If you can see this, tell me in 1 or 2 words. I’d love to see who’s still here…

I have decided to share about my health coaching program here. I have a proven 12 session program for weight loss and/ or reconnecting with the inner self. I was certified through Health Coach Institute. I’m going to open up 2 spots for that in the second week of March.

- “What if I choose wrong again?” - “What if my intuition is broken?” - “What if I can’t trust my own reactions?”

Hey all. In your time of survival, what were the mindfulness, present moment, grounding practices that helped you and why? One of the biggest ones for me, during my panic/anxiety attacks was calling my sister (because I was mentally offline and couldn't remember any of my tools, but knew she did) and getting her to walk me through conscious breathing. Box Breathing was too much in those moments, but a slowly counted 1-2-3-4 inhale and 1-2-3-4 exhale always helped, even if it took 5 minutes. I always wanted actual grounding, touching the earth, to help, but it never seemed to be strong enough to pull me out of those moments. When I was finally on the journey out of survival I was able to get back to my daily gratitude practice and that one has really been a pillar for me over the years. On dark days I don't ask myself to write in it, but I do read it, and that seems to help too. Interested in the things that help others! Thanks.

This is a long little story that popped up that I had to share :⚡️ I didn’t leave him because he hit me. I left him because my twenty-two-pound Maine Coon decided to end him before he could turn my home into a cage. People say animals notice what we refuse to see. They catch the shift in breathing. The tightening in a jaw. The difference between charm and control. I should have paid attention to the sound my cat made the first night Daniel stepped across my threshold. It wasn’t a hiss. It wasn’t even loud. It was a low, steady vibration deep in his chest — the kind of warning that doesn’t repeat itself twice. My niece, Ava, had tried to prepare me. She’s part of that generation that names patterns early and doesn’t apologize for it. She’d just left a man who disguised control as protection — checking her location “for safety,” insisting she text when she arrived anywhere, reframing jealousy as devotion. She called it curated control. But Daniel wasn’t that type. Daniel didn’t even own social media. He wrote letters in fountain pen. He quoted old poets. He opened doors. At sixty-three, he had silver hair, impeccable posture, and that cultivated calm of a man who believes he understands how the world should function. He loved my restored farmhouse tucked into the hills of North Carolina. The wide porch. The warped pine floors. The way the wind sounded through the sycamores at dusk. “You’ve built something rare here, Eleanor,” he’d say, swirling a glass of scotch beside the fireplace. “A home like this needs structure. A steady hand. Too much freedom and everything falls apart.” It sounded like admiration. It felt like steadiness. But Atlas disagreed. Atlas is not a housecat. He is a thundercloud with whiskers. Twenty-two pounds of gray fur and deliberate movement. I found him half-starved behind an abandoned shed seven years ago. He chose me, not the other way around. Atlas is dignified. Calm. Usually draped across the back of the sofa like royalty surveying his kingdom.