Do you make this weighted blanket Earth-sized? 🌎

And put some eucalyptus in the giant humidifier while you're at it.

In my 20+ year career as a bartender and waitress, teetering on the edge of chaos was a regular experience. You'd walk into a Friday Happy Hour or Sunday Brunch suited up and prepared for it, and then could be totally blindsided on a Tuesday night when half the staff was sent home before anyone remembered the concert nextdoor wouldn't end until 9pm and the line of drunk and hungry would spill out onto the sidewalk until midnight. But like turning the burner off of a pot of water right before it boils over, the only thing that ever kept me from taking off my apron, walking out to my car and driving away mid-shift was knowing there was someone that had my back. That someone was usually a manager and when it was a good one on shift (they certainly weren't all created equal), there was a feeling of safety where you just knew that no matter what, that manager would keep the train from going off the tracks. My adrenals could be pushed right near explosion, but knowing there was a leader in control, I was operable. 

My life as a drunk looked very similar, except there was no manager to keep the train on the tracks. The train derailed many times but the irony is the thing that derails the train also makes you oblivious to the derailment, so you just keep getting back on the train. When I got sober for the last time in 2014, I was so desperate for a feeling of safety. I needed to drain myself of cortisol. I wanted nothing more than the feeling of being on a Grandma's couch, any Grandma would do, wrapped up in her crocheted blanket with a never-ending supply of hot tea and scones on a floral tray within arm's reach. Even when your intoxicated brain is oblivious to your lack of safety, your body knows. It took some critical self-care to come back from the decades long cycle of intensity and exhaustion I'd been through, but I finally met that feeling of safety I was desperate for.

Then came 2016 and suddenly there was no competent manager. The old survivor's flinch crept back, 2020 took it to 11 and on January 6th, the train derailed. America's train derailed, that is, and remarkably my manager named Sobriety kept my train on the tracks. But how do we live with collective cortisol? I can't stop thinking about the Black, Brown and Indigenous in this country that live their entire lives under inherited and constantly present fight or flight response. The Mayo Clinic says that when it's always on, "the long-term activation of the stress-response system and the overexposure to cortisol and other stress hormones that follows can disrupt almost all your body's processes." After the events that happened in DC on Wednesday, I think I finally realize what a privilege it is to experience  any amount of relief from the feeling of unsafety. You can breach the Capitol of the United States and if you are White, barely a hair on your pale body will be harmed. That is the privilege of safety. Working in my studio cocoon for six hours yesterday is what kept my personal train from derailing but my gratitude for the accessibility of my tools is enormous right now. 

Now if I could just crochet a blanket big enough to throw over the rest of you, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

There are hundreds of ways to kiss the ground 👣

*passage is from "Broken Open" by Elizabeth Lesser.

But to see all the ways, some things will have to be sacrificed.

I've been thinking so much about the intentional space that I want to build, interact and live within and without. I want the beauty I love be what I do, and that is my reality, for the most part. But there is one space that has felt out of alignment for a while. And it's not the space itself, it's how I'm using it.

A little backstory: when I started The Unruffled, I never wanted to be out there and known for being sober. While I do think it's the most important thing I've ever done and it's been the catalyst for many of my creative accomplishments to date (and most likely the reason I'm sitting upright, breathing and typing this today), it's just one note in my symphony. If I want to impress you in anyway, it's with what I create while sober. That being said, being sober lands me in the sober community, my favorite people. Cohosting a podcast about creativity and recovery and managing a secret FB group with nearly 900 women gives me somewhat of a platform, but I'm going to say this as transparently as I can and I hope you'll believe me, I've always been there for the connection, not for the influence.

