Alabama Living: Brownilocks and the Three Bears

It is decidedly strange and wonderful to slip into your best friend’s life and family like you’d always been there and had just stepped away for a minute. To already know, from a multitude of phone conversations, the flow of life in that household—and then to inhabit it and have it come alive all around you.

In the big picture, my time in Alabama was like slipping on a pair of comfortable shoes. It was a homecoming. At times, however, it also bore a strong resemblance to the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears (except that my hair is brown).

The first night I slept in Amy’s bed because she was out of town. Her mattress is topped with a thick memory foam pad, which for me was way too soft.

The next few nights I slept in D’s bed (she got to sleep on the floor of her brother’s room, which thrilled her). Although comfortable, her mattress had been cursed with some dark magic that caused the comforter and blankets to continually slide off onto the floor. I was awakened frequently throughout the night, confused about having only a thin sheet to protect me from the subfreezing air-conditioned temperatures.

A slight alteration to D’s bed a week into my trip created my ideal sleeping situation. D’s brother had been yearning for a thick memory foam pad on his bed just like his mom’s—and fortunately that’s precisely what he received for his birthday. The thin foam pad that had been on his mattress was moved to D’s bed and it miraculously solved the problem of the disappearing bedding while also adding a layer of softness. Finally I had found a bed that was just right.


Goldilocks caught in Baby Bear’s bed. Illustration by Leonard Leslie Brooke

Then there were the bath towels. Amy doesn’t splurge on much for herself but she had recently splurged on some amazingly thick bath towels (they seem like distant cousins of her memory foam mattress topper—no joke). As you might guess, they were a little too high-brow for me; they almost stand up by themselves and meet you at the shower door when you get out. The ones in the linen closet, though, that were probably over a decade old, were too threadbare (and we ended up donating many of those). My “just right” towels were the practical fancy ones that had a thick soft pile and were cozy and absorbent without drawing much attention to themselves (and are much nicer than any towels I own).

Other situations fell outside the fairy tale mold but nonetheless illuminated my preferences.

The broom in Amy’s kitchen is the best I’ve ever used. It’s red and has a wide head, something like this:

Broom Capture

O-Cedar Angler Angle Broom With Dust Pan**

I’ve typically bought crappy dollar-store brooms that have narrow heads comprised of inconsistent and course fibers that somehow move the dirt anywhere but into the dustpan. Amy’s big red broom, however, made sweeping fun and easy (and induced the realization that I have become someone who is grateful for the efficient and enjoyable functioning of a BROOM. Dear Gawd, who am I?!).

In yet another WHO AM I?! moment, I spent much time admiring Amy’s choice of sponge: Scrub Daddy** (something I’ve seen for years on store shelves and never purchased). I found this happy sponge to be effective and appealing to the touch. In cold water it remains hard and in hot water it softens. Washing silverware by hand is a breeze: just stick it through the smile and voila! Also, it doesn’t get smelly like most sponges and that’s a huge plus.


Then there was the much bigger issue of falling in love with Amy’s Honda Odyssey. Minivans are amazing and I would almost consider having kids simply to justify buying one. I most loved the countless drink holders: the van had no issue accommodating my bottle of kombucha, a water bottle, AND a cup of coffee—all at the same time!

Also, everything I needed was at the touch of a button: I could open and close the sliding doors or open and close Amy’s garage doors. It was like (my childish idea of) being a fighter pilot! The smooth ride and powerful engine only added to the fantasy.

Everything about the Odyssey is in stark contrast to my beloved 20-year-old Honda CR-V. Driving Amy’s van on and off for almost three weeks made returning home to my car…difficult. Before I knew the magic of a modern vehicle, I thought my ride was perfectly fine. I mean, the windows are automated—that’s pretty fancy.

Yeah, no. As I am now altogether too aware…nothing about my car is fancy. It is basically a Fred Flintstone-mobile. The tires might as well be made of stone and it might as well be powered by human legs.

Fred Flintstone Car

I endanger my own life every time I merge onto the highway because I have to figure out which fast-moving SUV would be best to cut off. The road rage I inspire in other drivers with my I-think-I-can slow car will likely be the death of me.

Fortunately (and unfortunately) this Brownilocks is adaptable and can downlevel disturbingly quickly. After a few weeks back at home, I’ve mostly blocked from memory the smooth, powerful ride of Amy’s minivan. I once again feel pretty fancy being able to roll down the back windows with the touch of a button. And I’m still making strong choices about which cars to cut off.

