Dear Women of Empowerment,

I’m not writing to you as someone who has it all figured out.

I’m writing to you as a woman who has had to rebuild herself more times than she ever expected to.

A woman who has doubted herself, questioned her worth, and stood in rooms feeling like she had to prove she belonged… even when she had already earned her place.

And I know I’m not the only one.

Because somewhere along the way, many of us were taught to shrink.
To stay quiet.
To question our power instead of own it.

But I’ve learned something the hard way—

Power doesn’t arrive when everything is perfect.
It shows up the moment you decide you’re done playing small.

It’s in the way you keep going when life gets heavy.
It’s in the way you lead, even when you’re still healing.
It’s in the way you choose yourself, over and over again, even when it feels unfamiliar.

We are not here by accident.

Every story in this room carries weight.
Every struggle shaped something stronger.
Every setback built resilience we didn’t know we had.

And together… that becomes something unstoppable.

This is more than a group.

This is a space where we remind each other who we are when we forget.
Where we hold each other accountable to grow, not just survive.
Where we stop apologizing for taking up space and start owning it.

I am still becoming.
Still learning.
Still rising.

But I am no longer waiting for permission.

And I hope every woman here knows—

You don’t have to wait either.

You are allowed to lead.
You are allowed to dream bigger.
You are allowed to take up space without explanation.

You are powerful, not because life was easy… but because you kept going anyway.

And that?

That is something no one can take from you.

With strength,
Charity

We thought of you today,
While riding by the cane
We remembered your laugh, the way your eyes lit up, the way you used to shake your head at things you couldn’t change
Your death left a big hole in our lives
And things will never be the same
You loved us so much, in all your little ways
Now you live in our memories
And we won’t forget your name
The time we got to spend with you flew by the way good times always do
And man, those were some of the best times of our lives
It’s really not fair when you look at it from our side
And while I hunt with my little family
That you believed in oh so much
Looking at that cane, I know it’s a place grief will always touch

Taurus Moon Bleed on the First Full Day of Spring

There are moments when the body aligns so precisely with the cosmos that it becomes impossible to separate the physical from the spiritual. A Taurus Moon bleed on the first full day of Spring is one of those moments.

Spring marks rebirth. It is the season where life begins again, where what was dormant starts to rise, soften, and open. And as the Earth awakens, so does the body. Bleeding during this time is not random—it is a deep, intentional release. The body is clearing space to receive what this new season is ready to offer.

With the Sun, Venus, Neptune, Saturn, and Chiron all moving through Aries, there is a strong fire activation taking place. Aries is initiation. It is identity, courage, movement, and forward momentum. This energy asks: Who are you becoming now? Not who you were, not who you’ve been holding onto—but who you are ready to step into.

And yet, while this fire is rising, the Moon is in Taurus—grounded, steady, deeply connected to the body, the senses, and the Earth. Taurus slows everything down. It reminds you to feel, to root, to anchor into your physical experience.

With the Moon conjunct Uranus in Taurus, there is also an element of awakening happening through the body. Uranus brings disruption, insight, and sudden clarity. This can show up as unexpected emotions, physical sensations, or intuitive downloads that seem to come out of nowhere. The body may speak louder during this time. Listen closely.

This is where the contrast becomes sacred.
Aries says move forward. Taurus says be still and feel.

Bleeding under this energy creates a powerful bridge between the two. You are releasing what no longer feels safe, stable, or aligned (Taurus), while simultaneously being initiated into a new version of yourself (Aries).

This is not just a physical bleed. This is a recalibration of your nervous system, your values, and your relationship with your body.
You may feel the need to slow down more than usual, to rest, to nourish, to be in stillness. Honor that. Taurus teaches that true power is not in force—it is in presence.

At the same time, Aries is igniting a new spark within you. Ideas, desires, and inner knowing may begin to surface. You don’t have to act on everything immediately. Let it root first. Let it become embodied.

This is the wisdom of this moment: You are not being asked to rush into your next chapter. You are being asked to ground into it.

Let your body lead. Let your bleed guide you. Let the Earth hold you as you transition.

Because this is what it means to move in rhythm with the seasons—not just around you, but within you.

My father, Bob Coval, was my hero. He was my rock, and the person I leaned on most. He always encouraged me to never allow my disabilities to stop me from pursuing my dreams, to never give up. He was there when I published my first book, “An Untethered Truth, A Medical Journey,” and was my biggest cheerleader on the project.

It was February 13, 2022, the day before Valentine’s Day. I was visiting a close friend in Rochester, New York. She’s pregnant with her first child, and I was there for her baby shower and to celebrate with her publication of my book.

That night, my Dad sent me a text: “Call me in the morning before your flight.” I told him I would and that I loved him. He immediately texted back. “Love you too!”
I called him the following morning and left him a voicemail. A little later I texted him. I never heard back. That was unlike Dad. He always called me back or responded to my text messages.

I was concerned.

At the airport, I tried calling him again. He didn’t respond. I was worried.
I called my brother, Doug. He hadn’t heard from Dad, either. Doug told me that he was going to drive to Dad’s house on Cape Cod.

At that moment, I was about to board a flight. I told him I would text him when I landed and would try to get WIFI on the plane so he could keep me updated. My soul was screaming.

Something was very wrong.

Sadly, I was unable to get WIFI on the plane. My flight was an hour and 25 minutes. It felt like eternity…So, I took a deep breath and prayed to The Big Man Upstairs. I grabbed my iPad and worked on my art.