But as with Spiderman, with great power comes great responsibility. I ain't that powerful, but I do acknowledge the influence I have, even if it's undirected. I know that most of my followers on Instagram are in some sort of recovery. Building a platform or a brand on there requires constant content creation and honestly, I've usually half-assed it. Just like I tell my clients, if your whole ass isn't in it, ask yourself it's something you really want. But in thinking about this, asking my followers to be relentlessly consuming my content feels irresponsible, like I'm complicit in engaging other people's addictions for my own benefit. It just doesn't feel right.

I'm not withdrawing from IG completely. I'm there for the friendship and for the connection over shared experiences. I honestly don't know what my engagement will look like but I know I want a place to share my art, my adventures, my kids and my cat. I have a business to run, and while I do need to promote things when it's time to promote them, I'm not just going to be churning out "content". And it's not like I was doing that, again, I half-assed it, but there's a lot of "shoulds" in entrepreneurship and social media. Being a voice in the recovery space, it just doesn't feel ethical for me anymore.

Whew. That was a lot of words for saying how I intend to use Instagram in 2021. And if you follow me there, you may not even notice the changes! I'm also not here to shame anyone for how they use social media. That would be very hypocritical of me. This year has given me an opportunity to turn a critical lens on how I've been using online social spaces for my own benefit. It's also not like I won't be using other platforms to convince you to hang out with me! I'll be relying heavily on this newsletter, so I hope you continue to receive me in your inbox. I'm working on building a space on my website and hope to offer different levels of engagement. I know FB has it's own (arguably worse) issues but I also know there's workarounds to engage in secret FB groups without opening the whole FB can of worms. I do love The Unruffled Podcast secret FB group. I've been writing about it all month, so I don't need to pontificate further except to say that it is the real and tangible engagement that I desire.

I'm going to stay curious. I'm going to keep asking questions. There are hundreds of ways to kiss the ground.

P.S. Two more days to sign up to work with me in 2021 through Change Your Story for 25% off the regular price. Just enter STORY2020 in the checkout. Offer ends at midnight, Jan. 31.

The gifts of the magi-ish 🎁

Today's letter is a tale of two unexpected gifts I received this holiday, but as you'll see, they weren't without sacrifice.

My beloved FIL died right before Thanksgiving 2018. We all miss him very much and luckily have a few things of his of which we are very sentimental. One was his bird clock. We loved this bird clock, ridiculously. It makes bird sounds on the hour, it isn't subtle. It makes some guests angry (like my Mother ). You may have even heard it going off on the podcast. When we moved out temporarily for our remodel, we didn't pack it away but was one of the only things we hung in our new apartment. Well, it fell off the wall not once but twice. The first time, my husband was able to repair it but the second time was a lost cause and we had to throw it away.

On Christmas morning, my husband and I opened our gifts to each other. Bird clocks.

The second gift requires a little back story. My brother has suffered from schizophrenic episodes for over 20 years. The first came when he was in late 20s and all of the research I've done over the years suggested this was a late onset. He isn't constantly plagued either but we've accredited that to the massive cocktail of meds he swallows every day. He's seen so many doctors we've lost count. His family has also suffered immensely. I won't go into every detail because it isn't my story to tell, but just know that every member of my small family has wrung their hands in worry daily observing his rapid deterioration over the last handful of years.

My SIL has been relentless as his advocate in a desperate search for answers and to just receive adequate support for him. The system is not kind. And then came a new doctor. The doctor was actually my niece's pediatrician who also happened to be a geneticist. After observing my brother in a few of my niece's appointments, she couldn't let go the diagnosis my brother received long ago and ordered some genetics tests for him. Lo and behold, my brother has a rare genetic disorder called Urea Cycle Disorder. He was born with it and it basically means his body can't break down proteins properly so ammonia is produced which then causes brain damage. It can present just like a mental illness, except with a few additional symptoms like lethargy and vomiting.

