There we were, sitting canal-side at a restaurant in Venice. The eatery had closed to the public in order to accommodate the group of 75: dozens of American college students, as well as professors, chaperones, plus a few civilians who took advantage of a relatively affordable opportunity to explore Italy for a month.

I was the lone wolf from a small upstate New York community college amongst the more urbane crowd of street-savvy students from New York University and Montclair State. Shy by nature, I easily could have remained solo that sweltering month of July 1987, but fate had other ideas. My dining companions that evening were members of the Valentino family…the Clifton, N.J. Valentinos. They promptly took me into the fold upon noticing I belonged to neither college group, and adopted me as their own. Their daughter Rene was a fellow student who, like me, took the study abroad program for college credit. Parents, Philomena and Michael, were second-generation Italian-Americans who jumped at the chance to enjoy an extended visit in the Motherland.

To say the family dynamics differed from my strain of WASP heritage was an understatement, and I was riveted by the contrast. In my eyes, Mrs. Valentino was a one-woman sit-com - brash, ferociously protective, short-tempered, and prone to cursing streaks - she was a complete 180 from the women who molded me. And I couldn’t get enough of this alien custom of shooting from the hip.

Take the dinner in Venice, for instance. We arrived hungry and primed for a feast of gastronomic delights that surely would include no shortage of pasta. Instead, we were informed by the restaurant staff that we were in for a set menu of broiled fish and a few vegetable sides. The look on Mrs. Valentino’s face made it clear that the heat coming from Vesuvius was officially on the rise. “I don’t want anything,” she tersely informed the waitress, staring straight ahead.

Twenty minutes later, when a plate of Branzino was set before Mrs. Valentino anyway, Vesuvius emitted the ominous warning of its first rumble. “Take it,” she hissed to the waitress, who likely didn’t speak English and turned to walk away. “TAAAAAKE IT!”

The entire restaurant froze and everyone looked in our direction. The waitress, amid the awkward silence, needed no further translation and whisked the plate away while Mrs. Valentino cemented Plan B.

“C’mon,” she said, rising to her feet. “Let’s get the hell outta’ here and find some food.” That episode taught me two things:

1. Don’t serve Philomena Valentino fish when in the land of tagliatelle and scialatielli…and…

2. Never disrespect an Italian-American woman from New Jersey (because it won’t end well).

Post-outburst, Mrs. Valentino wafted into comparatively Zen-like serenity, and why not? Cork popped, she reverted naturally to a state of being unruffled, unbothered, and blithely free of suppressed anger. It was a way of navigating life that both fascinated and inspired me.

But it wasn’t just Mrs. Valentino’s temper (which she proudly noted stemmed from her Neapolitan heritage) that enthralled me. She was protective: shouting rebukes at some of the fresh and uninhibited local men who hit on me, and showering concern my way those few days of the expedition I was under the weather, bringing me tea and hot plates of food from the university cafeteria.

Last, but hardly least, Mrs. Valentino was nurturing and generous, as I found out once we returned to the states. By that time, I was attending school in Manhattan and the Valentinos regularly had me over for dinner – a quick bus ride across the Hudson. The first visit was like landing in technicolor Oz as I beheld a table laden with Mrs. Valentino’s handmade cavatelli with marinara, fresh baked bread, salads, antipasti, and other delights. I may even have clapped my hands in joyful excitement.

Halfway through the meal, when Mrs. Valentino offered me a second helping (of everything!), I knew I was definitely no longer in Kansas. Food wasn’t judged and rationed, and the dinner was spent talking, laughing, and sans obsessive scrutiny over table manners. And her offers for seconds weren’t just hollow gestures. For Mrs. V., second go-rounds were a metric of how greatly her food was enjoyed. On one occasion, when an unsuspecting dinner guest politely declined her offer a second helping, she spun on her heel with the vat of pasta while muttering, “aaahh, go ta’ hell.” For Rene it was business as usual, but I never tired of Mrs. Valentino’s salty salvos. Often, they sent me into fits of giggles because they were so contrary to the hide-your-feelings and be a people-pleaser boot camp of my formative years. Seeing this other side of the equation opened my world ten-fold.

Not only did my adopted Mamma flawlessly model freedom of expression, she also provided much-needed healing where food and bonding around the dinner table was concerned.

I owe Mrs. Valentino an unquantifiable debt of gratitude. And even though she passed almost 20 years ago, I think of her often – especially if I’m having a bad day. A framed photo of the two of us aboard a Venetian water taxi sits in my office.

All I have to do is time travel back to 1987 and remember the glorious, raspy bellow of Mrs. V. channeling Ralph Kramden for five hilarious seconds of red-hot rage.

Invariably, I find myself giggling all over again: comforted by the memories, and forever grateful at my good fortune: I got an Italian Mamma dropped in my lap without even asking for one.

Here’s to you, Mrs. Valentino – mi manchi tantissimo - and I promise to have an extra helping at dinner tonight.

I make a pot of soup on average of once a week – sometimes more often. Not only are the tasks involved therapeutic, I’ve grown to love the unmatched flavor of a hand-rendered bowl, whether it’s tomato-chevre, a lemony Avgolemono, or a vegetable-laden lentil.

There was a time when only gloppy canned soup would do. Starch and salt-centric, condensed soup was my salvation that I’d sneak after school. Because my parents harbored a much-ballyhooed hope that one day I’d lose weight and at last look like the model daughter they longed for (or at least one who didn’t embarrass them), eating in between meals was forbidden.

This was a Catch-22 if there ever was one: underfeed a growing kid and what you get is not the outcome of svelteness, but a bewildered youth perpetually in a state of semi-starvation who seeks, out of basic instinct, to mitigate the nourishment deficit.

Snack preparation was a frantic, covert undertaking with heart racing as I slam-emptied a can of cream of chicken into a saucepan, dialed the burner up to medium-high, and counted the seconds while spinning the whisk as quietly as possible. If the heat was too high, I ran the risk of the soup – an emotional lifeline – tasting like scorched earth. But if I had to abort mission because one of my parents were approaching, well, there’s nothing more insipid than cold soup.

Most of the time, I was able to maneuver the operation to completion, hurriedly splashing the pale-orange processed soup into a family-sized salad bowl, then rinsing and storing away the saucepan so there’d be no evidence in the sink. Later, I would tiptoe the empty soup can out to our garage trash barrel. Previously, I naively tossed an empty soup can into our kitchen trash, only to be subjected to a degrading Q&A session by my parents upon discovery, as if I’d been hauled into the downtown precinct on a felony charge. Lesson learned: what I was doing was wrong, perhaps even terrible. Hide evidence at all costs.

Once I’d scrubbed the kitchen of all proof of food consumption, it was up to my room for a clandestine gulp. Ingesting was a blur, and even though the soup filled my stomach, I was always left in a cloud of melancholy.

The next chapter of my strained relationship with food included nearly two decades of calculated revenge-eating, which began in earnest once I had my driver’s license. It was a necessary step in reclaiming autonomy, but the nagging feeling of unfulfillment didn’t disappear as I’d hoped it would.

So, I began to seek wholeness in a completely different arena: by devouring self-help books and 12-step meetings. There, I explored the virgin territory of self-acceptance. Incrementally, I began trusting myself. As it turned out, my judgement and instincts were sound after all, despite the original programming from authority.

When this new condemnation-free perspective began to inform the way I eat, it was anything but a forced, heavy-handed mandate. The evolution was natural and occurred through a confluence of monthly Gourmet magazines (supplied lovingly by my Godmother’s yearly birthday subscriptions), a few compelling cooking shows on PBS, and simple curiosity. And paradoxically, it was through this newfound door of acceptance that shame eventually left the building.

The budding alliance was further solidified during my tenure at a daily newspaper, where I delved head-first into interviewing chefs, grandmothers, and entrepreneurs in my quest to embrace food in a healthy, out-in-the-open way. Eventually, I wrote cookbooks. My first two contained a number of soup recipes, including a dairy-free version of New England Clam Chowder, Cream of Mushroom, Corn Chowder, and a legacy Jewish Penicillin recipe (chicken soup) courtesy of Bill’s father and his Ashkenazi ancestry.

Three days ago, I made a double batch of split lentil soup, using a bag each of green and red lentils. As is a common kitchen practice, I augmented the lentils with what was available, which turned out to be a few cups of leftover Jasmine rice, a jar of cocktail onions and a bag of carrots, which I peeled and diced (a favorite form of meditative focus). Then came the chicken bone broth – an ingredient that’s immutable, and some might say, overused. But I remain insistent on reconstituting rice, lentils, and pasta with bone broth for a more protein-centric nutritional base.

This all takes time, which bothers me not a bit – I love every minute of it. No hiding, rushing, or sweating in anticipatory shame. Just quiet dedication and peaceful focus. Every pot of soup created is a step further away from my old life. And instead of hoarding the goods away in my room, I’m prone to sharing nowadays.

It was a recent act of kindness that inspired this double-batched project when a friend surprised me with a quart of her homemade soup after we returned home from a five-day road trip. She knew our cupboards would be on the bare side and that we’d be exhausted (she was right) so she gifted us with some much-appreciated homemade TLC.

I paid it forward by dropping a jar of my latest creation off to my mother, who’s not so fond of cooking these days. And jars for two friends in their 80s, who light up when they see me coming with occasional food deliveries. When Bill asked if I’d thought of a title for my latest creation, without hesitation, I answered, “Group Soup.”

At its highest purpose, food is an expression of love, and eating is meant to be worry-free. It took me time and considerable trial-and-error to realize that, but now, I can relax around food. No more hiding it, misusing it, or cursing its tempting existence. Nothing is bad or off-limits. But I also take a few moments to discern what I really want – and this includes a vote from my body – not just my mind, which is still subject to restless anxiety and nagging dissatisfaction.

On the challenging days, I accept when life isn’t what I’d like to be, acknowledging the reality that I’m not satisfied. This kind of honesty is the most viable form of insurance against trance-eating I’ve ever come across. Tricks and distractions don’t cut it; whether it’s the recitation of positive affirmations or a bucket of fried chicken that ultimately proves not to be a rescue. It really is as simple as wading through the emotional muck without wishing it away.

It’s been a significant transformational journey from those jittery sessions at the stove as a teenager. My odyssey’s meaning and context transcend physical alterations (translation: weight loss). Even though our appearance-obsessed society insists it’s still the ultimate metric, I know for a fact it’s not.

Love not only heals, it morphs and reshapes wounding at an intangible level. Mysterious? Yes. But still undeniably real.

Personality compositions are a mixed bag - as they’re designed to be. If we were all alike, what a bore that would be.

Something I’ve realized just today, and perhaps a little late in the game, as a sensitive soul (also known as introverts and INFPs on the personality spectrum), is that there are occasions when my sensitivity can work against me. While it makes me a good writer, an empathetic friend, and a stellar observer, it also means I absorb hurt like an unused sponge...and there it can stay…indefinitely. Oh, let’s not be polite. In some cases, pain and hurt feelings have embedded like wall-to-wall carpeting and stayed permanently.