The moment we landed, I took my phone off airplane mode. At that exact moment Doug called. I was still on the plane and picked up. I could hear the shakiness of my brother’s voice.

He told me Dad died in his sleep.

I was hysterically crying, shaking my head in disbelief. Doug was trying to keep it together as he consoled me.

My soul was not right.

Like a carousel many years ago of color slides, images of my father were flashing through my head.

My Dad was a Mensch!

In the Yiddish tongue, a “Mensch” is a good person, “a person of integrity and honor.”

At the drop of a hat, Dad was always willing to help people—concerned more with the needs of others than his own. He was a good listener, and always wanted to make someone laugh, make someone feel important—he was the life of the party.
And he was a genius Certified Public Accountant. In so many ways, a man for all seasons, as they say—a Right Brain, Left Brain genius. A humble man, he tried not to show it. But it was obvious to those of us around him.

Dad taught both my brother Doug and me the critical importance of sticking together. And with our father’s passing, Doug and I are sticking together like glue…
Thank you, Dad, for that lesson!

He helped Doug and me prepare for college. He reminded us to study hard, and party harder. I was not a fan of Glenlivet. It always made me gag. However, I preferred whiskey. Like father, like daughter. At the beginning of the school year, he made sure I had a handle of Jack Daniels, and a bottle of fireball.

Don’t worry Dad. I promise you I did study.

Most importantly, Dad was a rock to Doug and me—Doug in his life and in the CPA business; me in maneuvering through my disabilities. Dad was the biggest cheerleader for me on this, and in the drafting of my first book on how to press on with difficulty/disabilities in life.

He was an Archangel to Doug and me. We spoke every day, and he forever encouraged me in my artwork and writing.

The day I received a printed galley proof of my book, “An Untethered Truth,” Dad held it in disbelief, in full pride. He smiled from ear to ear and was ready to celebrate. He reminded me to sign and date the book. That way, I knew it was ready to go to print.

Dad wanted to get the first final copy of “An Untethered Truth” once published. Shortly before his passing, a single copy arrived for my Dad from Amazon.

Sadly, Dad never got to read it. But he has now in his soul in Heaven, and he is celebrating Doug and me.

Love you, Dad!

Doug loves you!

Our lives will never be the same…

You’re a Mensch! And that’s an untethered truth, Dad. Read between the lines.

The Aries Moon Bleed at the Threshold of Pisces and Aries 3/19 – 3/21

There are moments within the menstrual cycle that go beyond the physical body. Moments where the womb becomes a portal, a messenger, and a guide into deeper truth. An Aries Moon bleed occurring in the final hours of Pisces season, while Mercury, Mars, and the North Node are actively traveling, is one of those moments. This is not just a cycle. This is an initiation.

Aries is the beginning of the zodiac. It carries the energy of “I AM.” It is fire, action, identity, and forward movement. When the Moon is in Aries and the body begins to bleed, there is a very specific message being delivered. This is not a quiet, passive release. This is a shedding that makes space for rebirth. The body is not just letting go. The body is preparing to begin again.

Yet what makes this moment even more profound is that this Aries Moon is taking place in the final hours of Pisces season. Pisces is the end of the zodiac. It is the space of closure, surrender, dissolution, and spiritual integration. Pisces does not push. Pisces softens. It invites you to release what you have been holding emotionally,
mentally, and spiritually, even when you do not fully understand it.

So here you are, bleeding under an Aries Moon, while still being held in the waters of Pisces.
This creates a powerful duality within the body. On one hand, there is a deep emotional and energetic release happening through the womb.

Old patterns, past identities, emotional residue, and even ancestral imprints can begin to surface and dissolve. You may feel more sensitive, more inward, more reflective. You may feel tired, or even disconnected from the outer world. This is Pisces doing what it does best—clearing the unseen, dissolving what is no longer aligned, and preparing the soul for closure.

At the same time, Aries energy is rising. Aries does not wait for full understanding. Aries initiates. Aries moves. Aries claims identity. So while Pisces is dissolving, Aries is already asking: Who are you now?

This is where the Aries Moon bleed becomes sacred.
The womb is bridging two worlds. It is releasing the past while simultaneously activating the future. It is saying, “We are not carrying this version of self into the next cycle.”

Now add Mercury, Mars, and the North Node into this experience.
Mercury governs the mind, communication, and perception. During this time, thoughts may become clearer. Truths that were once foggy begin to sharpen. You may find yourself realizing things you can no longer ignore. The internal dialogue shifts. There is less confusion and more awareness.

Mars, the ruler of Aries, amplifies this energy. Mars is action, drive, and physical movement. It brings urgency into the body. You may feel a push to make decisions, to set boundaries, or to move differently in your life. Even if you are physically resting during your bleed, there is an internal fire building. Mars is saying, “When you rise, you will not move the same way.”

Then there is the North Node—the point of destiny, purpose, and forward evolution. This is where it becomes clear that this bleed is not random. This is alignment. This is your womb recalibrating you to your next chapter. You may receive intuitive messages, sudden clarity, or a deep knowing about where your life is guiding you next. This is not forced. This is remembered.

Within less than 24 hours, the Sun enters Aries, marking the astrological new year. This is the true energetic reset. But what is even more significant is what the Sun is stepping into.
It is meeting Chiron, Neptune, Saturn, and Venus in Aries.
Chiron brings up the wound around identity—the places where you have felt unseen, rejected, or not enough.

Neptune dissolves illusions, especially the illusions you have held about yourself.