I still dream of all those cup holders, though…

**I am not being paid to endorse these products and I’m not even sure what brand Amy’s broom is.**



Alabama Living: Damn You, Dryer Vent Cover!

I am not great at handyperson work. I can clean, I can organize, I can approximate cooking even…but you might not want my “help” with “easy” fix-it things around the house.

I’m pretty sure as a child I absorbed the message from my dad that there is no such thing as easy where house projects are concerned. Any time he was working on something, my brother and I knew we’d get hauled to the hardware store at least three times and that my dad would be agitated until the project was done (meaning we knew to get lost).


Cut to Alabama last week when I was drying some laundry and the machine kept shutting off and throwing an error code. I finally mentioned it to Amy, who calmly wondered whether I’d googled to find out what was wrong. Duh! GOOGLE ALL THINGS!!

The googs came back with: “If your LG clothes dryer is showing error code d80, d90, d95… this means there is an issue with AIRFLOW EXHAUST LINT BLOCKAGE.”

One point for technology! Thank you for telling me what you need, gorgeous and smart modern dryer!

I can clean out the exhaust line! That’ll be EASY!

And it was…at the start. I pulled the dryer out from the wall and cleaned out both where the vent pipe attaches to the wall and where it attaches to the machine. Easy peasy—look at me.

Then I went outside to battle the end of the line:


My finger is holding up the flap to reveal the screen.

As you can see, there was a pileup of lint on the screen. I had tried vacuuming it the previous day, but it wouldn’t budge. Being then left to my own clever devices while Amy was at work, I decided I would remove the entire vent cover—so I found a box cutter and carved into the clear, thick silicone caulk holding the cover to the house. It took a minute but finally I extricated it.

With only a naked exhaust pipe before me, I was able to stick my arm in up until about my elbow to pull out what lint I could reach. The bits I could see much further down the pipe I dragged out with the handle of a broom. All told I’d liberated at least four giant handfuls.

And then I got a text from Amy: “Advice from the guys at work is to clip off the mesh of the screen. Apparently most dryer vents do not have them.”

Ruh roh.

Me: “Oh. Too late. I cut all around it and pulled the whole thing off. But that’s a great idea. Wish I’d thought of it.”

I forced the cover back onto the pipe as it had been (trickier than you’d think because of siding butting up against the top of the pipe) and called it a day. It would need to be replaced or recaulked, but at least now I could get back into the laundry game!



A couple days later I had time to revisit the issue and here’s what I learned: It’s far more effective to clean out the exhaust pipe when the dryer is ON! (I don’t know that it’s advised, but it sure seemed to work!)

The dryer just happened to be running when I scaled the ladder and removed the vent cover (the screen of which had already become covered over again with lint). I was at eye level with the tube and of course looked directly into it. The hot air rushed at my face—followed by a massive pile of lint! (Oh to be a neighbor witnessing my surprise…)

Realizing I was onto something, I grabbed a mop whose head fit perfectly into the tube. I pushed it in as far as I could and when I pulled it out, another giant pile of lint blew swiftly into my face. (It was like a game to see how much I could dislodge and how much I could coat myself in lint dust.)


Later that evening, the friend who gave Amy a ride home from work was sweet enough to let me pick his brain about the new vent covers I’d purchased that weren’t fitting. Within minutes he had it sorted. He took a pair of regular scissors (I thought I needed wire cutters) and cut the screen out of the original cover. Then he drove home, returned a short time later with silicone caulk, and reaffixed the cover to the house. Done and done. Yeah!!

I learned more about dryer vent covers than I ever thought I’d know in my lifetime. And now you do, too: They should not have screens on them.

Dirt in a Glass: The Beginning of a Meaningful Love Story

In my last post about not moving to Salida, I left out a fairly critical thing—quite intentionally. I chose not to mention that a couple weeks before I hit the snag with my loan, I’d met a woman.

She’s breathtakingly gorgeous, vibrant, smart, hilarious, athletic, sweet, and playful (among 80 other things I could say about her). Basically, she’s dreamy. And we’re courting—like, legit old-school courting. She’s masterful at it…and I’m smitten. At this point we’ve been dating for about 6 weeks and I’m just now to the point of ALMOST being able to concentrate on a task for 30 seconds without thinking about her and swooning.


