There's a box of tissues in my office. I mention it once — and then I leave it alone. Here's why that matters more than you might think.

Every year, the holidays arrive with this strange mix of comfort and tension.
There are the foods I look forward to, the rituals I’ve known forever… and then, almost on cue, the uneasy flutter in my chest. It’s like standing between two worlds: the one where I want to savor everything on the table, and the one where I’m bracing for comments, comparisons, or the familiar pressure to “manage” my body.

I used to think identity was something I could sculpt. That if I looked a certain way, ate the “right” things, or performed enough emotional strength, I’d finally arrive at the version of me who was enough.
But healing has a funny way of undoing the stories we were never meant to carry.

As a relational therapist, I see every day how we exist in relationship—to our partners, our parents, our clients, our friends, our communities, and even to the parts of ourselves we’re still learning to understand.