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How to Navigate Subtle Disrespect and Assert Boundaries

As a therapist, I often meet clients who feel subtly disrespected by friends or family. While these interactions may not be openly hostile, they can leave a person feeling diminished or unappreciated. One client—let’s call her “Sarah”—shared an experience that may resonate with many.

Sarah is a highly intelligent, accomplished professional who prides herself on her independence. But recently, she noticed a growing frustration in her relationships with family members and friends she had known for years. What once seemed tolerable—unsolicited advice, casual comments, and subtle directions—started to feel untenable. Sarah was surprised by how quickly this shift happened, and at first, she thought the issue was with her. She wondered if she was becoming a “curmudgeon,” someone who could no longer tolerate the normal give-and-take of friendship. But as she dug deeper, she realized it wasn’t just her perspective changing—it was her sense of self-worth rising.

People close to Sarah—friends she had relied on for years—were behaving in ways that subtly undermined her decisions. They offered advice about her health—whether she should lose weight, take a particular vaccine, or adopt alternative treatments. They had opinions on how she should parent, manage her relationships, or even how she should exercise—suggesting yoga over aerobic fitness or vice versa. While Sarah never asked for their input, they seemed to assume she needed guidance, even in areas she felt confident about. Over time, this left her feeling disrespected and, eventually, isolated.

Despite these feelings, Sarah didn’t know what to do. Should she speak up and risk damaging these long-standing relationships? Or should she continue tolerating behavior that chipped away at her sense of self-worth? As she wrestled with these questions, Sarah experienced an overwhelming sense of guilt—guilt for wanting more from her friendships and for considering pulling back from people she had known for so long.

Through our work together, Sarah realized her discomfort wasn’t something to ignore. It was a signal she needed to set healthier boundaries and raise the standards for her relationships. We developed a litmus test to help Sarah determine who deserved space in her life. Here are the questions she used to navigate her friendships:


1. Do interactions with this person feel disrespectful or controlling?

Sarah started asking herself this question each time she felt uneasy after interacting with someone. She realized that while some friends seemed overtly kind, their actions reflected a subtle lack of respect for her autonomy.

2. Subtle behaviors can still be harmful.

Just because someone isn’t openly cruel doesn’t mean their behavior can’t be damaging. It’s often the smaller, seemingly harmless comments that erode self-esteem over time. For Sarah, unsolicited advice about whether she should get vaccinated, how to manage her weight, or which fitness routine to follow, started to feel like constant criticisms.

3. Do I believe I’m worthy of being valued for who I am, not just for how well I follow others’ advice?

For Sarah, the real struggle was internal. It wasn’t just about receiving unsolicited advice, but about her deeper belief that perhaps she didn’t deserve to be fully seen or valued for who she was. People who have never been appreciated for their true selves often don’t believe they’re worth being seen. Sarah had to challenge this belief and recognize her inherent worth, so she could set boundaries that reflect her value.

4. You’re not cutting people off for no reason—you’re protecting your sense of self.

Sarah struggled with guilt over distancing herself from people she had known for years. But she reframed her actions. She wasn’t cutting them off out of anger; she was doing it to protect her self-worth. This shift allowed her to release much of the guilt and see her actions as necessary for her well-being.

5. Guilt is a sign of growth.

Sarah’s guilt was actually a sign of growth. It showed that she was learning to prioritize her needs and value her self-worth. While guilt can feel heavy, it can also be a sign that you’re evolving and moving toward healthier relationships.

6. Boundaries are protective, not punitive.

Setting boundaries isn’t about punishing others—it’s about protecting yourself. This helped Sarah feel more empowered to take action. Boundaries are an act of self-care, a way to honor her emotional safety, rather than a punishment.

7. The shrinking of a social circle may feel isolating, but it reflects your raised standards.

Sarah was concerned that by enforcing boundaries, she was losing friends and becoming more isolated. We talked about how social circles naturally shrink as people raise their standards for relationships. Rather than seeing this as a loss, Sarah learned to view it as part of her growth—quality over quantity.

8. Choosing not to feel diminished is empowering.

Ultimately, Sarah realized that stepping away from certain friendships wasn’t about avoiding discomfort—it was about reclaiming her power. By choosing not to feel diminished, she was making a powerful statement about her worth and setting the tone for future relationships.


