Episode 69: Workaholism, Self-care, and Dropping with Angie

In this episode, which I initially wrote as an open letter to my clients and friends, is actually a series of writings about workaholism, alcoholism, codependency, self-care, self-preservation, being of service to others and some of my history. It is split up in 6 parts. I hope it resonates.

I also mention some things. Last words are Those last four words are not mine. It is Ho’oponopono, the Hawaiian practice that combines love, forgiveness, repentance, and gratitude in four powerful phrases. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I Thank you. I love you.

 Links I mention:

⁠https://reductress.com/⁠

⁠https://www.amazon.com/Laura-Dernoot-Lipsky-Trauma-Stewardship/dp/B07VPNP3XF/⁠

burn out + self-care

dearest moon + stoners,

I just finished the latest Complete Tarot course, and it was such an awesome mix of people and energies. I held two Live Q&As a week with that course, plus filmed a class each week, plus a layout class, and then of course, some bonus videos. My favorite bonus is something close to my heart, which are the Greek Myths that tangentially appear in the Major + Minor Arcana of the Tarot. You know, an hour of myth exploring and storytelling is my idea of a good time.

But, y'all, it was a lot. I left a situation at Hibiscus Moon Crystal Academy where we had a team of eight people basically launching classes, which were the same classes twice a year. We had it down to a proverbial science. And it still wore us out, burnt us out, but I also felt like I knew how to do it in my bones. So, when I was putting all my energy into the Moon + Stone and launching classes, I thought, "HOW HARD COULD IT BE?!?"

It is goddess-dang hard, yo.

Neck deep in the middle of a session of the Complete Tarot, I had a total mental breakdown where I just went into a catatonic state and stared at a wall for 90 minutes. I had nothing left in the tank. My kids needed a chauffeur, lawns needed to be mowed, and still I just stared. I was waking at 3:30am just to finish stuff before I had to do more stuff. Still, I was posting classes at the literal 11th hour. I fell asleep staring at the wall. My tank wasn't just empty. I exploded the engine all together, so there was no amount of gas that would make me run, but I still had to run.

I say this only to say, in the midst of that, I had this commitment to share my story (in recovery, we call it experience, strength, and hope) at one of our main celebration days in AA called Founder's Day. It is always an honor to share your story, because it means someone thinks you have something hopeful to share. This was my local Founder's Day picnic. I am in Central Pennsylvania and our Founder's Day picnic has a nice turnout--150 people.

Founder's Day, in case you don't know, is the day Alcoholics Anonymous was founded. It isn't the day Bill Wilson got sober. It is the day that Dr. Bob Smith got sober. Pull up a chair, I'm going to tell you a story.

Bill Wilson was a stock analyst who also happened to be a real alcoholic. He lost most of his money in the crash of 1929, and went on a hellish drinking spree that lasted for a long long time. He was unemployable, destitute, living with his in-laws, drinking himself into oblivion. At that time, alcoholism was seen as a moral failing (hey, in some circles, it is still seen that way). If you were an alcoholic, you ended up in an institution--jail or the sanitarium--or you ended up dead. There wasn't much hope for drunks.

Bill was in and out of the hospitals, the asylums and was basically told he would die or end up with wet brain. One day, his friend Ebby** came to visit. Bill and Ebby drank together many many times, and so Bill was excited to have a fellow drinker visiting. That is when Ebby told him he had quit drinking because he found God. Ebby had joined the Oxford Group, which was an evangelical Christian organization founded by the American Lutheran minister Frank Buchman in 1921. Buchman believed that fear and selfishness were the root of all problems. Further, Buchman believed that the solution to living with fear and selfishness was to "surrender one's life over to God's plan".

Bill really didn't want to hear about God, but he was intrigued that Ebby was sober and completely transformed. So, he tried it, but couldn't stay sober. They had steps to do and ways to take responsibilities for your life. Bill ended up in another institution in a few short months.

This time, though, he had the Oxford Group's ideas about being of service to your fellow man in the back of his mind, so in the midst of his Delirium Tremens, Bill W. yelled out to God and asked to be shown God. According to Bill W., while lying in bed depressed and despairing, he cried out, "I'll do anything! Anything at all! If there be a God, let Him show Himself!" He then had the sensation of a bright light, a feeling of ecstasy, and a new serenity. He never drank again for the remainder of his life.

Bill W. joined the Oxford Group and tried to help other alcoholics, but succeeded only in keeping sober himself. So, I say all of that for background, here is what I really want to share about this story. Bill W. travels to Akron Ohio for work. He has a terrible day. The whole reason he was there was to do business, and his business deal falls through. In AA, we always say he had a failed business trip. So, he walks into the lobby of his hotel. On one side of the lobby is a bar. People are laughing and drinking and having a good time.