Saturn brings structure, discipline, and responsibility, asking you to embody your truth rather than just speak it.

Venus redefines your relationship with self-worth, love, and what you are available for.

This means that your Aries Moon bleed is happening right before a massive identity recalibration.

The body knows before the mind does.
The womb releases before the life shifts.
This is why this menstrual cycle carries so much weight and so much wisdom.

This is not just a physical shedding of the uterine lining. This is the release of identities, beliefs, emotional patterns, and energetic ties that no longer align with who you are becoming. This is the body saying, “We are done with this version.”

An Aries Moon bleed will often bring a sense of clarity after the release. You may notice that your tolerance for what is misaligned becomes very low. You may feel a stronger desire for independence, truth, and forward movement.

There is less willingness to stay in spaces, relationships, or patterns that no longer resonate.

This is not impatience. This is alignment.
This is the fire of Aries activating through the wisdom of the womb.

When you understand your menstrual cycle through this lens, you begin to see that your body is not working against you. Your body is guiding you. Every bleed carries information. Every cycle reflects where you are energetically, emotionally, and spiritually.

An Aries Moon bleed at the threshold of Pisces and Aries is the embodiment of transformation. It is where endings meet beginnings. It is where surrender meets action. It is where the unseen becomes embodied.

This is the womb as a portal.
This is the womb as truth.
This is the womb saying, “I release who I was, and I initiate who I am becoming.”

Bleeding during a New Moon in Pisces is not something I look at as coincidence. I see it as divine timing. Pisces is the last sign of the zodiac. It carries the energy of completion, surrender, release, and spiritual return. The New Moon brings us into stillness, into the void, into a space where something new is preparing to be born. So when the body begins to bleed at this exact time, I don’t just see a cycle — I see a conversation between the body and the soul.

This is not just physical. This is energetic. This is spiritual clearing moving through the body in real time.

I always remind women, the body is intelligent. It knows exactly what it is doing, even when the mind is trying to make sense of it.

Let’s walk through the different phases of bleeding, because each one carries its own message under this Pisces New Moon.

First Bleed (Menarche)
When a young woman receives her first bleed during a Pisces New Moon, I see this as a deeply intuitive imprint. This is a soul that is naturally open, sensitive, and connected beyond what can be seen. Pisces holds the frequency of compassion, imagination, and spiritual awareness. So this first bleed is not just the body maturing — it is the awakening of inner vision.
There is a softness here, but also depth. This young woman may feel things more intensely. She may pick up on energy in a room without understanding why. Her cycle begins with a spiritual signature that says, “Trust what you feel.” This is where intuition is not something to learn — it is something she already carries.

In-Between Bleed (Irregular or Unexpected)
Now, when bleeding shows up unexpectedly during this time, many women immediately think something is wrong. I don’t go there first. I ask, “What is ready to be released?”
Pisces dissolves. It breaks down what we’ve been holding onto — emotionally, mentally, and energetically. So an in-between bleed can be the body’s way of saying, “We’re not carrying this anymore.”
This can be unprocessed grief. It can be emotional overwhelm. It can even be energy that doesn’t belong to you that you’ve been holding for others. Pisces energy is very porous. It absorbs. And when it’s time to release, the body will find a way.
So instead of labeling it as disruption, I invite you to see it as clearing. Your body is creating space.

6-Week Postpartum Bleed
Postpartum is one of the most sacred thresholds a woman will ever walk through. And when that bleeding aligns with a Pisces New Moon, it takes on an even deeper spiritual meaning.
After birth, you are no longer who you were — but you are still becoming who you are now. Pisces holds that in-between space. The space between worlds. The space between identities.
So this bleed is not just about the body healing. This is about releasing the version of you that existed before motherhood. The expectations, the patterns, the identity — all of it begins to soften and dissolve.
There is a tenderness here. A vulnerability. But also a quiet strength. The body is closing one chapter while gently opening another.

Mid-Life Bleed (Perimenopause)
This is the phase I speak about often, because this is where so many women begin to question their bodies.
During mid-life, when bleeding becomes irregular and it aligns with Pisces energy, I don’t see dysfunction. I see initiation.
This is where the body begins to release years — sometimes decades — of stored emotion, responsibility, and overuse of masculine energy. The doing, the pushing, the carrying… it begins to break down.
Pisces calls you inward. It asks you to rest, to feel, to listen.
So these bleeds may not follow a predictable pattern, but they are purposeful. They are guiding you back to yourself. Back to your intuition. Back to your feminine rhythm.
This is not the body failing. This is the body recalibrating.

Last Bleed (Menopause)
The final bleed, especially under a Pisces New Moon, is one of the most sacred moments in a woman’s life.
I don’t see menopause as something that lasts for years. I see it as a moment. A threshold. A crossing.

Pisces represents completion. The New Moon represents rebirth. So when these two come together during your last bleed, it is a powerful spiritual initiation.

The body is no longer cycling outward. It is no longer preparing to create life externally. Instead, all of that energy turns inward.

This is where wisdom amplifies. Intuition deepens. Authority becomes internal.
You are no longer seeking. You are knowing.

This is the return to self.

So when I look at bleeding during a Pisces New Moon — whether it is the first, in-between, postpartum, mid-life, or the last — I don’t separate the physical from the spiritual.

I see the body as a messenger.

I see the blood as release, as communication, as transformation.

And I always come back to this truth:

Your body is not malfunctioning.

Your body is not working against you.

Your body is working with you.

It is clearing what no longer belongs, dissolving what is complete, and preparing you for what is next.

