliged because I wanted to provide my organization with the passion and knowledge I myself wanted to share.
MBA graduation in 2007
I cannot believe that was 18 years ago. Since then I’ve learned even more. In my journey as a government employee I’ve changed as a human, but maintained exceptional performance reviews for every single rating period for 31 years without fail. I have given the government every piece of knowledge I learned, and for many many years, many more hours than I was ever paid for.
I have since been divorced and remarried. My children have grown and left the nest. I’ve taken many other trainings at work and outside of work. I trudged a personal journey of experiencing C-PTSD from childhood which involved drinking, recovery and a lot of therapy.
Very typical office set up I had (back in the days I had an office that is)
At my ‘hands down’ favorite position I held in Primary Care
Screenshot
Group of lady work friends I had for many years
I’ve been on the path. I was not planning to retire now. I have more to give. But do I want to give it to the government anymore???
My heart has not been in it a while. And the current administration seems to admonish and mock employees like myself.
Until this very day I am dealing with “benefits” unknown to those who are the gatekeepers. My latest escapade involves healthcare. I have been paying for health insurance for a family through the Federal Employee Health Benefits (FEHB) since 2002. A few years ago while I was undergoing intensive outpatient therapy I was part-time and we used my husband’s insurance because the employee share for part-timers is unaffordable. We switched back to my insurance over 4 years ago, but the government has a stipulation that upon retirement in order to keep the FEHB for life, you have to have paid FEHB for the 5 consecutive years prior to retirement.
This is what stopped me from Taking the Fork in the Road back in January. Healthcare. One of the very reasons I entered into the federal workforce 31 years ago. The lack of which (healthcare) I attribute to my mom passing at 49 years old. The very age I happen to be at the moment.
The only time I did not pay for healthcare was for the short period of time I shortened my work hours to deal with mental health issues.
Most veterans have mental health issues. Most individuals enter the military because the benefits outweigh the personal risks. Most individuals who join at a young age do not have many other options. Those lack of options, lack, limit = mental health issues that if not already experiencing, will likely show up later in life when the dust has settled. Like it did for me.
Back in January when the Fork in the Road email was sent, I read all over the place in OPM guidance and other government sources that under VERA authority (when early retirement is being offered) the Office of Personnel Management (OPM) waives this 5 year healthcare payment requirement. I asked about it at the time. No one has ever heard of it. Of course they haven’t. I’ve been down this sad road before. Benefits that are there but unknown or in some way inaccessible.
My Department is offering VERA again due to impending RIFs (Reduction in Force) and this time it specifically states that OPM is waiving the 5-year requirement.
Why am I still here? What do I have to gain?
I think I want to get off the train. I watch the world literally and proverbially whizzing by. A world I long to see and experience.
I am not one of these mystery civil servants you hear on the news. One of these lazy people who is just taking from the population and needs their job to be cut with a sledge hammer. I gave the government more than I gained from it. I know my job can be involuntary cut in a few weeks. If I get to keep a job at all, there is no guarantee it will be at my salary level or that I enjoy.
Yes, there is waste in the government. There is waste in all organizations. The fairness I had been seeking when entering the federal workforce is not on everyone’s side. As employees under the rule of the law, we are mostly indistinguishable from one another. All kind of being lumped in with the bath water that our administration wants to throw out.
As I reflect on my journey, I realize that my experiences have shaped me into the person I am today. The highs and lows, the challenges and triumphs, have all contributed to my growth and resilience. While the uncertainty of early retirement looms, I am filled with hope and possibility. I am ready to embrace change and explore new horizons. My dedication to public service has been unwavering, and I am proud of the contributions I have made. As I contemplate the next chapter of my life, I am reminded that there is so much more of me to give. The world is full of opportunities, and I am eager to seize them.
If you don’t know about the issue of clothing waste on Ghanaian beaches, and you have a moment, stop here and look up “clothes in the ocean off Ghana.” What you’ll see is not exaggerated. It’s real, and it’s disturbing.
The clothes we give away to thrift stores or place in donation bins come from a place of good intention. And there are people who benefit from those donations. But there are not enough people in the world who need clothing at the scale we are producing and discarding it.
I’ve seen a version of this myself. Back in 2017, my husband and I traveled to Africa for a few weeks on an overland safari. Twice we passed through the town of Maun in Botswana. It was one of the only places we saw with shops and street vendors. And what were they mostly selling? Clothes. Racks and racks of them—many clearly from first-world countries like ours.
Most of us have heard about the issues in the clothing industry—sweatshops, low wages, poor conditions. I remember learning about it decades ago, and yet the problem seems to have only grown. And if I’m being honest, knowing all of that hasn’t stopped me from participating in it.