After I had a good cry upon receiving the news, I looked at my husband stunned and said, "Oh my god, I think my Father had this too". The revelation of this would be too long to go into, but he presented the same symptoms although his brand of mental illness looked like rage. I forgave my Father after I got sober and he died shortly after. My rationale for forgiving him was that he had undiagnosed and untreated mental illness and while there is no way for me to prove this now, I'm certain he had undiagnosed and untreated UCD. I'm so relieved that I released myself from the bonds of resentment in 2015, but now I'm exponentially relieved that I did.

When sacrifices are made unwittingly, it feels like loss. The reward is too far out, there's no way to know the story will have a good ending. How annoying are those people that only offer, "Everything happens for a reason"? I'm convinced that those are people who have never traversed with the dark side of grief, loss, addiction, psychic pain, abuse and if this has been their set of circumstances, they most likely just hot-footed through them. And I've only suffered tangentially. To make this all about me would be egotistical. My father and brother are who suffered true loss. My husband misses his Father. I'm certain none of them would have volunteered their lives to be some sort of epic catalyst in my evolution. It's gross to even suggest and yet, I've suffered too. What I do with it is mine to do.

I've been thinking much about sacrifice and what else I'm ready to let go of in anticipation of something sweeter in return. Don't worry, it won't be this letter or the podcast (although Tammi and I are contemplating a break in February) because these hold a more meaningful, tangible connection that contain the sweetness for which I'm longing. And I'm not giving up my small group classes and my one-on-one work through Change Your Story, but how I offer these things may change. That is a spoiler for the next newsletter I'm releasing in the next few days, to close out my thoughts on this and to close out 2020. Hope you'll check your inbox for that.

One last thing, there are a few more days to use a discount I'm offering for my one-on-one work through Change Your Story. Just enter STORY2020 in the checkout for 25% off. You can sign up this week and we can start whenever you are ready in the new year. Offer expires at midnight, Dec. 31.

I'd like to tell you about a magical place 💫

It's a secret place...

And while I can't give you all of the otherworldly details this space holds, I must describe this place because, and this may sound hyperbolic, I think it holds some of community's solutions as we warily walk towards 2021.

When Tammi and I opened The Unruffled Podcast secret Facebook group in 2017, I expected it to be a space of empty seats, held spots for other women who had been beaten down by alcohol, much like a recovery meeting. But what would set our space apart would be the allowance for another kind of conversation, one informed by the re-coupling of women to their creative kindling, something they may have feared they'd lost forever. And it has been this kind of space: there is shared empathy and compassion, supportive feedback and story after story of "here's how I did it".

What I did not expect was the microeconomy that has taken root and flourished in this safe, connected space. We buy each other's stuff! We buy each other's programs, coaching, and energy services. We buy each other's art and handmade goods, like pottery and jewelry and blended oils. We read each other's published words, from blogs to books. When I help women develop their creative offerings through my program, Change Your Story, I encourage them to share their offering in the group when they're ready and they will have 900 of their ideal customers waiting. 

It only works because there are parameters, which I'll explain later, but I'd like to tell you why I think this byproduct microeconomy has been so vital:

1. It builds some self-esteem in women who lost so much of it during their drinking years because they now feel seen and supported.

2. It bolsters and validates their creative ideas.

3. They help each other build wealth and by allowing others to extend generosity, a reciprocal energy is created.

These women market their businesses outside of our group too, and I won't mention anyone because of anonymity but I bet they would all credit the Unruffleds as a big percentage of their customer base (I know I do).

In a moment in time when social media can sometimes feel like stepping into Times Square, advertisements flashing and beeping at you and if they aren't outright assaulting your senses, it's a more clever marketing strategy, like a smiling face or sincere words that leave you feeling less violated but still creeped out, this is just more real. Even though it exists in a virtual space, it seems more tangible. Monetary promotion is only allowed on Fridays, so it's the expected day for everyone to show up and say, This is me and This is what I have for sale. There are no hidden agendas, no ways to slide it under the radar any other time. It's straight-forward with integrity and the fact that I'm describing it as refreshing means that it feels like a breath of rarified air right now. I know the pandemic has meant that creative entrepreneurs have had to get more aggressive in their marketing, exhaust every angle, I get it. That I even link back to my website at all in this newsletter means I am complicit. But it's also why I love the integrity of #CreativeShareFridays and the microeconomy that Tammi and I accidentally launched there.