He wants a drink. I mean, for the first time since his God experience, he wants a serious drink. But he knows that at the core of his sobriety is helping someone else. He stayed sober all this time by helping other alcoholics in the Oxford Group. Granted, they didn't stay sober, but he did. So, he is at this crossroads. He could go into the bar and have a drink or he could get out of his comfort zone and help another alcoholic.

I think about that crossroads every day. I am not exaggerating. I think about Bill W. standing there with all the laughing joyous people on one side of the lobby drinking alcohol and a bank of phones on the other side of the lobby. It is 1935, remember and he is somewhere where he knows no one. Obviously, no cell phone, no meetings (he hasn’t invented meetings yet), no companion, no other alcoholics.

What would you do?

He goes to the phones and calls a Church. RANDOMLY CALL A CHURCH, and basically says, "I need an alcoholic. Stat."

Actually, he does call a church and talked to Episcopal minister Rev. Walter Tunks and tells him that he is an alcoholic who wants to drink, and he has found when he helps another alcoholic, he doesn't drink, so the good Reverend sends him to a woman named Henrietta Sieberling, who is part of the Oxford Group in Akron. She had been praying for this alcoholic every day, so she sends to the guy. Dr. Robert Smith, a prominent Akron surgeon, whose drinking is affecting his practice, his life, his marriage....After delaying the meeting for a day, Dr. Bob agreed to a fifteen-minute encounter.

When they met, the fifteen minutes became six hours. Bill W. told him about his own experience as an alcoholic, he talked about what he had learned about alcoholism and then spoke of his own spiritual experience. Dr. Bob drank again within the month, but less than a month later, had his last drink. His sobriety date is considered the founding date of AA. From there, together, they found a drunk in a hospital and talked to him, and then another person. They decided on principles, ideals, and what helped. One alcoholic talking to another alcoholic.

Like I said, I think about that moment when Bill W. thought he was at his lowest. The last thing he wanted to do was call a church. He wanted to have a drink, but he thought it through. He had a spiritual awakening, and he wanted to keep his Spirit awake, so he went out of his comfort zone and took the path toward the phone. He called someone and said, "I'm an alcoholic." That is probably the last thing in the world he wanted to say out loud, and when he said it, he not only saved his life, but millions of other people over the last 88 years.

We are always at the crossroads, friends. Always. We stand in the morning at a crossroads. Do we want to go numbingly into the bar, or do we want to move towards our spiritual awakening? I always say this to my sponsees—you are either moving toward a drink or toward God or your Higher Power. That one step changed the history of the world, and your one step might too. Mine might. We just never know. We just never know when we meet the person who inspires us to change the world.

Why am I telling you this? Well, when I spoke at Founder's Day in front of 150 people, I woke up not wanting to do it. I, like most people, get nervous public speaking. I used to stutter and break out in hives when I was in front of other humans. Plus, I reasoned in my head, I made this commitment in February before I knew how busy I would be. I had just had a mental health sitch, where I was catatonic, recognizing my traumatized brain was in a state of dissociation, and I was deeply depressed and distressed. I wasn't calling my people. I was just existing one minute to the next, praying for these feelings to be over soon.

But nonetheless, that Saturday morning, I got up, sang up my prayers, did my morning Reiki, and drank my coffee. I drove to an AA meeting and made coffee, greeted people, did my best to share where I was, then I went home and got dressed and went to this picnic and stood in front of 137 people, plus a shit ton more who didn't count in, and told them about the most vulnerable part of me--the alcoholic part, the broken part, but I didn't stop there. I told them about my crossroads, hoping to help someone stay sober for one day.

Since my mental breakdown…

sidenote upon reflection: do I need to call it that? I don’t know. I am not crying all the time. I am just existing and numb, but it felt like a breakdown that I am hoping to transform into a breakthrough. But yeah, it kind of was a breakdown…

(back to our regularly scheduled update) Since my mental breakdown a few weeks ago, I had to keep working. I had to sit with my insane schedule of up at 330am and working for 16 hours. It didn't fall lightly on me that a few months ago, I saw a post by inspirational coach Annie Adamson that said:

"I would never hire a coach that…Doesn’t prioritize their health mental physical spiritual

Red flags 👋

🚩 Working overtime
🚩 Not moving their body
🚩 Skipping meals
🚩 Not taking time off
🚩 Ungrounded
🚩 Overly caffeinated 😝

If you are looking for a coach, ask them about their priorities. If they are not striving to live their best life, do not hire them…Looking for a good coach can be a daunting task. They could have all the "skills" and the best "intentions" but if they are not healthy it WILL effect you and your results." Ooof, man, that hit me right in the old kisser, or rather in the solar plexus.