This downside also translates to me having a hard time with forgiveness. I don’t like that tendency, but it’s important to own it without judgement.

As I engaged with my morning contemplative practice several hours ago, I was overwhelmed with a tidal wave of emotion and realization. The information that rolled in was nothing new under the sun, but, in a moment of unguarded receptivity, it descended like a revelation: We all hurt others at one time or another, sometimes deliberately and other times unintentionally. I’ve done it, Lord knows, many times over my lifetime. And if I know that it doesn’t make me a bad person, but a flawed one, how then, can I continue to resent someone who has hurt me? The hardest hurdle of all for me is agreeing to forgive in the absence of admission of error or made-amends, but I’m feeling exceptionally limber at the moment.

Today, I’ve decided to release my grip, enlarge my view of others - heck - why not the entire race of humanity while I’m at it? We all come into this world innocent and overloaded with joy - one of the reasons being in the company of toddlers is so irresistible. Remembering this primal purity helps shift the equation somehow for me.

This space I created on Substack more than two years ago has been an invaluable refuge for a bottled-up former elective mute to release a lifetime of stored explosives that resulted from the atrocities of my past. I’ll continue on that path of respectful release for as long as there’s still a head of steam a-brewing that needs long-overdue attention. Expression is part of the process, and a necessary component to forgiveness. Today, I just took a few giant steps (to quote my favorite childhood game, ‘Mother May I?’) toward my ability to forgive another.

We are born carrying abundant Light. Then Life proceeds to push (or drag) us down some bumpy roads, and we’re violated - and we forget. But the good news is, we can always remember.

Today, I am deciding to do that more often.

Practice, after all, makes practiced.

As March unfolds and spring approaches, I’m taking the opportunity to use this season of renewal to practice acceptance…of what is:

* I’m displaying (after years of enslavement to peroxide) my true hair color. Which has given way to me being delighted with the surprise that I like my gray streaks. 

* The updated and revised picture of what health and well-being look like for me has been duly notated. Exhausted by rounds of equal parts debate and denial, I’ve crossed weight loss off my to-do list. It’s not a viable pursuit, so I can drop the charade of priority. Certainly, I’m open to it happening, but the reasons for the needle not moving are many. And after a lifetime of diet culture immersion, and the shame and confusion that always ensues after playing into its hands, it feels right to step away.

* Food will be enjoyed with freedom and awareness: not too strict, not too loose…but the last thing I need is micromanaging and judgment. Feeding oneself is an intimate and sacred process, and I am adamant now about taking anything remotely unhappy, anxiety-producing, or toxic out of the picture. Even after years of re-grooming my memories of childhood experiences, I still catch myself eating quickly and under a cloak of shame (especially if it’s a food I once deemed forbidden). Rather than ruminate on calories and ingredients, I’d rather convert that energy to doing something that would actually help and heal, such as patiently reminding myself to slow down the chewing and relax - because no one’s coming to pounce on me with a litany of rebukes. That part of my life is over; shadows of it may still reside at the cellular level, but conforming to cultural expectation through self-loathing and the enforcement of ‘acceptable’ food choices only kept me in a place of perpetual pain.

* Less time and focus on outside, illusory forms of information and entertainment - specifically social media - where there’s no shortage of bitter malcontents and desperate-to-be-validated gurus. Especially in light of so many of self-help mavens and influencers being exposed as frauds. I was far too eager to cast my innate wisdom and ability to discern aside in favor of what surely must be a superior source. Besides, what better evidence could there be than millions of followers?

* Connecting with paper. Who remembers what that’s like? The joys of a shiny new magazine, leafing through a newspaper, or sitting down with a good book are profound for me, so I’m putting the phone on the charger to make more time for them. Ditto for writing letters and cards to whose who matter to me - it’s a tangibly beautiful way to stay connected.

* Loving and respecting my body is paramount, and I discover new ways to do that every day: my own version of meditative Tai Chi as the sun rises, epsom salt foot baths, cups of herbal tea after a meal, slathering achy joints with organic castor oil, and enveloping my overworked neck with a warm hot pack. 

Everyone’s path is different where wellness is concerned. I’d love to hear a few of your favorite techniques and practices, because I can always learn.

I’m sure the list will evolve over time, but the bottom line is…I just can’t be hard on myself anymore; and what a relief it is to say it. As it turns out under my new world order: a gray day is a happy day. Let autonomy ring!



I was four when my mother brought me face-to-face with the ocean. We were visiting my grandfather, who lived across from the beach in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. It wasn’t my first encounter with swimming by any means, but it was my maiden voyage with the saline enormity of the Atlantic.

After my mother set up her lounge chair near the other sunbathers, she motioned me toward the waves. I took a few steps forward, and looked back in apprehension, hoping she might walk with me. She responded by motioning me onward with a wave of her hand.

The squishy warmth of the Florida sand was a welcome departure from the cold, impacted grit of the Adirondack beaches back home. I took that as a good omen, but was alternately afraid of and fascinated by the roar of the giant waves as I ventured closer. I took a few more hesitant steps. Suddenly, a rogue wave pushed me backwards. This gave way to an involuntary log roll in the opposite direction towards an angry and inhospitable type of water that I found to be quite rude.

Stunned, I lay on the wet beach, choking on saltwater and sand. Instinct kicked in, and I quickly rose to my feet before the next crashing wave could have its way with me. Regaining my bearings, I became cognizant of the growing volume of outrage erupting: WHERE IS MY MOTHER?

I looked in her direction, and my heart sank. Not having moved from her perch, she sat on the lounge chair laughing as I spit sand out of my mouth. Her reaction angered me; it also revealed a pattern of indifference that was repeated many a time during our relationship.

When your mother won’t rise to the occasion for you, it doesn’t cement a foundation of feeling especially wanted or of value. My first therapist declared it boldly out loud – in our first session - that my shame and lack of self-worth stemmed from my mother’s absence of demonstrating love. Barely out of my teens, I wasn’t yet ready to process the grage (a word I’ve coined that means an amalgamation of grief and rage).

My ability to trust my mother was ruptured that winter day in 1969 on a Fort Lauderdale beach. It was the first of many incursions over the years, and it’s a tragically common dynamic, especially amongst the mother-daughter and father-son crowds. Just as people die every day, so do bonds of trust – only they don’t get obituaries - the fallout is too. hideous to dwell on. If only we’d wake up to the realization of the enormous power we hold over others – especially to those close to us.

And when trust breaks, insecurity abounds.

My mother tended to treat my friends better than she did me – especially the neighborhood super star – whom she gushed over for vapid reasons, such as her beauty, poise, and family’s social standing. My mother would blithely ignore that this vacuous child-demon practiced mean-spiritedness with unquenchable abandon. Each time I came home from an emotional dust-up smarting and humiliated, my mother just shrugged and turned her attention back to what she’d been doing. If I caught her in a bad mood, she’d seethe at me for being too sensitive.

Low self-esteem emits in subtle ways, like a dog whistle that attracts dart-throwers in droves from all directions. Sticks and stones, you say? That’s an ineffectual and intellectually hollow rationale for shitty, unacceptable behavior. Firing squads positioned themselves from all sides: family, false friends, and strangers. I can count on three fingers those who never picked up an arrow: Bruce, Linda, and my German Shepherd. For even the most downtrodden soul, there’s always the possibility of providence, and Bruce and Linda were my manna from heaven: top-notch playmates who brought only joy and adventure to my life. In a cruel irony, though, I only experienced the glow of their kindness for 2 ½ months of the year, when they visited Lake George for the summer. But believe me when I say with deep gratitude, a little bliss is better than none at all.

Aside from the short reprieves, the rest of my formative years were spent in survival mode, and when I reached adulthood, the reproductive years were spent recovering from survival mode.

Now firmly in the phase of my golden years, I’ve concluded that when trust is destroyed at a tender age and it’s followed by an immersion in an unsupportive environment, full restoration of it is out of the question. Actions are consequential. Rather than skirt this reality, as I have for years, I’ve come to realize it’s necessary to acknowledge it.

What am I going to do…keep pretending? Admission is not as unpleasant as you might think, and is far better than being in active denial, which social media encourages nowadays with the never-ending-cavalcade of ‘what a great life I have’ photo collages. And I admit to falling into that trap for a while, until the charade wore itself out.

We don’t win every lottery in life, and after all the rage-writing in journals and honking my nose into therapist-dispensed tissues, I’ve come to a place of acceptance and equilibrium.

Much like degrees of grief following death, the grage from emotional neglect doesn’t disappear. Take yesterday’s phone conversation with my mother: She interrupted me mid-sentence to point out my improper use of grammar. Predictably, she ceremoniously delivered the news as it were life-changing wisdom from the holy grail.

We’ve come a long way in mitigating her criticizing-as-sport fetish. My mother no longer (at my request) critiques my weight. She also agreed to lay off her unforgiving judgement regarding table manners, my posture, food portions, and the flamboyant lipstick shades I’m fond of wearing. The grammar police is a membership she still won’t relinquish. It’s a small, yet still poisonous infraction that sends seismic waves of disruption down to my well-hidden, subterranean grage.

Some days it rolls off, other days it festers. Yesterday was a difficult one emotionally, due to a personal conflict I was ironing out, coupled with receiving upsetting news from a loved one. Translation: I already pre-triggered. Still, I managed to compose myself and pause, while maintaining objective awareness that I wanted to scream at her – and maybe even slide her up a wall by the throat. Taking a breath, I continued with the sentence she’d interrupted and let my primal impulse die – as it usually does when I take a beat.

And that’s about as good as it gets because sometimes, behavioral attachments don’t change. My repeat trips to the well for maternal acceptance have run their course. And I’ve disposed of the whimsical hope for the invention of a vaccine for parents born without proper instinct that thwarts them from committing malpractice. And by that I’m referring to longstanding patterns and repeat choices…not the human mistakes and missteps we all commit.

I continue to manage the multiple sources of the maternal grage so they no longer run me: The day my mother (with a peculiar smile on her face) told me she was unhappy to learn she was pregnant with me. Or her Tourettes-like tendency to abruptly blurt out cruel declarations – such as wishing aloud that a famous 70’s TV star was her daughter instead of me. I’m sure the picture’s clear by now.

And yes – in spite of our battles, I’m fully aware of and grateful for her upsides: The thoughtful reverence my mother always showed for special occasions like Christmases and birthdays. How she sat at my bedside every evening before saying goodnight to pray with me. The night she took me to see The Sound of Music – a experience that changed my life forever. She’s 88 now and in excellent health. Yet logic dictates that the window of our time together is closing.

