When Sean died, I thought I wanted to get married again. I thought I wanted to for a couple of reasons. For one—we’d put real effort into our marriage. We chose each other. I did everything my power to help him and to help the doctors when he was sick. I sacrificed nearly everything. Between Sean and the kids, I put myself dead last. I never even thought about my own feelings. It didn’t matter how I felt. I just put my head down and kept going for his sake. I did what I felt like I had to do because he was my best friend and my husband, and I loved him. His only fear was that our children would grow up without a father.

As his wife, I wanted to honor that, so I was misguided when in 2019 far too soon after he passed away that I believed he was somehow instrumental in sending me a person to fulfill that role. I genuinely believed that because in March of 2019, we’d planned to go kayaking and actually do something on the delta for the first time but ultimately had to cancel. I was on Facebook and saw sunset photos posted by a (now and forever former) friend. They were avid kayakers. I thought—I beshat you not—that since this person had a reputable job and I’d known them as an acquaintance since I was 22-years-old that they likely weren’t a serial killer and I could trust them to “teach me how to kayak”.

Guys. You do not have to learn to kayak. You get in the little boat, and you paddle. That’s it. Naturally, it was easy, but we had a good conversation and had been messaging a little on Facebook. They were funny. Disarming. Charming. Ugh. So there was that.

The other part was that I was broken as fuck. I went back the other day to look at texts I’d send myself from Sean’s phone—and then would reply to myself from my phone because I missed my best friend and husband so very much. I still wasn’t even feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t know how to pay attention to myself. When Sean died I was in shock, and it physically hurt to think of that 34-year-old man’s unfulfilled hopes and dreams. I wanted to die. I had one text to him that said, “I want to die. Drunk. I’m fuck.” I was—obviously, drunk when I sent it. But others were in the arena of I don’t want to be here anymore. Please come back. I can’t do this. I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.

I’d gone back to being the painfully insecure, anxious, depressed, codependent, esteemless 20-something I was before I met Sean. All of those little-t childhood traumas that come as a byproduct of our patriarchal system were baaaaaack (insert haunting voice here). I thought I’d outgrown those things, but as it turns out, they were just dormant because I was with a person with whom I had a secure interdependent relationship with. Alone, I was a mess…as evidenced by the fact that I thought I needed to ask someone to teach me to kayak. It’s like needing an entourage to go to the bathroom (which is okay if you’re going to spill tea, obviously).

The other part of me—and this is why personal growth is important—(heavy sigh) believed that I deserved a happy ending. I know—how entitled of me. But that bit me in the ass. I thought that I’d worked my ass off and sacrificed my career, and it still wasn’t enough. I felt like I wasn’t enough. But I felt like…okay, maybe Sean is sending me someone.

No, the universe was handing me a whole bunch of lessons, so I could figure out that our focus on men (I blame The Bodyguard soundtrack and the happily ever afters of romantic comedies—a favorite genre as a teen) was the thing holding me back. I had some serious pick-me energy problems. But who wouldn’t?

I’ve always wanted to love and be loved, but it wouldn’t be until recently that I had to realize that for anything of value to occur in my life I had to become the love I was seeking. I had to fill my own cup up because before that it was so empty that I was running on fumes. But I’d been that way my whole life—my emotional needs came last…even though I had very big feelings…I was never modeled how to prioritize my emotional needs. Instead I was modeled how to just accept whatever, not complain, and deal with it. I was modeled how to be selfless to the point of if the plane was going down white knuckling it without an air mask because everyone else on the plane would need one before I’d take one.

This isn’t the worst way to be, but to be sure, I was going to die as a single mother if I didn’t learn how to put my needs in some kind of position of priority.

That would not happen until literally the fall of 2025…and then March of 2026. Yeah, these are recent developments on the personal growth chart. But I was in a financial pickle—hello, pattern repetition, and the check engine light had been blinking and…I’m sorry, is that smoke billowing from the hood? Houston…shit. We’ve lost contact with Houston. Thankfully, for all of my naivety and mistakes and inability to stand up for myself in a healthy or functional way that doesn’t make me feel incredibly queasy because it makes me feel like I’m being the bad kind of selfish, I have always had phenomenal ride-or-dies.

One such friend reached out and helped me realize that I and I alone had to take care of myself. My parents weren’t going to come to my rescue. My friends weren’t. GoFundMe wasn’t. My kids needed me. Seriously, love for my kids is why I didn’t pew-pew myself when I was texting “Sean” that I wanted to not be here anymore. I thought I ruined everything I touched—they thought I hung the moon, and they’d never understand. So…I stayed.