1. Working overtime - uh, me.

2. Not moving their body - uh, me

3. Skipping meals - also, me

4. Not taking time off - um, I try.

5. Ungrounded - okay, I am pretty good at this one or am I?

6. Overly caffeinated - not overly, but at least a bit caffeinated.

I kept turning it over in my head. Is it fair to my students and clients that I feel like I am drowning and slowly dying inside and still doing a tarot reading for them?

The truth is that I have been working for the last eight years for a business where my boss took 2 months sabbatical, months and weeks off at a time, had a four day work week, 6 hour days. She modeled this, but I was working my fingers to the bone with no bonuses, health insurance or vacation days, waking up super early just to get everything done before my kids woke up. I have had to work every vacation for the last seven years because I wasn't granted a vacation. Because I had zero $ for vacation time, even though I gave tirelessly for this business, because you know what, I WASN'T EVEN A FULL TIME EMPLOYEE.

That is not my boss's fault, that is mine. She modeled good work-life balance. She modeled time off. I just didn’t take it. I tolerated working myself to death. I allowed myself to burn out. And to have my own business these last 10 years, I have had to work weekends, evenings, all my days off. I had to find babysitters, and drivers and cooks. I have stumbled in at 11pm after a long circle, only to get up again 4 hours later and do it all over again. And sometimes for 2 people who paid me $80 collectively, not mentioning rent and stuff I bought for the circle.

That is just the reality of this life as a healer, reader and human. Or it was my reality. Maybe I should say, that is the reality of someone who is mired in scarcity thinking and self-loathing. This must be what I deserve, because I have never not worked. Not since I was 13. I always had a job. It is where my worth was based, and that isn’t fair to anyone, most of all me.

+ + + + +

I stand at a crossroads again. There is an office on the left side of my consciousness. In it are shelves of books about all my special interests--tarot, crystals, mythology, shamanic healing, religions, mental health. There are classes I should teach, people who need readings, there was journeys to perform, and it is filled with people begging me to help them. It looks so inviting to me. But it is set up like a casino--no clocks, no loved ones, just me giving of myself until I drop.

On the other side of my consciousness is a simple row of telephones. They go to a direct prayer line to Great Spirit. If I walk to the phone booth, I get to ask for help with my workaholism and my boundary-less practice. I get to plug in. I get to move my body. I get to eat more than energy bars and mixed nuts. I get to keep it simple and log off of social for a minute, and ask my kids if they want to meditate with me. I might even play guitar. I will definitely be in therapy. And I will allow the 1000 yard stare to let me know I have a feeling I need to feel.

All of that is to say, I know some of you are searching around for how to schedule a one-on-one session with me or my classes. I have been struggling with some mental health challenges, including burn-out, chronic pain and fatigue, which has pushed me to make the difficult decision not to see clients for the time being. I will be focusing on self-care, mental health, and reconnecting with my spiritual practices.

I am still offering Live Q&As at the end of the month. I appreciate all your support of my personal practice. I will inform you via newsletter if I offer one-on-ones again. (I assume this will look different than it has in the past, like maybe one day a month in person and one online, or something, but this will not be offered again until at the very soonest, Winter 2023, but you never know how I will feel with some distance and healing time.)

Much love

* “Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome (WKS), sometimes referred to as wet brain, is a brain disorder related to the acute and chronic phases of a vitamin B1 (thiamine) deficiency. Thiamine depletion is seen in individuals with poor nutrition and is a common complication of long-term, heavy drinking. It's possible to reverse the symptoms when caught early, but left untreated, WKS can lead to irreversible confusion, difficulty with muscle coordination, and hallucinations.

Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome (WKS) is sometimes colloquially referred to as “wet brain.” This term, however, used to talk about WKS is stigmatizing and stems from the inaccurate belief that individuals willfully contracted WKS due to prolonged alcohol misuse. Using phrases like “wet brain” can create a negative bias, perpetuate the idea that addiction is a moral failing—and not a medical condition—and prevent individuals from seeking the help they need for WKS, which is a severe, life-threatening brain disorder that is actually comprised of two conditions.

The first part of WKS, Wernicke’s encephalopathy, is a severe and temporary condition characterized by confusion, loss of muscular coordination, and abnormal eye movements and vision changes.