I’ve worked hard to accept her for who she is and for what can’t be changed…as I have with every abuser in my life. When I realized that the transgressor (whoever it may be) is, in fact, laden with unseen psychological burdens, then I can connect the dots properly and be free from the misinformation that it all occurred because I’m fundamentally flawed or unlovable.

I know there are kids who have gone through far worse. But we’re each handed a particular ball of wax by destiny, and this is mine: The innocent, open-hearted ability to trust a human being 100% may never be restored, but I’m still here. There are many good days, even wonderful ones. And they coexist with the grage, which never has the courtesy to give advanced notice. It always barges in uninvited, badgering me with the reminder that I live life with a prosthetic heart. The innocent one I was born with was damaged by five or six incursions too many - it is altered.

But I honor what remains.

Photo of boxer Silvia Bignami courtesy of Instagram

Content warning: Contains references to sexual harassment and abuse.

There I was during a New York City summer - 1988 to be exact – sweating behind the counter at my summer job. The busy SoHo deli was where I earned money while on break from college. Most mornings, it was chaos as I tried to keep pace with ringing up customers and doctoring coffee orders and bagging to-go breakfasts for the hurried crowd. As I went to retrieve a customer’s bacon and egg sandwich from the short order cook, I noticed a maniacal smile spreading across his face as I approached.

Handing me the order, he leaned in and muttered so no one else could hear the lewd declaration of what he wanted to do me. To eliminate his revolting verbiage, let’s just say it would have involved the need to take a towel to my face after he worked his magic.

You’d think I would have been apoplectic.

I wasn’t – and not just because leering at the deli’s female employees was an open pastime of his. I was also relieved: that he didn’t make a humiliating remark about my weight. That variety of shrapnel came at me since the tender age of five and I was raw from it.

Compared to other 21-year-olds of the day, I had little-to-no experience in absorbing vitriol and disrespect of a sexual nature. (Who says those layers of fat can’t come in handy?) This still didn’t cancel out his vile behavior and the fact that he needed to be taken down a peg – or 17. With deliberate apathy, I pulled back, looked him in the eye, and replied (in his native language, which I studied in high school) ‘OK, then…when and where?’

His eyes widened, and then his jaw clenched.

“You’re…TERRIBLE,” he sputtered, turning his attention back to the grill.

I was happy to take the wind out of his sails; not only for his flagrant misogyny, but because I was flying high with euphoria that my old, festering wound hadn’t been gouged again. It may be impossible for someone who hasn’t lived it to understand, but consider a lifetime of being lectured to by doctors and family members, ridiculed at school, even scream-insulted while entering a Chinese restaurant, and it’s not a stretch to see how reopening a wound that’s been repeatedly poked and chronically infected, can be too much to swallow.

This is not to minimize the heartache and humiliation my slender sisters have experienced from puberty on. The damage is real. And often long-lasting. Adding to both varieties of shrapnel is the reality that the offenders usually feel no remorse, let alone take accountability. I came of age in an era where all varieties of disrespect and degradation directed at women were tolerated, even encouraged. And I’m sure it was worse for preceding generations.

All I knew in that encapsulated moment at the deli grill was…he wasn’t tapping into the reservoir of primal shame I still harbor regarding the size, shape and acceptability-level of my body. And it washed over me like a salve.

I could give a five-installment litany of insults women of every shape and size are subjected to, but herewith is a mere fraction:

• “Yo! Jack LaLane has a warrant out for your arrest!” (shouted to me as walked down the street one day)

• Uninhibited, shameless critiques centering around the blame-game played on women whose breasts are ‘too’ big or ‘too’ small.

• “Get your fat ass out of the way.”

• And this: A true corporate horror story recounted to me by a friend who witnessed a supervisor at a large national company deliberately drop the papers he was clutching so a female underling would have to obediently squat down in front of him and pick them up. This alone is repugnant, but it gets uglier: when the woman handed the papers back to this poor excuse for a man, who towered imperiously over her, he concluded the charade by commanding her to ‘close her mouth, swallow, rise to standing.’ This was witnessed not just by my friend, but several other employees in the company reception area where visitors enter. That’s how overwhelmingly entitled this bastard believed he was. But hey, it was the 80s.

And in the most extreme cases, there are hardcore criminal incidents where inappropriate and harmful physical contact is made, and that’s a whole other study in emotionally infirmed and entitled men. Yeah, I know, this isn’t representative of all men. But one of these types is too many, and we all know we’re not fortunate enough to be down to a single predator roaming the earth.

And so, women are tasked with carrying on, usually without apologies, amends, or justice. That leaves us with unhealed wounds, unmet needs, and untold amounts of time and energy expended attempting to heal and make sense of it all. And by make sense, I mean disinfecting the foul stench of the self-blame women tend to be saddled with. You know, the worn-out gaslighting tactics such as critiquing a woman’s wardrobe or food choices.

How do you cope with being the object of degradation and disrespect as sport? There’s no adequate way to cope while its happening, and there’s no one way to attempt healing once it has occurred.

Sometimes…

You space out

Pretend it’s not happening

Tell someone

Have a drink and try and forget

Binge-eat sugar

Plunge into people-pleasing to make yourself less of a target

I did all but one as a habitual rotation. I guess you could call it a master class in getting through the day without solving the problem. Telling someone, however proved to be a one-and-done when my parents’ response was to blame their eight-year-old daughter for society’s contempt by reminding me, with raised eyebrows, that if I just stuck to my diet it wouldn’t be happening.

Little pro tip, fellas and parents: this type of abuse can start as early as kindergarten. The most extreme case I’ve come across is a middle-aged woman who confided to me her size-phobic mother put her on a diet at age three and it went downhill from there. But since it starts at a tender age, maybe think twice about the remarks you make to a woman or girl at ANY age – unless you’re honest enough to admit that promoting lasting damage is your goal.

The reaction of HALLELUJAH that surged through me that day at the deli was a response to how my body and it’s underground tunnels of stored trauma are architected. That a comment such as that would elicit relief should give anyone with a pulse pause to ask what the FUCK we’re doing to women and girls.

It does not pass for comedy, or bonding, or flexing.

There’s nothing jovial about causing embarrassment or shame because you threw an inappropriate joke or double entendre someone’s way in order to have a little knuckle-dragging fun. Or because you think it’s your right to pass judgement on someone’s appearance.

To those who have the power to curtail this damaging and ingrained behavior (even deciding not to laugh at your friends’ jokes moves the needle), do you want to be part of the problem or part of fomenting the long overdue shift of females feeling safe and secure in their bodies? I kid you not when I say this move would change the world.

And to those recovering, the first step is to not minimize what it did to you (tactic No. 1 of the misogynistic overlords). Then remember the simplicity that you were, are, and always will be a specimen of God’s beauty and splendor.

And then…you can start to make your way home. Or as I like to say, re-matriate.

Head on.

It’s the only way to face a problem. And it took me years to get here.

Let’s just say I have a couple of Ph.D’s under my belt in Running and Hiding. And a few more in People Pleasing, and Pretending I’m Not Damaged. The reasons for this expertise are many, ranging from genetic constitution to an appalling lack of support from the adults around me as I attempted to grow to maturation. No one fought for me, so why would I think to do so for myself?

When the foundation of self-esteem has all the solidity of a pile of graham crackers, it’s no surprise that it can take years to gain the confidence to stand down and not sprint.

There’s no self-criticism in this revelation. We all rely upon defense mechanisms that seem useful at the time. My method of swan-diving away from conflict worked, until it didn’t.

And much like that mythical passage to Carnegie Hall, becoming adept in emotional self-defense took practice, practice, practice. That’s really all you need…Plus the support of a few good people around you. ❤️ And then…

You.

Can.

Do (and say).

ANYTHING.

It’s no secret that a good part of my life is devoted to the endeavor of being healthier. This includes wanting to drop some weight. I’d love to weigh less and have physical existence be more easy. But there are certain things I’m no longer willing to do.

Step back in time with me to the 80s and my favorite past-time of being steeped in the latest issue of Cosmopolitan magazine. I considered it to be both aspirational and essential to spinning the compass of a lost and insecure 20-year-old in a better direction. Back in those days, it was helmed by the great Helen Gurley Brown, so the publication actually did have some intelligent content. But the paragraph-long profiles of the cover models were uniformly cringey (in retrospect). They weren’t all that different from the questionnaire Hugh Hefner had the Playboy Bunnies offer his readers. Essentially, it was a light-hearted list of turn-ons and turn-offs; only Cosmo, included the crucial addition of the model’s measurements, which were always wildly different from my own. (Talk about not measuring up).

But what stopped me in my tracks on this particular day was one model who displayed uncharacteristic candor, admitting how she goes through life under-eating in order to retain both her job and standing in the industry. The admission stopped me in my tracks and gave me pause. Is this aspirational after all, or is there an element of nefarious influencing at play that I haven’t wanted to acknowledge? The cover girl concluded her remarks with the rationale that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded because, ‘hunger pangs only last 20 minutes.’

Wow.

Not surprising information, but irrefutably disturbing. And still…I Rose. For many years to come, to every manipulative invitation to diet, deny, and self loath in the name of being better, healthier, lighter, more acceptable. You know the drill. Until the time came when I was exhausted by it, both emotionally and physically, and my entire being was basically begging me to knock it the F off.

I’ve come a long way psychologically. So far, in fact, that I’m immune to the industry’s brazen upping of the ante, as it’s wont to do when it feels threatened with the slightest possibility of extinction. And even though my physician probably could and would green-light me for a GLP-1 if I asked her, I’m not interested. As much as I’m interested in weighing less, I’m not interested in that, and I stress, this is a personal choice for me - not a sweeping judgement of anyone using a GLP-1.

Debates over long-term side effects aside, what I find disconcerting in the immediate, as always, are manipulative big pharma tactics, like the overuse of the new term ‘Food Noise.’ Defined broadly, it’s the continual loop of thinking about food and the battle done in the head of the overeater known as ‘to eat or not to eat.’ Believe me, I’m extremely familiar with it. Based on what I’ve heard from those who use GLP-1’s the desire for and thoughts of food are significantly diminished by the drug. No surprise that a lab-created concoction can flip a switch on a symptom; it’s been done for decades.

But doing so ignores the crucial part of the equation, or what I like to call, the root cause. I suspect big pharms is well aware that remedying root causes usually equates to the cutting of the shackles, which is why they’re so insistent on leading us away from that arena. Let’s be honest, food noise doesn’t occur in a vacuum. For the overeater and those afflicted with an overactive attraction to food, there is other noise which precedes the food noise. For me, past and current triggers have included grief noise, anger noise, repressed emotions noise, feeling trapped in a toxic job or relationship noise, and sorrow noise. Each and every time I’ve overeaten to lower the volume and escape, my mind has been plagued with this variety of noise. And what drug can eradicate that? It doesn’t exist - and don’t get any ideas, big pharma - you’ve done more than enough already.

