Month: July 2026

On July 28, 2025, my world underwent a fundamental shift: my ex called us done; that, as they say, was that¹.

For the record, he wasn’t wrong. The us we had been had been on life support for some time before and, whatever the particular circumstances that led him to calling us done, again², I knew it was indeed time to pronounce the death of us.

I was heartbroken, hurt. I was also worried about basic survival (money, housing, etc.) and angry, mostly at myself. I was deeply concerned for him³. But, beyond all this, I was terribly, profoundly, endlessly exhausted in body, mind, and soul. I couldn’t take it any more, which is why I didn’t fight to keep us together this time. I knew, in my bones, the time had come to save myself⁴, even if it meant losing everything.
And I was seriously concerned it could mean losing everything.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

So, I write not to mourn. Sure, I’m still sorry it didn’t work out, but I accept things as they are. Instead, I have chosen to make today one of celebration. Not celebration in that I’m-happy-I-got-that-bum-out-of-my-life sense, because I don’t feel that way (he’s not a bum and I still, truly, wish him well and happy), but rather celebrating my growth over the past year.

I have come far. With my therapist’s help, early on especially, I addressed some underlying trauma stuff that I hadn’t fully processed in the past⁵. I learned how to grieve better. I let my friends be there for me (and accepted that my family wouldn’t be). I got better about meditating and returned to sangha. I am making new friends, volunteering, trying things to see if I like them. I’m reading a ton more. And, so importantly, sleeping better.

I have made home repairs, taken care of things like new insurance, and paid the mortgage and bills regularly and better than on-time. I’m starting to think about things I want to do to the house and yard, not just what I have to do⁶. I kept my business running (had a great first 6 months of 2026, actually) and did a webinar for a photo group. I’ve been more neighborly, talking with anyone/everyone who walks by (usually when their dogs drink from my bowl). So many people have been kind, generous, supportive… I feel myself at home here, even more than before.

I let myself feel my feelings now. In particular, I feel the joy that I experience in my life which, honestly, I had locked away for a long time⁷. But really, I let myself feel everything, good and bad. Little things, bigger ones, doesn’t matter. I laugh. I cry. I recognize what arises and apply open curiosity to it all. I am present and alive. It’s not always easy and I still have waves of grief and sadness, but there is the full range of emotional flavors in my life now.

I feel profoundly lucky, most of all.

So, I bought myself some yellow roses when I was at Trader Joe’s this morning. They are my favorite roses (yellow over red, for sure) and, since there weren’t any Shasta daisies (my fave-fave flower), they made a fine runner-up. They brighten my dining room table and I can see them from where I am sitting, in the living room, now. I will indulge in a celebratory cocktail later, if cool enough on the upper deck (looking at the Pacific) or, if not, then on the patio. I will breathe and appreciate where I am.

It has been a full year, in every sense.

_________

1. Unfortunately, we had to live together for a couple of months before he actually moved out (separate bedrooms, separate lives), but it was done-done on that announcement date. ↩︎
2. He had said he was done when he was dysregulated, for years. I hated it, every time; but I understood that taking anyone at their word when they are dysregulated is a fool’s errand. ↩︎
3. Watching someone you love flailing and making poor choices, is awful (even when the relationship is over). ↩︎
4. My therapist never said outright that I should end things or that the relationship was abusive or anything like that. They were supportive of my stated mission to be a better partner if I could; but they also helped me to see how I was not honoring my own needs. The most they ever said in regards to events in the relationship was, occasionally, “I don’t like that for you.” On our last meeting, months later, I asked if that was kind of code and they smiled and nodded. ↩︎
5. EMDR for the win, really. I was super skeptical about it–it sounds like hooey–but it helped so much. I did some before the break-up, actually, and I think that helped me to be able to do what I needed to when it happened. ↩︎
6. I got replacements for the Sofa and the mattress, for example; maybe I will paint some walls? ↩︎
7. Not that he ever asked for this, but it seemed kind of mean to be joyful around my ex when he was so not joyful (depressed/anxious/in pain…). I didn’t want him to feel like I was rubbing his nose in it. ↩︎

You are so irresponsible.

That accusation still gives me palpitations, as if it were happening now. Money, in fact, still makes me twitch.

One brother said that awful phrase when I miscalculated my checking account and accidentally bounced a small payment while traveling in Europe, when I was a “starving” college student, about to turn 22. This was before traveling with debit cards (so I wasn’t hitting the ATMs or anything in Europe–my boyfriend and I had travelers checks!)–so it was a payment that I thought I had left enough money in my account to cover and for him to make while I was gone. It was an error, and a minor one, and one he could have simply taken care of for me and then I could have paid him back when I got home; but, instead, he had to berate me when I called to check in. The idea of making a mistake on my checkbook made me ill. Even before this. I can still remember the feeling of panic–thousands of miles away and unable to do anything but be called irresponsible¹.