The second aspect of WKS, Korsakoff’s psychosis, often follows or accompanies Wernicke’s encephalopathy. Korsakoff’s psychosis is a persistent, chronic condition that can cause significant impairment in learning and memory and interfere with a person’s ability to function normally.”

from the website American Addiction Centers

** Edwin Throckmorton Thacher (29 April 1896 – 21 March 1966) (commonly known as Ebby Thacher or Ebby T.) was an old drinking friend and later the sponsor of Alcoholics Anonymous co-founder Bill Wilson. Thacher was a school friend of Wilson, and battled his whole life with alcoholism, frequently landing in mental hospitals or jail. After one bender, three members of The Oxford Group, Rowland Hazard, F. Shepard Cornell, and Cebra Graves, convinced the court to parole Thacher into their custody. Hazard taught Thacher the Oxford Group principles and the idea that a conversion was needed between patients. Hazard lodged him in the Calvary Rescue Mission, operated by the Calvary Episcopal Church in New York City. He is credited with introducing Wilson to the initial principles that AA would soon develop, such as "one alcoholic talking to another," and the Jungian thesis which was passed along to Rowland Hazard and, in turn, to Thacher that alcoholics could recover by a "genuine conversion".

You can read more about Ebby Thacher here. Or here.

personal note about one-on-ones

July 1, 2023 - Personal Note:

Dearest clients,

I know some of you are searching around for how to schedule a one-on-one session with me. I have been struggling with some mental health challenges, including burn-out, chronic pain and fatigue, which has pushed me to make the difficult decision not to see clients for the time being. I will be focusing on self-care, mental health, and reconnecting with my spiritual practices.

I am still offering Live Q&As at the end of the month, and working on a number of creative projects, like writing a longer tarot book, publishing my oracle deck, writing a book about cycles with personal rituals, and creating more in-depth healing mentoring circles. I appreciate all your support of my personal practice. I will inform you via newsletter if I offer one-on-ones again. (I assume this will look different than it has in the past, like maybe one day a month in person and one online, or something, but this will not be offered again until at the very soonest, Winter 2023, but you never know how I will feel with some distance and healing time.)

Thank you for your patience and understanding.

anti valentine's day

all the things.

It has been a week. I mean, it has been a month. Or so.

Actually, let’s be frank it has been a year. Or two.

No, I guess, it has been a life.

As the Buddhist note, it is all sucky, uh, I mean suffering. It shouldn't be shocking when things are hard. I have a very child-like part of me that is wide-eyed, gullible, and trusting. She jumps into things and as my friend Jess says, "She's a joiner!" Then the other part of me is world-weary and jaded. She sits in a darkened room by candlelight, smoking unfiltered cigarettes, drinking black coffee, listening to the Velvet Underground and talking about existentialism. She guffaws a lot and says, "I bet it is!" She is always urging me to just take a nap, then get a jobby job with the State already. I have have these two competing for attention. Let’s say they are two turtles.***

The naïve part constantly says, “Certainly, that’s it for the ‘hard stuff’ of this life. After this bout of cancer/babyloss/illness/husband surgery/busy season, everything is going to be smooth sailing.” I have two prints in my house that was hung by that Divine Fool aspect of me. One says, “EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY” and the other one says, “Nothing but blue skies from here on out.”

The jaded part is waiting for the next thing. She sits like a gargoyle on the mantle and growls at people who move her shit. She hung a sign that says, “Don’t Fuck with Me. (Protect your Energy.)”

The two turtles are fighting inside me. One is jaded. The other is not. This is not an Ancient Panamanian proverb. It is a metaphor and the turtles will make sense in a bit.

I keep thinking things will slow down and then they don’t. The jaded part asks the enthusiastic child part, “Why are you overscheduling yourself?” And the Divine Fool says, “I can’t help it. All the things are important. I love all the things.”

Are they? Are all the things important?

The jaded part points out that taking care of me, and me first, is priority. "No one else is going to watch your ass, Toots. You better make sure you get a nap."

+ + + + +

My brother-in-law, sister-in-law and niece visited this weekend, and my niece says, “I love everything about your house. It is the most inviting and comfortable house I have ever been to.” And it made my decade. That is literally my only style aesthetic—warm, inviting, comfortable. All my furniture is thrifted. I have plants everywhere. Crystals on the surfaces that make sense. There is art on almost all the walls…art from my kids, art from me, art prints are treated with the same import as painting and retablos and metal and woodwork, which I love. It just fills me with JOY to see everything I love out and accessible.

And without thinking I said, “Yeah, I am a maximalist.”

More is more. I try to distill my thoughts, keep things nice and streamlined. I have tried to play minimalist. Mysterious and distant. Giving you only a little. But it is not me. That childlike enthusiastic part of me that wakes up at 4am with the first thought being, “YAY! It’s morning! Can I get up now?” When someone talks about something I love, I get bright-eyed and just start sharing all the things I know.

Less is more leaves me wanting. I keep adding things. I put it all out there. More than is needed. I painted the tree. Then started adding animals. More animals. With people visiting, I make more food than is needed. I create more art, more words, more research.

All that is to say that I am unraveling this part of me that thinks all the things are important.