I’ve tried. I shop consignment more than I used to. I’ve made attempts at keeping a capsule wardrobe. But somehow, every few months, I still end up with an overstuffed closet and find myself purging clothes, shoes, and jewelry—keeping only what “sparks joy.”
And then I do it again.
Something as simple as needing a pair of black leggings turns into a spiral. I’ll start with the intention of buying just one pair. I type it into a search bar, and suddenly I’m scrolling through endless options—capris, patterns, odd cuts, things that aren’t quite right. Minutes turn into more minutes. Then I find a three-pack. Do I get all black? Or the one with red because it might match something I haven’t even worn yet?
Before I know it, I’ve bought more than I need.
They arrive quickly. Sometimes I don’t even try them on. Sometimes I do and don’t like them. Either way, I usually end up wearing the same simple black pair over and over until they wear out, while the rest sit untouched.
Eventually, I donate them.
Clothes that were barely worn. Clothes that didn’t “spark joy.”
And I know exactly where they might end up.
Even when I try to do better, I still fall into the same patterns. Convenience wins. Time feels limited. It’s easier to click than to spend hours digging through racks in a store. It’s easier to tell myself I’ll do better next time.
But next time looks a lot like this time.
And it’s uncomfortable to admit that I am part of something I don’t agree with.
This isn’t just about leggings. It shows up in other ways too—small purchases, quick replacements, things that don’t last. I don’t need to list them all. I know they’re there.
I don’t have a clean solution to this. I don’t suddenly shop perfectly or live without impact. But I do have awareness, and maybe that’s where it starts.
Not with perfection. Not with guilt.
Just with seeing it clearly.
Because once you see it, it’s hard to pretend you don’t.
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A few days ago, I met with a group of women. The group is not large, but a little too large for intimate conversation without a small amount of facilitation. So there is a discussion topic for each time we meet that everyone is aware of ahead of time. For this meeting, the discussion topic was as follows:
What do you feel you can do better—or like better—about yourself at this age versus when you were younger?
Consequently, what do you feel you did better or liked better about yourself when you were younger versus now?
The caveat was that we couldn’t discuss our bodies.
I absolutely loved hearing what other women had to share. I personally have so many things for the first question and not many for the second. My initial response to the second question was that I miss having passion for work.
This morning, however, while I was walking my dog and thinking about how often people criticize others for smiling or laughing too much, I realized that what I really miss about being younger is laughing.
This realization began with me feeling a sense of kinship with that kind of criticism. I remember being in class on the first day of school every year and a teacher saying something quite funny that everyone chuckled at—but I laughed. Like really laughed. Ten minutes later I would remember what they said and giggle about it again. It was those times that I felt free and connected. I was engaged and listening and not worried about what other people thought of me. I was open to hearing and learning and contributing—and just being.
I used to laugh with my friends. I laughed so, so, so much. My family—particularly my brother Mario.
When I joined the military and was in Boot Camp, I used to get in trouble for laughing and often for the contagion it caused. The company commanders were quite hilarious when yelling at us or instilling advice.
“It looks like the captain’s cat puked on your belt buckle, recruit! How can you show up looking like this?”
I’d laugh. My friend Brando would catch on. Others started too. The company commander would yell more—which only became funnier. Sometimes that company commander would eventually laugh too. Other times, when they continued to scream, I’d see from the corner of my eye that their lips would turn upward and they were hiding their amusement and light heart from us.
Do I think that because we broke out laughing that it would be okay to show up with a dirty belt buckle for inspection? Of course not. The lesson wasn’t any less powerful because we laughed at it.
Years later, in my early professional career, I would sit in meetings and look around. I would often take a pulse of the audience to see how engaged they were. What I would often see—and most often on women—was a resting frown. Now we have the term “resting face.”
I saw that these individuals were mostly engaged, but their faces told a different story. They looked miserable and angry. I’d take note that my lips probably were resting in the same way and would actually change my expression into a more open, neutral position on purpose. I didn’t want to look miserable because I didn’t actually feel miserable.
When I facilitated meetings and saw this expression on participants, I would throw humor into the mix just so that face would soften. When someone in the room made a funny comment, I’d laugh to acknowledge that I not only heard them, but appreciated the comic relief. What I found was that when people were smiling and felt seen, they were more engaged and open to hearing others.
As I’m pushing 50, I don’t laugh nearly as much as I used to. But I notice I still laugh more than most people and try to smile, engage, and add comic relief when interacting with others. It’s a habit I don’t even think about now.
So what is so wrong with smiling and laughing?