The truth I didn’t want to embrace for so long is: It’s sometimes an unpleasant slog to stay in the here and now; to remain in reality, handle its pain, and deal with shrapnel as it comes in, piece by piece.

What works for me today is paying close attention to both body signals and what’s going on with me emotionally. A crucial adjunct to this is making it a sustainable process which inexorably includes enjoying food - not as a binge or an escape, but because, why wouldn’t I want to enjoy food? It’s just plain masochistic to leave that part out. But I don’t want to subsist on junk or trance-eating either, so I come up with compromises. Take this morning’s breakfast of zucchini fritters - had ‘em after I returned from the gym.

They made my heart SING, they tasted so good! I shredded organic zucchini mixed with gluten-free all purpose flour, and a few beaten eggs. The great part of this method is you don’t even have to spend all that inordinate time squeezing out the liquid in the zucchini… Leave it in, the flour will do its thing! Fry in light olive oil and you have yourself a treat. It may not be low-calorie, but it’s far healthier than anything processed. As we all know by now, the less processed food ingested means diminished dependence on big pharma.

Another incentive: the truism that processed food is not made with Love.

I make it a point to say good things to my body. With reverent tone and tenor, I bestow regular bouquets of gratitude for how much I appreciate my unique conglomeration of DNA, in all its functional glory. I thank it for getting me through each day, as well as incidentals such as the mystery of cognition which allows me to create, for the reassurance of breath, the pleasure of walking, and all the myriad tasks it silently completes while I’m busy doing other things. It’s an amazing and intricate powerhouse, this body of mine. And though it might sound strange or patronizing to offer obeisances to it, the clear-cut answer to that is…why wouldn’t I?

As a woman, I come with a guarantee to be nit-picked from the neck down by various industries who have a financial stake in keeping me dissatisfied, disgusted, and on a never-ending quest to morph my physique into something more acceptable. I spent most of my life buying into this nefarious scheme of manipulation before finally realizing the absurdity of it.

And then there’s the artillery from men, some, (thankfully not all) of whom possess a driving passion to snicker and critique when we don’t measure up to what they decide are universal standards. If I gave it my best estimate, I wouldn’t be able to count the number of insults I absorbed because of misogyny’s entitled mean streak. For me, it took place during the 70’s and 80’s when such spankings were accepted, encouraged, and embedded into our cultural fabric. They even invaded the most good-natured of sitcoms, as I discovered whilst enjoying an episode of “Happy Days,” one evening. I listened with shock and dismay as the winsome and usually kind Richie Cunningham unabashedly voice his disdain at the prospect of being fixed up with a girl because she might be ‘fat with glasses.’ His words echoed across my living room as I felt the heat of embarrassment I hadn’t expected to feel rise while watching a feel-good TV show. As a fat 14-year-old who wore glasses, I was guilty as charged and lowered my head in shame at being reminded yet again of my repulsiveness.

When critiques were lobbed in person, all I could do was put on my best poker face and play deaf. But I heard every syllable, and so did my body, and I was hardly alone. A former classmate recently admitted she still gets anxiety – 40 years after the fact - at the memory of her school’s upper-classmen (using the word ‘men’ loosely here) who made a daily ritual of lining up near the school cafeteria entrance to leer as they rated aloud the females who filed into the lunch room. You know - the 1 through 10 grading system, with Bo Derek being at the top, and many of the unfortunate student contestants at the bottom. “It was so humiliating the way they’d laugh at us,” she recalled, noting the lifelong damage incurred to her self-image.

I’m not sure how far the needle has moved during the past four decades, but you get the picture: the treatment females are blithely subjected to is savage. Worse than unapologetic riddicule from the opposite sex was the friendly fire from so-called female chums who had dutifully internalized society’s vitriol.

Take Trixie, for example, a lethal frenemy if there ever was one. It’s not something I dwell on voluntarily, but recently a memory popped up, uninvited, of a summer afternoon spent sunbathing when we were 12 and hovering awkwardly on the precipice of puberty. After 30 minutes of frying, I was ready to flip over on my stomach so my back could get equal time. There was dread in my stomach as I asked my friend’s help with putting lotion on my back. Trixie glared at me for the inconvenience, then grabbed the bottle of sunscreen, sighed laboriously, and began quickly slapping it on – making it clear she was loathe to touch me.

“Eww…Gross! Why are you making me do this? It’s disgusting,’ she hissed, before throwing the bottle down next to me and resuming her impression of the Ban de Soleil model. I knew Trixie was referring expressly to my back fat, a part of myself I’d always hated. And down it went: another toxic missile absorbed by my body. By this point I’m sure it was beyond distressed at the truckloads of undeserved shit it took on a regular basis. Eventually, I wielded the whip myself and began the practice of silent berating, until it was an automatic state of mind.

The sunbathing episode plus all the unquantifiable incidents over a lifetime are why I airdrop messages of gratitude, kindness, and appreciation into my body…sending them gently floating down like benevolent paratroopers packing medical supplies. They help immeasurably, as does the principle of repetition. In the beginning I believed not a syllable of the good stuff, but kept it up anyway and now…things have shifted.

Equally important: remembering I never deserved any of it to begin with. If anything, it’s Trixie and the Toxic Upperclassmen (great band name, btw) who deserve to be reviled. Not me…or anyone else for the superfluous crime of not looking the part.

Alas, there are still those roaming the earth who believe there’s no excuse for back fat, and they’re free to ponder its demerits. But let’s finally be clear about the real truth – that there’s absolutely no excuse for the condemnation of it.

Prediction: Our intellectual and emotional evolution will continue its snail-paced trudge if we regularly default to the easier, more gratifying option.

Sure, it’s easier to:

* Lash out at a soft target

* Be dishonest where money is concerned

* Engage in covert infidelity

* Not be happy for someone else’s success

* Gossip

* Condemn someone for their political views

* Snap at the waiter

I’ve engaged in all of these at least once…some quite liberally actually, when I was in my 20s and 30s. But at some point, don’t you start to feel bad about continually making bad choices? I did. Maybe it was thanks to some Divine intervention that I took a step back, but I see people in middle age and beyond doing this crap on auto pilot. Engaging again and again, as if the grotesque were going out of style.

Come on, people…There’s too much at stake now. There must be a practical middle road between poor choices and sainthood. Let’s grab our walking sticks and find it together 🗻🕊️☀️.

There’s a friend whom I’ll call Job; perhaps because he reminds me in some ways of the woe-ridden Biblical figure of the same name. The short version of this particular book is, I’ve spent time recently ministering to him in hopes of pointing Job in the direction of healing from an unhappy childhood.

His woes stem from a jealous older brother who was incensed at Job’s birth. In the elder sibling’s view, baby brother’s inconvenient arrival took the spotlight off the seven-year-old star of the show, and he was no longer the sole focus of familial attention.

Materially speaking, Job had every need met during his formative years. What he lacked was a sense of peace and security, thanks to the relentlessly bitter grudge held by his older brother, who always seemed to by lying in wait with an insult or rebuke. Their parents’ intervention was lukewarm at best, so Job lived with the habit of not only constantly looking over his shoulder, but also with the cemented ‘fact’ that his presence was unwanted and an irritation.

Not surprisingly, this foundation turned Job into an adept people-pleaser as an adult. He was the consummate rescuer, jumping into action to solve others’ problems, even before being asked. While an understandable defense mechanism, it also turned Job into a target for users and abusers.

Feeling rewarded, useful, and officially classified as a non-nuisance was always a temporary state. And Job eventually realized that his compulsive chivalry trained those around him to expect unmitigated giving and sweat equity – usually of the non-reciprocal variety.

This misery-compounding formula is all too familiar to me and anyone else who has experienced emotional mistreatment from a young age. We over-give to mitigate our deformed self-image.

Only in middle age was Job able to connect the dots. While grieving the sorrowful elements of his childhood, he is currently at work on the practice of discernment, which includes giving and doing for others when his heart – not the emotional panic button – prompts him.

“I have a lot more peace in my life,” he reports. “Even if I’ve lost a few false friends along the way – I’m OK with that.”

If only those susceptible to doing such damage – toxic older siblings and cousins, irate and overburdened parents, power-addicted bosses, and playground bullies - would A) practice a little restraint and B) think beyond their moment of gratification to the domino effect they’re putting in motion.

Consider these next few paragraphs an optimistic attempt at shaking awake current and would-be havoc-wreakers. Even though I’ve never known a recalcitrant bully to stop, drop, and ponder their bad behavior, here’s my audacious wish for the coming year, anyway: That there be a collective shift. That ‘soft’ targets would no longer be catnip for these with a bent for malice to toy with. That the Golden Rule would have and retain a magical grip on the masses.

When are we going to wake up to the truth that misplaced anger helps neither the aggressor nor their target? Left unchecked and untreated, perpetrators usually become more insatiable, dysfunctional, and unhappy over time...just ask any woman who worked as a secretary during the 70s.

The damages incurred from such toxic practices are long-lasting: Sometimes, there are reasons some of us aren’t ‘a little further along in life.’ Or have difficulty forming close relationships and putting trust in another human being. It’s time we realize these circumstances don’t occur in a vacuum; they occur because of unkind, often cruel behavior.

My hope for the new year is an overall elevation in kindness. Let’s normalize, practice, and propagate it. Let’s participate in making someone’s day instead of ruining it. Let’s transform life purposes from recovering from the past to thriving in the present.

I can’t think of a better way to begin 2026.

‘Blue Christmas’: it wasn’t so much a Christmas song as it was a trigger. In a sea of musical joy played on radio stations and TV music channels, this dirge didn’t fit in. Whenever I detected its first few melancholic notes, I’d leap into action and turn it off…until recently. Maybe it’s the wisdom of middle age, but it occurred to me that this downer set to music just may be the most authentic Christmas song ever written.

This time of year like no other is filled with celebrating, or aspirations thereof. Christmas may be just a single day, but the weeks leading up to it are filled with an array of strategies designed to get us in he mood: bright lights, sparkly decorations, decadent recipes, colorful libations, beloved Christmas movies, and probably most memorable…the music.

And while the avalanche of cheer isn’t necessarily a bad thing, too much of anything can translate to not only sensory overload, but also the dissonant clang of unmet expectations. Rarely has my holiday disposition (even with incessant suggestions from the world of advertising) approached anything resembling euphoria. Sometimes, it’s quite the opposite. The truth is, holidays are, for a variety of reasons, embedded with stress. It’s taboo but true: What’s mood-stoking about exhaustion from shopping marathons (and their ensuing debt) coupled with the dread of gatherings with people you might not be on especially great terms with. And then we feel like duds because we didn’t get close to feeling like we experienced the most wonderful time of the year.

