Taking Myself Off Mute

Dear darling one:

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a voice. Loud, expressive, animated—at least on the outside. I was never exactly shy. But somewhere along the way, the real voice—the deeper one beneath the roles, expectations, and niceties—grew quiet.

Maybe not silenced, but certainly softened. Muted.

It wasn’t intentional. It rarely is. Life teaches us early how to stay small to stay safe. How to be agreeable. How to tone it down, keep the peace, not take up too much space. We learn what’s acceptable, especially as women—especially if we’re perceptive, intense, sensitive, spiritual, unconventional, or all of the above. So we adapt. We say the things that keep everything smooth. We hide the parts that don’t feel “normal.” We smile through it.

It’s how many of us learn to navigate the world. Especially those of us who were told to smile, be agreeable, tone it down, don’t rock the boat.

But maybe I’ve always known I was meant to rock the damn boat. I’ve just had to remember how.

This season of life is about unmuting. About reclaiming a voice—not the performative one, not the one shaped for acceptance, but the one buried under years of people-pleasing, self-doubt, and trying to be palatable. It’s not about being loud for loudness’ sake. It’s about being true.

I’ve found that writing helps me process what’s going on inside—the tangled threads, the unspoken questions, the sacred rage, the quiet grief, the hidden wisdom. These co-woven pieces are part therapy, part reckoning, part liberation. They help me see myself more clearly, and maybe they’ll help someone else do the same.

This isn’t about shouting or proving or preaching. It’s about speaking from the soul instead of the surface. It’s about finding clarity in the mess, meaning in the mundane, and courage in the cracks. It’s not polished. It’s not always pretty. But it’s mine.

If you’ve found yourself here, reading along, welcome. This is part of how I find my way back—by putting words to the journey. I don’t have all the answers. But I’m finally willing to speak while I’m still figuring it out. And that feels like a kind of freedom I didn’t know I needed.

And for now, that’s enough.

---

Perhaps this story resonated with you.  If so, what parts of yourself have been on mute—not because you chose silence, but because somewhere along the way, silence felt safer? What stories, questions, or truths have you tucked away, waiting for a safer time to surface?

Here's an invitation. To get curious. To get honest. To get free.

So take a moment. Breathe.
And ask yourself:

What would I say if I stopped muting myself?

Sending you love,

Deb

Lost in a Dream

Dear one-who-feels-lost-at-times:

I know I dream. I just almost never remember them.

Sometimes I wake up with a ghost of a feeling—an emotional trace lingering at the edge of consciousness, slipping away the moment I try to catch it. Others tell me about their dreams in vivid, cinematic detail: full technicolor, crisp dialogue, exact clothing, surreal plotlines. It stuns me. I listen, fascinated, but I can’t relate. It’s like they’re streaming a high-def movie, and I’m stuck with faded images, static and background noise and loss of memory.

Still, there’s one kind of dream I do remember. It’s a recurring dream that shows up in different storylines.

These dreams are not dramatic, not filled with symbols—just this feeling. I’m lost. Disoriented. Like the ground has shifted and my internal compass is spinning. I’m trying to find my way through some place I should know—a school, a city, a shopping center. Or on a plane but I don't know where I'm going or even where I'm originating from.

In these dreams, nothing lines up. Doors don’t lead where they should. People can’t help. I keep walking, keep asking, keep searching… and end up more turned around than before.  Sometimes I see people I recognize but mostly it's faces that I do not know.  My legs often feel heavy, like I’m wading through mud.  Or I'm just exhausted from all the walking/running.  Everything is unfamiliar.

I had a version of that dream recently—same lost feeling, same anxiety.  Same panic. I woke up tense, unsettled. But this time instead of jumping out of bed and brushing it off, I stayed with it. I sat in that space—not trying to fix it, just… witnessing.

And what surfaced surprised me.  Maybe I’m not lost in the dream.  Maybe I'm being re-oriented.   This was a message that came through that I continue to process:  

You’re not going in circles—you’re being recalibrated to a frequency your old compass couldn’t find.

Maybe this isn’t about finding a map and finding my way 'out' of something. Maybe I am the map. Maybe the new direction I’m looking for is being formed in real time, every time I choose to stay in integrity instead of shrinking, every time I listen deeper instead of reacting fast.

So, to the version of me still wandering the hallways, trying the find the right door, the right path, the way out.....

I see you. You're not lost. You haven't failed. You're in the middle of something holy, even it doesn't seem like it yet.

And when it’s time, the path will show up under your feet. One step at a time.

______________________

If you find yourself dreaming uncomfortable dreams, keep walking in truth.

Your feet know the way, even when your mind doesn’t.

___________

With love always,

Deb

Chameleon or True Self? Navigating the Fine Line of Adaptability and Authenticity

Dear darling friend, 

Authenticity isn’t just a value for me—it’s a necessity. It’s oxygen. And yet, I’ve spent much of my life mastering the art of adaptation. I’m a chameleon, in the most skilled and nuanced sense of the word. Whether I’m in the smallest of small towns or the bustling heart of a big city, whether I’m working with CEOs or warehouse crews, I can blend in, mirror the energy, speak the language. It’s a gift—but also a tension.