The question is not “What is wrong?”

The question is “What is ready to be released?”

When you begin to listen from that place, everything shifts.

I log on.
I smile.
I say the words I’m supposed to say.
“Recovery.”
“Progress.”
False positivity spilling like blood across the screen.
I talk a big game.
Behind the glass, I’m cracking.
Tubes humming, body betraying me,
and I wonder if anyone would notice
if I just stopped pretending.
Scared of looking stupid,
scared of failing in public,
scared that everyone sees the mask
and none of the fractures.
How do I do this?
I ask the blinking cursor,
my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
No one can hear it.
No one can see it.
I post anyway.
Because maybe someone will see
that struggling is invisible,
that survival is messy,
and the mask is heavier than it looks.
But the truth is,
behind the feed,
behind the smiles,
I’m still falling.
And no one knows how to catch me.

We haven’t known each other long
But we’ve been talking like best friends
Her mannerisms are becoming second nature
A second wind the way they nurture my nerves
She’s got a smile that’s like a breath of fresh air
She’s got me laughing more than usual
And I can’t seem to catch the air
Unusual almost scary the way we peanut butter and jelly
Me + you is becoming our own lingo
A foreign language to others
Your pauses whisper to my ears
Drumming my heart into a baseline that will never flat line
Bottom line, you are precious to me
A darling so gorgeous to me
Your feelings hit me like the waves of your diction
Tell me what my laugh says to you
Tell me how my eyes enunciate your gaze
Tell me to read the braille of your goosebumps
And I’ll tell you what your poems say to me
I’ll tell you how my pen says to hold you gently
Let’s hold this moment softly
Because to find someone who can sculpt time
Is rare,
You make the clock move at our pace
And I’m loving the two step of our cadence
I want to lean on you the way I’m relaxing in this conversation
Destination to no end
I feel like the richest man ever with her million dollar smile
Her smile steals from my heart and I don’t mind one bit
Because that smile says everything I can’t
Your eyes decipher my code
I’ve never felt this comfortable with vulnerability
I love looking out the window of our lingo
Opening the door to the depth of questions
Taking me closer to you
I just want to be closer to you
But right now I’m enjoying the heart to heart
p.s. you + me is becoming my favorite song…

📜 Grief, You are nothing but a thief!

Going around making people feel like they are fine one minute, and the next, feeling like they can’t get any relief.

📜 Sitting in a puddle of my tears and sadness feeling like I’m stuck where I’m seated and the heaviness won’t let go.

Feeling so broken on the inside but I can’t let it show.

📜 You make me feel like I’m stuck frozen in time, while life goes on around me.

Screaming on the inside for this pain to leave so that I can just be free.

📜 Sometimes it feels like I’m going in slow motion while everyone around me is zipping around.

Everyone else seems to be happy while I feel like I could drown.

📜 When are you going to leave, I no longer want you here.

I want to release and be free so that my healing can be near.

…..

📝 I can hear your sadness and understand that you are in pain.

This is all a part of the process, there is no one to blame.

📝 Allow yourself the space to feel what you are feeling

Give yourself permission to grieve and allow God to come in to do the healing.

📝 Give yourself permission to search deep within.

To uncover all of the things and allow pruning to begin.

📝 God wants to heal each and every area of your life.

So that you can be free to help others and no longer hold on to strife.

📝 There are those who are waiting to hear your voice.

But it starts right now, you have to make a choice.

📝 You have to choose to not stay stuck and to grow through this.

When you feel like you can’t make it and you want to give in, you have to choose to resist.

📝 As you obey God and allow him to heal you.

He will turn this around and you will be made brand new.

📝As much as this hurts, if you give it over to God it will not break you.

You will be a testimony of strength to others that they too can make it through.

📝So cry, scream, feel, heal, do whatever you need in this process.

As you lean into God he says, my daughter, I will do the rest. 🤍

❤️‍🩹 November 6th, 2025 ❤️‍🩹

❤️‍🩹I knew this day would come.

I had been preparing myself for so long.

Yet when that day came, I couldn’t believe you had succumb.

All I wanted to do was scream and yell and say, this is so WRONG!!!

❤️‍🩹 The last time we spoke was on my birthday.

You told me that you were tired, and ready to be out of pain.

I didn’t know that our last conversation would be that day.

If I had known, in that moment I would have remained.

❤️‍🩹The very next morning I got the call…

I didn’t want to answer because I had a feeling this was it…

Could this be… The moment that I had been dreading after all?

The phone call that I knew would be coming, but didn’t want to admit..

❤️‍🩹When I finally answered, and I heard those words that you were gone..

I instantly screamed, NO!!! This can’t be real!

My heart was immediately torn.

I didn’t know how to feel.

❤️‍🩹In an instant life stood still.

Yet my mind was racing how could this be?

We just spoke yesterday, this seems so unreal.

This wasn’t something I could foresee.

❤️‍🩹 In that moment my life was completely changed.

You were no longer with us, and my life would never be the same.

My grief was immediate, and could not be contained.

I wish you had never left us and this day never came.

❤️‍🩹Everyday I strive towards healing this tremendous grief.

I’m working towards healing, and understanding that though I still want you here, you were ready to leave.

Although death feels like a thief, knowing that you’re no longer in pain, is what brings me some relief.

I will hold onto that truth as I navigate this loss and grieve.

❤️‍🩹 But grief is a process, it doesn’t just go away.

It can come in like a flood, or like a gentle flowing wave.