I have been counting pennies my whole life. I grew up with a mother who intentionally kept us poor. See, when my parents divorced, their agreement said that she would get paid a small alimony and more in child support². My father thought she would go back to work and the alimony would be a bump on top of whatever she made. This was around 1969-70 and women were starting to go back to work after divorce–friends of my mom and dad did that. Any normal mother, especially one with her skills (she could type 100+ wpm on a manual typewriter, do shorthand, etc.) would have gone back to work.

Mom was not normal.

She simply refused to work. She felt owed. The universe and, especially, my father owed her… more. And if it meant her kids would go hungry or without things, well that would just prove what a horrible person my father was, in her mind. So, we did without³.

When it came time for my brothers to go to college, my father said he could pay for college (including dorms, etc.) or pay the child support (for the student), but he couldn’t do both. This isn’t just reasonable, it’s generous. But not generous enough for Mom who made it clear to my brothers that if they accepted the college money, they would be traitors and depriving her.

By the time the second brother left for college, when I was 11, every penny we could squeeze went “to the boys.” I was informed that buying anything for me was a waste of money–“the boys” needed more⁴.
I was, rather clearly, worth less.

Eventually, the second brother turned 21 (just before I turned 15) and the monthly check from Dad became $585. The other brother was working in another state, but not sending money home (Mom would never take money from her boys!). So, we lived on $585. Rent for our 2-bedroom apartment was $235. $350 for everything else, including giving the second brother money for his art supplies (and drugs⁵). I can still remember these numbers, 46 years later. Trying to figure out how to make it until the next dad-check was a regular way of life for me.

I swore that I would never be like my mom. I didn’t need to be rich, but I was not going to rely on someone else to “take care of me” and certainly not mooch off anyone. If I was going to succeed or fail, it was going to be by my own efforts. And I have…succeeded, I mean.

Also, throughout my life, I have paid more, given more, asked for less, tipped more, and done everything I could to not ever make anyone feel like I was taking advantage of them or that they were worth less. I could not bear causing anyone the pain I felt. This has, in fact, cost me. A lot. Especially when it comes to the men in my life⁶ (a pattern of giving more than I should have) but also in how I don’t count every minute when I bill hourly in my business, have historically undercharged, worked for free, or not pushed for raises, etc.

Turns out, all of that is shockingly normal for “driven” women. For women like me who have made ourselves financially successful⁷, often despite pretty amazing odds, the poverty mindset when it comes to ourselves is common. In fact, we’ll give to others, then freak out at buying ourself a pair of $75 shoes. Or (And) we compulsively check our financial accounts online–as if something drastic may have happened. We’re just crazy when it comes to our own finances.

Learning that I am “normal” in my crazy here means a lot for me. I’m not ignoring it, nor am I fearing it. It doesn’t weigh on me as it has. Instead, now, I’m reading up on it⁸ and taking steps to do better in my life. Some of that means grieving not standing up for my worth more in the past, sure, but mostly it is being able to sit with the discomfort⁹ about money and choosing to respond instead of react.

In fact, I just bought myself some new shorts without researching whether I could find similar ones for less somewhere else. I have a pair of these shorts, love them, and simply bought two more. In the past, I would have agonized over doing a purchase like that and probably not done it… at least not on the first try.
Today, I felt the discomfort… and did it anyway.

Crazy, sure. But a little less today than yesterday.

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1. There have been other times I have been called irresponsible; they weren’t money-related and hurt and were, frankly, just as much bullshit. ↩︎
2. Until we turned 21, by the way–not the usual 18. ↩︎
3. Except for the one year when she sold the house (she got it in the divorce) and then, in that year, spent everything living in a luxury high-rise apartment (John Glenn had a unit!) and buying fabulous art and going to parties… my fourth grade year we lived rich; my fifth grade year we were eating peanut butter, again. ↩︎
4. Much later I learned that she was lying about this–she sent money to one of my brothers, her favorite, not to the other. ↩︎
5. This brother once confided in me that not only did he inject cocaine the first time he even tried that drug, he regretted never getting to try heroin. Regretted. But I’m the irresponsible one… ↩︎
6. See, e.g., paying for 50% of the appliances when my partner had just inherited over $1.5 million, mentioned in Pizza. ↩︎
7. To be sure, I am not rich…in fact I have a lot less than my siblings, for sure; but I’m not poor either. ↩︎
8. See, e.g., Annie Wright’s (therapist) work in this area, like https://anniewright.com/financial-trauma-why-successful-women-still-have-a-painful-relationship-with-money/ ↩︎
9. Thanks, Pema Chödrön. ↩︎

Over the past week-ish, I had been communicating with a man via an online dating app (Bumble). Unlike the men who usually express interest, he was tall; he was also a bit older than I, in good health and active, a reader, and educated. In the texts, he seemed both interesting and interested, which was good.