When I was in the throes of making the to-Salida-or-not-to-Salida choice, she was insistent that I NOT be influenced by her sudden presence in my life. As far as she was concerned, it was all good either way and I should make the best choice for me. While I can’t quantify how successful I was at honoring her wish, I did my best—and that’s why I didn’t mention her in my previous post.

Another reason I didn’t mention her was because, while I’m not generally superstitious, somewhere in my brain there’s a gem of a thought that says, “Don’t write about her!! If you do, it’ll all be over!”

Looking at this in the light of day, I recognize it to be a totally ridiculous thought. And as a thought chaser, I’m intrigued. Where does this come from?

First of all, there’s the obvious: If I pour my heart out about her and then it all goes to hell, I’ll feel like an ass and there will forever be a commemoration of my adoration of her on my blog. Meh, I can live with that. There are worse things than being smitten with a phenomenal woman (such as, for example, being smitten with an a-hole woman, which has also happened).

Beyond the fear of making an ass of myself (a fear which I’m happy to report is falling more and more by the wayside as I near the big 4-0), I realize that it’s simply more vulnerable to write in the present tense because I.don’t.know.the.ending. How can I wrap meaning around circumstance to form cute little giftable bundles of story if I have no idea what’s going to happen?! It’s much easier to look back on situations and read into the signs and circumstances whatever meaning I can glean/craft in hindsight. (I think I was unduly influenced by shows like The Wonder Years and Doogie Howser, M.D.)

For example, if I HAD moved to Salida, the signs would have meant that I was called there—and that would have been true and made for a great story. If things had worked out with the woman I was dating in Salida, it would have been so much fun to tell everyone about the time when we were first dating and both had a katydid (an insect that looks like a green leaf) on our front doors on the same day (and neither of us had seen a katydid in years until that day)! Of course that would have meant that we were meant to be!


I’m mocking myself and the joy I find in making meaning of things to underscore the point of discomfort I’ve achieved by realizing that nothing necessarily means anything. My current woman (I’ll call her Goddess) and I have the START of a beautiful love story—which is SUCH a fun place to be: with the flirting, the verbal banter, the playfulness, the competence of Goddess to return ANYTHING I volley into her court. And with all that, there’s the simultaneous awareness that all I can do to give this the best shot at success—whatever that will come to be—is to be present.

I am being called to be present. I am being called not to make anything mean anything.

The check returning my earnest money on the house in Salida was written with my last name as the combination of mine and Goddess’s. As it turns out, our last names are only one letter off from each other’s. The check writer obviously wasn’t sure which was correct, so she wrote the check to accommodate both our last names. The one letter of divergence was written as a W (mine) overwritten with an R. Or perhaps it was an R overwritten with a W. It was both hers and mine—almost as if to have invented a new letter altogether. And do I want to make that mean all kinds of things about our future together? Hells YES! Will doing that be helpful? Hells NO! Doing that will project me both into the future and into romantic delusion—neither of which is ideal.

I am being called to be present. I am being called not to make anything mean anything. I am being called to sit in the discomfort that being in romantic relationship can create and to allow it and to be aware of it and to use it as a chance to release that which no longer serves me.

Being single is easy. I’ve mastered being single. I’ve mastered doing what I want, when I want, with whom I want. Though I’ve grown a lot in my singlehood—which those friends know who witnessed me in the years just after my nine-plus-year relationship ended six years ago—it’s now time for new growth.

I attended a training this weekend in which one of the leaders likened being in relationship to water filling a glass that has dirt at the bottom of it. As the water pours in, the dirt is disturbed and starts to churn and rise up in the glass. If enough water is poured into the glass, the water will eventually run clear—but first the dirt needs to churn and rise.

I’m in the thick of the rising, churning dirt storm. And it’s okay.

Dirty water

Every insecurity I have is being churned up. And it’s okay.

If I can see myself through to clear water, with the help of lots of love from all around pouring into the glass, I will be that much more present and that much clearer to share all of me. And then, regardless of what happens in the plot line of this love story, love will have won. And I’ll be right there to assign it all meaning…from the future…in hindsight.

It’s Okay to Loosen Your Grip

In my mid-twenties I worked for a brief six-month stint on the graveyard shift at the local blood center. Two things remain with me from that time.

First of all, I still cringe when I stumble across Public Radio International’s The World on Colorado Public Radio. I was awakened for every shift by its theme song:

This music inspires within me a wave of adrenaline and a wave of dread—simultaneously. It wasn’t my favorite job and the overnight shift took some getting used to. Waking up at 10:00 pm to go to work? Ugh!