Applying Sarah’s Litmus Test in Your Own Life

If you’ve found yourself in a similar situation, unsure of whether certain relationships are serving you, consider using Sarah’s litmus test:

  1. Do interactions with this person feel disrespectful or controlling?
  2. Is this behavior subtly harmful, even if it’s not overtly cruel?
  3. Do I believe I’m worthy of being valued for who I am, not just for how well I follow others’ advice?
  4. Am I distancing myself to protect my sense of self?
  5. Can I reframe my guilt as a sign of growth and self-prioritization?
  6. Are my boundaries protective, not punitive?
  7. Does the shrinking of my social circle reflect my raised standards for relationships?
  8. Is choosing not to feel diminished a sign of my growing empowerment?

You deserve to feel seen, respected, and valued in your friendships. If someone’s behavior consistently leaves you feeling less-than, it’s okay to step back and reassess whether they deserve space in your life. Boundaries aren’t about closing yourself off—they’re about creating room for the connections that uplift you.


Conclusion

Sarah’s journey is a reminder that setting boundaries, though challenging, is essential for maintaining healthy relationships. As you reflect on your friendships, consider what kinds of connections make you feel respected and valued. By setting higher standards, you’re not only protecting your peace—you’re creating space for the relationships that truly matter.

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What We Repeat

This morning, I stepped into my new garden—a garden I planted to welcome the weed seedlings that float onto my property. Instead of seeing them as unwelcome pests, I’m learning to think of them as a source of food. They come anyway, so why not nurture, and eventually, eat them? It’s a new concept, but really not so new. Foraging is what we humans did before we began to farm. It’s what we knew, forgot, and now remember again. So, the “Welcome Weeds!” garden is a repeat of something tried and true.

Today, the Welcome Weeds Garden is doing what my other gardens have done for eons in September here in the Midwest: to prepares for winter. Seeds are made. Leaves turn brown. Its plants go dormant. What we repeat in the garden is much like what we repeat in our minds—both need attention and care.

It rained again early this morning, but now the sun is shining. The garden is drying out. Again. A few beetles are on the stinging nettle flowers, and I see some cup plant flowers about to bloom. Others have a small nub where their blooms would be, because of hungry deer. That beautiful amaranth seed head—bright maroon-red—was here one day and gone the next, thanks to these fellow foragers with long legs and black noses. What we repeat in nature is part of a cycle, and it reflects the cycles within us.

But the truth is, not every weed that floats in is welcome. There are poisonous weeds—poison ivy is almost always an “ouch” for any unsuspecting garden visitor—and weeds that take over because they’re not from this region. Have you ever noticed that “creeping” always seems to be part of these pesky non-natives’ names? There are weeds that will become trees and shade out the garden; and then the garden is not a garden any longer.

I love walking through my garden, checking the soil for newly sprouting seedlings, especially in the spring. Discerning which plants to nurture and which to uproot is essential. I have to be selective in what I allow to stay and grow into something that will seed out for a repeat performance. I weed, and weed often. Learning some foraging skills has allowed me to include more weeds into my circle of “welcomed” plants. Wild lettuce, stinging nettle, plantain, and other plants I once pulled routinely have become part of what I use as a way to consume energetically alive, nutrient-dense plants.

But this post was not intended to be written with the garden and it’s repeated phases as its entire focus. So I’ll step off the garden path and walk down another that puts me squarely into an “inner” terrain, and one that I consider just as important as the one with the plants that greet me each morning. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke once said, “The only journey is the one within.” I can’t deny my love of food and gardening, but my daily journey within has become a very helpful echo of the morning stroll through my garden. 

As a therapist, and someone who struggles with anxiety, I’m acutely aware that we repeat in our minds: we allow with repetition of what has “floated in” like a wisp of a seed and landed, looking to plant itself.  In the soil, it waits for the just-right conditions to help it to burst forward into something bigger and more pronounced. As weeds in the garden, this, too, will requiring discernment and selective weeding, on repeat.

We think, over and over:

  • I’m not good enough.
  • I’m not safe.
  • I’m so stupid (or something I did was stupid).
  • What will others think?
  • I can’t (Fill-In-The-Blank).
  • I have to… (What? Do I?)

I find myself on the little set of pavers that run through my mind, pondering what repeats there. I give my mind recommendations. “Go ahead and repeat,” I tell it:

Sadness, but not too much.

Happiness, but not in pursuit of it too fervently.

Nourish my body and ego, but not excessively.

Weed-like thoughts, beliefs, and emotions—just enough to aid self-understanding and growth.