There were some misspellings in his missives that evidenced the use of dictating rather than writing, which surprised me since he was, allegedly, a journalist/writer (you’d think he’d have edited better). But, generally, the “talk” was much better than usual.

Oh, sure, he did write long texts and, sometimes, there were many of them, but maybe he was just excited, I told myself. And, yes, there were a couple of times where he’d say he was going to do something (like let me know when he got back into town) without actually doing that thing, but again I made excuses for this. We’re only human and I didn’t want to judge too harshly.

I was, relatively speaking, excited to meet this person. Dare I say, hopeful, even. So, yesterday, I was more particular about dressing and makeup and even shaved my legs¹. I let my Fabulous Neighbor know where I was going and when, so she could look out for me, and in the late afternoon, headed out into the sunshine and breeze to walk to the restaurant. I was hopeful it would lead to my first “real” date².

Instead, it was awful.

I arrived a bit early, intentionally, to give myself a bit of time to breathe and cool down from the walk. He was early, too. Okay, that’s fine, except I made a little joke about how his being early didn’t permit me to freshen up and make myself look better before meeting him–you know, a perfect set up for a “you look fine” kind of response. I got nada except a kind of defensive remark about why he was early, too. He even added that he had considered walking too which would have been much farther than my walk. Hmm.

Also, when we very first met, he just sort of looked at me when I introduced myself with a smile and a little joke about how he actually was tall (explaining that guys lie about that often) as I reached out for handshake. No smile back. No laughter. Decent handshake, though.

Early in the conversation, as we were waiting on our glasses of wine, he launched into the first of what would be many (many) very (very) long, detailed stories about his life, especially about his life in the Navy. Unbidden. Without context. No warm up questions like “How are you today?” Anyway, this story was about how he used his typing skills to get out of mess duty which led to his career as a journalist/photo-journalist. Yes, he started with the story of his adult life from, essentially, day 1. He went on to describe an editor he later had who two-finger typed and sounded like he was going to break the keyboard when he typed. I said that I had been told I typed “angry” by someone but I didn’t think that was true and that if I am a bit more forceful, I know it’s not as bad as the character from Up in the Air. Another attempt a light humor. His reply? “Maybe it’s how you hold your face.” Um, what? Okay, it was early on so maybe he misspoke. I laughed it off with “Resting bitch face typing? I dunno…” He didn’t correct me to say I didn’t have bitch face or anything. Hmmmm.

Long story short(er), he dominated the conversation and it was all about him. No compliments, no flirting, just him and his life. What little I got out about myself was talked over and/or over-topped. And his stories were, as I said, long, detailed, and mostly irrelevant. While he was liberal, LGBTQ+ friendly, loved books and old films, he also was harsh about his exes and completely inappropriate with how he talked about his adopted daughter (“Black crack baby³,” yikes)⁴. His work struggles and life struggles were all caused by others–wives, bosses, etc. He talked about how he played lawyer in a discrimination claim, as if that was a good thing to tell a real lawyer. I kept making excuses for him–telling myself he was probably nervous or something. I wanted to leave early but thought that maybe I was being unfair so I stayed to give him chance after chance. The reality was, though, he was just being himself: a man full of red flags, especially on the control side.

Finally, when I called an end to the meeting by asking for the check, he immediately said he’d pay because that’s what guys do and that just put the nail in the coffin. Feminist, my ass. I paid the check, in part because he had been so dismissive to the servers that I didn’t want them to get stiffed on the tip but mostly because fuck you patriarchy. It’s only money and, frankly, I hope it made him uncomfortable.

As I was paying he said how great he thought the conversation had been and I could see him winding up for the “let’s do this again” pitch. Before he could get there, as soon as the server left, I cut him off with, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is a good fit for me.”
“Why?!” he asked incredulously and harshly.
“You seem lovely,” I lied, “But I just don’t feel what I need to” (truth). Then I added as a sort of genteel excuse, “Maybe it’s the photographer thing–I’ve generally made it a policy not to date potential clients…”
“I never asked you for any advice!” he practically spat. His face had become really dark and almost menacing.
“I’m sorry” I said, “I need to feel a certain something. I’m fine being alone and I’m not looking for someone just to have someone. If I don’t feel whatever that thing is, it’s not right for me.” I then reached out to shake his hand again, did so, and left without the slightest look back.

As I was walking home, I got more and more upset about the whole thing. Mostly, I was upset with myself for not ending it sooner. I saw the red flags, but made excuses. Why did I do that?! Why didn’t I tell him the truth about why I would never see him again? Why do I feel somehow wrong for standing up for myself?
Eventually, it hit me…

Hello trauma, my old friend⁵.