It’s certainly not everyone’s Christmas reality, but for a significant chunk of the population, it is. And it’s a plausible reason that ‘Blue Christmas’ is one of the most widely played songs this time of year. Its melancholy is relatable, and not just from festivity-fatigue, but the fact that grief can go from 0 to 100 in December. Isn’t it time we legitimize ‘bouts of the holiday blues rather than shooing them away with an overload of jingling bells, compulsory gift-giving, and a roster of gatherings? Hey, if you’re feeling it, go to that party! But if you’re not, where is it written that you can’t opt out for the sake of mental health or self care?

This week, a friend lamented performance anxiety over her coming Christmas Eve gathering, vis-a-vis worrying if her efforts would be perceived as ‘enough.’ Another expressed dread at the likelihood of there being more tension than mirth at a family get-together. Who can’t relate to both dilemmas?

Note to readers: I’m not talking about the current trend of ‘no contact’ because of political differences. Abuse and mistreatment are valid reasons to suspend contact, not because of who someone did or didn’t vote for. Furthermore, it’s a hurtful and sanctimonious practice that completely flies in the face of the teachings of Jesus, whose birth is the genesis for the celebration of Christmas - little-known fact nowadays - but I digress.

I’m all for joy and happiness – we need it now more than ever. But they can’t, as the TV commercials suggest, be summoned forth, magician-style. In my experience, joy is a spontaneous gift, not something that’s arrived at by preconceived formulas. If you don’t believe me, just check out the forthcoming ticker-tape parade of holiday and party photos on social media and notice how many of the smiles look strained. Maybe that wouldn’t be so prevalent if we just allowed ourselves to delve authentically into holiday no-no’s such as sadness when we’re feeling it. A good cry or somber reflection time can be as refreshing as a mineral bath. Really, all the blues want is a little attention.

There’s also another type of mourning that can be an emotional dark cloud this time of year: the grieving of family dynamics we wish we had. When I admitted to that cloying ache, the simple act of coming clean provided a surprising relief. Nothing is as shackling as those Hollywood-induced expectations of how things ‘should’ look.

In addition to needing a little Christmas, maybe it’s honesty we also crave. It goes a long way in vaporizing the outmoded ritual of pretending. Our yearnings are deep during the holidays…and that doesn’t always mean fulfillment.

For some, there really is no place like home for the holidays. Others decide that new traditions and fresh starts are in order. However you observe, endeavor to make it a peaceful time. For yourself, those close to you, and for the World. The ripple effect is real.

Adversarial undertones of our mother-daughter relationship aside, there were the gifts my mother gave me. I can never remind myself enough how important it is to endeavor affording them equal or greater time over the grievances.

The more valuable gifts from my mother were bestowed by example. Through the daily discipline that is a housewife’s lot, I learned the practice of meeting the task, and the character-building value of doing things I didn’t want to do. Through my mother’s charitable work with the elderly, I learned empathy for others. And by her devotion to celebrating Christmas and honoring its true essence, I learned the value of disconnecting from the world and entering a place of peaceful elevation.

Perhaps unwittingly, my mother granted access to a desperately needed time out from the challenging and taxing unpleasantness of the world. It’s something we all need – in 2025 more than ever – regardless of theological and philosophical leanings.

During those tender formative years, I grew to love retreating to our sunken living room. The lamps were turned off and the colored tree lights glowed softly in the far corner. While the rest of the house was otherwise occupied, I’d slip into the silence and stare at the crèche with its congregation of awed figurines gazing at the newborn baby Jesus. Peace enveloped me. The world melted away. There was no school to dread, no next-door-bully to run from, no side-eyed judgement from my mother at the dinner table, no rageful outbursts from my father. None of it existed during my solo expeditions to Bethlehem.

My mother bought the Italian-made crèche at Doyle’s (a long-deceased family-owned department store in Glens Falls, N.Y.) circa 1963 to celebrate the move into her marital home. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the quiet interludes with her Nativity set bore the nascent signs of my bent toward meditation. To this day it remains my preferred form: eyes wide open and drinking in the mystery. The sight of Mary, lost in a loving trance as she gazes down at her son; Joseph, the ultimate embodiment of protection and faithfulness standing watch; the frozen awe of the shepherds and kings. It distilled in me a similar silent wonder, which I won’t further diminish by trying to ascribe human language to it.

It is said that some of life’s deepest joys come from unexpected beauty: a rainbow that pops up on the horizon while driving; the discovery of a bird’s nest filled with turquoise-colored eggs, and the spontaneous delight of finding The Wizard of Oz while channel-surfing.

But I believe that expected beauty can be every bit as powerful. Taking the time to carve out time without technology or intrusive noise - with music, a votive candle, Christmas tree, flickering Menorah, or a silent snowfall – are all simple but profound acts of planned care for the soul. And my mother wordlessly and gently set me on the path all those years ago.

Even if my mother’s crèche is 1,500 miles away in her senior community living room, the memories sustain me. And I’ve created my own traditions, which include a white ceramic recreation of the Nativity bought at Fay’s Drugs in 1993 to celebrate Christmas in my first apartment. It has followed me on all my moves, still a portal to time traveling. There are always legitimate lists of things to accomplish and care for on any given day, but making time for this ritual is every bit as important…oh, who am I kidding…it’s more important than any form of distraction, which my lists can sometimes cleverly be.

At least once a day during this Advent season, I take my place on the couch and slow my engine to a full halt. The lights of our ceramic Christmas trees on the end tables provide an ambient backdrop as I give myself the gift of silence, rest, and the indescribably healing tonic that is Peace.

This year, I’ll make a point of thanking my Mother for leading me there.

As the November sun rose in tandem with the full Super Moon’s 8:19 a.m. apex this morning, I sat in contemplation of the event, wondering what to do with such a potent portal.

My usual course of action when the full moon is nigh is to ask for things I’ve yet to realize. Mini, well-intended laundry lists of things I wish to acquire or achieve: immutable financial security, landing a nationally esteemed book publisher, and while I’m at it, why not an agent? You get the picture. But today, I decided to put the asking aside and be grateful instead.

Without premeditation, I changed course and found myself in a sudden state of thankfulness simply for the life I have been given to live. Even with all its surprising and illogical patterns…its uneven tapestry of trials and triumphs. Because without the trials and collisions with pain and humiliation and discouragement, I would have no evolution.

Maybe it’s possible to evolve while being predominantly in a state of happiness, with everything going one’s way…but I don’t think so.

Every misstep I’ve made, and every wound I’ve salved (from irritating disappointment to devastating betrayal) has brought to me guidance and perspective. Some of the more painful lessons have changed me irrevocably, perhaps closed or deadened my heart a little. There’s no way they couldn’t. Scars? Yes, enough to decorate a city-block mural. But they’ve proven survivable.

They remind me of the sash of badges I earned as a Girl Scout. It was an honor just to have that pale green accessory adorn my chest, for it meant I was a part of a team, and a very noble one at that. And then to add to it badge after badge when I accrued achievements and skills in cooking, camping, outdoor beautification. I don’t even clearly remember the categories, but I was mighty proud of all the Girl Scout badges I was awarded.

Back in those days, they were sewn on and embedded forever – unlike a flimsy iron-on which was inherently fragile and vulnerable to damage. Perhaps that’s another great gift of adversity: the muscle that it builds, the storehouse of inner strength it leaves in its tumultuous wake.

A conscious focus on gratitude and positive thinking has many a benefit. But avoiding heartache and emotional calamity aren’t among them. Still, I practice anyway. Not for some future transactional payoff, but because life is simply more enjoyable, easier to bear, even a little sparkly, when I remember to be grateful.

Seemingly out of nowhere I was seized with it: the idea to have a tea party. Never mind that I’d never given one. Summer was at its peak, and at my fingertips was my family’s sprawling patio that came with a panoramic view of Lake George. That plus the patio’s white wrought-iron furniture would more than deliver on atmosphere. Fueled by excitement, the menu formed effortlessly in my imagination that June day: a loaf of Wonder bread would be alchemized into crustless wedges of tuna, egg, and cucumber tea sandwiches. Tea would be served in proper China cups and saucers, followed by the presentation of a pink-frosted cake, brimming with summer strawberries.

The audacity of such an undertaking must have been fated in the stars, because my parents gave me no blowback about using my grandmother’s China or on baking and decorating a layer cake entirely on my own. I was 10 years old and determined to create something memorable - maybe even a little mind-blowing – no official special occasion necessary. I informed the guest-list of two (my sister and next-door neighbor) that formal attire was required - luckily, it was the 70s, and every girl had a long dress or floor-length skirt at her disposal.

The day of the tea party was a perfect, sunny one. As the strawberry cake rose in the oven, I carefully set the glass surface of the table with blue and white China and silver service, warning my German Shepherd, Duchess, not to trip me as I edged my way around the place settings. I had just enough time to change into dress clothing before serving my guests the sandwiches made the evening prior (an overnight sit in the refrigerator ensured the proper pillowy texture). Every soft bite turned out to be a symphony of more than just flavor. The time and care put into each one showed. My guests were astonished; I was unabashedly aglow with gratification.

But aside from nailing the presentation, there was something else that underpinned my joy: the unfamiliar euphoria that came from eating in a state of happiness. I smiling unceasingly that glorious afternoon, passing the towering platter of sandwiches and silver tongs. My tea party was a moment in time that was both random and meticulously planned. If only we had iPhones in 1974 – its beauty would have been recorded in perpetuity.

Decades later, I realize there was more to hosting a tea party than my intent to entertain. Two of the happiest hours of my lifetime were born of the deeply unmet need to combine the elements of food and bonding. In my young and bewildered world, they were usually at odds. Meals taken at my family’s dinner table were largely without merriment. Dinner was an intricate balancing act of riding the razor’s edge between angering my mother and getting my needs met.

It always began on a promising note as we recited grace in unison, eyes closed and heads bowed. I cherished those peaceful 11 seconds because they were followed by 30 minutes fraught with the tension of assessment. Every move and measure was scrutinized: not only how much we were eating, but how fast we chewed, how straight our spines were, and if our arms (or God forbid) elbows ever rested on the table, even for a second. My mother’s stealth peripheral vision never missed an infraction.

To the offspring with weight issues, she somberly doled out inadequate portions of the casserole du jour. The thin one, by contrast, was permitted to eat with abandon, and the second helpings denied us were lavished on him. The deprivation was as infuriating as the iniquity. We were growing children; our hunger was legitimate, but every night it was litigated. What stung even more than leaving the table unfulfilled was my mother’s unceasing disapproval and how it eroded my self-worth. My father, saddled with his own burgeoning waistline, could only nod in agreement with her rules. She was quick to scold him as well for any perceived gluttony, and he knew how to play the game to avoid a volley of hissing rebukes.