In the ensuing years, I learned everything I’d failed to learn about this kindergarten class we call life, which would include how to really respect and advocate for myself. As soon as I hit the energetic vibration of courage, I popped a wheeling and motored away from the abusive relationship—the one that objectified me. The one that invalidated me. The one that tried to control me. The one that didn’t know how to let go. The one that would stalk me with flying monkeys to scare me into choosing to go back to the abuser. Hell to the nizzaw to that clown car freak show. Mama was ready for a good shag and a vacay. And may I say—check and check.

I was free, but I hadn’t decentralized men. I was beyond the naivety that I deserved a happy ending just because life had kicked my ass to hell and back with the losses I’d endured. I mean, I know I’m not the only one who's ever lost anyone, and the only reason I write about it is because I want to help other people heal. I did this after Sean died, too, even though the jealous little thing I was dating constantly told me “nobody cared” and that I sounded like a broken record. But I knew better—people were always telling me that I was helping them. It was so empowering. In fact, about a month ago, I published Letters to Jude: Messages of Love & Healing to & from the Other Side solely for that purpose.

When my son died, women came out of the woodwork to tell me that they’d also lost a baby or miscarried. Women of my mother’s generation had lost babies at time where it was still considered shameful to have lost a child—they weren’t aware that child loss is actually a biological process that occurs when the pregnancy isn’t viable…I wouldn’t even learn that until much later. (I spent the year after losing Jude wondering if it was because I’d gained more weight with that pregnancy or if it was because I’d sometimes get hotdogs from Dew Drop Inn on my lunch hour…my doctor finally had to tell me that it wasn’t my fault and that crack addicts had healthy babies and to calm my growing tits during my first rainbow pregnancy. I still had very real anxiety and PTSD that would not abate until I had a beautiful, healthy living baby, which occurred 13 months and one day after losing Jude…yeah, I was on the exact same gestational timeline as with Jude. Lordy.) But those other women…they carried that pain in silence. I wanted to help. If someone could read my words and find healing, then I was fulfilling my purpose (which is apparently endure pain and FAFO and write up the incident report.)

I still wanted a good and decent partner to share this technicolor acid trip we call life with. I’m still open to that, but I stopped looking. In March of 2025, thoroughly drained by the flying monkeys and related lunatics, I went to Italy and was told by a god among men what women really deserve. It was the universe dick-slapping me telling me that I needed to value myself in a way that set the tone and standard for what I’d allow.

Because I’ll be honest…I was allowing way too many people to have access. I just know that these men aren’t really bad people. They’re just painfully insecure, and they don’t have healthy attention. They’re also conditioned to be entitled and to not realize that “no” is a complete sentence. Well, not all of them, obviously, and along the way, I’ve made some really lovely genuine friends who I love very much. I care about helping them feel seen because I know what it’s like to just be objectified and not really seen for who you are, and it sucks.

For example, among my research (screenshots), I found where I’d finally had to block a guy twice because in 2020, he wouldn’t stop pursuing me during one of the many times the critter I was dating and I almost broke up (ugh, if only). Listen, men, I really want to know—is it in some kind of jacked manual you guys have to be as pervy and creepy as possible to intimidate a woman to taking back a low-vibe man because every time he and I would split, I’d start getting blown up in my DMs…or do you just have radar for when a woman might be single…because I always posted love and happiness on my socials. I never posted about our drama…which is why so many people couldn’t believe that it was that bad in terms of the abuse I’d go on to later describe when the stalking would not let up.

The guy found me on Facebook and he kept trying to get me to go eat at Dauphins with him or to go to Crab Island or hang out on his boat. He kept saying, “You need to have sex again.” False. I needed to have good sex again. I needed to have sex that used the whole bed and involved multiple positions and screams of rapture that could be heard from space…which, it would take years for that to come, but when it did, so did I. God bless.

I told him he was rude and aggressive. I wasn’t blocking people at the time because I was being nice, which is the conditioned opposite of kind. Niceness drains your energy because you’re putting everyone else’s feelings ahead of your own—kindness is treating others the way you want to be treated. I don’t want lip service. But the thing was…this guy clearly didn’t care about my feelings, and he definitely didn’t care about my humanity. My “no” was a complete sentence, and I wasn’t going to use my relationship (AKA codependent trauma bond) as an excuse for saying “no”.

The guy got my phone number and texted me a couple of months later. He was like a roach. He wouldn’t just quit. I finally got him thoroughly blocked and dispensed of, but may I say that it’s just plain wrong for people to take “no” as a personal challenge. A woman’s “no” is an answer. It’s not rejection. It’s just her choice. (I would eventually tell him I was in a relationship, but he didn’t care.)