It can cause tears to pour out endlessly, not understanding why they couldn’t stay.

Or cause a smile to appear, remembering the good days.

❤️‍🩹 Although I’m hurting and in pain and life seems so different without you..

I will hold on to the good memories, and the moments that we shared.

I will hold you with me as I navigate this and walk through.

I believe you would have wanted me to carry on and not be in despair.

❤️‍🩹Although your life was never easy, you did the best with what you had.

For that I say thank you, for showing true strength, despite life’s ups and downs.

I will now carry that strength with me as I choose joy, rather than remaining sad.

For I know that you now have true joy, as you are up in heaven receiving your crowns.

❤️‍🩹 I have peace knowing that I will see you again someday.

Because you chose to accept Jesus before it was your time to go.

You wanted to be ready, and knew that Jesus would make a way.

You were ready to be free, and wanted the world to know.

❤️‍🩹 You fought a good fight, and in the end, although it hurts, we know you won.

You are no longer in pain and finally at peace.

God has welcomed you into heaven and you no longer have to run.

All of the battles you have ever fought, now have to cease.

❤️‍🩹Mom, My heart hurts and I miss you everyday.

No matter how prepared I thought I was, it was never enough, and would have never been.

But I will stand on God’s promises
Knowing that we will be together again someday.

For now I say goodbye Mom, I will love you forever and will see you again!
❤️‍🩹🕊️

“You Must’ve Misheard Us”

because we never asked you just
not to be part of the problem.
we caught you red-handed
then demanded you be
a pocket-sized part of the solution.
is it so hard to call others out on
the mastered art of Social Pollution?
to lend a hand,
to stand up to intolerant talk,
and walk the trash to the curb?
we heard what you said,

even read
the after-the-moment comments,
but it feels like it’s
common sense to just be kind.
to unwind the tangles and sharp angles
of misogyny, for our daughters to
embark on the often dark road of femininity,
something definitely has to change.
is it really so hard to rearrange
the words you choose?
the old lies you use to be funny?

my gut tells me
if social currency
were actually money, honey –
you’d find a way
to open your wallet.
I’m gonna call it: most men
quietly nest in fear because
to clear the way for women
might mean men
must take a step back.
but guys, so we’re clear –
this is not an attack.

you want us to be honest? well,
we promise this bit is true,
what women want
most men to do
is simply invite us to stand
shoulder to shoulder.
bolster both
our strength and yours. hold our
hands and plan for a world where,
to start,
you simply admit,
we are more together
than we ever were apart.

People think
Anorexia
is about weight.
Calories.
Control.
Vanity.
Something small enough
to fit on a chart.
Something doctors believe
they can fix
with numbers
and encouragement.
But Ana never worked
in daylight medicine.
She works nights.
She showed up quietly
years ago
when the house I grew up in
started teaching me
what fear actually felt like.
A house where my father
was supposed to protect me.
A house where my stepmother
watched
and chose silence.
Fear lived there
like mold in the walls.
You couldn’t see it at first
but it was everywhere.
In the way doors closed.
In footsteps
I learned to recognize
from down the hallway.
In the way a kid’s body
learns to brace
before anything even happens.
That kind of childhood
does something to a brain.
It leaves the alarm system
permanently switched on.
Sleep becomes daytime
Breathing becomes shallow.
Your body learns
that existing
is something you should apologize for.
Ana appeared
like a specialist
for a problem
no one else was treating.
She didn’t look like a monster.
She looked professional.
Calm voice.
Steady hands.
“Lie down,” she said softly.
“You’ve been in pain
for a long time.”
And the terrifying part is
she wasn’t wrong.
“Don’t worry,” she told me.
“I know how to numb it.”
At first
the treatment seemed small.
A missed meal.
A little control.
Just enough
to feel the panic ease
for a moment.
But anesthesia
is never given
in tiny doses forever.
Eventually
the patient is fully under.
Hunger slows the brain.
The body grows quiet.
Memories blur
around the edges.
If you starve long enough
the nervous system
simply stops fighting.
Ana calls it discipline.
But the operating room
in my head
knows what it really is.
Sedation.
Because when your body
is busy starving
it doesn’t have energy
for grief.
When your brain
is calculating numbers
it isn’t replaying
childhood rooms.
When your stomach
is empty enough
even rage
runs out of oxygen.
Ana stands beside the bed
watching the monitors.
“See?” she whispers.
“Your heart is slower now.”
“Your feelings are quieter.”
“Isn’t this better?”
And to tell the truth,
it actually is.
Because numb
feels safer
than remembering
a house where protection
never came.
But anesthesia
isn’t mercy.
It’s maintenance.
The longer it runs
the more the body fades.
Hands shake.
Vision blurs.
The world shrinks
to smaller
and smaller
and smaller circles.
Until the only voice left
in the operating room
is Ana.
Standing over the table.
Adjusting the drip.
Making sure
the patient
never fully wakes.
And the truth is
she isn’t trying to heal me.
She’s just very good
at keeping me quiet.
Very good
at keeping the memories sedated.
Very good
at making sure
the child
who survived that house
never has to feel
all of it
at once.
So the anesthesia stays on.
Night after night.
And Ana keeps working
long past the point
any real doctor
would have stopped the procedure.