For a long time, I thought blending in might help me feel like I belonged. In my family, I was the one who saw things differently—the “alien” child with a love for sci-fi and a quiet yearning to reunite with my galactic brothers and sisters. Adapting became a survival tool, a bridge between my inner world and the external realities around me. If I could make myself fit, maybe I wouldn’t feel so separate.

But here’s the truth: Even when I’ve looked like I belonged, I’ve rarely felt it. That’s the core contradiction. I can show up in almost any environment and function like I fit—but the part of me that hungers for authentic connection often stays hidden beneath the surface, unsatisfied.

And that’s the tension I’m wrestling with: the dual truth that I am a chameleon and someone who fiercely values authenticity. The label “chameleon” used to feel like a betrayal of who I really am—as though shape-shifting made me less real. But I’m starting to see it differently.

Maybe being a chameleon isn’t about faking it. Maybe it’s about being able to sense what’s needed in a moment and choosing consciously how to show up. Not to gain approval. Not to self-abandon. But to stay in integrity while navigating complexity.

What I’m learning is that adaptability doesn’t have to cancel out authenticity. I can adjust and still stay rooted. I can flex and still be real. The trick is staying aware—of my motives, my needs, and whether I'm showing up from fear or from truth.

I don’t have to pick one: chameleon or true self. I can be both. Because the most authentic version of me includes my adaptability. It’s part of what makes me who I am—not a mask I wear, but a muscle I’ve developed.

So now, I’m working on honoring all of me—the part that moves fluidly between worlds and the part that stands firmly in truth. I’m not either/or. I’m all/and. And I think that’s where real power—and real belonging—lives.

I’ll leave you with this:

Where in your life are you blending in?
And are you doing it from fear… or from truth?
What would it look like to honor all of who you are—even the parts that seem to contradict each other?

Where are you holding back?
And what part of your truth is ready to come forward—no matter the room you're in?

Honoring you and honoring me,

Deb

Rewriting the Story We Tell About Our Bodies

Like many—probably most—women, I’ve spent a lot of time focused on my body.

Why can’t I lose the weight? Why do I still criticize myself every time I look in the mirror? And more importantly, how do we help the next generation of girls grow up without inheriting this exhausting loop of self-judgment? How do we raise women who feel at home in their bodies instead of at war with them?

Sometimes I find myself sitting with this question:  What if the weight isn’t the problem?  What if it’s the messenger?

We live in a culture that doesn’t really teach us to love our bodies. It teaches us to critique them, compare them, shrink them, hide them. From a young age, especially as girls, we’re handed a very narrow script about beauty and told—both directly and indirectly—that our worth is tied to how closely we fit it. Be thin. Be white. Be toned, but not too muscular. Feminine, but not too loud or strong. Flawless. Always flawless.

Even the language of “self-care” has gotten twisted into another kind of performance. One more thing to perfect. One more image to manage.

It’s no surprise that so many of us walk around not just physically tired, but emotionally starved—for safety, for authenticity, for the right to belong in our bodies without needing to constantly earn it.  

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how quickly most of us can name the parts of our bodies we don’t like. The stomach. The thighs. The arms. The skin. We know that list by heart. But when asked what we love about our bodies? That’s often a harder question. It takes a pause. Sometimes even tears.

I’ve come to believe that many women who carry extra weight are also carrying something else: protection. I’m not just talking about processed food or sedentary lifestyles—though we know the systems around food and health are flawed. I mean something deeper. A kind of embodied armor.

Sometimes, we carry weight to protect ourselves from being seen. From being judged. From being sexualized. From being picked apart. From the pressure to perform, or be pleasing, or meet someone else’s expectations. From the pain of past trauma. Sometimes, the body is saying, “Let me keep you safe until it feels safe to be seen again.”

And if that’s true—even just a little—then maybe the weight isn’t something to fight. Maybe it’s something to get curious about.

• What is my body holding onto?
• What has it been asked to carry that was never really mine?
• And what if, instead of controlling or punishing it, I started asking it what it needs?
• What if I treated my body like a trusted friend instead of a problem to solve?
• What if I thanked my body—for surviving, for protecting me, for adapting, for showing up, for being strong, for healing after illness and surgery?

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel good in your body.  Wanting to look attractive and wearing our clothing well. Wanting to move with ease, to be energized, to feel strong. But that desire should come from a place of love—not from shame or fear or self-rejection. The truth is most of us were never taught how to love our bodies. 

Because underneath all the noise, I don’t believe our bodies were meant to be battlegrounds.   I believe they were meant to be home.

Imagine what could shift if more of us walked in our bodies with confidence—not the kind rooted in perfection, but the kind rooted in permission. In safety. In self-trust.  Maybe confidence isn’t something we earn by changing our bodies. Maybe it’s something we reclaim by changing the story we’ve been told about them.