I am a neurodivergent, thinky, introvert masking as an extrovert. I am a research monkey and an artist, creative and logical. But I have to start saying “No”. I have to stop contributing to my own suffering. I have to learn how to prioritize. And when I started saying this over the weekend, when my feet ached and all I wanted to do was hide away, the medicine started coming in big time.

I thought in October, we would be journeying with bat (what an October animal to journey with) or owl again. But no, sea turtle came through. Sea Goddamn Turtle.

A turtle of the sea for this landlocked mama. I mean, I love turtle. They are nice. They generally seem to mind their own beeswax. This is a quality I admire in humans and in animal species. I began journeying with turtle to prepare the guided journey for my membership group, researching turtle and finding the medicine was exactly what was needed right now. Firstly, it is coming in the watery West, in Autumn, and it lives primarily in water—we are going to be dealing with deep emotions. The secondly, it is about slowing down, going inward.

When I journeyed with turtle, she took me into a turquoise sea with the bright sun shining through the water, illuminating the parts of me that need attention. She showed me that she walks slow on land because she is a water being. When she walks slowly on land, she has to be very protective. She is easily targeted for attack. "That is why the hare was so much faster," sea turtle said, "I'm not a creature of the land."—the turtle is supposed to be in the water. She showed me she travels through time through millennia. She showed me how ancient they are, and how they can access the knowledge from the 40,000 years of mankind that existed before writing did.

As I was journeying, I fell asleep. I rarely do that. But it all caught up with me—the past week, month, year…I ended up waking up groggy with the icaros still going, and me singing them in my sleep. I tried to focus on my work and record the journey for my membership group. But an ocular migraine slowly developed, which forced me into a dark room, then two more naps. I fell asleep at 9p.

+ + + + +

Turtle’s medicine was a forced pause. "BAM you need to slow down, sister!" I truly have been going a mile a minute, waking up at 4am just to get everything done. Turtle medicine slows us down, to evaluate if ALL THE THINGS are important. Are all those deadlines and busy-ness self-imposed? Can you un-impose them?

The next day, a groggy, slow, post-migraine day, our power went out at 6p, right before I went live for my weekly Live Office Hours, where I answer questions live for our crystal students. Everything shut down. I was done, but prepping the live video feed. I couldn’t access my work or research. We had no internet connection. The house was growing darker. The refrigerator warmer.

I contacted the team—"I have to reschedule.” And it was rescheduled in 5 minutes.

Many years ago, when I worked at a café in Tucson, I opened the shop. I get in there at 530a, and there is an inch of water covering the entire coffeehouse. I called the other worker to come in early. I turned off the water to the ice machine, which was the issue, and took a mop and began mopping up the floor. One mop head at a time. Sop up water. Put it in the mop bucket. Squeeze. Repeat. For 1 hour. Before someone else came in and said, “You do not have to mop this.” Basically, you do not have to do this impossible task alone and try to open the café by 7am. You can ask for help. And then they pulled out a squeegee and pushed the water out into the parking lot in almost no time. (Again, I ask myself why I am causing my own suffering?)

Yesterday, Spirit said, “Not today, honey. You cannot do all the things.” Zap. The power was out. Now what? Sit down. No devices. No work. No things were as important as the moment I was in right now.

I took a breather. Played cards with my kids. Set up the generator, the candles and emergency lanterns.

Turtle gave me this lesson this week.

That is how the medicine is, you know. You begin working with an animal, connecting with its energy, learning its ways, and then you can see those obstacles coming is as gifts and lessons. I very much needed turtle medicine. My Divine Fool part reminds me of the other sign she hung in my house, the one that says, “I am practicing radical self-acceptance, because this is the only me I’ve got.”

Sacred Turtle, the master of longevity and patience, comes forth for you too this month. Slow it the eff down, friend. Call in sick. Let the power outage bring you mindfulness and presence. Feed both of the turtles. The one that speeds through the ocean and the other that rambles, wearily, through the sand, and let them be brothers in arms, fighting against all the things to bring you just the right thing.

the nubs

I constantly talk about my nubs.

I’m two weeks into a Tarot class at Alta View Wellness Center, and I think I have brought my nubs up more times than I have talked about the suit of cups. Zachary thinks they are hilarious and sometimes we talk about what we can do to them to jazz them up a bit, like drawing little nipples on them, bedazzling them, or sticking some googly eyes on them.

And then we laugh and laugh and laugh.

Dark irreverent humor keeps me sane. And luckily my kids love to indulge in it too. One of the most hilarious, yet completely inappropriate (but hilarious) jokes my seven year old made was when we were watching TikTok and this advertisement popped up for a binder (for those who don’t know, a binder is a compression undergarment worn to flatten breasts.) The ad shows a sad young person and a voice comes on like an 80s commercial, “Tired of your breasts?” and my kid, without missing a beat says, “Then just get cancer!”