But there was this one night…

The back doorbell buzzed, indicating a delivery. It was common for couriers to deliver body parts at all hours of the night in little coolers (usually eyeballs, as I recall). One night while I was signing in a cooler, the courier observed, “Wow! You hold your pen really tightly when you write. It looks like you’re actually cutting off circulation to your fingers.” I said, “Oh…yeah, I do have a tight grip. That’s just how I learned to write, I guess.”



This launched us into a conversation about graphology and I learned that this sweet white-haired man was trained in handwriting analysis. He didn’t need to analyze my handwriting, though, because he knew everything he needed to know about me from watching me hold the pen. He left me with [something approximating] these words: “I promise that your life will change when you learn to hold the pen more loosely.”

When he said this, I had that thing happen that happens when I’m hearing deep truth. It’s a split second of time standing still with a bit of fuzzy eye focus and lightheadedness. This means, “Erin, pay attention!”

I heard him. I heard his gentle implication that my tight grip on the pen was a manifestation of my mistrust of life. (That liberal arts degree pays off when attempting to discern subtle implications!)

I didn’t yet know that I don’t have to be in control of everything—that I CAN’T be in control of everything.

I won’t lie. It took me a long time to re-learn to hold a pen after almost twenty years of using a death grip.



My handwriting suffered greatly for years but has finally found its way back to being legible. I still resort to the old way if I’m holding a crappy pen that won’t write, though I’m quick to notice it. I’m also now a pen snob and eschew any pen that’s not gel. I assume that as I grow more eccentric, I’ll one day be using an ink bottle and quill.

So why am I sharing this? Because during a recent coffee and coloring date with friends I realized I was using my old strangle-hold technique. My friends were holding their colored pencils oh so gently as we chatted, their arms and hands and shoulders relaxed…while I was overexerting and muscling and bullying. (Coloring loses a bit of its therapeutic effect when doing it the way I was doing it.) I became aware that I‘ve worked to write differently but not to color differently, which lit my mind up with questions.

In what areas of my life am I exerting too much control?

In what areas of my life am I in total allowance, trusting that I am fully supported?

Which areas of my life are in color? Which are in black and white?

What am I holding onto too tightly that I need to release (literally or figuratively)?

And, in case you’re wondering, the courier driver/graphologist was correct. There has been a pretty significant shift in my life since learning to lighten up my grip. It has lightened me up in other ways and it allows a greater flow of goodness into my life. I’ve been blessed with numerous situations in which letting go and trusting allowed just the right job/person/animal to enter my life…exactly on time.

And now for a quick coloring break…to practice lightening up.

A Transformational Tool for 2016 and Beyond

I paid roughly $12,000 for massage school (give or take a couple thousand) and I can’t tell you the last time I gave a massage. Despite having zero desire to be a professional in this field (except for maybe reflexology), I gained so much more than the legal right to touch people therapeutically in a nonsexual way. I also walked away with the following:

  • Lifelong friendships. Massage therapy school is like quick-drying superglue for friendships. Those of us who tracked together through the program shared laughter, energy work, insecurities, laughter, awkwardness, nervousness, laughter, physiology notes, and so much touch. Did I mention laughter? The level of comfort we developed with each other was amazing. Disrobing anytime anywhere became no big thing. I only have to think about a massage-school friend to feel relaxed…and want to get naked.
  • Many thousands of dollars’ worth of massages. I never did the math, but given how many hours of massage we each received, school was almost worth its weight in massages. And it’s safe to say that we all needed to touch and be touched as much as we were. There is little as powerful as the loving (therapeutic) touch of another person.
  • The love and wisdom of one of my favorite teachers ever: Judy Harper. She had the pleasure and responsibility of teaching the night students their first hands-on massage class. She got to cover logistics like how to get undressed privately in a room of ten other people, how to properly undrape different areas of the body while keeping the private parts private, and what to do when a client farts on the table.

Judy and Eric

This sweet goddess of a teacher was infamous for renaming people. I was Eric (instead of my given female name, Erin). In addition to Judy being oblivious to my real name, the squirms it sent through my classmates was hilarious!

Aside from points 1 and 2 above, I could have quit massage school after Judy’s class and been quite content with what I’d learned. Her class was better than any expensive self-help seminar I’ve been to (and I’ve been to many).

Here’s one golden nugget from Judy that will stick with me always:

“Cancel, clear, forgive me.”