This secret Facebook group is so many things, but what it has also been is a place for women to proudly promote their thing while everyone else gets to hold up a high-five at the least, and monetarily support at best. Maybe these small communities of exchange are going to solve some problems going forward, perhaps, I'm no economist. But I do know that I'm going to champion our space and all of the women that get to engage in its magic.

If you are female-identifying and are on Facebook, you are welcome to join our supportive space. You don't have to have something to sell and if you do, it only happens on Fridays. Just find myself or Tammi on FB and send us a message that you'd like to join.

A Money💲tory: Part Four

This is the final chapter of a four-part newsletter series I'm sharing on money...
 

But the story I'm living is still being written.

I said in Part One that sobriety didn't fix my money problems, but it made them hard to ignore. (If you missed the first three installments, I've reposted them to my blog.) Abundance mantras and magical manifesting also don't fix money problems. Make no mistake, I love meditation and tarot cards and positive affirmations and they might put me in the right mindset, but real change only comes from intention and inspired action. No, sobriety didn't fix my money problems but because I had quit using alcohol, something I didn't think I could ever do until I did it, I knew I could approach financial recovery the same way.

Here is how I modeled my financial recovery after my recovery from alcohol addiction:

• I began the work of looking at my patterns through personal investigation. Through writing my origin stories and spending stories, I researched my own past. When I got sober, I did the same work of looking at my history of alcohol use to help me understand the patterns and unfortunate choices that I'd perpetuated for decades.

• From the pattern work, I started to understand my motivations. The Enneagram has been an essential tool in this step. As a Type 7, one of my basic motivations is to have my needs fulfilled. With this knowledge, I've cultivated compassion for myself as I could see how I'd fumbled over and over towards that desire, using the inadequate tools I had at the time. And just like in addiction recovery, healthier tools lead to healthier financial sobriety.

• The practice of extending compassion to myself has grown into loving myself, and my recovery from alcohol has been the same. I forgive myself for the mistakes I made using the tools I had at that time and because I value myself, I desire to do better, to clean up the destruction and be the healthiest version of myself I can be.

• I practice gratitude for how far I've come: I no longer use the pawn shop, I have a bank account and money in savings, I charge what I'm worth, I'm paying off my debts, I've paid off my student loan, I can be relied on for groceries and gas and I no longer take money from my kids. I no longer use alcohol to cut myself off from my reality and I no longer use spending to cut myself off from my financial reality.

• And finally, I practice generosity, either through service or philanthropy. I know that generosity is really reciprocity, because that's how energy works. Abundance is really satiation. It doesn't mean there isn't room for improvement, but it's the feeling of being satisfied by enough.

In both recoveries, it is daily and often uncomfortable work. I have to stay diligent and intentional and while I've not had a sip of alcohol in 6.5 years, I can still occasionally numb out with spending, feel disembodied or powerless over my finances. And when I do, I just re-enter. Like with alcohol use, it was decades of destruction, so it's going to take some time to rebuild my foundation. I'm going to love myself through it.

In 2018, I had a natal chart reading from Natha Campanella, a friend, astrologer and life coach. She mentioned several times that she could see patterns in my chart that could be about helping women build wealth. Every time she said it, I'd almost laugh out loud. But the truth is, while I'm not an expert in financial recovery, I know how to disrupt patterns. I feel like I was subversive straight out of the womb, but if I was a rule-follower, I would have only continued the generations of patterns that had been established for me. As it is, I'm the first in my family to take care of my physical health through exercise and nutrition--heart disease and type 2 diabetes run rampant in my family. I'm the first to address addiction and mental health through real work and support. I'm the first to have a more fluid and less dogmatic spirituality and I'm the first to have a bachelor's degree. What if YOU are the one THEY have been waiting for?