I entered my second marriage brimming with hope and genuine excitement. After my first husband, this was the first person I’d dated whom I truly wanted my children to look up to and emulate—one with integrity, capability, and qualities worth replicating in their own lives. As a contractor, he was grounded and busy during the day, but we complemented each other perfectly in remodeling our beautiful new home. I brought the creative vision—the color, the flair (four shades on the patio, transforming an ugly backyard of pine trees into three flowing creeks feeding a safe dry pond for my granddaughter). He handled the structural integrity, questioning my bold ideas at first, only to stand back in awe once completed, admitting he’d never have conceived them himself. His friends noticed the transformation: brighter clothes I’d chosen for him (no more plain white polos and Levi’s), a renewed smile, a lightness they hadn’t seen in years. His late wife had dressed him to appear older; I wanted him to feel vibrant and confident in his own skin. He kicked me out of our bedroom and my new bed was the couch with 3 dogs, we had 3 other bedrooms but he refused to let me stay in them, tried to take my wedding ring and sell it, put us in thousands of dollars in debt.
Yet the marriage unraveled almost immediately after the wedding. Physical intimacy ceased beyond that first night. Subtle shifts grew into alarming changes: two-week silences with no greeting, no “how are you?” Refusing the dinners I prepared for six months straight—wasting groceries and my effort—until I stopped cooking for him entirely. He blamed me relentlessly, called me ugly, insisted I wasn’t good enough, and compared me unfavorably to his previous wife. I kept asking myself, Who is this man? This isn’t the person I married.
The behaviors escalated. I caught him drinking and driving, bottle between his legs; when I demanded it stop, he declared I couldn’t control him. Alcohol bottles began appearing hidden around the house—something entirely foreign to my life, unhealthy and destructive. He started abandoning me in public: once at Marshall’s while shopping for beach towels, vanishing for three and a half hours while “looking for farmland”—his sudden, inexplicable new dream, despite our recent move into a dream home.
Impulsive, bizarre acts multiplied. On a windy elevated freeway to Carson City, he stopped in the middle of traffic—not pulling over—to urinate roadside, indifferent to the danger or indecency. His family shrugged it off as normal. At our favorite restaurant, after a year and a half without touch, he began licking me inappropriately in public. I was stunned and repulsed.
Even small kindnesses backfired. Bringing lemonade and donuts to the workers remodeling our yard irritated him. Offering them bathroom access felt like basic hospitality, yet he erupted in fits. Still, the projects thrilled me—we created something beautiful together.
A concert date—Steve Miller and Peter Frampton by the lake—seemed like a chance for romance and renewal. I dressed up excitedly, hair done, full of anticipation. He went to the bathroom and never returned. Alone in the dark, without keys, money, license, or phone (all in his wallet), I walked miles back to the Hyatt in heels, eventually sitting by a garbage can under the only light for safety. Police found me, asked me why I was there, “I said my husband left me”. They told me to get in the car immediately, only to find a family of Baird standing on their hind legs, this was their trash can. The police drove me to the hotel, confronted him. He claimed I’d climbed out a tiny bathroom window—an impossibility. They didn’t feel comfortable leaving me with him , sensing danger. But I insisted. I slept locked in the bathroom on the floor, wrapped in a towel.
The next morning, fury took over. I took his keys, wallet, and room key, sat at the beach at dawn, questioning everything: What have I gotten myself into? His only call at noon was a curt demand to return or face extra room charges—no concern, no apology.nothing. We had a lunch scheduled with a friend of mine, but I had to cancel. My girlfriend said “You can’t live like this anymore.” I confronted him: get help, or I’m gone. He blamed me, refused counseling (it hadn’t worked with his first wife), but agreed to see doctors.
Initial consultations dismissed it—old age at 52, Next Doctor. “then mere “stress.” Frustrated, I persisted. A dedicated neurologist conducted thorough testing—written exams, drawings, questions—and delivered the diagnosis: behavioral variant frontotemporal dementia (bvFTD)—early-onset, rapidly progressive, and terminal. We left in stunned silence. I took his hand: “I’m here. You won’t face this alone.”
For confirmation, I reached out to Dr. Bruce Miller at UCSF. After a week of evaluation, they confirmed bvFTD and revealed something more: a brain tumor, visible on prior Reno MRIs but overlooked (likely due to lack of specialized neuroradiologists). The tumor explained his lifelong headaches; the combination had fueled the dramatic decline. He chose to donate his brain and spine to research, hoping to contribute to a cure.
The disease stripped him away gradually, yet cruelly—he remained aware of the changes, trapped in mental torment unlike typical dementias where insight fades early. Behaviors intensified: delusions of running over a body (none found), “hunting bears” in the backyard, hoarding buckets obsessively. One chilling moment, as my adult children visited, he looked at them and said the buckets were in the back yard and he stated they were for my body parts, As my children left, he yelled out the door, if the police are looking for your mother her body’s parts will be in the buckets” Terror set in. I locked my bedroom door nightly, braced it with a chair, kept weapons close—he paced outside my room all night, sound machines and fans to drowned out the noice of his steps going and forth. I had heard about the man in New Mexico that dismembered his wife’s body on Thanksgiving, That’s when I took up residence in my attic! Blanket, pillow, water bottles, lap top, space heater, space air conditioner and a baby monitor so I could watch him.
Violence erupted: he threw me into a closet door, herniating a disc and requiring artificial disc surgery in my neck. Bruises appeared from slaps, throws, objects hurled. He held me up by my neck and choked me until my son could get him to release his hands, His family withdrew completely. Reno offered no suitable facilities—no mental health beds, no placements for aggressive dementia patients. Hospitals could refuse admission. I stayed, honoring my vows and his inherent goodness. I believed it was right to preserve his dignity and privacy through the end.
At the final stage, he returned home on palliative sedation. Hospice couldn’t risk nurses safety, so I did—every 15 minutes—until the terminal agitation ceased and he passed peacefully.
I shed no tears at his death. Relief came first: his suffering ended, and so did the daily terror. The marriage had died long before—grieved in those early weeks when the “performance” dropped once he felt safe at home. In dating and the beginning, he’d masked it flawlessly; behind closed doors, the disease emerged unchecked. This is common for this disease, they are simply acting on a stage until they can no longer.
I hold no regrets for staying. I did what was right by him—upheld his dignity, guided his journey with compassion. But if I’d known the full scope—the erosion of self-esteem, physical harm, isolation, systemic failures—I would urge extreme caution. bvFTD transforms people; they are no longer themselves. Disinhibition can lead to anything—impulsivity, aggression, even criminal acts—without grasp of right or wrong. Many end up arrested rather than treated.
My purpose was clear: it was to educate, to advocate. Getting proclamations. Writing my book, working on a resolution, But I also realized In order for me to live a healthy live, I can no longer live in the past of FTD. It was my part of my journey that made me stronger. More compassionate and find strength I did not know I had. Hospitals should be required to accept these patients; better facilities and laws are desperately needed. No one should face this alone in the home. In the years since his passing, I’ve done deep soul-searching, rebuilding what was torn down. I’m grateful he’s free of torment—and I’m reclaiming my life, one step at a time. I wish I would have known.