Any time Judy thought or said something that was not supportive of herself or someone else, she would say, “Cancel, clear, forgive me.”

This is a very self-loving and self-affirming practice. It brings awareness to our thoughts and words and acts as a prompt to help us think something different when our thoughts are hurtful to ourselves or others.

Sometimes it’s the simplest things that can have the biggest impact. Don’t let the simplicity fool you!! This is pure genius.

My intention for 2016 is that it be a year of transformational self-love (transformation by means of self-love). I will be using “cancel, clear, forgive me” to cancel, clear, and forgive the words of my inner trash-talker and to stop it in its tracks.

And if I choose not to stop it, I’ll choose to love the part of me that likes to trash-talk myself and I’ll find out what that part of me needs that it’s not getting. Befriending the shadow? Feeling my feelings? Whoa!! Stay tuned!!

How Hairprint Ended My Struggle

I’ve been going gray for many years. And while gray hair can be beautiful, I’ve also seen it make people look WAY older than their years. It can make someone otherwise youthful in appearance look drawn and wan. Knowing that I would likely be unable to recognize when enough was enough, I had entrusted a few friends over the years to tell me when the gray was too much, but that’s quite a burden to put on someone.

My first indication that I might want to take action was when I was dating a woman who was considerably older than me (15 years) and she stated that she liked my graying hair because it closed the age gap in our appearances. Say what?!

Then the next woman I hung out with stated that she thought gray was cool and had considered dying her own hair gray. I didn’t even know such a thing could happen…nor do I understand why it would. As Suzanne and I often joke, “Does not compute.”

My hair stylist has been very sweet about the whole thing. I asked her to tell me when the gray had gone too far and she said, “I absolutely respect your decision to do whatever is best for you. I would never pressure you into it. It’s not something to be taken lightly because once you start, it’s hard to stop.” Were we talking about coloring hair or doing drugs?!

The struggle has been real. The thought of putting CHEMICALS on my scalp (near which is my BRAIN, which already doesn’t hold onto many memories) was just never something that made sense to me. Women the world over do it without a second thought and yet there I was…giving it a third thought and a fourth and a fifteen-hundredth. I have never been able to make that beauty choice add up in my head to “worth it.” Nor, quite frankly, is it in my budget to pay someone to do it well.

Now enter Hairprint. Here’s a picture of the box. Even the BOX is beautiful. (That’s a box joke for my friend Maureen D.)

boxI discovered this product quite by accident while strolling around the interwebs one day. I started reading it with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning. Could it be true that my hair dilemma has a nontoxic solution?!! YESSSS!!

As the website explains, this is how Hairprint works (and it’s only for naturally brown- and black-haired people):

Hairprint creates a process whereby the natural pigment in your hair called eumelanin is recreated in the hair shaft. Eumelanin is arranged in the hair in a pattern unique to each person. We coined a word to name that unique pattern: Hairprint. That pattern determines how we see color.  When eumelanin is restored to the shaft of the hair, your innate hair color returns.

There are EIGHT ingredients in this product and it’s totally nontoxic. And the coolest part: the color it turns my hair will be totally different from the color it will turn someone else’s hair (because it does not work like chemical dyes).

So…my friend Suzanne took some extensive time out of her day to play hair with me. She very patiently led me through the entire process and here are the results:


side view gray 1top view grayside view gray 2


side view dark 1top view brownside view dark 2

The lighting in these photos is tricky because I was standing under a fluorescent light, but I think they capture the gist. For a first attempt, I’m thrilled with the results. I still have some sparkles where it didn’t take completely, but overall it’s nothing short of a miracle to see my original hair color restored. I’ve always loved my dark brown hair. Even my brother has always been envious that I got the “good hair,” as he calls it (his is much lighter and thinner). And no joke, the treatment left my hair soft as a baby’s butt. And it was an added benefit that Suzanne has salon-quality shampoo and conditioner that left me with that just-from-the-salon smell.

So, my friends, the war has been won. The battle that still remains is learning how to apply it by myself so I won’t have to bug anyone else to help me. I think with a little practice and a lot of patience, I’ll be fine.