The revolving door of mandatory diets only further muddied the waters of my relationship with food. The inaugural 500-calorie-a-day diet, prescribed by a doctor in 5^th grade; Weight Watchers, Cabbage Soup, Atkins, the Carbohydrate Addict’s Diet - the list went on and on. Fifty years later, new variations continue to abound. How could they not? It’s a ruthless industry. And I, in turn, practiced ruthlessness on myself, upping the ante as time went on.

The night I almost fainted on the treadmill following a dinner of 3 ounces of broiled chicken and a bowl of watery stewed tomatoes remains etched in my cellular memory. I was in 10^th grade and determined to get the fat off me once and for all – preferably as quickly as possible. This time, it was a no-fat regimen, torn from the pages of a woman’s magazine. Begun predictably on Monday, by Friday, I was enveloped in the familiar fog of fatigue and irritability. This was followed by the conflict-stage of the tenuous lifespan that is a diet. The silent but raging debates swirled in my mind: all the foods I wanted so badly to taste again vs. all the reasons I should white-knuckle it and stay the course.

My dieting-buddy father was also feeling it, so he begged off by planning a date night with my mother at their favorite Continental restaurant. After they left, all I wanted to do was make a beeline for the refrigerator and give myself something creamy and salty. No, I told myself, you’ve GOT to lose this weight, or you’ll never be happy, and you’ll always be a loser.

Jaw clenched in defiance, I headed to the basement where the treadmill awaited my return. A good round of exercise would get my mind off food and accomplish the ever-revered goal of burning more calories. As I prodded on, determined not to think about food, I soon found myself wandering into what’s commonly known as the dieter’s daydream: Soon I’d be thin, happy, with lots of friends, plus a long-overdue boyfriend. My problems would be over, and life would be the sparkly, pink-hued fairytale that I knew it could be – if only I wouldn’t screw things up again. I forced myself through 20 minutes of huffing and puffing until I could take no more. Instead of feeling better, I was dazed and nauseous, gripping the guard rail while waiting for the dizziness to subside.

Violently, I lurched without warning into the dieter’s final gear: F*CK IT, I’M DONE. With fiery resolve, I defiantly climbed the basement stairs, knowing exactly where I was going - to the kitchen, for a mayonnaise-laden bologna super-sub. It was a far cry from a lovingly crafted tea sandwich – but this was no party - it was a primal survival response. I savored the first bite at the sink, as relief and animation coursed through me once again. Then, sandwich in tow, I plopped onto my parents’ king-sized bed in time to watch Dallas.

The pleasure of eating something delicious again was electric. That it was short-lived was never a deterrent. It was about the reclamation of dignity that the end of each cycle demanded. There are few practices as sadistic as shaming someone for simply attempting to meet their own needs, whether that need is biological hunger or to self-soothe from cruelty. Looking back, the truth is I wasn’t a failure, but rather, set up to fail. By a heartless industry and a perfection-obsessed, unforgiving culture that basically told females they’re worthless unless they fall in line and attempt to look like Cheryl Tiegs. But as an emotionally battered and psychologically throbbing teenager, I believed wholeheartedly in my defectiveness.

It didn’t even occur to me that there may be a path forward from the madness.

“Self-contempt never inspires lasting change”
- Jane R. Hirschmann and Carol H. Munter

“There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you.”
– Maya Angelou

PHOTO CREDIT: UNITED ARTISTS

I felt the familiar pit of dread reverberating like a gong below my rib cage. Trixie was making her way toward me from across the classroom, bearing a faint smirk. It was the maniacal warning I’d come to recognize as the precursor to an unpleasant encounter.

“Stacey,” she began, in her best ‘concerned buddy’ cadence. “Do you know what Robin said about you? That you’re not good at softball because you’re too fat….and that you’re the stupidest one in math class.” Next came Trixie’s predictable pause for an assessment of just how hard the wind had been knocked out of me. My gaze fell downward from her dancing, fiendish eyes, as I looked at the floor in wordless embarrassment. Trixie loved torturing me with snippets of unflattering banter she would always just happen to overhear. Making me squirm was her vitamin D. Always speechless with shame; I never had responses to her verbal aggressions - just deafening silence. But she wasn’t finished. There was a customary part two to Trixie’s smackdowns. “But you know what Robin said about me? That everyone thinks I’m the prettiest girl in the class and that Joe and Kenny have been fighting over me!”

Giving herself a figurative crown and sash was Trixie’s time-honored way of finishing out the lightning round. She never deprived herself of an opportunity for self-aggrandizement - the invisible, addictive vapor Trixie could never get enough of.

This was our dance, and it continued for years. But I no longer blame myself. What else could my recourse have been without a supportive foundation from family and friends? It was the 70’s and imbuing misfits with self-respect wasn’t remotely on the culture’s radar. It’s why I never questioned Trixie’s rituals…rites so humiliating, they would have made the Marquis de Sade green with performance envy.

I was by no means Trixie’s only target in her pattern of seeking a non-resistant candidate for abuse. She wasn’t big on challenges or strenuous expeditions to get herself off. Trixie preferred shooting fish in a barrel. One of her worst moments (in a series of unquantifiable lows) came when she ebulliently declared one morning at recess her intention to corner the shy loner standing under a small maple tree. “Let’s go over and get her to cry,” she sneered. Trixie was lauded by peers and adults alike for the accomplishment of winning the beauty lottery, and her gaggle of disciples followed obediently to the maple tree while I watched from a distance. Trixie began by mocking the girl’s speech. When that produced no tears, Trixie reached for a low-hanging branch and pulled it back, pausing for dramatic effect, then letting it slap against the girl’s face, slingshot-style. That did the trick, so to speak, and the girl spun away from the slobbering gang and began to sob. Trixie flounced away, victorious and smug in her triumph.

It was awful. She was awful. But Trixie’s superpower was normalizing awful. I lived with it for many a year, programmed by the dual formula of being despised for my excess weight, while watching how figurative roses were thrown in Trixie’s path because of her looks. Anytime I dared to protest to Trixie her treatment of me, she’d lash out viciously, hissing that I was too sensitive, acting like a big baby, or didn’t know how to take a joke.

Because my template for worthlessness was cemented, my flight muscles were well-developed; the fight reflex…not so much. How does one fight for something they believe to be of no value, anyway? That’s the paradox of the emotionally abused kid. And my lack of confidence only primed the pump for those with those with less than honorable intentions.

It was a year ago when I off-handedly shared a random memory about Trixie with a friend. “Wow,” said my friend. “She sounds like a sociopath.” I thought she was exaggerating for effect, but my friend was completely serious, saying that inflicting pain and deriving pleasure from it is a bona fide hallmark of the sociopath. I was floored; I’d always believed ‘sociopath’ was a noun relegated only to those who commit high crimes and misdemeanors. The clarification was both sobering and freeing. I no longer had to sweep the damage under the rug – it was real – and I suffered greatly in my younger years because of her. There was a second bonus: I could finally begin to let go of self-recrimination, the ‘there must be something wrong with me’ song I played over and over on a loop.

Aside from the joy derived from hurting another, the sociopath usually feels not an ounce of remorse for their misdeeds. True sociopathic tendencies extend well beyond episodes of adolescent immaturity (which, ideally, get discarded by adulthood). We’ve all had our moments of taking the low road while making the psychological transition into the adult realm. The sociopath, however, is a different animal entirely. Often, like Trixie, they are popular and charismatic, so their cruel tendencies get overlooked or excused. You can’t litigate or ‘good-deed’ your way out of a sociopath’s web; they derive too much satisfaction from the spinning and the stinging.

They also abhor the happiness of another, standing at the ready to suck the wind out of their target’s sails should they become too billowy or blissful. Nowhere is that truth more devastatingly evidenced than in the portrayal of Nurse Ratched in the highly lauded 1975 film, “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” Unfittingly placed in charge of a psych ward in a mental hospital, Nurse Ratched subtly toys with and controls her patients throughout the film. When one of the most hopeless cases unexpectedly makes a leap of progress, the disconcerted R.N. decides to run interference – with tragic results.

According to Veronica Cole, a holistic psychotherapist based in Saratoga Springs, N.Y., sociopathy is a spectrum disorder with varying degrees of severity. Of the most acute varieties are the remorseless, criminally insane double-life-leaders such as disgraced financier Bernie Madoff and serial killer Ted Bundy, whose charm and good looks were as legendary as they were lethal. Cole says the DSM-5 classifies sociopathy under Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD). “Not all exhibit the stereotype of a remorselessness criminal. Many are in high-functioning settings: CEO’s, politicians, surgeons, and the like,” she explained.

Truly, they walk among us, and the damage their unsuspecting victims receive is often swift and with astonishing precision. “Sociopaths are often charming and know how to manipulate to gain trust,” said Cole. “They can fake emotions, but empathy is rarely genuine.”

Cole added that unlike psychopathy, which can have physiological underpinnings, the roots of sociopathy are often traced to childhood trauma and neglect. “Their condition is learned, rather than genetic,” she said. “They can’t regulate their emotions and often feel they’re above others.”

Something, Cole explained, (probably gnawing inadequacy or repressed anger) drives them to offend. Like a boss I once worked for, who was fond of randomly calling in female employees (never the men) into his office for prolonged and humiliating monologs on our shortcomings. Some days he struck gold, and one of his captives would burst out of his office in tears. He delighted in his selective belittlement, and his attachment to it only worsened over time.

Sociopaths are unfortunately common, and it’s likely you’ve come across a friend, family member or signer of your paycheck who has a vague but chronic tendency to toy with you. Methods vary, but the outcome is the same: leaving an encounter feeling strangely mistreated, as well as confused, because, hey…we’re supposed to be tight, right? I’m well-versed in the routine and resigned myself to it for most of my life. But with age comes waning tolerance. And thank GOD, because (spoiler alert), sociopaths rarely change their ways.

Some land in jobs where they can spend careers shooting trout in a barrel. Some sit beside us in math class. Others masquerade as the sharp-tongued, quick-witted bon vivant – enabled by the bedazzled and the intimidated. Whether the sadism is practiced in a way that’s occasional or full-blown is a matter for the professionals. Lay people need to beware and understand how sick and unacceptable the pastime of hurting another in exchange for a warm fuzzy is. It’s nobody’s right. No matter how beautiful, powerful, wealthy, or famous. Protect yourself. Cut the cord. Heal yourself.

Cole noted sociopaths tend to strenuously avoid self-reflection, making treatability a dicey possibility. “Due to their lack of empathy and insight, treating a sociopath is generally known to be exceedingly challenging because they rarely think anything is wrong with their behavior,” she said.

So, what’s a people-pleaser, sensitive soul, or other varietal of soft target caught in their clutches to do? Cole recommends strategies such as firm boundary-setting, the avoidance of arguing or trying to reason with them, and conserving interactions to a minimum. “Keep conversations at the surface level,” she said. “Do not confide personal information. And if someone tries to gaslight or distort reality, trust the facts over feelings since you may feel overwhelmed and vulnerable in the moment.”