I came looking for a therapist
the way people come looking
for exits
in buildings that are already on fire.
Not because I want to leave the flames.
Just because everyone keeps pointing
at the smoke.
The office is quiet.
Soft lamp.
Plant in the corner.
The kind of room
where people are supposed to heal.
Across from me
a clipboard waits
like a test I didn’t study for.
She smiles gently.
“I’m just going to ask you some questions.”
Some.
It turns out
some
means fifty.
Fifty tiny interrogations
about a life
I’m not ready
to hand over.
“What brings you to therapy?”
The honest answer
is pressure.
Doctors.
Programs.
Concerned voices
stacking up like paperwork.
But honesty isn’t helpful here.
So I say,
“I want help with my eating disorder.”
It sounds clean.
Appropriate.
Like a sentence
someone recovering
would say.
“What do you want to change?”
The room waits.
The therapist waits.
My brain searches
for something acceptable.
But the truth sits heavy
in my throat.
Nothing.
I don’t want to change it yet.
Not really.
Anorexia is the only thing
in my life
that has ever listened
when I asked the world
to be quiet.
It is the only thing
that understands control
in a body
that has never felt safe.
Why would I give that away
to a stranger
with a clipboard?
“What are your goals for therapy?”
Goals?
Like this is a fitness plan.
Like we’re mapping progress
on a chart.
Recovery.
Weight restoration.
Body acceptance.
Those are the words
floating invisibly
in the air.
The correct answers.
But inside my head
there is only fog.
And underneath the fog
a whisper:
Don’t take this from me.
“What do you want to get out of therapy?”
I want
the questions to stop.
I want
to stop being watched
like a fragile science experiment.
I want
people to stop acting
like disappearing
is the worst thing
that could happen to me.
Because they weren’t there
when being here
hurt worse.
Question 14.
Question 28.
Question 41.
Each one
another demand
for insight
I don’t have
or refuse to give.
What motivates you?
Why do you want recovery?
What are your strengths?
Strength.
That word almost makes me laugh.
You don’t hide for years
without learning
How to manipulate the situation.
So I start answering
the way patients are supposed to.
Carefully.
Strategically.
“I want a healthier relationship with my body.”
“I want to challenge disordered thoughts.”
“I want to build coping skills.”
Each sentence
technically correct.
Each sentence
not quite real.
Because the real answer is darker.
I don’t want to let go yet.
Not of the control.
Not of the numbness.
Not of the quiet satisfaction
of making myself smaller
and smaller
and smaller.
Until no one can hurt me anymore.
Somewhere around question fifty
the therapist looks pleased.
Like we’ve made progress.
Like she understands me now.
But what she actually has
is a stack of answers
I built
the same way Ana plays.
carefully,
convincingly,
and hollow in the center.
She says,
“I’m glad you’re here.
This is a good first step.”
And maybe
for her
it is.
But walking out of the office
I realize something unsettling.
You can sit in therapy.
Answer every question.
Say every right word.
And still leave
with the same quiet voice
waiting patiently inside you.
The one that whispers,
Don’t worry.
We’re not done yet.