What I’ve learned in my garden is to be judicious. Allow pests, wind, sun, rain, a few weeds, and a little trampling and stealing. The most important lesson is tolerance—avoiding judgment and outlawing. The origin of the word “blessing” is “blood.” There is no blessing without wounding. This is true in the garden and in the mind. 

Weeding contents of the mind: Yes, you weed in your mind, too! (And if you don’t, you can!) That is your best, repeated practice. It invites balance.

Noticing what repeats, understanding what repeats, using what repeats, but judiciously. Sometimes I interrupt what repeats, pulling it out, root and all. And sometimes I find a way to turn what repeats into a blessing. Have you ever made a change that was good—surprisingly so? There is no doubt in my mind that this change was proceeded by a change in what you repeat in your mind. You did a lot of “this is not so good” before you switched over to “this feels great; let me repeat this!” Even then, you probably goofed up and went back to “this isn’t good” a few times before the change became more tangible, more frequent, and, eventually, the new “this feels great!” was on permanent repeat.

A goof-up isn’t really a goof-up. It’s more of an “I forgot to weed.” We let those weedy thoughts take over in our minds—the least useful of all the weeds. The poison ivy of thought. In this case, nature doesn’t know best. We’re meant to intervene. We can get locked into patterns that need interruption. That interruption is what weeding is for us. We can (and should) routinely examine whether a thought or emotion is repeating too much. Is it so repetitive that it becomes harmful, stealing joy or keeping us from engaging fully in life?

There will be times when the garden seems overrun with weeds and the mind with negative thoughts. It might feel like giving up is the only option, letting everything go wild. This is how it can feel when dealing with depression or obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). Depression can make it seem as though all efforts to weed out negative thoughts are futile, as if the garden of the mind is too overgrown to save. With OCD, the same unwanted thoughts might keep repeating, like weeds that grow back no matter how many times they’re pulled. We are tricked into feeling that it’s too dangerous to banish thoughts and actions that seem to keep us safe. In those moments, it’s easy to feel defeated, to think that the garden will never thrive again.

Instead, we remind ourselves to return to the practice of weeding, both in the garden and in our minds. It’s about choosing what to nurture and what to remove. We can repeat this process, knowing that it’s an ongoing cycle, one that requires constant attention and care.

In this practice, we find peace. We’ve learned to accept that not everything will be perfect, that some weeds will always find a way in. But we also know that we have the power to shape our garden and our minds. We can choose what to repeat, what to let grow, and what to remove. And in doing so, we cultivate a space that nourishes both body and soul.

As I stand in my garden, I take a deep breath. The sun is shining, the rain has passed, and the garden is alive with possibility. Just like my mind, it’s a work in progress—a place where weeds are welcome, but only those that contribute to the greater good. Here, in this space of balance and harmony, I find a sense of calm. And I know that this practice of weeding, of tending to what repeats, will continue to serve me well, both in the garden and in life.

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Auto-Thoughts

Stories we share

We have all found reason to share our personal stories at one time or another.

At 65, My life could be recounted in a narrative that could take days to tell from beginning to end. And so, I’m guessing, could many of yours. Few situations in life will call for this outpouring of facts and events. The typical, more condensed “share” will generally suffice for most purposes—it only needs to include what is helpful and pertinent to the person or people you’re talking with.

This winnowing of personal information is what we do all the time. We parse and cobble together the bits and pieces of our lives according to expectation, need, and convention. I might tell one story of myself to a client, for example, and a very different story to a close friend. A third very condensed story of me would help me to introduce myself at a conference.

While some of this narrative cobbling is more methodical and rehearsed than others, we are generally fairly conscious of what we share.

Stories We Keep Private

What about the stories we don’t share—the ones that roll around in our heads all day long? The ones that are made up of a tangle of disjointed thoughts?

The subject matter of the stories we tell ourselves privately is not so different from that of the the stories we share: life events, our “people,” and who we are and what we do.

Differing purposes of the “shared” vs “not shared” stories.

Public stories are often shared as a way to establish who we are to others so they know what to expect from us. Internal stories seem to be without any discernible purpose. There isn’t the need to have these stories make sense, at least to another person.

Self-reflective narratives are seldom deliberated over, if they are thought about or even noticed at all. Despite this lack of deliberation, consistent themes come forward in the form of repeating, insistent, thoughts. These automatic ways of thinking, or auto-thoughts, are the cornerstone of our stories. Auto-Thoughts reliably hint at how we see ourselves: who we are, what we’re like, our struggles and triumphs. They directly influence our emotions. And in my experience Auto-Thoughts also predict, and then go on to create, life events.