A big part of my healing from the likes of Trixie and others with nefarious agendas was not only minimizing time with them but also releasing my grip on blaming myself for the abuse. “Many struggle with self-blame after being manipulated or harmed,” said Cole. “It’s important to remember these personality types are masters at manipulation and control. Forgiving yourself is a process that involves self-compassion and understanding. Acknowledge you were targeted but you are not weak. Sociopaths often seek out kind, empathetic, and trusting people, not because these traits are flaws, but because these traits make them easier to exploit.”

Clearly, Trixie and her ilk harbor demons. Who knows what may have gone on behind her closed doors at home. Picture perfect family portraits don’t mean squat. I know from my own past, what goes on privately and what’s projected publicly often bear little relation to one another. But that’s the transgressor’s mess to clean up – not mine.

And here’s the ultimate elephant in the room regarding the sociopath (if it hasn’t already become evident): It is they who are weak, not their targets. “Sociopaths don’t play by the same moral code, and they take advantage,” said Cole. ““Remind yourself that you were deceived and you are not defective.”

Not only are we not defective, we’re also not stuck. If you feel punched in the stomach after spending time with someone, well, that’s your first clue to a happier tomorrow.

Where the 13-years of American education are concerned, I find there are two types of people who come out of it: those who relish reenactment and revisitation of their glory days and those who would pay good money to have memories from that era medically expunged from the record. Of course, there’s probably a middle ground in there somewhere, but the school experience tends to be a polarizing one, with little grey area: you either fit in and were accepted with open arms, or you most certainly were not.

And if your experience wasn’t a great one, you probably came to view the obligatory daily march through the front glass doors as I did: akin to entering a penitentiary. A dreaded sort of Groundhog Day that ended up being more gory than glory. Public or private, the same debilitating dynamics run through the underbelly of the school experience.

I’ve talked to too many people with similar recollections to deem the phenomenon as anything other than common at this point. The writing I do here sometimes elicits heart-wrenching confessionals from both victims and perpetrators (the ones who experience later-in-life remorse, anyway). Much of the terrible behavior tolerated in an educational institution was swept under the rug with rationalizations such as:

• Toughen up

• Sticks and stones will blah-blah-blah

• Kids are cruel

• They really don’t mean anything by it

• Just ignore it

I did my best to cling to rationalizations as a viable coping mechanism, but they’re about as useful as a pool noodle in a tsunami. I survived deliberate psychological attacks every day on the school bus by my primary bully and his cowardly Greek chorus of followers. Every day I had do listen to crescendos of demeaning names as they surrounded me, salivating and sadistic. All I could do was look out the window, focus in on the details of the roadside motels and houses as the bus rolled past them, and summon every molecule of inner strength to not cry. Some days, it got physical: objects were thrown at me, my hair was pulled, one of the tough guys would shove me as I stood to exit the bus. There was no escape. I spent years in this fetid fishbowl because, basically, school attendance was the law, and abusive students were given pass after pass. If that’s not a domestic violence situation, I don’t know what is: the parallels to being trapped and powerless are plainly evident.

As anyone who’s been in something like this knows, survival mode kicks in. You do what you must when there’s no support. Not only does the victim tend to numb out, but the enormity of the damage as it occurs gets sublimated and buried because it’s too much to process in the moment. There it can linger for a lifetime, but often, it begins the journey of resurfacing via uninvited memories and sundry triggers. These are ultimately good things because they can open opportunities to heal, painful as the memories and feelings of shame are to face head-on.

For decades I shoved it all away, telling myself it wasn’t that bad, that others go through the same thing or worse. That may be true, but it sidesteps a very important element of healing that should not be avoided: The telling of the Truth and the honoring of what those experiences were: needless and wanton abuse, and how it insidiously stains the view of oneself and what one believes they deserve out of life. The reverberations of abuse thwart little incidentals like the ability to form healthy bonds with others, as well as the pursuit of gifts and passions that we think we’re too defective to properly own.

So I’m taking a moment to call bullshit on the rationalization shuffle. It’s long overdue. What I lived through was bad. It was inexcusable. And it should never have been tolerated by society at large. From what I hear on all manner of media platforms, the problem of the school experience has only worsened. The missives I get from readers substantiate the reality of lasting damage done not only by the abuse, but the ensuing complacency of those with the authority to intervene and protect. The month of August can evoke that ancient feeling of dread in some of us because September’s right around the corner. The imprints are real. “August was always a tough month for me and it still is,” wrote one man who grew up in a tight-knit Midwestern community. “The minute school began in the fall the teasing began again, too.”

So in addition to addressing the elephant in the room, it’s time to salute the survivors. In whatever state you’re in all these years later – from depressed and checked out to succeeding at life with a vengeance – I see you and I HONOR you.

• To the kid who was consistently picked last during gym class – I salute you

• To the boy who sat alone in the cafeteria during lunch – I salute you

• To the girl who hid in the bathroom so she didn’t have to sit alone during lunch – I salute you

• To the kids who were called humiliating names and permanently labeled – I salute you

• To the kid who was physically assaulted in the hallways or on the playground – I salute you

• To the kid who sipped a beer handed to him by his buddies, only to discover they replaced the beer with urine – I salute you

• To the kids deliberately excluded from parties, proms, and pep rallies – I salute you

• To the girls who were early bloomers and were put on blast because of it by leering and insecure boys – I salute you

• To the girls who were late bloomers and experienced the same merciless scrutiny from hypercritical and insecure boys – I salute you

• To the kids whose childhood friends dropped you like hot rocks because the adolescent version of you was a social liability – I salute you

• To the kids who had to smile their way through being the butt of jokes – I salute you

• To the kids who received degradation because of (actual or perceived) sexual orientation - I salute you

• To the kid whose life was threatened via anonymous, menacing letters – I salute you

Doesn’t sound like small potatoes when it’s laid out in black and white, does it? Abuse is abuse and should never be ignored. Being forged in the fires of embarrassment does yield the possibility of coming through the other side stronger, and with a well of resiliency that otherwise wouldn’t exist – but only if you don’t skip the necessary steps.

The least we can do, even years after the fact, is honor another’s pain, tip your hat in empathy, and above all, honor and commend yourself for what you’ve survived. It’s a great starting point. And I promise, it’s an opening to breaking a cycle. The bullies and the tormenters were wrong about you. They were wrong about me. The time has come to replace the old with the new and sing a new song. Sing it with me.

What we do to the least among us speaks volumes about who we are at the core. It reveals the true contents of our seldom-seen inner chamber. So what’s in there, anyway? Priceless jewels arrayed on a velvet tray or a bubbling pit of malevolent sludge?

The answer’s easy to discern with a quick perusal of how you treat the lesser among you: those lacking self-esteem, financial brawn, the ability to speak. Pick a weakness and ask how you’ve historically responded when encountering someone at a ‘disadvantage.’ Do you burst the door down with guns drawn for an easy round of shrapnel-release, or do you offer empathy or reassurance in their myriad forms?

There are philosophical and Biblical quotes regarding how we react to the vulnerable, and at no time is this more crucial to be cognizant of than now – at least in my neck of the woods.

I’ve had to take a hiatus from watching the local news broadcast in my upstate New York region because of the alarming influx of animal abuse cases reported – sometimes on a daily basis. The stomach-turning crimes against captive, four-legged innocents range from neglect to harrowing acts of violence. Even a doggy daycare’s reputation recently went down in flames.

Something is terribly wrong, and it’s reaching a crescendo. Once upon a time, animal abuse stories surfaced a few times a year. Now, they’re in regular rotation. I suspect that my region is a microcosm of disturbing behavior that reflects the macro. Post-pandemic, and for all kinds of reasons, we’ve normalized the increasing promiscuity of anger and rage into commonplace verbal and physical acts of disrespect and aggression. Every time we cross a barrier of what was previously off limits, we plunge ourselves further into chaos as a culture.

It seems as though we’re existing in a powder keg of fury and outrage these days. Even with its uptick, anger tends to be frowned upon as a socially unacceptable emotion, frequently paved over with a conciliatory tone and an auto-smile. So how and where are we hiding it, and what happens when suppressed anger inevitably comes flying out? Often, we let it rip when we think no one’s looking. Or we assail a soft target, kidding ourselves that we’ll incur no repercussions. It’s an illusion that something done in secret or without consequence equates to a free pass. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Rather than provide relief to one’s frustrations, the viciousness opens the door to a never-ending behavior loop. And assuming the perpetrator has a conscience and isn’t a sociopath, there’s now the inconvenient matter of unacknowledged shame, which also gets shoved underground with the rest of the muck. All in a day’s work when we set our sights on something or someone at a disadvantage. Bullies and abusers pick the lowest hanging fruit. Every time.

The hierarchy of easiest-to-abuse is as follows:

• Animals (they can’t name names - whatta’ bonus!)

• Children

• Individuals with special needs

• Quiet, shy, sensitive types

• Subordinates in a work environment

And that about covers it, since equals-or-greater aren’t even a blip on the possible-candidates radar

A boss having a bad day; a mean girl up to no good; a would-be tough guy on the school bus; or somebody so broken, they take pleasure in physically abusing defenseless animals or children are cut from the same disfigured cloth. Unfortunately, these horrible tendencies tend to be part of the human package (we’re a complicated species and wired for duality). Most of us have indulged in some degree of advantage-taking, and understandably, we’re loathe to admit it. But maybe it’s time to be more open about it. I’ve done it, as a recent essay bears witness. “The High Cost of Taking Savage Advantage” also happens to be my least-engaged-with Substack post, probably because of its close-to-the-bone candor.

Although I don’t have a cache of immediate solutions where the societal ills of animal abuse are concerned, how ‘bout we start by taking a beat. You don’t have to be on the brink of depravity to stop and take notice. The world is starved for not only immediate kindness, but the practice of keeping our ugliest demons in check. No gesture is too small. Count to 5. Donate clothing or furniture to a charity next time you declutter. Set a bowl of water on your porch for thirsty wildlife. Give a fellow driver trying to merge into traffic a break – we all know the drill. And either give your urge to wreak havoc with aggression a rest, or have the integrity to deposit your vitriol on who you are really angry at. Such a simple act of integrity – and it would solve half the world’s problems.

It’s become too easy to lash out, choose the low road, or rationalize a random act of mean-spiritedness. When barriers of respect are broken it normalizes and encourages base behavior. Flip through the headlines - we all know it’s everywhere. And it’s time to mitigate the tide.

They took you off life support, Drummer Girl, on April 6^th. By then the fight you waged had mangled you to a slumping shadow of your ferocity and passion, the two traits which defined you the most. For months, doctors marveled you hadn’t died long before this date, but they didn’t know that embedded within your cancer-patient-status was the unmovable resolve to never relinquish. Whether it was sending a plate of badly rendered cavatelli back to the kitchen at a five-star restaurant (which you did often), or feuding with a neighbor over beach rights, you never backed down. Standing your ground against your last breath was a fitting way to exit.