When you smile, people often smile back. No matter how serious the conversation is, having a sense of openness is always appropriate, and smiling often indicates openness. It sends out a sense of friendliness and willingness to let others in. It doesn’t mean that the person smiling doesn’t have opinions or important things to say.
Smiling and laughing does not equal being stupid.
It took a few days, but the question in my women’s group about what I liked about myself when I was younger versus now came back to me.
I laughed.
I laughed, and it felt good.
And it actually made others feel good too.
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Today. Friday. A day off for me. New moon. 3 years to the date marking my sobriety anniversary.
I sit in the flexible office/yoga/art room. It’s the space within our home that is mine alone.
I sit in butterfly pose on my meditation cushion. I play a yogic playlist that I used to teach with and hadn’t heard in at least 4 years. It is familiar yet new at the same time.
The lovely backdrop of construction noise and banging takes place outside my door and below me on the floor.
In front of me is a pile of stuff that will be used “sometime soon.” Sometime soon started last June when our construction project began.
My husband pops by on a quick work break to say hello on the way to the bathroom. He looks in my office/yoga/art room and tells me the scene is “so you.”
Yes. This is me. Right now in this moment in time. Living life on life’s terms. Construction, piles of things, and me trying in the midst of it all to stay centered and be me.
3 years ago was a different story. I went to bed at 4 a.m. after being in the emergency room for not being able to come off a panic attack. I hyperventilated for hours. I had to appear in court in the morning for an arrest, so I must have slept 2 hours at most. As I lay in the ER hallway (because naturally there is no space on a random February Monday evening), I couldn’t believe the low I had gotten myself into.
I didn’t know where to go, who to reach out to, or what the next step was.
It was then I surrendered. In the hall of Yale New Haven’s Emergency Department. I took the first step that AA’s 12 Steps teaches and surrendered. I lost control. I had no control to start with. Alcohol had control over me. I accepted that.
Every day when I sat down to drink the first perfectly chilled glass of chardonnay, I would turn on my soap opera. Commercials were still part of the app I watched it on at the time, and there was a recurring ad for a program called Aware Recovery. Every day I would think that I should probably call them. There was no time better than the moment to look into this. I put in a request for information on my smartphone right there in the hall in the middle of the night.
Aware Recovery called me back the next morning while I was in court waiting to be seen. I remember telling the person on the phone where I was. I was expecting shock and disgust, but what the person told me is that they’d been in my exact position and they could help. I cried with relief when hearing that. Relief for not being judged. Relief for knowing there is help and knowing that someone in my position was able to come back from something like this.
The next few days and weeks were a blur. Aware Recovery stepped up. At the time, I didn’t know I would need to rely on a community to help me get through recovery or who, if anyone I had already known, would be a part of what I didn’t even know I needed—but it works out if you surrender. It is done one step at a time. Metaphorically. Literally. Step one was to surrender. The moment I did that for real, really real—the rest started to fall into place. You have to want it and to surrender. It’s the easiest/hardest part.
One still needs to work. The community can’t do it for you.
I can write and list all the lessons I learned, thank all the people who played a part—either willingly or unknowingly—to help, talk about the metaphors, the work, the yoga, my own journey—but I’ve done that many times.
Today I’m just thankful for where I am and can attest to anyone who isn’t sure they should, can, or want to quit drinking—that they can really do it. Life is better without it. If you think you need it, it helps you, or it tastes good—some might be true, but there are healthier ways, without the risk of becoming addicted, to get the benefits you seek.
I’m still me, only better.
This was me before—this is me now. I’m just not inebriated, angry, silly, prone to being triggered, or prone to risky behavior—drunk texting, flirting, driving…. It’s just me without the risks, calories, costs, and cravings.
I love to knit. Particularly to knit big, chunky, cozy blankets.
I love plants and gardening.
I love yoga and meditation.
I love reading, particularly spiritual books.
I love living by the water and all things nautical.
I love painting, drawing, and creating art.
Life on life’s terms. It’s an AA term I love. It’s not just people in recovery this applies to. It’s an awesome way to accept life.
I’ve been living through a construction project. My house has been noisy and dusty, and at times I felt like I have been losing my mind. The past 3 years taught me many lessons like this in different ways.
This is life. We can either accept it and feel free or fight it and feel like a prisoner on someone else’s terms. Life isn’t going to stop being hard because you stop drinking. But you will be able to accept life as it shows up without pain.
This is my life and I accept it.
Everyone’s life is different, full of what they love and cherish, and contains stuff, people, and circumstances that they really wish weren’t there.
Who ever said life would be anything other than good, bad, and everything in between?
This is my life. You have yours, and maybe your story—or someone you love’s story—involves addictive substances too. There is a community of us who have recovered from addiction and want to help anyone who wants help in the ways they know how to.