I'll tell you this - I still have a lot of work to do around this one.   

---

So, if any of this resonates, maybe take a moment—today, this week, sometime soon—and ask yourself:

What is my body holding?   And what does it need to feel safe enough to soften? Can you maybe express appreciation and gratitude for your body? 

Selectively Social

For years, I called myself anti-social. It was a self-deprecating joke I threw out to explain why I’d opt out of gatherings or duck out early, why I’d crave quiet when the world seemed too loud. But “anti-social” was never the truth. I’m not anti-connection. I’m just selectively social.

I’ve spent a lifetime being perceived as extroverted—expressive, animated, comfortable in front of people. I know how to hold space, how to lead a room, how to connect.  (Some of you are probably shaking your heads right now at the idea that I’m not extroverted.)

But what most people don’t see is the deep need to retreat afterward. The part of me that folds inward once the storm of a busy week has passed. The part that needs stillness to find center again.

It’s taken me years to understand this about myself—years to stop trying to be who I thought I was supposed to be and start honoring who I actually am. Now, with more flexibility in my life, I give myself permission to protect that quiet part of me. I don't apologize for choosing rest over noise, solitude over stimulation, depth over surface.   I've learned how to find a better balance: a full, meeting-packed day followed by quiet evenings and weekends.

Being single, for quite a while now, has carved out unexpected space. Sometimes that space feels like loneliness. Sometimes it aches with not being chosen. But more often, it feels like an open field I’ve been given to heal. To do the work. To sit with my current self, my younger self, my wounded self, and say: We’re not running from this anymore. We’re staying. We’re listening. We’re softening.

I know I’m not alone in this, even though the path can feel isolating. So many of us are performing versions of ourselves we barely recognize. So many of us are tired from the constant swirl of sound—inside and out. But if we could turn down the volume, even just a little, we might hear a deeper truth:  There’s nothing wrong with needing quiet. With needing space. With just being instead of doing.

Maybe being “selectively social” isn’t a flaw.
Maybe it’s wisdom—hard-won, and finally honored.

---

The next time you find yourself stepping back instead of leaning in, don’t rush to label it as withdrawal. Maybe it’s alignment.   Maybe it’s you choosing yourself, wisely.

And if you thrive in the crowd, in the swirl of voices and shared energy—that’s beautiful, too.

We all connect in our own way.   The key is knowing what truly feeds you.

Art of the Lid

Recently, there’s been an energy rising inside me—to write the stories. Whatever stories and thoughts live within me. It’s led me to think a lot about the lid.

Not the kind that seals a pot or keeps leftovers from leaking. I mean the lid we learn to live under—the one that keeps our fire from flaring too high, our voice from rising too loud, our truth from being too… much.

While it isn’t reserved only for women, I suspect it’s something many of us—especially women—have known intimately.

I know my lid well (though I didn’t always recognize it). We go way back.

At first, I thought it was just me. Maybe I was the one who was “too intense,” “too serious,” “too animated,” “too much.” But somewhere along the way, I realized—this lid wasn’t my design. It was installed by systems and conditioning that didn’t know what to do with full-volume women. Women who feel deeply, speak boldly, and don’t shrink when the air gets thick.

I have spent years editing myself in real time. Censoring every word I wrote. Overthinking everything I said. Avoiding confrontation. I turned down the dial on my own energy—somehow convinced I should be soft, agreeable, quiet, zen. And because I was so not zen, I was full of self-criticism. I’d ask myself, “Dammit, was I too much? Did I say too much? Move my hands too much?”

Recently, someone said to me: Maybe you’re not meant to look or be soft. Your nature ignites others. You’re here to wake people up.

OOF. That hit hard. I’m still not sure what to do with that information, but let me tell you—it landed. It cracked something open. And it’s definitely the catalyst for this surge of energy for writing .

The truth is, the lid served me for a time. Maybe it helped me navigate spaces that weren’t ready for the whole of me. But the energy I’m feeling now? It’s leading me to use writing as a way of cracking the lid.

When I write in my full voice—not the filtered, flattened version, but the raw and real one—I remember who I am.

Most of my friends and family have never heard me in my full voice. Honestly? I’m not sure I’ve ever fully heard it either.

This writing will be healing for me. But the idea of sharing it? Uncomfortable.

It’s not that I’m holding dark, secret stories. It’s just truths and perspectives that I haven’t fully acknowledged—and certainly never shared.

But those truths are rising. And they’re demanding that I take off the lid and let them pour out. Without apology.

It won’t always be neat. Sometimes it’ll be messy, loud, and uncomfortable.  Maybe it will be a catalyst for someone else to do their own healing - whether through writing or another outlet.

So, back to the Art of the Lid. Not quite a memoir. Not quite a meltdown. Maybe somewhere in between.

Art of the Lid is about the stories we bury—stuck inside with a tight lid—and the healing that happens when we finally crack open and let them breathe.
Surrendered stories. Spirit-led reflections.