Inhale Acceptance Exhale Caddyness

Can we all practice the art of inhaling acceptance and exhaling caddyness? I read somewhere that it takes more muscles to frown than to smile, and I’m positive it’s the same rule for being negative and choosing to be happy.

I’m guilty of gossiping and being caddy. Sometimes I even feel obligated to contribute to the office gossiping to “fit in,” which is nobody’s problem but my own. What I’m hoping to convey is my own flaw, how it makes me crazy, why I don’t want to do it anymore and how I’m going to move forward.


It feels like the older I get, the more I notice it. Caddyness is displayed on magazine articles, social media news feeds and is circulated in office cliques. For example, the most recent article I scrolled past by HuffPost was titled, Angelina Jolie Shades Jennifer Aniston During Speech.

Why do pitting two females against one another generate clicks? Ps: the image they use as reference is a millisecond of an instance. I’m sure the second image on that camera was both of them paying attention to each other, but no one will ever ask that question because the first assumption is more exciting.

For the record I’m not even a fan of Angelina Jolie and it still bothers me because of the principle that this is a normal caddyness expected.

We’re all guilty of participating in the age old saying, get it off your chest you’ll feel better mentality, but not all thoughts need to be expressed. There’s another age old saying about misery loves company, and it shouldn’t fall on deaf ears when being paired with the notion negative energy manifests more negative energy.

This is especially toxic when done in a working environment. I’ve worked in retail, the restaurant industry and office life – no job title is safe from the drama or caddyness. Try to remember (especially if you’re in close quarters) not everyone enjoys listening to you complain about how everyone else should be living their lives and how many lingering ears can overhear you?

                *Also, can we stop using the word should? Because who are you to tell anyone how they should be doing something? Nobody wants to constantly hear how someone should be living their life, because guess what? You’re fucking up the same amount of times as everyone else – you’re no different, so who are you to judge or tell anyone anything. If you ain’t Oprah, I don’t want to hear it – actually, sorry Oprah, I still don’t want to hear it …

I think it’s safe to say, if you feel entitled in giving advice to every living soul about how they should be living, you might want to turn that voice inward and figure out why you feel obligated to tell others how to live. I have a book for you to read that might help, too.

Bottom line: a real queen helps another queen adjust her crown. It’s hard enough to be a woman and there’s no need to waste any of our personal time tearing down one another.


I’m making a conscious effort to pause when I start to use the word should and another hard effort to not feel obligated to participate in harmful gossip.

We’re all on this ridiculous ride called life and we’re all doing the best we can. No job title is safe from the drama or caddyness, but maybe we can be the variable that causes a ripple effect.



What’s Love Got To Do With It?

What’s love got to do, got to do with it
What’s love but a second hand emotion
What’s love got to do, got to do with it
Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken

Tina Turner said it best, what does love got to do with it? Apparently a lot, love has a lot to do with it.

Love is defined as an intense deep feeling or connection. Does that sentence make sense to you, do you grasp the concept of love based off that sentence? Well, I don’t.

When I read the definition of love, I feel a protective film of hazy fog fill up the spaces between my cognitive thinking and my heart. A few weeks ago I couldn’t understand what the haze was doing or recognize it was there, but now I understand.

The fog is protecting me, protecting me from feeling and absorbing love. The fog is confusion and it’s my defense.

What's Love Got To Do With It blog image

I’m lonely and my prayers for comfort fall on deaf ears. I don’t look into a mirror because if I catch my own eyes, they give me away and I’ll have to explain. Instead, the mirror is exclusively used to examine how far out my gut sits and help make mental notes on what to do at the gym.

It’s easier for me to digest the negative and hate than comprehend the love and compassion. This doesn’t mean I don’t have love or compassion for others, my heart is huge for others suffering.

I just can’t give it (grace) to myself.

A few weeks ago I was speaking to a youth pastor about God and why I’m not a believer. I explained it’s not religion that makes me uncomfortable, I find the stories of creation interesting (all of them). The psalms, prayers and big guy in the sky doesn’t scare me out of church. “It’s not even because I didn’t grow up in church,” I told him.

It’s the unconditional love from God that keeps me away. How can someone who doesn’t know you or have to love you, just give you love? “God loves all his children and died for you,” as the saying goes. I don’t get it.

What's Love Got To Do With It blog image

A dusty box that sat unnoticed for many years made its way back to the light a few months ago. It contained journals, diaries and notes from when I was 7-years-old all the way up to my Senior year of High school.

It seemed like a good time to relive old memories. My twenties have been tough and there’s still two years left of them. I had been feeling like I didn’t know who I was and could use reminding, so I popped them open and started the Dear Diary series, but I still avoided one box. Until yesterday …

That one box contained a handful of letters that were written to me by the first man who tried to love me.

He wrote me poems, called me Angel Dove and would go into great detail about how much his love for me burned and loved to tell anyone who would listen how much he loved me. As of yesterday, I still couldn’t read his letters in their entirety.

It’s not hard to guess what happened next.

I broke his heart, shattered it. Told him he made me sick and that I never wanted to see him again. When he came back to town for the first time after I split it off, my yard got trashed, car got egged and my voicemail was filled with a few hurtful messages. But in a way I knew I deserved it, so I didn’t fight it or respond.

A number of years later I fell in love again and did everything in my power to fuck that up, too.

Love seems easy. You read about it all the time and plenty of movies depict the art of falling in love, so is it possible to not understand what unconditional love feels like when its all around you?

If it’s possible, is that why I feel so disconnected?


What if love felt like it wasn’t supposed to be a feeling because those things were for pussies and love was only conditional and through actions, because actions speak louder than words? Can someone who can’t feel love figure out how to be loved?

Is any of this making any sense?

In a nutshell, life has been considered unstable in my book. Friends don’t exist because in a few years you’ll lose them when you move again and acquaintances can only be trusted as far as you can throw them. This is what I tell myself.

What’s the point? Nothing lasts forever so don’t get attached, have an out and wait for the bottom to fall out.

But I’ve been telling myself a lie and doing myself an injustice. I deserve love and it deserves to have me. I matter and I am enough. Ignorance may be bliss, but awareness is enlightening. My quarrels with love and loving myself can only get better if I recognize the problem.

I deserve to be the person I know I can be and so do you.

I will rise up, despite the ache.

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