This is one way I know how—reaching out, sharing, sending love, and being available.
Namaste.
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First – why do you care? Haha, but really… if you care at all, why do you? How does it affect you?
When I was 22 years old, I moved to Cape Cod. I was entering the Active USCG Reserves while transitioning from a military member to a military spouse. My new home was located on a military base. It was not my first home as an adult, but it was the first home I set up alone.
This period was a transitional time in my life. Before then, I went straight from high school into the military. I was married just over a year later and unexpectedly pregnant 6 months after that. My life was busy, and I had not truly actively planned anything until that point.
As I looked around at all the boxes and pictures to hang, the disorder around me was affecting my mind. Or was it the disorder in my mind affecting my outer world?
I quickly went to work setting up home. While I opened boxes and organized the outward disarray, the disorder in my mind started to unravel into digestible thoughts. How do I gather all the college credits I accumulated into applying for a degree? Do I quit smoking? Have another baby? What do I want to be when I grow up?
As I unpacked and moved items—and then moved them again into better places—I made notes: call the education office, look into the local college, schedule that physical, reach out to neighbors, ask about pediatricians, talk to my spouse about a new baby while this little guy was still young so he had a playmate.
The act of outwardly organizing was helpful. I was making progress on something important, but also the monotony—combined with the active thinking of where we would most easily grab a plate—was just enough active and inactive brain power to keep my mind focused on the next phase of my life.
When the house was all set up and arranged just so, I missed the act of taking care of it. So I cleaned it really well. Again, the repetition and combination of active and inactive thought helped organize my inner thoughts, as they were all I had while doing this type of work.
I learned then that I very much enjoyed cleaning. All these years later I would label what I was doing as a sort of meditation, but at the time it only felt like cleaning.
I started to clean every day in various ways. There was everyday picking up—dishes, laundry, diapers, trash, wiping the table—but also things that needed to happen often but not daily: washing floors, laundering sheets, cleaning the bathroom. I put the non-daily essentials into a schedule for myself the way I learned in my years of cooking and meal planning, basically transferring my work skills to my home.
Then I moved these things outside—fix the fence, mow the lawn, ask about the grass seeds that are supposedly free.
I met my neighbors. They were all lovely. The one who was the friendliest lived across the street and worked on the base as a cleaner for the military houses in between family transitions. I don’t remember her name, but I will call her Melanie.
I asked Melanie what she did when she cleaned these empty houses, and she told me all about the floors and the blinds and the walls and corners—all the checkboxes she had to complete. Surprisingly, her house was quite a mess and she didn’t really enjoy cleaning. But she did comment that she saw me cleaning often.
What?
Saw me cleaning? How?
“Through your window,” Melanie replied.
Now I was embarrassed—but intrigued by what she told me. I hadn’t thought about cleaning blinds or paying attention to ceiling or floor corners.
A day or two later, I decided to tackle the blinds. As I was doing so, Melanie waved to me from inside her home across the street. I was slightly embarrassed yet again, but continued to clean the blinds as if it were a normal everyday occurrence.
The next time I saw Melanie, she commented on my cleaning again. That became the standard. It embarrassed me, so I often waited until I didn’t see her mini-van in the carport to clean anywhere near my own windows or outside.
Nonetheless, from there I continued a lifelong habit of cleaning nearly daily and scheduling various cleaning tasks throughout the week.
Through the years I’ve had to explain and defend my cleaning to partners, neighbors, kids, step-kids, and friends who comment—sometimes with annoyance—that my house is clean. I was always trying to hide it, clarify where I saw dirt or oils, negotiate with the kids to just vacuum that room—yes, on this setting. It was exhausting. I loved to clean when no one was home so I didn’t have to explain it.
Which brings me to the point of this blog.
Why did anyone care that I was cleaning in the first place?
I didn’t really ask for help. The kids’ chores—table setting, dishwashing, cleaning their own bathrooms, and scooping the cat litter of the cats they wanted—were not the demands of some Nazi clean-loving freak.
The cleanliness of other people’s homes doesn’t affect how much I enjoy visiting them or their company in any way. I’m not judging those who don’t like to clean. I know I’m unusual in this particular way.
So why does anyone really care what other people do? How they take care of their home, how often they cut their lawn, their hair, their fingernails? How deep into my life do you care about what I do—and why does my lawn count but my fingernails not so much?
At what point does what I do truly affect anyone else? Or does what I am doing make others reflect on what they are doing—and is that really my problem?
I did hide my real self for a long time worrying about what other people thought. That was not healthy.