When I came back from Italy in early April of 2025, I finally met someone who was the whole package. He was perfect except for one tiny yet progress-halting problem…we had a substantial age gap, and he wanted kids, and my uterus had been demolished like an abandoned theme park. I’d already had my tubes tied, and the stress I’d been under from losing Sean and being in a relationship that was trying to highlight all of the ways I was still living in conditioned limiting beliefs with unresolved issues (abandonment…which were exacerbated by the guy I was with shutting down and leaving every time there was a conflict…there was no talking through things) led to some serious monthly issues. I was anemic.

My doctor was great, though. She said, “Even if it gets better, it’s going to get worse,” so I had a hysterectomy. I kept my ovaries as a souvenir, but I went ahead and took out the abandoned structure. My own reproductive system was my only vaginal delivery, but my I say that I felt much better after I had the surgery (well, once I recovered…and by the way, I know for free if I’d ever gotten cancer the person I was dating would’ve only made the end come faster for me because of how he acted any time I was sick and when I had that surgery).

The thing is, I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I was still in recovery from everything that had transpired the previous year, and so I was content to just…enjoy being with the guy. We’d spend time together, but then he’d disappear for a while. That was fine, too. Again, I wasn’t being serious, but I also wasn’t showing my value.

A year later this past March, I realized I was catching real feelings, and I knew that if I kept going, I was going to get really hurt. And I worried that would cause me to hurt him, too…not on purpose, but just by wanting more from him than he was capable of giving. He was always honest with me, so I had to respect his “no”. And I did.

But I also respected myself. I respected my value. I respected that I deserved to be pursued in a healthy and respectful way. Like, worship me like the goddess I am, and I’ll make you the king among men. That kind of energy. So, I sent the text that would be the end of that situationship. I said let’s just be friends. I think he felt rejected, and we’ve since corresponded via letter (agh, I love how retro he is) to help explain and make peace because I promptly had a nervous breakdown after deleting my Facebook on April 6, took myself to the ER, and spent three days in the psych ward (that part was not my idea—my idea would have been to slap on a bikini and lay out on a tropical island out-processing the trauma…but I did get some hella creative writing inspo, so wins are wins).

But I did reset my nervous system. I realized that I’d been allowing people to act entitled with me, and because they’re conditioned to be that way (ugh, burn faster patriarchy), so it’s up to women to set the tone for what our standards are.

I can’t control men—just like they can’t control me (nor can they scare me), but I can control my attention—and so can you. Attention is energy. Energy is power. Keep your power on lock and know that it’s a gift that you should only give of your own volition. Because as I told my paramour in my letter—he did nothing wrong. He wasn’t trying to scare me. He did love me unconditionally and still does (sames), but I was allowing myself to be treated like an option of convenience, and I am none of those things. I’m like the treasure that Indiana Jones risks life and limb for (so are you). I’m the treasure to be cherished and valued and protected in the healthy way.

That looks like my free will being respected. That looks like trust. That looks like wanting the best for me and being committed to helping me get those things. That looks like encouragement. That looks like reciprocity. Because I found that in the times that man and I were together, it was healthy. We had the most wonderful deeply connected conversations. He could share his opinions and feelings and experiences and I mine, and there was no jealousy or competition or conflict other than a couple of times where there was misunderstanding. He felt safe with me, and I felt safe with him. I could be vulnerable with him. I cried with him…I cried as my body was letting go of the trauma that had previously not felt like there was a safe place for release. And I’ll be honest…I cried when I let him go. I would’ve never been ready to let him go if the universe had allowed for that.

But I also accept that the world is big and life is a journey. And I also know that he came into my life to show me that I am ready to write through the trauma of losing Sean. I am ready to let go of the trauma that the onslaught of desperate men, of dating someone abusive, of being stalked by flying monkeys, and of just all of the things prevented me from processing.

Men are not the center of my universe anymore. I will never get married again—not in the legal sense. I am happy to focus on my writing and to try to give back in a way that helps other people.

A friend of mine texted me this morning and said, “Ugh, I hate men,” by way of greeting. Let me get the popcorn, sis. What happened?

Apparently some guy she’d been seeing who it was going really well with just fell off the face of the earth and popped back up with someone else.

I told her…bae…the reality is that men are terrified of women. They created an entire system to control us because we are the bringers of life. In reality, we have the power. They’re just scared shitless we’ll figure it out. Why else do you think that the patriarchy tries to punish women for natural biological processes—like losing a pregnancy? Why do you think it has to trap us into marriage? They’re scared we will leave. That’s why the person I dated couldn’t let me go and tried to use flying monkeys to rope me back in (which, guys, why would you want to have someone back who you told everyone was crazy? Have a little dignity. I respect myself—I’m not going back to someone ever who I have had to explain to the world was selfish, jealous, insecure, codependent, and abusive toward me. Like, he bombed so hard in the aftermath of our relationship that we won’t even be friends again in this lifetime. Like eat, but not at my table. Never. Again.)