Are we missing something important?

I think it’s safe to say that we’ve overlooked the importance of these internal stories. Because these AutoThoughts are so important to our well-being, awareness of what we think, and when, is worth pursuing. What if we edited our internal stories in the same way we edit written narratives, or those personal stories that we intend to share? Future emails will be dedicated to this–editing with carefully selected thoughts and themes.

Auto-Thoughts, Defined

Here are some examples of Auto-thoughts I’ve come across in just the last week or so.

  • I look terrible!
  • I’m a dolt (I had to look this one up–it’s a stupid person)
  • This is only going to get worse
  • I don’t care
  • I’ll probably end up homeless

What is it that distinguishes these as Auto-Thoughts? It’s their automatic, repetitive quality—the fact that they have (or I can assume they have) been thought more than once within a few day’s time, or even as much as several times in a 5-minute period. Their characteristics fit the traditional meaning of automatic in that they seem to spring up spontaneously, with little or no control over their emergence or frequency.

This short list of Auto-Thoughts leans toward the negative, especially if I consider the context in which I heard them. If they were uttered by a single individual (they weren’t), we could begin to build a story in our minds about the person for whom these appear to be true. And they probably would be part of his or her story, because internal stories are built primarily from bits of narrative like these.

Here is a list of a few positive Auto-Thoughts that I did not hear over the past week, and so I made up the list. (And since I had to invent a list to share here, you might notice that I created a list that is almost the direct the opposite of the first list.)

  • I look good!
  • I’m smart
  • This is only going to get better
  • I care
  • I’ll always have a warm, comfortable place to call home

The fact that these and other Auto-Thoughts did not come up in conversation is probably proof enough that we, as humans, tend to have a bias towards the negative. But then, that is a pretty well-known fact.

In my experience, most every thought that comes to us over and over again will be self-fulfilling. When Auto-Thoughts are positive, it’s usually a good thing. Positive Auto-Thoughts help us to do and say, and connect with, what we love; things we can be proud of. If they’re not so positive, they keep us tethered to the parts of our lives that we’re already struggling with. They prevent us from living our fullest, most enjoyable lives.

How or why these thoughts “create” the events of our lives is pretty much a mystery. But if we pay close attention, we begin to notice that negative thoughts attract other negative thoughts, which evoke negative emotions, and pretty soon a story emerges that is so predominant and solid that a major edit feels nearly impossible.

On the flip side, I can trace most of the most enjoyable events and successes of my life back to a few positive thoughts about strengths I knew I possessed, or the exciting things I might encounter, or what I loved, and I’m guessing that you can say the same.

A niggling Auto-Thought

I’ll share a little secret. As I write this, there is a very loud and repeating thought telling me I will fail. Not just fail with my email series, but fail at writing this very first introductory letter. “Shut up,” it’s telling me! I’m aware that this particular Auto-Thought has been with me for some time, and despite my awareness, it still comes around fairly often. It was much more frequent and bothersome when I first began working with it.

Sometimes it’s difficult to get rid of an Auto-Thought that has worn a groove inside your brain. The more you try, the more fiercely it hangs on.

In a way, “Shut up!” (as an Auto-Thought) is trying to protect me. Long ago, I developed a belief that it’s safer to be silent than to share what I love to talk about. We’ll get into that Belief (and your Beliefs, too) in our next Episode.

How does this apply to me? (you might wonder)

I’d like to help you to identify your own Auto-Thoughts. Once you aware of them, they can be adjusted to better fit your life objectives. I developed a step by step system that has helped clients to do this.

Are you aware of Your Auto-Thoughts? Do they scream at you when you are there on the cusp of something really good in life? You know the drill: You want to finally express yourself and they silence you. You want do that thing you are just meant to do, and they erect a barricade. You want to fly a little beyond those invisible limits but your Auto-Thoughts have so masterfully camouflaged said limits that they can’t be made out.

Despite their intensity, we’re often not aware of how influential Auto-Thoughts are–especially when they’ve been with us for a very long time. I wasn’t aware of my “Shut up!” Auto-Thought until about a decade ago. That’s a powerful influence over a very long period.

As I share information about each Element of this Regeneratively Rooted system, I’ll be working right alongside you, with my own Auto-Thoughts, Beliefs, and all of the other RegRoot Elements, but especially that one mentioned here—that little pesky bit of narrative that is trying to keep me from launching this project.