If you’ve been waiting to find a nontoxic solution for your graying hair, please check out the website. It even gives instructions for how someone who has used chemical dyes in the past can transition to Hairprint. This stuff is pure brilliant. I would become a salesperson for the product if they’d have me. Thank you, Dr. John Warner (of the Warner Babcock Institute for Green Chemistry in Massachusetts) for inventing a solution to a very real problem. 😉

Soul Light Repair Complete, Commencing Recharge

One of the most unique things about Ariel is that she absolutely trusts and follows her guidance. She is a pure conduit for the light and love of The Holy Wow (as Rob Brezsny might say). Her method of work, from what I understand, is to repair the energy grids in and around her clients’ bodies and then to fill them with light and love. In her own words (from her website):

Sometimes there are obstacles, often there are puzzles. But the goal isn’t to have everything go “right”. It’s to keep your energy bright all day, no matter what happens to you or around you. That’s where an energy healer can help.

People come when they feel stuck in life, off balance, unhappy, afraid or lost. They also visit for help in easing physical conditions or assisting with more serious health issues. These are the things that affect their energy field – an electromagnetic field that’s quite elaborate, but basically looks like a big bubble around the body. Energy healers like myself have the gift of sensing this energy field and are able to clear and repair it…even from thousands of miles away.

In order to be successful in her own work, Ariel MUST stay bright and shiny herself. It’s the old, “Put on your own oxygen mask before assisting others.” This makes her very qualified to give advice to others about how they can keep themselves bright and shiny.

As you’ll recall from my last post, Ariel had just repaired a couple of tears in my soul light and removed all the energetic detritus that had been covering it. She then commenced filling me with light, which tickled and felt awesome. At one point I could feel tingles running from my head down my body, down my arms, down my legs. It felt like someone was softly caressing my skin with a feather-light touch. I had goosebumps but I wasn’t cold. (And no, not everyone feels energy work palpably, and it makes no difference in the end result.)

As Ariel continued clearing, repairing, flushing, and filling, we were having a conversation. She made it very clear that after the repair of my soul light, I would begin to feel very different. She explained the importance of being VERY gentle with myself in the coming days, as the changes would still be settling in and taking effect. She also gave me some incredibly useful tips for how to be gentle with myself.

Ariel asked, “Okay, so tell me an unkind thing you think about yourself frequently.” I said, “I’m a failure. At life, in career, in love, whatever. The flavor changes but the gist is the same.” She said, “Okay, great. So you know what? You’re a failure. Pretend that’s absolutely the truth. You are a failure. I could try to talk you out of feeling like a failure, I could list obvious reasons why you’re not a failure, but will that change how you feel?” “Nope,” I said. “Right! It absolutely won’t. I’ve raised two girls through their teenage years and I can tell you that there’s no talking a teenager out of how they feel. I played a game with them that I want you to play with yourself. Basically, instead of trying to talk yourself out of how you’re feeling, I want you to ask yourself what three things you can do right now to change it. And then do those three things.”

So let’s say I’ve just had a bout of emotional binge eating and now I feel like shit (physically and emotionally). Ariel advised that a) if I’m doing it, I should enjoy the hell out of it and savor every bit of the experience, and b) if the end result brings up harsh thoughts about myself, I should play the “what three things can I do right now?” game. She explained that it’s like when a kid spills milk. Mom could try to figure out why it happened and fret about it and yell at the kid and carry on…or she can simply clean up the milk and move on. So…I can spend my time analyzing all the ways in which I’m a loser for having binged on unhealthy foods or I can do three things that will make me feel better. Perhaps I might choose to drink a glass of water, take the dogs for a walk in the park, and write in my journal. None of these things can go back in time to erase the behavior, but the milk has been spilled, so to speak. Now it’s time to clean it up and move on.

Or to back up one step: When I feel a binge coming on, I could focus on what’s up for me, what’s troubling me, and play the “what three things can I do right now?” game right then. Maybe calling a friend to say hi, drinking a glass of water, and having a solo dance party in the kitchen would shift my energy enough to negate the desire to binge.

During the week following my visit to Ariel I noticed that it became very quiet in my head. The shit talking had almost completely stopped, which made it easier to notice it when it was happening (and to hear what specifically I was telling myself). I haven’t consistently played the “three things” game, but somehow just learning about it created a shift for me. It’s a great reminder of, “Oh, if this sucks…I can change it.”. I’ve succeeded in being more gentle with myself and I’ve been experiencing frequent bouts of unadulterated silliness and joy throughout each day (usually only witnessed by my animals). And the influx of new fun people entering my life, which is something Ariel asked for on my behalf, has been staggering.

I can’t recommend Ariel’s services enough. I felt incredibly safe with her, I feel transformed by the experience, and I plan to go back at some point to get a routine maintenance check and to find out how the old soul light is faring.