I understand this, too, because some men are so dazzled by a woman that they take all they can get and then bounce before they realize he’s actually super insecure. The crazy part is—we don’t think that about these men at all. We genuinely do believe they’re good and worthy. Women see the light inside of you. We see your good and virtuous qualities, and we don’t see the limiting beliefs and lack of esteem or insecurity that’s inside of you. We just see the ways you show up and shine. And the ones like me…we don’t care about money or power. We just care about love. Sure, some women care about wealth and power and a man being able to take care of them, but I’ve never been that way. I have a strong balance of feminine and masculine dualities. I can take care of myself.

Do I want to have a partner? Would I like help? Do I need men for some things? Yes. I do, but there are always men who are willing to help, and I appreciate them for that. Being a genuinely helpful and secure man means offering help without the expectation of reciprocity. It means being friends with a woman without expecting her to give anything to you. It means valuing the divine feminine. Just like I love sensitive men. I love a man who is open with his feminine and sensual side. I love a man who can be vulnerable, who can love openly. Those are mature men.

And one day, if / when it’s meant to be, it will. But for now…I’m going to write through my memories. I’m going to let go of that trapped trauma…the trauma that started to come up in Costa Rica and that ended up just being hours of crying, fat heavy tears that spilled when I left, and the short flight home where I wept for things I had to leave behind.

Decentralizing men doesn’t mean cutting myself off from love nor does it mean having resentment. If anything, it means trying to approach men—including the one who sent the flying monkeys after me, with more compassion and empathy. It means doing the same thing with past generations because of what they were conditioned to believe and how their modeling impacted us.

A friend was telling me other are some reformed toxic men on YouTube who have videos that explain that men who were raised by abusive fathers and enmeshing mothers are often too closely bonded with their mothers even long after they grow up—they keep them boys in the worst possible way by not letting go of their precious baby boys…but they learn to abuse their partners, to be neglectful, to be entitled from their fathers, who they often resent internally. These were the dads who were too hard on them and who beat—literally or metaphorically, feminine qualities out of them. The patriarchy has failed men far worse than it has women, and I am deeply sorry for that because I know what it’s like to have real love with a sensitive yet strong man. I know what it’s like to be in faithful service in a marriage and a situationship because I feel so cherished and so valued and so loved and so revered. I know.

In the bigger picture, I had to go through what I went through because I honestly had no idea it was that bad for so many couples out there. I had no clue. When Sean died, I was in shock, and I wasn’t myself. I wasn’t myself at all, and because I didn’t feel like I could show this foreign new version of myself to the people who knew the version of me who died with Sean, I allowed myself to be consumed by people who only wanted me as a prop for their picture frame. It hurt like Hell to be objectified. But I had to see it so I could understand it, so I could have more compassion for others, so I could evolve…and so I could write up the incident report.

I had to experience it so I could break down all of the conditioning that was holding me back, and while I’ll always have room to grow, I really like where I am now.

Interestingly, the more I’ve healed from trauma, and by fully decentralizing men, I have also fully decentralized alcohol as a coping mechanism or a social lubricant. I drank because I was insecure and anxious. I drank to hide from the things I couldn’t confront. I struggled with very real alcohol use disorder after Sean died, and I have no problem admitting that. It was a shit show. I was not okay. The person I dated used my shame around that to manipulate me for the duration of our relationship, and I know he’s told his flying monkeys that I have a drinking problem. I had one, but I also asked him—if I was that bad, why did you stay? Why didn’t you respect yourself enough to leave? Because he never tried to help me. He only yelled at me. He only verbally and emotionally abused me to keep me small, so I would stay with him, but I was never going to stay on that level. The only way out for me was up.

I had to burn down a bajillion times. The patriarchy only has to burn once. But one day, we will all be free of this conditioned nonsense. I believe that. I truly do. One day the kind of love and companionship I describe will be something we all experience and enjoy. I have faith in that. I am not saying that everyone will let go. I’m not saying everyone will evolve, but for those of us who have and are and will…there really is gold on the other side of the rainbow.

Focus on you. Be—as man coach and author Sean Carey says—selfishly unselfish. Take care of yourself. Control yourself. Raise yourself. Don’t look outward for someone else to do it because as friend and author Julie Ison says in her book title nobody is coming to save you. And it’s TRUE.

When I walked away from one of the best things that’s ever happened to me, I saved myself, and I took back my power, and guys…I rather like it. I think I’m going to keep it.