I know how to change stories. If you have a story that should have ended long ago and yet you are stuck on how to end it and begin a new one, I know something about that. If you're tired of doing the same thing and expecting to get different results, I can help you with that. Invest in yourself now, and we can start when you're ready. Offer is good only until the end of the month. Just enter STORY2020 for 25% off at checkout.  And thank you for sticking with me through this series. Thank you for holding my vulnerability tenderly and if you caught a glimpse of your own reflection in my story, I hope that it bolsters some possibility to change your own money story. 

A Money💲tory: Part Three

This is a four-part newsletter series I'm releasing about money...

If you missed Part One and Two, you can read them here.

I ended the last part about the darkness before the dawn and I just want to interject that while this feels very vulnerable for me, it's not just an exercise in bleeding on the page. If you have struggled with your own financial recovery, I hope my transparency helps you and provides you with some hope for your own financial recovery.

I got married in my late twenties and I was the bill-payer in that relationship. We lived paycheck to paycheck but I did a decent job at managing our finances. We even paid for a cesarean birth of my son out of pocket and put a down payment on a house. But when our marriage fell apart seven years later, I had no savings, a two-year old and a drinking problem, so barely-getting-by was not a  structure that was going to support me. 

Those first few years after our separation were hard and because it felt unmanageable, I disassociated more and more from the severity of my debt. When I finally sold the house, I took my half of the equity and just repeated the pattern I'd mentioned in Part Two: depravity was always followed by spending as a reward. I bought myself a digital camera and enrolled myself back in school to learn digital editing and while that may seem like a smart investment, I never paid down my school loan and other bills I'd abandoned after the divorce. Oh, and I was drinking more than ever. 

I won't make you suffer through every detail of this slow and excruciating death of my finances, but I will tell you what it looked like when I finally quit drinking in 2014: I lost that camera to a pawn shop as well as many family heirlooms, I lost my bank account after losing thousands of dollars in overdraft fees, I borrowed money from people that I couldn't pay back, I stopped paying my student loan and credit card bills, I took money from my children to buy alcohol. I'm sure I left some things out but I think you get the picture.

If anyone can turn this turd sandwich into something positive, it's me. And it may only seem like I'm bypassing that horror show by moving onto the gifts, but know that I came back from that, one painful, hard day at a time. It took every second of five years. I'll never forget the day I walked out of the credit union with my new bank account. It took me most of the day to convince myself that the bank didn't make a mistake. And the positive byproduct of this experience is that it really transformed my spending habits. I had no money to spend and because I was sober and working on my overall health, I really got to examine my patterns, as I spoke about earlier.

In Part Four, the last chapter of this Money Story, I'm going to tell you how I did that and how I modeled my financial recovery after my recovery from alcohol. I'm going to end by telling you about my big dreams for the future, because it wouldn't be a letter from me if I didn't talk about the future.  

And I can't talk about the future without mentioning the 25% discount I'm offering to newsletter subscribers to work with me one-on-one through Change Your Story. If you're tired of doing the same thing and expecting to get different results, I can help you with that. Invest in yourself now, and we can start when you're ready. Offer is good only until the end of the month. Just enter STORY2020 for 25% off at checkout. See you there.

A Money💲tory: Part Two

This a four-part newsletter series I'm releasing about Money...

If you missed the Part One, you can read it here.

No matter which economic bracket you grew up in, if scarcity is cultivated, you will always feel deprived. So then spending feels like the reward for all of that deprivation. 