I was unconsciously afraid to tell him the truth. I was afraid to hurt his feelings. Afraid of getting in trouble somehow. That was (in hindsight) my past relational trauma showing up. Also, I was playing the patriarchy’s game and was all concerned about making him comfortable, unthreatened. Bad (but familiar) combo. I was trying to be a good girl, uncomplicated, un-needy, and at the same time protect myself from whatever danger he presented. Ooof.

On the good side, I saw all this about myself–I caught myself and did so early. I didn’t give him another date, or several. I saw the red flags! I didn’t ignore my intuition⁶! And I did what was right for me, if not right away, sooner than I would have in the past.

I recognized that didn’t owe him an explanation for my feelings and it wasn’t my job to fix the man, like by explaining all that he did wrong. I’m not his dating coach and I certainly didn’t owe him anything more than human respect.
Something, frankly, he didn’t quite show me.

So, yes, a bad date, for sure. But it turns out to have been beneficial for me: I learned I do spot the red flags and I can trust my intuition. I remember my last therapist said, “I don’t see you making the same choices now–I think you will see the flags and honor yourself.”
They⁷ were right.

___________________

1. Not in case of nookie–because I was considering wearing a skirt. ↩︎
2. This was a meet-date; I think of a real date as one after that, when there is some connection to explore. ↩︎
3. He actually said he thought he had an understanding of what it was like to be Black because she is Black. OMFG. ↩︎
4. He hardly mentioned his other daughter–not adopted, fwiw. ↩︎
5. See my last post, about Mara. ↩︎
6. Early on I recognized that I couldn’t imagine even kissing this guy–total ick feeling when I thought of it. ↩︎
7. My last therapist was wonderful, brilliant, and non-binary, hence they. ↩︎

In Buddhism, there is the story of how, when the man who we know as the Buddha was sitting under the Bodhi tree becoming enlightened, a demon¹ came to tempt him, to distract him, to get in the way of his enlightenment. That demon was called Mara². The Buddha-to-be touched the earth, grounding himself, and Mara (and his armies) disappeared. The Buddha then attained enlightenment.

Later, Mara would still occasionally appear to the Buddha. Like he couldn’t give up trying. Whenever this happened, though, the Buddha simply noted Mara’s presence with “I see you” and, poof, Mara would disappear.

Today, many of us use Mara as a shorthand for things that arise and get in our way.

Why am I writing about this? Well, because last night Mara apparently decided to have a slumber party at my house.

It’s coming up on a year since the ending of my last relationship. I haven’t seen my ex in over 9 months and we have virtually no communications. This is by his choice³ and, no matter how much I would have preferred a friendlier post-coupled relationship, I accept this is the way things are. Rationally, that is. I accept it rationally. Unfortunately, emotionally, well, it seems part of my brain is not always playing on the same team. To wit: last night I had nightmare after nightmare, clearly about the former us and/or the way things are now. It was a rough night.

I woke up in the morning, in tears from the last one. It was one of those dreams where nothing makes sense or works the way it would in the real world. Trapped, struggling, people saying completely illogical things and not being able to communicate with them…a full monty of FML. My heart ached. I was exhausted from the shit sleep, with a ton of tossing and turning and irrational fear.

The trigger for all this is almost surely that, yesterday, I received kind and positive attention from a potential date. Not over the top bullshit–no “Hello Gorgeous” or whatever. Rather, I simply got a sense of presence and actual interest in learning about who I am. He asked questions and was specific (like that he wanted to hear the story of the Triumph). That is so rare that it (obviously) flipped me out a bit. And, to be sure, we’re talking about just a few texts back-and-forth–nothing serious or heavy. Mostly the potential for maybe something, but that was enough to invite Mara for a visit, and one like a mezcal-infused mean drunk arguing about last call in my brain.

First thing I thought as I swung my feet off the bed to the ground? Hi Mara, I see you.

Mara is a representation of our own demons, of course, and that’s what I experienced last night: my own demons. The voices in my head telling me that I don’t deserve happiness or I would somehow be harming my ex if I moved on–those are all my own voices, not anything anyone is doing to me. A lifetime of struggles with the patriarchy and traumas, it’s no wonder they are there.

But, thanks to a lot of therapy and my dharma studies, I recognize these voices for what they are. Mara. Distractions. The arising of old shit.

Hilariously, when I finally checked my devices today, I had a message from yesterday’s person… and a new match as well.

Hey, Mara, I see you.
Please to fuck off now, okay?

____________________________

1. Demons are metaphors in Buddhism. So are gods. ↩︎
2. See https://e-buddhism.com/mara-buddhism/ ↩︎
3. I assume he has his reasons for this distancing; I only know that the current post-breakup situation is not what I would choose. ↩︎