This question grows from me into a larger scale. Why does anyone care who anyone loves or how they use their body to please a lover? How do the spices someone uses in their cooking matter to you? Why does it matter how other cultures cook, pray, love, dress, and take care of one another?
Yes, there are things that affect other people, but not as many as we think. Maybe the one house on the block with the overgrown lawn can bring down property value. There are things you can influence—like talking to that homeowner and maybe even offering to cut their lawn because they are a single parent short on time—but perhaps also accept how things are if that person doesn’t respond the way you’d like.
You cannot control other people. And just because you don’t like something they do—or don’t do—doesn’t make them wrong or crazy. Why waste mental energy on something you cannot control?
I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m just offering the suggestion to ask yourself why you might care and whether that energy is worth it. There is a locus of what you can control, what you can influence, and what you have no control over.
I clean all the time. I like it. It clears my mind. For me, the house doesn’t need to be very dirty to clean it—most people shower daily even when they aren’t that dirty. It is something in this crazy world that I feel I have control over.
I like the way I feel after moving around and taking care of the animate and inanimate objects that I own—my bed, plants, and pets. I like the way my surroundings look.
The question I asked myself when I was 22—whether the disorder of my environment affects my mind or if it is the other way around—is irrelevant to me today. Both matter. And this is one of my ways to care for both.
But why do I need to explain that?
You have control over your thoughts about why this, or anything, matters. Are you wasting your energy on something you want to waste it on? Do you have control over it? Influence? Neither?
I’m going to clean whether anyone likes it or not. I hope you collect your gnomes or pink socks or do whatever it is that you like—as long as no one is getting hurt. Don’t worry if I like it. I love you for being you and doing what you love.
Make sure you are doing no harm—and then do what you love without shame, question, or worry.
Be the change you want to see. Be what you wish the world to be.
It’s all you can do.
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There is a story has come up for me in various ways over the past few weeks. I’ve been referencing it in thought and in conversations. It feels rich with many lessons, but the one that has stayed with me most is clarity in communication.
The story, in short, is about a well-meaning teacher who sends his colleagues a message about handling negative emotions—comparing them to storms that come and go, and suggesting mindfulness as a way to navigate them. The message was intended as helpful. However, the other teachers interpreted it as criticism. They became offended, reacted emotionally, and completely missed the original intention of the message.
That alone was enough to stop me in my tracks.
This week alone there were at least five occasions at work and three at home where I was listening intently to another person and either during the communication or shortly thereafter realized there was more than one way to interpret what was being said. Yesterday I interrupted an ongoing written chat to suggest that it’s difficult to get what is inside one person’s head into another’s and asked if we could verbally communicate instead.
Since reading and discussing this story, I’ve been picking up the phone and turning on my camera far more often than before to make sure I am actually on the same page as the other person.
This reading also opened my eyes to how often there is a disconnect between what is said and what is understood. I just hadn’t noticed it before. It becomes even more apparent when communication is in writing.
Something else struck me when discussing this story with others. A member of my writing group pointed out the phrase “well-meaning teacher.” A simple question was asked: would the story have been interpreted differently had those words not been there?
My answer is yes—absolutely.
It made me realize how much intention matters, but also how invisible it is. As a third-party observer (the reader), we can see the teacher’s intent clearly. But when we are inside the situation ourselves, we often cannot. We fill in the blanks with our own assumptions.
I would like to say that in the past I always considered multiple perspectives and intentions neutrally, but that wouldn’t be honest.
I know I often tried. I know sometimes I put myself in another person’s shoes. And occasionally I imagined both sides of an argument. But in everyday communication, I assumed I understood—and that I was being understood.
Something about this story flipped that assumption for me.
Recently, I’ve been approaching communication with the opposite mindset: that I probably don’t fully understand, and I’m probably not being fully understood.
So what does this mean?
It means we need to pay more attention—not just to what we are saying, but to how we are listening.
At this point, I can imagine someone saying:
“That sounds complicated. I don’t have time or patience to think about everything I say or how it might be interpreted.”
And honestly, I can’t completely disagree. What I’m describing does take more effort and more time than I used to give it.
But the more I think about it, the more I realize how necessary—and worthwhile—that effort is. It’s an investment in saving time, building trust, and fostering peace.
This next part might sound like a shift, but it’s not entirely separate.
Over the last year, I changed my political affiliation to unaffiliated. I came to realize that most people are not as far apart as it seems. The majority of people don’t want violence, suffering, or division. But we reduce complex issues to quick labels and assumptions about each other’s intentions.
Aligning and dividing becomes the easy solution.
And much of that division is based on misunderstanding.
What I am describing is a very human response. But that doesn’t make it helpful—and it certainly doesn’t foster peace.