He looked shocked because he couldn’t believe that he said it out loud, and then we roared. Honestly, the two of us could not stop laughing. I was crying with laughter and we watched it again and again as we riffed on increasingly hilarious renditions on the breast cancer comment.

Zachary knows more than a seven-year-old should about mortality and serious illness. His mother was diagnosed with not one but two cancers in one year. Breast cancer in July 2021, and Endometrial cancer in July 2022. (Sam has had his own health challenges in the last year +, but that is his story to tell)

But, and this is the thing I love about our family, we kept laughing. We laughed about my exhaustion. We laughed about my drains. We laughed about my Buddha belly. We laughed about cancer. We laughed about my nubs— btw, my nubs are the two little bits of fat between the breasts that don’t count as breast tissue, but still would look better out after a mastectomy, but that is neither here nor there, because I am just glad to have my life saved and not really judging the sewing job my surgeon did. I mean, she did a great job for having sliced me open from armpit to the center of the chest, for severing my nerves, removing 12 lbs of breast tissue and then sewing me up as flat as possible. I got some nubs, some rolls, some pinched skin. It is part of the process for someone shaped like me, and honestly, my nubs are soft and look like the top of a giraffe’s head and I like them.

(if you are wondering why I am talking about my nubs, today marks one year since I had a double mastectomy and was cured of breast cancer and so i keep thinking about what this last year has been about, you know, like you do.)

It’s been a weird year. The things that I thought would matter do not. Like I worried about how clothes would look. I worried about bathing suits. I worried about being naked and seeing my body. I like my body better without breasts even though I am keenly aware that my body kind of looks weird and is lumpy and people don’t know what to make of me. I worried I would not be able to work as much. And it is true. I have had to slow down a lot and realize that surgeries take a toll, so now, I have some work-life balance and it is awesome. Workaholism doesn’t work-a-whole lot (ism?) That was kind of a Dad joke, but told by a mom might be a Faux Pas. (OMG, someone stop me now.)

Honestly, and this might sound strange, but I have felt an immense peace about my body. Having cancer healed something in me. I saw myself as capable of healing. Strong and vibrant and positive. I am proud of myself for consistently taking myself to the doctor for routine check-ups. It is not easy to go to the doctor when you are fat, because it is all some doctors see. The first breast surgeon told me I wouldn’t want to go flat because heavy people look weird without boobs and they are so used to it. Fat bias not only exists, but it probably causes most of the health problems that fat people face.**

I left that surgeon’s office and found an incredibly kind surgeon who would respect my desire to have a flat chest and not undergo unnecessary surgeries or radiation (something contraindicated for those with autoimmune disorders ANYWAY, but the first surgeon thought that was a small price to pay for BOOBS!) When I had endometrial cancer, I went to a surgeon who told me my fatness caused my cancer and suggest the best follow-up I can do is bariatric surgery. (I literally have a genetic anomaly in this tumor that was caused by nothing I did in my life.) And so I left and said, Fuck that guy. And I found another incredible surgeon that told me I was young and healthy and was going to do awesome. And you know what? I decided to believe him. In the end, I had ZERO pain, no discomfort. And felt better than before my hysterectomy.

But fighting for my own good healthcare made me realize that all this friggin’ self-care work WORKS. I am living, thriving and happier than ever simply by getting a mammogram and a yearly PAP smear. It was hard, don't get me wrong. I had infections and long weeks of open wounds and exhaustion. I have to learn how to accept a lot of things. I thought I would never not have pain. That my children might face the same future as me.

But in the end, I realized that my cancers were so much easier than they could of been if I had decided I wasn't worth the trouble of going to the doctor. If I let a doctor convince me to do something I know I didn't want to do. I just did the next right thing for me because I love and care about myself. Because I have learned over these last 12 + years, how to mother myself. I said, “I know you hate the doctor and getting weighed. I know you don’t like getting your boobs squished in a machine, but it’s so much better than dying of breast cancer.” And so I did it. Those routine exams caught my cancers early before they were in stages that needed chemotherapy or radiation.

(Incidentally, I just said to my kid this morning at the dentist, “Everyone hates the dentist, but we go every six months because that is so much easier and less painful than getting a cavity filled. And you know what, you have done so many really hard things and you can do this.” Those are the same exact words I said to myself last time I went to the dentist too, btw.)

And so, on the anniversary of my double mastectomy, my Boob Voyage if you will, and the birth of my beloved nubs, get your girl and boy bits screened. If you are struggling with self-love and self-care, start there. Like a little commitment to yourself. Just go to the doctor even if you don’t want to, and ask for your mammogram, or your PAP smear, or your colonoscopy, or just feel your balls up or your tetitas or ask a friend to and just check. Do it for you. Early detection literally saves lives. Self-care saves lives.