12:52 a.m
The pump hums
the way it always does—
low, mechanical,
steady enough
that it should fade into the background.
It doesn’t.
Tonight it sounds louder.
Like it’s narrating
what’s happening to my body
while I lie here
staring at the ceiling
pretending sleep might come.
My brain starts doing math
no one asked it to do.
Hours of feeds.
Calories moving through tubing.
What that means
by morning.
Ana is already awake.
She leans somewhere
behind my eyes
and whispers,
You’ll feel it when the sun comes up.
1:18 a.m.
Still awake.
The room is quiet
except for the pump
and the noise in my head.
I shift under the blankets
again
and again
because my body feels wrong tonight—
like it takes up
too much space.
My body feels wrong
in the way recovery calls normal
but my brain calls
danger.
Everyone says
recovery is uncomfortable.
No one talks about
how uncomfortable
turns into panic
at one in the morning
when there’s nothing
to distract you.
1:43 a.m.
Bathroom light.
Mirror.
I tell myself
I’m just changing my gauze.
We both know that’s a lie.
My hands move automatically
to my waist
like they’re a measuring tape.
Thumb to thumb.
Finger to finger.
Again.
And again.
I turn sideways.
Then straight again.
Conducting a fucked-up
science experiment
on my own body.
My brain decides my worth
based on what my hands think they feel.
Smaller—
I breathe.
Bigger—
panic floods back.
I know hands aren’t accurate.
I know bodies don’t change in hours.
Knowing
doesn’t shut Ana up.
2:07 a.m.
Bathroom floor.
Crying.
Not quiet crying—
the kind where your chest hurts
and your face burns
and you can’t believe
this is what survival looks like.
Recovery
is supposed to be hopeful.
Instead it’s me
on cold tile
whispering,
“I can’t do this.”
Ana answers immediately.
Then don’t.
2:24 a.m.
Laptop open.
fingers moving fast
because sometimes
writing is loud enough
to drown out the thoughts.
Page after page.
Poems about staying.
Poems about trying.
Poems about not quitting.
I’m not even sure
I believe half of them tonight.
But writing buys me
a few minutes
of breathing room.
Like throwing a toy
to a barking dog.
The noise pauses.
Then starts again.
2:51 a.m.
The poems stop working.
The thoughts come back louder.
So I move to the next thing
on the survival checklist.
Blanket fort.
Pillows everywhere.
Phone glow.
A familiar show playing quietly.
I sit there
rocking slightly
without realizing it
like my nervous system
is trying to shake the panic loose.
The pump hums
in the background.
Every sound it makes
feels like evidence.
Every drop
feels like accusation.
Ana smiles in the dark.
3:14 a.m.
I’m exhausted
but my brain refuses to shut down.
So I think about the people
who believe I can do this.
Tasha.
Luna.
Everyone who says
I’m capable of surviving this.
I don’t want to let them down.
Even tonight
when every cell in my body
is begging to quit.
It isn’t bravery
that keeps me here.
It’s stubbornness.
Just get through the night.
3:32 a.m.
My brain finally burns itself out.
Sleep hits
like a power outage.
4:06 a.m.
The dream turns dark.
Suddenly I’m back
in the house
where childhood was never safe.
Hallway shadows.
Doors that should stay closed
opening anyway.
The air feels thick there—
like the walls remember
everything.
My body in the dream
is small again.
Too small
to fight.
Too small
to escape.
My biological father’s presence
fills the room
before I even see him.
The kind of dread
a kid shouldn’t know.
Hands that should have protected me
didn’t.
Sometimes they hurt me.
Sometimes they took things
no child should have to give.
In the dream
I try to run
but my legs won’t work.
I try to scream
but nothing comes out

The fear is suffocating.
The same fear
my nervous system learned
before it knew the word
abuse.
4:08 a.m.
I wake up gasping.
Sheets twisted around my legs.
Heart racing
like I’ve been running for miles.
For a few seconds
I’m still there—
still that kid
in that house
with nowhere safe to go.
Then the room slowly returns.
My bed.
The dark ceiling.
The pump
still humming.
4:11 a.m.
Ana slides into the silence.
“See?” she whispers.
“You’re already broken.”
The thoughts come faster now.
Too much.
Too damaged.
Too big.
Too hard to love.
Childhood shame
mixing perfectly
with eating disorder logic.
Two ghosts
sharing the same brain.
4:16 a.m.
I lie there
staring into the dark
listening to the pump
like it’s the sound
of the entire night.
Recovery at this hour
doesn’t feel brave.
It feels brutal.
Like wrestling
a voice inside your skull
that knows exactly
where your weakest memories live.
The only victory available
That I’m told
is not giving in—
even when giving in
sounds easier
than breathing.
5:27 a.m.
Morning leaks through the blinds.
Gray light.
My head aches.
My eyes burn.
I feel like I fought something invisible
for hours.
Ana is quieter now
but not gone.
She never really leaves.
Recovery doesn’t suddenly
feel easier
because the sun came up.
But the night ended.
The feeds kept running.
And somehow—
even though I wanted to quit
more times than I can count—
I didn’t.

They hung my grief
in a quiet wing of the museum,
under soft yellow lights
that make suffering almost bearable.
A little plaque beneath the frame reads:
Untitled Woman with Lines
Oil on canvas.
Unknown endurance.
People step closer.
They tilt their heads
like people do with difficult art—
trying to understand.
Only those who have lived it can.
They notice the tubes first.
The bags.
The pale lines feeding my body.
Someone whispers,
“It’s probably symbolic.”
They don’t know
how heavy the body is
that has learned
too many kinds of survival.
They think the shadows behind me
are just dramatic shading.
Not the years of hospitals.
Not the nights awake with machines humming.
Not the childhood
that carved fear into every nerve,
teaching my body
how to live in alarm.
They don’t notice the faint house
behind me in the background,
hallways too long, doors always closed,
where PTSD learned to hide
and anorexia learned
to make silence a form of protection.
They admire the way the flowers
crawl across the canvas.
They don’t realize
they grow from IV polls,
from scars,
from everything my body endured
to survive.
A child asks her mother,
“Why is she crying?”
The mother says,
“Because that’s what the artist wanted.”
But the truth is—
some grief
is too complicated
to be buried.
So it becomes art instead.
Framed.
Lit.
Studied.
And people walk past slowly
with their hands behind their backs,
trying to understand
how someone could live inside
a painting like that
and still be breathing.
Some nights,
the painting breathes back.