We are not really taught how to listen with the intent to understand.
It takes effort to consider how your words might be received. It takes even more effort to sit with a point of view you don’t like, or to remain engaged when something makes you uncomfortable.
But avoiding that work—responding quickly, assuming intent, or retreating into our own perspective—only deepens the divide.
What struck me most about the story is the irony: the teacher’s message about emotions was completely lost because of emotions.
Instead of exploring the idea—that emotions come and go like weather—the focus shifted to perceived intention.
And that happens all the time.
We miss the substance of what is being said because we are reacting to how we think it was meant.
It’s a new year. I gave up on New Year’s resolutions a while ago, but I will never give up on wanting to be a better human and leaving the space I take up in the world better than I found it.
If you’re looking for something to work on, perhaps consider this:
The next time you find yourself in the middle of a conversation or conflict, try stepping outside of it—just for a moment—and imagine you are the reader of the story, not the character in it.
What might you see differently?
And perhaps, when you feel a storm coming on, you might even remember the original message that started all of this.
Happy New Year.
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If you haven’t read The Alchemist (spoiler alert: skip to the next paragraph if you ever plan to and don’t want to know how it ends) and grasped the true meaning, it speaks to how you can travel the world, be rich, be poor, and experience everything life can possibly offer—but you will not find what you are looking for until you look right where you are. In essence, the treasure we seek is within.
Last night I came back from a 28-hour marathon trip from Westhampton Beach, NY, across the Long Island Sound via Port Jefferson to Connecticut, to Branford/Rhode Island/Branford/Rhode Island, and back across the Sound on the east end of Long Island via Orient Point to drive back to where I started from. I went in a large circle.
While having a quick takeout dinner I grabbed earlier in the day on the Cross Sound Ferry yesterday evening, I suddenly felt the urge to MOVE. I had been in the car or in a tight, cramped space for more than a day and felt like I had to break free.
But there was almost nowhere to go…
So I walked. And walked. And walked.
I walked around and around in circles on the ferry. The wind was warm—breezier in some parts than others. I breathed it all in deeply. The sun was setting.
I passed the same people many times. People mostly doing the same things—on their phones, with a handful engaged with one another. I walked past them over and over in my own reverie as the ship moved forward from one destination to the next.
Something about this felt symbolic. Many remain in one spot, or like I was doing, going around and around in circles as we are carried ahead by life via a man-made creation known as time.
Once the ferry arrived and I began the drive from the east end, it all felt so very familiar—the dark, the long winding roads, infrequently passing other cars as I skirted my eyes toward the right where the white line meets the edge of the road, as I was taught in Defensive Driving when I was 16.
I felt like I was that age again. Driving familiar roads. Some of the same roads I had driven then. The landscape of the road, the lining of the trees against the night sky, the warm summer air, the cicadas, and the crickets. All my senses were highly engaged. I was so present and aware of the moment—and the connection to the past.
The radio was on and connected to my iPhone. I was listening to Angels and Airwaves. I looked at the name of the album’s words that lit up on my car’s navigation display:
Stomping the Phantom Brake Pedal
I had only just noticed what those words mean.
Has my life just gone on until now while I went in circles?
I spent my entire adulthood on a path away from where I grew up.
The first 16 years or so were quite lovely. I put trauma behind and made a life for myself—one that I was proud of. But a divorce, and what should have been a happier ending, threw me into a tailspin. I was suddenly looking for something. And to make what could be a very long story short, I unearthed trauma that was still lingering, and the last 13 years have been about discovery and healing.
But I stayed away from home.
My current husband grew up a mere 7 miles, as the crow flies, from the place I attempted to escape and was driving toward last night. I’ve visited his hometown for years while skirting around my own. I never really went back—mentally or physically.
Then a few weeks ago, on a whim, I decided to stop in my own hometown on the way past it. I was alone. I had time. I suddenly wanted to see it.
To my wonder, I felt nostalgia—something I never imagined I would feel. The feeling came on quickly, without warning. It hurt because it felt unfamiliar. Yet it was very happy, and at the same time very sad. A mix of emotion that only nostalgia unearths.
A few days later I realized I could love and dislike the past equally. It’s not all or nothing.
The feeling of suddenly being open to seeing the good of the past felt so free. It was a band-aid that had been on for so long that when it came off, that part of me felt exposed and unfamiliar—yet amazing. In the same way skin under tape would feel when exposed once again to the sun. Cautious, but so warm and, dare I say, inviting.
I let that all marinate for a few weeks and carried on with this temporarily homeless existence my husband and I have been living in since our home has been under construction in June.
And here I was last night, coming back to where I started the prior day and literally close to where my adulthood journey began.