It saved mine.

My love is always with you,


PS. ** I could literally go on a soap box and rant about this for pages, but I will spare you the lecture. But Aubrey Gordon’s piece Weight Stigma Kept Me Out of Doctor's Offices is really important, so read it.

PPS. I have some great things coming up and you can check them out here

PPS. I decided to use a picture of the shirt I wore today that says Chingona with a breast cancer ribbon. Chingona means "bad ass woman." My nubs are under that shirt. Seemed a wee bit more tasteful than just doing the full monty for you. Mastectomy scars can be a little hard for people to look at, but I love mine.

ice

It started with ice...

Just a few cubes to make my water extra super cold and then the joy of chewing the melty bits…then the ice machine stopped being able to keep up with me. I chewed ice wantonly, like it was the most delicious snack in the world. I chewed until my tongue was numb and I couldn't speak properly. I snuck out of the house for cups of ice water from the shops with the best ice. I ranked them. I bought bags of ice at the local convenience store. It embarrasses me that I did this, but I was recovering from a mastectomy. I indulged myself in the seemingly harmless chewing of ice.

“This is a symptom of low iron, Ang.” It was a refrain I had in my head before anyone had ever said it. And then, unconsciously doing in front of friends and family, it was the same thing over and over—“You have low iron.” Like a petulant teenager, I would roll my eyes and say, "I know." I have had anemia on and off for years, so that seemed possible. Nothing too severe, but it caused some ice eating over the years. After a miscarriage…being a vegan. But nothing like this. My husband insisted that this was the worst thing I could ever do for my teeth.

“Your teeth are so important.”

Yes, I thought, it makes eating ice easier.

I casually mentioned it to my primary care physician, who just said, “Really? Eating ice? So, Pica...Let’s order a blood test and see what’s going on. How are your periods?”

“Severe right now. Menopause sucks.”

“Severe how?”

“I have bled and passed clots the size of my fist for weeks, then it stops for a week and starts again.”

“Time for a gyn appointment.”

And so it began…ultrasounds, pelvic exams, biopsies…and again, I am on the shitty side of the statistics.

…

Anemia has seriously kicked my ass this year. It has made me slow, easily fatigued, spacey, even more sensitive to my environment than I normally am as a misophonic intuitive with neurodivergency. Anxiety and fear loomed, as surgery loomed. The threat of two separate cancer diagnoses in one year hung over my large belly, like a dagger in mid-air pointed at my womb.

When I had my breast cancer diagnosis last year, it was not long before I was trying to create a sacred experience of my breasts and their imminent removal. But this, the womb, the space that held my babies, that housed sexual trauma and fear, that was the only place my Lucia lived, felt different. More intimate and vulnerable. I want to weave flowers through it, make a joke, be okay with it, but it is different. There is a latent shame here in my womb. What causes cancers in the womb? Sex? HPV? My slutty stage? Blackouts that ended up in the bed of an unknown person? Was it the grief? The half dozen pregnancies? Was it the healing I did for so many people?

I met with a surgeon. He was an old Turkish man, kind and gentle. He explained that he would have to remove my uterus, my ovaries, my fallopian tubes and my cervix. And then he said, “We have to ask what causes this cancer. It is your weight. And so, I suggest you have bariatric surgery.”

The womb is not a place to store fear and pain. The womb is to create and give birth to life.

I sat stunned at his words. But what do they tell thin women diagnosed with cancer? I have so many unknowns. And he tells me they know my weight caused this. Not the slutty stage. Can I go back to the slutty stage causing this?

My weight. My weight. It is a constant, stupid effing refrain. I worked intensively, intentionally, expensively one-on-one with an Intuitive Eating Coach and Dietician last year. I looked at my disordered eating, my constant yo-yo weight and dieting. How I have been trying to lose weight since before I was ever fat. She tried to undo diet culture in my brain. It was so ingrained and woven through everything that I am not sure it was ever successful, but it was liberating to be able to just see food as neutral. Not bad or good, just sustenance. She—thin, young and beautiful—assured me that taste and satisfaction matter with eating, that processed sugary food is just food. She taught me about what it means to feel full and feel satiated. “I am not sure I have an off button, though.” And she convinced me I do. She told me dieting has made me fat...and then brought receipts in the form of study after study. I believed her. Bringing mindfulness to my eating freed me in many ways. And yet, I still wanted and want to lose weight. I slowly started weighing myself again, and restricting calories. Cutting sugar, carbs. Fasting.

Then the small 75 year old doctor told me that Bariatric Surgery is easy and I should do it so I don’t have any more cancer. I started spiraling. Ice has zero calories.

The womb is not a place to store fear and pain. The womb is to create and give birth to life.