I know there were toys and gizmos I wanted as a kid. A letter to Santa was usually answered and on Christmas morning, the Baby Alive, Sears portable record player, or whatever reasonable thing I'd asked for was usually waiting for me under the tree. But the first material longing, the one hinged on obsession, I still remember so acutely that the sensation still feels embodied almost 40 years later. It was the summer before 9th grade, my first year of high school. I'd had a few odd jobs but nothing that could contribute significantly to a savings and I was still too young for a worker's permit that I'd need to drive myself to a JOB job. I became rabidly obsessed with a pair of Jordache. They weren't just any pair of Jordache though. The denim was dark on the outside, but the other side of the fabric and the stitching were dark purple and the purple you could see when you cuffed them slightly at the bottom. This is what made them special. This is what also made them unavailable at a thrift store or on a sales rack, the places my Mother preferred to shop. But it didn't stop there, the obsession had a twin and the other piece that absolutely without question had to accompany the purple Jordache were a pair of purple Nikes. They were made of a perfect pastel purple nylon, the swoosh and the sole were pristine white. I had to have the set before school started or I was pretty sure I was going to die.

I know I drove my Mother to the edge of insanity until she surrendered and drove me to Foley's. I remember the jeans and shoes were around $70 each and I'm sure she was going into some sort of debt to purchase them for me. I remember grabbing the last pair of Nikes in my size. I remember pulling the Jordache off the rack and in doing so, I somehow talked her into an additional pair that had pleats in the front, were pinstriped and instead of purple on the flip-side, they were pink, the pink bleeding through the pinstripes to the front. I distinctly remember looking at the items on the counter and feeling like my life was going to be utterly and entirely different going forward. When we got in the car, Mom said I couldn't mention one word to Dad about how much she spent. The feelings of euphoria mixed with shame are still so visceral I can taste them in the back of my throat as I'm writing this.

I can't tell you why my Mom went into debt to buy me those things but the story I wrote was this: we live life deprived of luxury, spending is a reward for living most of the year deprived therefore spending is occasionally justified, even if you don't have the money to spend, even if you'll feel shame in doing it...it will be worth it.

And just like my first money memory I wrote about in Part One, this is the spending pattern I've repeated over and over my entire life. I've had opportunities to disrupt the pattern many times, there are occasions that I've been successful but I've always seemed to slip back into the old and tired grooves. Very slowly, I've been able to edit this story after I quit drinking in 2014 but as they say, the darkest hour is just before the dawn. Part Three will be about that hour.

Since we're talking about money, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the 25% discount I'm offering to newsletter subscribers to work with me one-on-one through Change Your Story. In Part Four, I'm going to tell you about all of the stories I've changed, not just those around money. If you're tired of doing the same thing and expecting to get different results, I can help you with that. Invest in yourself now, and we can start when you're ready. Offer is good only until the end of the month. Just enter STORY2020 for 25% off at checkout. See you there.

A Money 💲tory: Part One

This a four-part series I'm sharing on Money...

And in particular, my money story. The story will be part origin, part legacy, part intention and ALL RECOVERY. Because maybe like you, my relationship to money has been one of the interlocking pieces to be uncovered in my recovery work and it's because I'm sober that I'm able to address this piece. If you are new to sobriety, I have to tell you this and not to bring up fear and resistance but what I hope you'll see as an invitation: getting sober won't fix your money problems. But it will make them very hard to ignore. 

2020 has been so many things and the tragedies are apparent, I don't need to spell them out. Anything I've suffered is minor in comparison but I need to highlight a few of those to set the stage. When Tammi and I knew that our Italy retreat wasn't going to happen, I knew that many of (read: all) the jobs that required any in-person contact were going to be cancelled as well. I'm a photographer and while that job isn't responsible for all of my income, it counts for a good chunk. Forced to creatively pivot and focus on my other income streams also made me acutely aware of the recovery work that I still needed to do around money. I got angry. I've talked about it before but the anger I felt for my lack of agency, urgency and attention around building wealth was eye-opening for me. I consulted a healer. I revisited some work that I started when I first got sober, which had me revisiting my personal money story, the story I inherited and the story I perpetuated.