If I were reading this, I’d be wondering about cost. The good news: this email series is free (and I’m hoping to offer all future series at no charge, as well.) But if you’re looking for some way to give back, please read on.

An Opportunity

My favorite thing to talk about is what’s in your heart. I help clients look inside themselves to see whether the stories that they are living, and the stories they want to live, are a match. Not a match? I’ve got some tools to help with that.

A philosophy central to The Expert Within is that as individuals, we can practice strengthening our own autonomy and sense of authority. We can connect with inner wisdom. This might mean moving away from a worldview in which the expert is always outside of ourselves. You’re the expert on you, as I see it.

At the same time, we’re hardwired for connection, so while we become more aware or our inner selves through this email series we can begin to form a tribe of individuals who are on a similar path.

To that end, would you be willing to share your most aggravating, persistent Auto-Thoughts with me? Or conversely, share the ones that make your life sublime? The button just below will allow you to do that, and your feedback will help me to be more consistently effective with the help I offer. I promise that I won’t share any feedback I receive from you unless you ask me to.

Click on the link just below to watch a video I know you’ll find inspiring!

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Goat Academy: Situation 1

In my last “Situation” post, I said that nature’s elements could be brutal.  The Melanoma diagnosis I received in 2012 was, to my way of thinking, one of the elements.  It didn’t seem that much different from a lightning strike or the kind of powerful wind just that can do some serious damage.

Damage or not, I like to think that my life has that same ability to rebalance that nature has so beautifully demonstrated after almost every kind of disaster I can come up with.

A few years before this diagnosis, I suffered a traumatic brain injury after a fall from a horse.  That did some serious damage, too. But at the time I was insistent that the brain injury I suffered from would not derail what was then a new career as a therapist.  I was used to overcoming almost any challenge.  12-hour workdays let me see this obstacle as just another something to overcome.   

When cancer came along, it was back to the drawing table with my “can do” philosophy. 

After diagnosing the Melanoma, the general surgeon told me I needed a second surgery, done by an oncology surgeon, to make sure we removed all the cancerous cells.  A lymph node biopsy would be needed in order to assess whether the cancer had spread. 

Should I attempt to push back against Melanoma with the force that the medical world deemed appropriate? I wasn’t sure.

For a while, I wavered between a “good guys” and “bad guys” characterization of the elements.  After the one-two punch of a brain injury followed by cancer, I settled on “bad guys” for a time.   Sinister, gravely voices shoved the sunlit breezy rustling, baby-bird squeak-chirping, and the fluttering wings aside.

Now I wanted to fight back.  I scheduled an appointment with the second surgeon.  

Then this occurred to me: Attempting to go after every last cancer cell might turn out to be nothing more than a way of avoiding some kind of wise voice built into it. It seemed more likely that I should think of Cancer as a message, and follow its prescriptions, whatever they turned out to be.

Aware that I had been working too hard to compensate for the brain injury, I sensed that what I really needed was rest.  

I decide against following the advice of both surgeons.  I skipped the surgery and lymph node biopsy and investigated what changes I might need to make in order to heal–an alternate path, and, yes, an uncertain one.  But I felt I should get out of my body’s way and let it do its own healing. 

Once I set out, I would stay alert for Cancer’s wise voice. And hope to God that it had one.

Beyond the body’s rest, I also needed to look inside, if for no other reason than the possibility that this element had come about to tell me something.  Some big life message that I had missed for one reason or another.    

Then I learned from alternative cancer studies that many cancer patients exhibit type-C personality traits, something they had learned earlier as a way to cope. People with type-C personalities fail to share their feelings or attend to their own needs, and generally put others first. 

I thought I saw this tendency in myself.  I had always enjoyed working hard.  A day of intensely focused work gave me a sense of accomplishment–fruits of my labors that I could be proud of. A second career as a therapist gave me the added joys of helping others bring positive change to their lives. 

I liked the work of attuning to others and teasing out their inner-expert.  As an extra bonus–albeit one born of my unconsciousness–this focus on others gave me the ability to push away the things in me that didn’t feel good.

Vulnerability, uncertainty, and lack of clarity weren’t states of mind that I was completely comfortable with.  I lacked the awareness to cultivate the same wellness-building and growth-promoting connection with emotion that I routinely prescribed as “good medicine” for my own clients. 

