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My purple hair this month is more than just a style. Purple is a symbol of strength and resilience. A reminder of my past. A past that forever changed me. DOMESTIC VIOLENCE To some, those are words you understand but haven’t personally lived through. And to others, it’s a part of your life story. My purple hair is a soft indicator of part of mine. If you know me, then you know someone affected by domestic violence. Before the purple ribbon became part of my story, I was alrea

I know how to keep going and just deal with it. I can get up, take care of what needs to be done, answer messages, help somebody else, and figure out the next problem. From the outside, that can look like I’m doing fine. But being able to keep going doesn’t mean I’m okay. Sometimes it’s hard to swallow my pride and say it plainly: I’m not okay. I’m overwhelmed. There’s a certain kind of exhaustion that comes from living in survival mode for too damn long. It’s more than needi

Silent Love Protocol is very special to me for many reasons. There have been ups and downs, highs and lows. None of that makes me want to stop... it makes me want to adjust so that SLP can be more effective and sustainable. One thing I’ve learned along the way is that not every good idea or opportunity has to be pursued. Or, put another way: every blessing ain’t gotta be your blessing. Community care remains very important to me. At the same time, social interaction is an are

After having the opportunity to offer Silent Love Drops (SLDs) in a variety of settings, one thing I’ve noticed is that kindness has become unusual. The world has many of us so guarded that when kindness is presented without an obvious reason, we often don’t know how to respond or we get uncomfortable. Those responses aren’t wrong; they are a form of protection. It’s a shield against the dangers and pain many of us have experienced. The reason SLDs were created was to allow s

This is a reflection on how external realities affect our nervous systems, and how choice becomes a form of care. I am aware of what’s happening in the world — politically, socially, globally. I see it. I read it. I feel it. I’ve lived enough life to know that constant outrage and fear come at a cost. If I let it consume me, I disappear into survival mode again. I’ve been there. I know what it takes to come back. So I choose presence. I choose to try to stay rooted in my actu

There’s a belief that healing has to come first — and only then can we create, give, or lead. But sometimes healing happens while we’re building something new. Not after the fear is gone. Not once the doubt disappears. Not when confidence suddenly arrives. Sometimes the work is happening in real time — alongside uncertainty, pauses, and days where nothing seems to move. What I’ve learned is this: healing doesn’t require constant output. It requires honesty, pacing, and self-t

Courage doesn’t mean the fear disappears — it means the fear doesn’t get to decide. Fear is not a flaw. It’s a signal. A response. Often, it’s the part of us that learned how to survive uncertainty, harm, or loss. Expecting fear to vanish before we move forward misunderstands what courage actually is. Courage rarely feels bold. More often, it feels shaky. Quiet. Internal. It shows up when your hands are trembling and you move anyway. When your voice wavers and you still speak

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to build a framework around emotions. For a long time, I thought healing meant feeling less. Less sad. Less angry. Less affected. If an emotion resurfaced, I assumed I’d failed somehow — that I wasn’t processing correctly or moving fast enough. What I didn’t understand then is that the shame I carried wasn’t coming from my emotions. It was coming from the belief that I wasn’t allowed to have them. We live in a culture that pathologizes bein

For a long time, I thought growth meant riding every wave all the way in. If momentum showed up, I felt like I had to stay on it — even when my arms were tired, even when my body was signaling it needed rest. Getting off early felt like failure. Like quitting. Like wasting the opportunity. But trauma teaches your nervous system a different lesson: If you don’t stay alert, you lose control. So we learn to ride everything. To push. To endure. What I’m learning now is this: You’

Tonight reminded me that healing doesn’t mean triggers disappear. It means I notice sooner. It means I stop when something isn’t safe for my nervous system. It means I take my medicine without guilt and choose rest instead of pushing through. This isn’t failure — it’s practice.

Today I learned that productivity does not require burnout. It requires balance. I used to believe that getting things done meant pushing past my limits, ignoring my body, and paying for it later. Today looked different. I worked. I stopped. I laughed. I regulated. I played. I returned to the work when it felt right. Nothing was forced. I also learned that production can be fun when it’s rooted in safety instead of pressure. When the nervous system isn’t under threat, creatio

Yesterday, my body learned something new. Today, it needed to recover from it. Healing doesn’t always look like relief. Sometimes it looks like a nervous system crash after holding itself together through growth, stress, and responsibility. Today was heavy in very ordinary ways: An unexpected financial hit. Logistics that snowballed. Conversations that activated old wounds. Background anxiety I couldn’t fully shake. Nothing catastrophic happened — but my body acted like it ha

Today, I experienced something that activated a long-held nervous system response. For much of my life, visibility has felt unsafe — because early experiences taught me that being seen could make me vulnerbale to harm. Today challenged that belief. There was visibility. My body reacted. I felt the familiar surge — nerves, alertness, readiness. And yet, nothing bad happened. I was safe. I did good. I left unharmed. I’m not fixed — even though I created Silent Love Protocol. SL