Until a year ago, Charlotte was my therapist. I use the word “my” loosely, as I hadn't had a session with her for close to four years. But she was the person I sobbingly met with when I was 18 years old and in the throes of depression, and with whom I built a relationship—fluidly moving in and out of contact—over the following decade. She was the first person to truly witness my pain, and what I gained from our relationship ultimately influenced me to pursue psychology and a helping profession.

Which is why I found it confusing that, when I got word that Charlotte had passed quickly from a stage four cancer diagnosis to her death, I didn't feel immediately sad. Like a movie montage, my mind went to all the harmonious things I knew to be true of Charlotte, and it brought a sure smile to my face.

She consistently pursued her passions. 

In addition to being a busy therapist, Charlotte was a professor of transpersonal psychology, a supervisor, a co-owner of a goat herd (yup), a student of spirituality, and above all a mother and grandmother—both in the flesh and as archetype. 

She could readily share knowledge of everything from biopsychology to enneagram personality types to dream analysis, and she did so with energy. Her bookshelves were sky high and their contents were not for show. She did the work that helped her do the work and you could feel that in her presence.

She felt strongly and loved fiercely. 

Some therapists are stoic, but if you told Charlotte a self-deprecating story she would laugh with you, and if you told her of harm done unto you would get angry on your behalf. She spoke of her family with compassion. and each member was reflected as a glimmer in her eye. When my sassy 20-year-old self learned that her zodiac sign was a triple-Scorpio and joked. “Your husband must like that,” she replied with a giggle, “My first husband didn't.” 

If all this sounds like too much to know about your therapist, that's because Charlotte was not one to color within the lines. She used her human-ness in order to relate to those seeking her help. (One of my absolute favorite memories is of the time I was early for my session and ran into her in line at Walgreens buying a pint of ice cream. If that ain't humanizing, I don't know what is) Had she not been so Charlotte-esque in her work, I would never have felt so confident that she wasn't leaving many regrets on this earth, a fact that she later confirmed.


Death is one of those universally reliable experiences, but how we respond to it varies based on so many factors. What I'm finding to be true is that the stronger I perceive that the person who I have lost was living how s/he wanted to be living, the less complicated my grief becomes. When my heart resonates with the pain, regrets, and have-nots of the person I've lost, it weighs heavy, anchoring me to a deeper despair.

I find there are a few things we can do with observations like these, the first being to take inventory of how we are living, and to make alignments as needed. Are we pursuing our passions, feeling our feelings, loving as completely as possible, and staying true to our own rules? If not, what can we do to move ourselves in the direction of yes?

The other way I find the various responses to death to be helpful is by tuning in and being available to others' messages about their life satisfaction. Instead of passively listening as friends and loved ones mention certain things that they would like to be better or different, we can inquire about how to make such things happen.

And of course, the final way is to make sure your people know how you feel about them, through words or gesture. With Charlotte, I was thankful that I had been in communication with her over the years, despite not sitting across from her. 


Charlotte's memorial came a couple months later and there I found my sadness. It came in a wave of tears similar to those that fell when I first met her, and my face twitched in ways I never knew it could as I listened to those celebrate what they knew of her. I spoke before the packed room and trembled as I told everyone exactly how I felt, exactly what Charlotte meant to me, and exactly how bad I felt that none of us would get to sit with her again. 

My sadness was certainly uncomplicated. It was the primal shaky loss of someone I loved - no more, no less. 

As I left the room I was handed a small laminated card that displayed a lovely two-inch picture of Charlotte's smiling face, below it a quote. I read the card and smiled, thinking thank you Charlotte, for being so inspirationally and stubbornly you, and for showing us when it is truly okay to have the last word. It read:

“I have done everything I wanted to do in this life. It is so very important that people know my passing is not something tragic but part of my journey. You all mean so much to me.”

Welcome to what I never imagined would be my first blog post.

I have so many things to share with you—a million depression and anxiety interventions worth a try (maybe two), easy ways to dig into positive psychology, humbling true stories, grad school advice, food for thought and mood. You name it, I've thought about it, geeked out on researching it, chatted with many people about it, and tried to experience it in some way. A true psychology and holistic health nerd and helper type, I am.

My latest kick is herbal remedies. It's really hard to have a conversation with me lately without getting an enthusiastic description of Osha Root or Reishi mushrooms or Ashwaganda (thank you winter herb class I took last month at the San Francisco Botanical Medicine Clinic). The other day I offered unsolicited advice to a stranger at Pharmaca about an herbal feminine product (well, she asked for feedback, just not from me per se). There are just so many accessible healing avenues to take and I can't wait to hopefully shine some light on the road.

But in this moment I'm feeling compelled to confess what a hard time I've been having. Like a paralyzing hard time.

A year and some change ago I experienced an avalanche of major life events. In the fall of 2011, I passed my clinical licensing exam and got engaged two weeks later.

A few months later, just before the new year, I lost Charlotte, the therapist who had guided me off-and-on since I was 18 years old, to cancer.

That spring I celebrated my only sibling's marriage, and shortly thereafter my first niece was born. Mid-summer, after a tumultuous bout of both medical and psychological issues, my grandmother fell extremely ill and the family converged in the suburbs of Chicago to be with her as she breathed her last breath.

My uncle had fallen into a coma at that same time. I flew home.

I decided to leave my job of five years.

My uncle died. I started a new job.

One of my closest friend's father died.

I got married.

Now, there is a whole lot of 'yay' within this 'boo' but transition is transition is life stressor is change, and each item, whether “good” or “bad” was loaded with history and questions and was headed in bold print: YOU ARE GROWN AND EVERYTHING FROM HERE ON OUT WILL BE SERIOUS AND AND PERMANENT AND LIFE ALTERING, and I think this erroneous story lingered. While this was all happening, I had an overwhelming desire to press pause, to yell stop, to sob in the shower for a full 30 minutes.

In any case, the world kept on turning, and I joined it, feeling a lot better actually. 

Being that there is no such pause, stop, or eject button that I am aware of, and knowing that neither water heaters nor cathartic moments grow on trees, I am having to slow things down in subtler ways, while trying to catch up with myself and process all that has been happening.

How am I doing this? On good days, I try to incorporate movement into my schedule, usually in the way of walks, ideally within nature. I am trying to reactivate my meditation practice and find that my Simply Being app is a great help with that, whether I can commit to five minutes or more. I also recently discovered the Transform Your Life app, which offers a daily mindfulness/self-compassion reading. 

I've been reintroducing myself to affirmations (whether I believe them or not), and use them if I have noisy moments while trying to sleep or upon waking. I am talking with my supports, celebrating all the goodness that surrounds me (e.g., amazing husband, family, friends, world's cutest baby niece) and actively trying to manifest whatever it is that I need, but I tell you, some days are really hard. 

And the moment I decided to start addressing these issues more deliberately is the moment I decided to share this experience. I wrote an essay almost five years ago about how I believe we are conditioned to consider suffering normal and advocating that we need to be much more careful about that.

​ I'm ready to heed my own advice and forgive myself for forgetting it in the first place (er, again). Cause after all, there is whole lot of good work to do (insert oh-so-true cliche about fastening your oxygen mask before helping others).

Welcome to my blog, where, unbeknownst to me, I wanted to start with the messier stuff.