I held out hope that this protracted fight would not be the last of your signature altercations…but it turned out to be your most monumental.

Perhaps that’s why we blended so effortlessly: we were the archetypical Introvert-Extrovert paradigm, nailed into place on a 1987 bus ride from the Port Authority to Newark Airport. Eight hours later, we were on another bus, this one bound for a medieval village in Tuscany, where we studied, fed pigeons in the piazza, lit candles in cathedrals, and courageously attempted to imitate the most melodic language on God’s green earth.

A drummer since childhood, you would not be denied, even abroad. When you saw a red and white marching drum (replete with an ornate chest strap) in a storefront window you didn’t hesitate. From that moment on, I walked beside you on the cobblestone streets of our village while you rolled out rhythmic percussion, announcing your presence with exuberance. That was you: audacious and thoroughly at ease with who you were.

On April 8^th, when the call came out of nowhere to somehow pay homage, I didn’t hesitate. It was a cold, gloomy early spring day and I decided one of my favorite cheer-me-up tactics was in order: a leisurely shampoo at my hair salon followed by a blow-out and styling. Emerging from the doldrums with a shiny new head of hair always made me feel better. One little glitch, though: the unavoidable directive to take a road never traveled overtook me. Reeling from the trifecta of your untimely loss, a betrayal too raw and recent to detail, and my long-repressed revulsion at societal expectations of women, I strode with sudden determination to the reception desk and instead announced I wanted a haircut.

An unenthusiastic stylist scrolling on her phone was summoned to the task. Her apathy didn’t sway me.

“I want it all taken off,” I said, staring her down in the mirror. “With a razor. All of it.”

Gently shuffling my blonde locks through her fingers, she incredulously asked why.

“Because it’s time.”

Suddenly she was clutching a razor that emitted a fearsome growl, like a miniature lawnmower. I can’t say I wasn’t apprehensive. My stomach churned a little, but inhaling deeply and keeping my eyes wide open, I watched her gradually reveal my scalp, row by row. The time had indeed come. I owed nothing to anyone – the most socially acceptable aspect of my appearance was being ushered out the door and I no longer cared. I’m through pleasing others, I thought to myself, realizing how unconscious some of that existential tap-dancing had been. As a girl I wanted nothing more than to have long, beautiful hair. It was the 70’s and Marcia Brady was the collective aspiration. That coupled with a catatonic admiration for my cadre of Barbie Dolls set the template: Femininity came not only with expectations, but an unreasonable amount of maintenance.

As always, the best and (really only) way to metabolize truth is the experiential way.

In removing my hair I ended up removing dead weight I didn’t know was strapped to my back: the burden of women-centric expectations, crippling boulders of convention, and the unquantifiable amounts of time and money squandered because of them. Not only did I honor your years-long struggle with a sacrifice, I freed myself by taking an audacious risk: the possibility of looking like an idiot.

Let’s be honest, it’s what most of us aspire not to do. And with appearance-enhancement mania in overdrive at this stage of our evolution, even the most austere creatures still partake in a few mundane steps to appease the human pull toward vanity. And while there’s nothing inherently wrong with taking pride in one’s appearance, at a certain point, it veers into the unfortunate lane of a slavish, never-satisfied pursuit. I opted out of revolving-door upkeep years ago when I cut the cord with manicures (my predilection for writing and cooking rendered them impractical). Make-up became more of an annoyance than a go-to, but I clung protectively to ritual at-home hair coloring and regular visits to the beauty parlor for a good sheering. But part with my hair? UNTHINKABLE.

It just proves the immutable truth that life, at its unpredictable core, is a mystery and it is a sizable mistake to believe we know even the faintest foreshadowing of the script. Take my miscalculation, for an example: I concluded that, having worked unceasingly to free myself from the painful bondage of my past, the most stinging forms of suffering were well behind me. I even thanked God for what I was sure to be the case. And then God, always ready to impart an excoriating schooling in who the boss really is, declared something along the lines of, ‘hold my beer.’

As always, I’m humbled by the smackdown. And there’ve been glorious upsides as well, starting with…Oh, the FREEDOM! I’m almost giddy from the absence of brushing, detangling, the spraying of the chemicals, and having to wait three hours for my hair to dry before bed - and the list goes on. If I’d known the time and energy I’d be relieved of, I would have done this a lot sooner. Shockingly, I’ve gotten compliments on my new look – from strangers and friends alike. And even more delightful – they don’t sway me. I mean, I appreciate the kind gestures, but they have no bearing on what matters most where my appearance is concerned: my approval.

So here I am, proudly shorn at 61 - a gamble that reveals a grey-speckled palette of dark taupe instead of the illusion of bottled blonde. And with a resolve to move through the grief of missing your rabble-rousing spirit, Dear Drummer Girl, and to dust myself off post-smackdown. I’m doing both in a manner befitting of your memory – in defiance of my old collapse-and-submit coping mechanism, and in complete assurance that I am what I am - in accord with a drumbeat that is completely my own.

It’s strawberry season, which means his birthday is here, which means it’s the time of year I invariably reflect on him and what he meant to me. At one time in my life, I had a cadre of Gemini’s with whom I was close. For 99% - starting with my rageful and morally broken father - there was a high amount of contention, hurt, and betrayal. These Geminis have all disappeared, either via death or disintegration, and the hard fact is, my memories of them are not fond.

He on the other hand, was a different sort of Twin Archetype – handpicked by the Universe for the express purpose of bestowing, through the beauty of his soul, mercy and healing upon someone who had never known either from an external source. It all sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Except it wasn’t. And for that I must take responsibility.

We met as co-workers 35 years ago on a job I had in college. I’d gaze at him across the noisy, over-populated first floor of Macy’s Herald Square with intrigue: a quiet, stoic, serious-minded pillar of strength attired in running shoes and a maroon blazer. I sold jewelry at an adjacent counter; his job was guarding the side-door exit to 34^th Street, a favorite means of escape for shoplifters. A friend introduced us, and we went on a first date, which led to 20 years of togetherness. He was my longest relationship to date. And perhaps the most significant. I didn’t know it then, but time and painful life lessons would reveal him to be an irreplaceable piece of the checkered puzzle that is my healing.

For starters, he came from a culture where weight on women didn’t matter. Yes, that’s right: it simply wasn’t an issue. You would have had to walk a similar path to mine to fully appreciate this brand of manna from heaven. And so brainwashed was I by the poisonous American sensibility, it took years to finally believe this was the case. Who could blame my skepticism with all the scars incurred from that vile miscreant known as the American White Male. Of course, I realize they aren’t all terrible, but I encountered enough free-flowing cruelty to know a pattern when I saw one. They left their mark. And to be fair, so did the females in my sphere: from relatives to babysitters, to strangers. It was open season, and the rifles remained trained on me for the entirety of my childhood and adolescence. I adapted by always being ready to roll into the collapse-and-submit position - the survival tactic I chose - until I met him.

One would think that the opposite of abuse suddenly materializing in my life equated to the dawning of a new psychological day. I wish it had been that simple, but his kindness, patience, and childlike openness often elicited anger and confusion in me. The reasons were twofold: 1) It messed with the inherent wiring of my brain. By age 25, my grey matter bore the permanent indentations of years of insults and rebukes. And 2) All the rage and fury I’d harbored since the age of 3 suddenly had a safe and soft place to land. It’s a horrible thing to admit, but misplaced anger is a common, yet seldom-admitted-to human response to unresolved trauma. There’s no excuse for it, but somewhere in the deepest parts of me, I knew unloading on him was easier than tracking down my real tormenters and excoriating them.

I took savage advantage of him.

He was a slam-dunk of a target, and most of the time, a yielding one, who did not push back. That only further emboldened me. One would think I would have reacted to his support, kindness and unwavering acceptance like a desert-wanderer stumbling upon a lush oasis, replete with quenching waterfalls and sheltering date palms. This is the conundrum of the human psyche and what it can do with unprocessed pain. I was a receptacle of terrifying and humiliating memories: from my raging father, childhood frenemies who deconstructed my dignity while reminding me it was all in good fun, and strangers trained by a shallow and misogynistic society programmed to attack a female not in compliance with the weight requirement. If you’ve lived with thin privilege all your life, this may bounce off you as meaningless but try to understand anyway. It’s a lot for one person to live with and believe me when I say, there are legions of the walking wounded among you – many of whom hide behind big smiles and surreptitious exercises in people-pleasing to keep the fury at bay.

It was all there boiling within me: the unspoken STFU’s, the times I wanted to scream STOP! NO MORE! GET OUT OF MY LIFE! There’s nothing easier than to wind up a mighty hardball and hurl it at a gentle soul. And I did this repeatedly. I did to him what was done to me. There was absolutely no excuse for this blind hypocrisy. And one day, thankfully, I began to awaken. It started when I stopped ignoring the quiet whisper of my conscience. I swatted it away for years, but finally, could not quell the growing protest from within: Why? Why do you do this?

This misguided method of anger-release masqueraded as relief for all of 3 seconds, but I always hated myself afterwards, and the look of sorrow in his eyes following these ugly episodes was the catalyst to shaking me awake. At long last, I got honest and owned up: just because he was willing to take on my misplaced rage was not a license for me to practice it. He didn’t deserve an ounce of it and I could no longer live with myself. Pride is one of the seven deadly sins for a reason, and it was time to own mine and end my reign of terror.

I changed my ways, and made it a point to thank him for treating me better than my own parents had. We eased into a more peaceful way of being but, for reasons too complicated to enumerate now, didn’t go the distance. We parted as friends and remained friends until his death 11 years ago.

I think of him often, and even though I changed my wicked ways in time, the fact is, once abuse is committed, it’s forever etched on the scrolls of the psyche – of both the abuser and the abused. Even if the misdeed has been forgiven, all the therapy, journaling, and candle-lighting in the world won’t erase memory. I’ll always harbor remorse for the pain I caused him. Why? Because abuse changes the abused forever and it irrevocably alters the quality of a relationship. Once I’ve shown my capabilities to bruise someone, the trust can never be fully restored. And that is a grievous load to carry - let my mistakes be a cautionary tale.

But mistakes in the absence of pride are a great motivator. I’m consciously aware now of when the moments come that I want to wind that pitch and slam it into a no-pushback zone. And instead of wantonly indulging in savagery, I stop myself. Nothing is worth hurting the harmless. And God-Willing, I’ll never do it again.

Admission only stings for a moment. Living in denial, however, is both the active ingestion of poison and the spewing of it out into the world. Confession isn’t just good for the soul, it is essential: For healing, for the restoration of integrity, for self-forgiveness, and for opening the door wide to doing better next time.

Happy Birthday in Heaven, to the one who not only healed me, but taught me I can do more than heal…I can break a cycle.