In a better moment, a few days after, I called another surgeon and made an appointment. He was horrified and got tears in his eyes when I told him what the first guy said. He said he cares about all of me, and besides, that is not even true. It wasn’t the slutty stage or the weight. It just happens.

Some things just happen.

The womb is not a place to store fear and pain. The womb is to create and give birth to life.

I am having a total hysterectomy in a few weeks. And so my womb will be gone and I will be thrust into immediate cronehood at 48. I am okay with this. My womb has caused blood and death and pain and now it causes fear. I am done with you, womb. You have served your purpose. Good riddance.

Sharon and I talk about why healers get sick. Why we can hold space for so many and then get struck with such difficult trials. Does healing cause illness? Are we shitty with boundaries? How much more protection can we do? I can add it to the list next to slutty stage. I don’t have any answer, but the womb is a vessel, a space that can hold fear and pain and stories…the stories of my clients and my ancestry and colonization and babyloss and sexual trauma…the stories of all the women. The stories of all the suffering.

The womb is not a place to store fear and pain. The womb is to create and give birth to life.

I am going to use this space in my low belly, the one left when my womb is removed, and fill it with flowers and love and radical self-acceptance in the way we do when we have done so much work we always look for a “Why” and “How” and “What was my role in my suffering?” but realize we just need mothering.

I just need mothering.

I just need to say everything is going to be okay. And I just need to love my giant belly and my cancerous womb.

Everything is going to be okay.

…

So, yeah, all that is to say I am having a huge surgery in early July. A total hysterectomy. My current diagnosis is pre-cancer in the endometrial lining. There is a 50% chance there is actual cancer there. Full pathology after surgery will let me know the truth of the matter, or if it is just the ticking time bomb of cells gone wild. I go for my routine check-ups, like my PAP smears and my Mammograms, which has been the reason I can catch these cancers so very early. If you learn nothing from my story, take this away. Check your boobs. Check your hooha. They are what kills women. Luckily, most endometrial cancers, when you catch them early, are cured by hysterectomy. So, whatever happens, I feel like the odds are in my favor.

I am taking time off from seeing clients and doing readings until I feel stronger. For now, July might be all I need, but I will let you know. I am encouraging everyone to make appointments for readings with me at Alta View Wellness Center in Harrisburg if you are local, or via Zoom if you are not in the next two weeks. I will be stacking appointments on Fridays at AVWC and Thursdays for distance sessions. My anemia is still going strong, so I need downtime, but if I have enough requests, I may add a weekend day between now and then.

Thank you always for the love and support. People always ask if they can send Reiki. I always feel so vulnerable in this area of my body and often limit people sending, but maybe I should do something different this time. If you have an opinion about this, let me know. I just always feel all the energies there and it feels violating, so maybe I need to switch that idea or flip it somehow. I just don’t know how to do that. But if you want to send, maybe just pray for now. I will ask for Reiki.

My love is always with you,

Meditation from my Altar

This week, I am working with self-care and self-love. I mean, let’s be honest, I am always working on self-care and self-love. But this week, I began writing a guide for our students at HMCA on Self-Care, and I went back through my writing on self-care, which inevitably took me to writing on self-love.

I don’t know who needs to hear this today, but it wasn’t that long ago that I realized what self-love meant. I mean, I'd give lip service to it in my 20s and 30s, but it wasn’t until my 40s was when I really started to understand what self-love looks like, feels like, sounds like and acts like.

What I learned is that it has to be self-generated. That seems like a no-brainer, but it hadn’t always been that way or me. I felt love for myself only if someone told me they loved me. I lived compliment to compliment, going back to my default self-loathing setting if I sensed rejection.

But true self-love doesn't care if you are rejected or criticized, self-love knows who you are. It doesn’t care if you drank 8 glasses of water, or ate a gallon of ice cream. Self-love doesn’t judge. Self-love doesn’t care if you grow hair where society says you shouldn’t or don’t grow hair where you should. Self-love isn’t about a number on a scale or on a calendar.

Self-love is an action phrase. It is healthy boundaries. It's not accepting unacceptable behavior. It is early bedtimes. It's walking away when you aren't loved in the way you love yourself. Self-love is learning to mother yourself and care for yourself even when no one is around. Self-love illuminates all darkness and skeletons and shadow shit, because self-love cannot exist with denial, lies or secrets. Self-love means you love you unconditionally, meaning without conditions.

When we decide to embark on the journey of self-love and radical self-acceptance, it means we become overly, abundantly, and radically accepting of every parts of ourselves. I no longer just love me if I do some external measure of “goodness” perfectly today. I love the imperfect me. Because, honestly, I am 100% perfect at being Angie.

It's the hardest relationship i have ever been in--toxic and abusive at times. But I'm totally committed now. I'm in for the long haul.