With the Melanoma diagnosis, I stepped back from my practice to focus on my own health, knowing that on some level that this would entail coming face to face with disowned feelings.  Despite this purposeful dive into a new arena of self-investigation, some unconscious part of me continued to defend against what I didn’t want to face. While I sifted through what I was beginning to know, I referred my clients to other psychotherapists who I felt could better care for them while I focused on myself. 

Garage, Sweet Garage 

So, what was my response to this new information? Not wanting (or knowing it would be best) to hand over control to the Elements, to get quiet and listen more intently to their message, I did what you do when you’re not only unenlightened, but vaguely contrary.  I changed course.  I found a way to focus less on myself, my needs, and my pesky feelings with a single phone call to acquire some male kid goats.   

I cleared out my garage to make room for new life. I adopted baby goats Leo and Orion, gifted by a friend who had an eighty-goat herd and dairy in Cumberland, Wisconsin. I picked them up from the farm, loaded them into a dog carrier, and drove thirty miles back to my farm on Highway 46.  

Dwarfed by the large carrier I thought would barely contain them, they stayed jammed towards the back, peering out warily in my direction. Finally, I was able to snag each by the leg and remove them gingerly from the car. I installed them in their new home, a small metal pole shed with a dirt floor with two south-facing windows and a kitchen door visible from both.  The kids’ abrupt change of residence was, no doubt, a shock. As they were transferred from dog carrier to pole shed, they were dubious of their new surroundings. I’m pretty sure a garage and a wire wrap-around fence enclosure were not on their bucket list of places to stay–a barnyard prison, so to speak. 

They made mental notes of security weaknesses to leverage as a means of escape.  Captivity and confinement could be tossed aside as soon as they had a good plan.  Frequent sidelong glances towards my dog, Gobo, and me added to their arsenal of tactical information. 

Their plan to spring from the farm seemed to recede from their consciousness around day four.  That’s because I was delivering the milk.  Lots of it.  They were ready every time I came out and they required milk twice a day.  Pretty soon, I was the most special person in their world, and they wouldn’t dream of leaving me.  

The twin kids would climb over each other to get to the bottles. A three-minute duet of staccato sucking noises followed. Whichever finished first would shove the other out of the way and latch onto his brother’s bottle to get the drizzle of remaining milk.   

Weeks passed.  Woozy under the influence of rich goat’s milk, the inside of the garage became less prison cell, more childhood home; their “jailer” became someone to love. Leo, who wouldn’t have anything to do with me on adoption day, would now climb onto my lap and gaze dreamily into my eyes, the farmyard version of Stockholm Syndrome. I fell in love–direct access to the heart via livestock ownership. 

During my consult with the oncology surgeon, the friend who accompanied me asked what would happen if I didn’t have the surgery.  “The cancer will come back,” the surgeon said without hesitation. Not “could,” not even “would.”  Will was the word he used.  He avoided the “condition” that would typically be built into that particular declaration.  That single word will (and its forced certainty) made me strangely curious.  There seemed to be an absence of the context that time (or a good rewrite) would provide.  A shift, changing the word “will”–to “could”–and “could”–to “won’t.”  I wanted to live in the story of “the cancer won’t come back.”  A warm glowy home instead of a prison. 

Eventually, my story, like the goat’s, received an edit.  I added my “inner expert” to the cast of characters.  I skipped the surgery and followed my heart.  I read all the stories of unexpected and miraculous recoveries I could find, igniting in me what panic had erased.  Trust in my ability to heal.   

Walls of a garage changed from “prison” to “home” with a slight change in story structure–a slant.  Following this wizardry as best I could, I rewrote my own story to give it a better slant, too. 

Time moves on and a story changes–a story of a “Type C” at one time missing out on life’s joys, but now living a bit more within their range. The story of goats whose prison becomes a beloved home they wouldn’t dream of leaving. Time broadened the understanding of living beyond cancer just as time broadened the goats’ understanding of “the prison” and the “woman who runs it.” Hardship fades from memory, brains rewire, and trauma gets rewritten.

Jumping to the end, past all the twists and turns, I thought about how goats, garages, and scary cancer news might shift and change over time.

Scrambling the beginning, middle and end, I grabbed onto the “happily ever after.” With a determined spirit, I started living the ending as if it were now; I started living the “ever after.”   

As I fed my goats and stared into their dreamy eyes, I imagined myself as someone who doesn’t have cancer.

Orion finished his bottle first, shoved his brother, and looked at me. I jumped into a different story and Leo and Orion jumped alongside me.

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