I suddenly wanted to break out—not so dissimilar to the feeling I had on the ferry earlier.
What I am looking for has always been with me, like in The Alchemist. I know this intellectually. However, it seems difficult to access most of the time.
Last night, that portal was wide open.
I wanted to be where I was—in the flow, in the perfect moment always, like the spiritual teachings of all shapes, sizes, and religions teach us. We are always where we are supposed to be.
If we let go of our imaginary steering wheel and embrace what God/Brahma/The Universe has in store for us, we will truly be able to enjoy the ride.
Maybe my purpose this morning is to write about this. To share that you can stomp on the phantom brake pedal—out of standstills or ruts you find yourself in—and break habits that stop you from being the fullest expression of yourself.
I feel it now at this very moment. I know I will forget it quite soon and carry on with my day and my life very much as I always have—but perhaps a smidgen more enlightened.
It’s all these little “smidges” of becoming more aware that lead to peace and flow. That is the only path forward.
Perhaps forward is really upward?
Perhaps we can stay where we are in that same physical place, the same rut, but use the brake to find true freedom in knowing that there is always a very special treasure within.
That treasure is inner freedom and peace.
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I am told a good life starts in the morning with making your bed.
Do you make your bed?
I’ve heard all reasons of why folks do or don’t make their bed. It is a personal decision. But research shows that people who make their bed are more successful, productive, and happier.
I make my bed. I feel energetically better when I do. The room appears neater, and I don’t feel schlepy when I crawl back in it at night.
I have also heard people say, “Why bother? It’s only going to get messy again.”
There is truth to that. But your body will also get dirty after you shower. Most of us don’t skip showers for that reason.
A lot of people tell me they don’t do yoga or meditate because they aren’t flexible, their minds don’t work that way, or they aren’t in shape. As they say in the yoga world:
“Saying you don’t do yoga because you aren’t flexible is like saying you are too dirty to take a shower.”
Taking it a step further would be to say that you are too out of shape to exercise.
I hate to break it to you—we are all the same. Our bodies and minds need maintenance, and when we don’t maintain them, we get a monkey mind and fall out of shape. It’s really that simple. Yes, there are exceptions, but almost all of them can be overcome.
We can skip cleaning our spaces and making our beds (or weeding our gardens—literally and metaphorically)—but while we are at it, why not skip that shower too? And why bother to exercise? Won’t we become atrophic again when we stop?
To live is to maintain. To live well is to maintain what supports us—our health, our habits, our homes, our finances, our pets… and even our minds. They can all go to pot if we skip the maintenance and lose sight of their health.
Yes—this takes up a lot of the day. But it’s worth the clean and clear space, because what you see around you directly affects what you feel inside you. You can feel it in your energy if you quiet your mind and get in touch with it.
So make your bed.
See what changes. Namaste.
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This morning I sit in a beam of sun with a light breeze and the sound of water lazily lapping against the boat. Blue water and gentle waves surround me everywhere, rocking the boat to & fro. The slightest poofs of wind pop against the dark navy blue Bimini every so often, adding a different sound to the nautical melody that plays upon my ears.
Finally, I am relaxed for a few minutes and enjoying a cup of freshly pressed coffee while it’s still warm enough to enjoy—but not so warm that it is creating more heat than I want so early in the morning.
It’s not too cold or too hot today, but the constant rocking in Vineyard Haven harbor woke me up at 6am. It is actually dry this morning, so I didn’t mind coming up top into the cockpit with some blankets to temper my body just right. It’s already 7am, which means I have an hour before we dash off to the next place, in which I will sleep about 90% of the trip—and my life away.
It’s already 7am, which means I should start to hurry. Start putting away things that will move during the passage, and take a truly nasty, rocking and slamming dinghy ride to some of the sketchiest streets Martha’s Vineyard has to offer—just to walk the dog.
What at home takes less than a minute to get the dog outside for a walk (or even faster when we open the back door) turns into a 3x-a-day, at least 10 minutes each way (60 minutes total) event involving a dinghy that I still can’t figure out how to use. Add walking past dozens of warning signs about not allowing a dog in the made-up looking “pristine” spots amongst ship garages, the smell of diesel on a hot summer day, and tools strewn about. Dog pee on that small grass bed would of course ruin the whole scene.
So it is at least another 10 minutes per trip—or longer, since I actually like moving my body more than a few steps at a time. This makes walking the dog eat, at the bare minimum, 2 hours a day.
When I crash (and I mean crash) into bed every night, I wonder what the heck I did all day. I brought pastels to do art with. Yarn to knit with. A yoga mat. Books to read. But somehow day after day passes, and I’m happy if I just walked on land for more than a few minutes.
Yes, I am happy. It really is nice to appreciate small things like stretching your limbs by taking full steps on solid land. Or the feeling of a cool breeze (or any breeze really) when you are hot.
Or the art of doing nothing.
No—I lied there.
There is no doing nothing. Just living is all we do. Preparing something to eat, washing the dishes from it, cleaning up, changing my clothes. Even washing my face and brushing my teeth seems like a lot of work—and a lot of time. So much time that these things kind of take the whole day.
Some people refuse to boat with dogs—too much hair, too much pressure to get them on a walk. And they are absolutely right that it does consume your time. But I love my dog that much. His excitement makes bringing him so much more worth it. But he is a time suck.
Yesterday is what Daren called maintenance day. We got fuel and water. We did laundry and grocery shopped. It was Saturday. Seems like a good day to do those things. But other than sailing from Cuttyhunk to Martha’s Vineyard (which, for someone who doesn’t know how or like to sail, is sort of like throwing hours of your life into the sea) and having dinner with our friends (and dog walking, which I slept through the first iteration of), we did nothing else.
What would take maybe an hour or two for chores at home consisted of at least 6 hours of what shouldn’t be (especially on a “vacation”) labor-intensive work. The level of exertion in doing the smallest of things, combined with the lack of exercise, leaves my body feeling like a total pile of mush.
No lounging, no reading, no art, no exercise, no catching up on shows, no knitting—just keeping ourselves and the dog alive and fed.
We have and will see some absolutely stunning places. I’ve been vlogging the trip. These do not take a lot of work. I take short clips all day, and in my years of work experience with technology and multitasking, I can whip these together throughout the day rather efficiently.
Look at this perfect photo! These are not hard to capture—they are everywhere. I picked those flowers from wild areas by the fire tower while on a run in Cuttyhunk. Cool, huh?
But the vlogs and photos only show the beautiful stuff. I crop—or if I can, never capture—the many unsightly things right out of the crafted, curated scene. You don’t see the dumpsters everywhere. Us taking out our stinky trash or figuring out how to get pumped out. Recycling is an issue that we are temporarily choosing to ignore.
The surroundings of boating areas are often filled with broken lines and lobster traps, utterly despicable bathrooms, sparse maritime stores that look like a sad mini version of Home Depot, and slimy barnacles growing on everything you might need to touch during the day.
I like this, but I also dislike it. I miss being able to freely use water or taking a real shower. I miss not worrying about how and when to charge my devices. This is all very nice, even without modern conveniences—but not for a “vacation.” I don’t want to work so hard during my time off.
If we were retired and this was our life, I would be all in for a month or two a year.
Being on a slip vs. a mooring or anchor is better in that at the very least I could go for a run without being charioted to land on a dinghy. I ran a total of one time. I had 45 minutes before I had to meet Daren and ran with the flowers that are in that great picture most of the way.
At a slip on the dock, we can use water and electricity without conservation. But it’s still cramped and hard to cook and shower. It’s still a hike past the “no dogs” signs. The marinas and boatyards are often still very sparse, smelly, and ugly places. Not to mention the heart-stopping average rate of $8–10/ft per night during the summer.
I do love seeing places by boat. I truly do. I love Koji’s excitement when we get in the dinghy and he has no idea where we are going, but he is excitedly up for anything because he is with his owners. I love being with my dog and husband, and when we get to—friends—doing a little of nothing but existing.
However, it’s not just the curated shots and video clips it looks to be.
I have worries too aside from this pretty great trip. I feel guilt sharing them because my problems seem small in a world where stable food, shelter, and clothing are not a given. But I refuse to be another number out there using social media to only highlight the good stuff in my life too, adding to the fluff of it all.
I don’t want to feel guilty for telling the world it’s not all perfect here either. I am real, and I do not have a great day every day. More than that, I don’t want to be a part of the social media problem. I don’t mind sharing the not-so-great parts of my life because I’m a real person with real feelings, and most of my life is not the perfect pictures posted.
This is the first time in 9 days I’ve had 45 minutes to just sit and think and write. It was quite lovely. The scene was perfect. But my coffee is now cold, and it’s time to get up and do all those ugly things. Time to charge my phone again, which mysteriously uses battery power 4x faster about 10 feet from the shore.
Maybe I’ll have time like this again before I go back to work in 8 days. Or maybe I won’t. What I do know is that while I do enjoy this and I am having a lot of fun—this really is, for me personally, a far cry from a vacation.
It’s a beautiful, perfectly curated scene in which you can choose to ignore the ugly, focus only on the ugly, or find a medium in between.
I’m toeing the in-between line—but I haven’t been swayed to ignore it.
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