For brevity's sake, the short history is that growing up, money was scarce, spending was almost always done in secrecy and it was always accompanied with regret and shame. My first significant money memory is from when I was about 7 or 8 years old. I had participated in one of those school sponsored fundraising campaigns where you collected money for a cause like cancer research and if you met certain goals, you'd get prizes. You probably remember those. Well, I participated in the fundraiser, went door to door down my street, collected money at my church, but when it was time to turn in the money, I just never turned it in. It's not like I had any intentions to keep it, I didn't have any agenda, but for whatever reason, the date to turn it in came and went and I still had the donations. At first, I kept it out in my closet by my shoes. It was in a spot where I could see it but wasn't obvious to say parents or anyone else who would happen to be in my room. Every day, I'd open my closet and say to myself, I'm going to turn this in today. And then the fear of what I would say and the shame around why I still had it was too much that I couldn't do it. Eventually, I shoved it in the back of my closet so I wouldn't have the daily reminder of my failure. I'm not sure how much time passed but I remember that the day finally came that I needed some money for a candy bar and my allowance had come up short. I "borrowed" some of the cancer money with the intention to pay it back as soon as I could. I'm sure you can probably already guess how this part of the story ends, but eventually I spent every cent and destroyed the paperwork and any evidence that would reveal my deceit.

Like an actor in a Broadway play, I've reenacted this exact scene over and over and over throughout my life. I'll tell you about a few of those in the next coming weeks, but Part Two of this money story will focus on obsession and the drivers behind my spending style.

My hope is that in being transparent through this newsletter series about this particular piece of my recovery (that is also still very much in the process of being healed), you may see something you relate to, that you may be invited to also release some shame.  Until next time.

Sad Eyes. Turn the other way.

Or music as a trigger.

You may relate.

It was going to be an evening I'd looked forward to. Maybe the husband and kids were gone and I was alone. Or maybe they went to bed early and I was more than prepared. Before I had kids, a husband, it was always a night that was followed by a day off, because I'd need it to recover.

I'd light candles. I'd have my journal and pens ready. I'd have multiple bottles of wine on hand, because one would have never been enough on these nights. And finally, the thing that would trigger the door to the portal, music. Stacks of records, to be specific, in order of intensity and carefully selected to carry out the job of taking me to a place that I thought I could not access without the candle/wine/music trifecta: that place was melancholy. It was the place I thought was the origin point for all good art. And maybe it sort-of worked, but of course we know how the story ends (spoiler: the alcohol component stunted the follow-through, every. time.) 

After I got sober and began the work of learning how to get there without alcohol, I wanted to share the message. It's why The Unruffled came to be born. Tammi and I have conducted countless interviews with creatives in recovery on The Unruffled Podcast, each story as proof that you don't need alcohol to be creatively abundant.

But what about the core of my behavior? What was that about? What I've learned is that those patterns of behavior were an attempt to stir my emotions. I credit my work with the Enneagram for helping me understand why I was using that as a "technique" for lack of knowledge of better ones. As a Type 7, I am mostly in a mind/body loop, emotions are not just hard to access, they are repressed. I have to do intentional work to "get there". 

So what tools do I use for that now? Well, lots but probably my most helpful is meditation (you knew I was going to say that). It is a means to my emotional center. Often in meditation, actual tears well in my eyes and sometimes it's sadness but more than that, it's awe. I also pull tarot cards and use their meaning as another way to trigger that portal. And wouldn't you know, music still works. Alcohol not necessary.

If you want help exploring the Enneagram as a tool for insight, help establishing practices that will bring out what center you repress (it could be mind/thinking or body/doing for you) and develop real tools to help you in recovery, I'd love to work with you. This link could be your portal to change your story. You just have to open it.

I'm angry.

And I was hesitant to write about it because it's not fixed.

I recognize my privilege. I have gratitude everyday for my home, my family. I have health insurance! 
I think abundantly. I meditate abundance daily and have for two years.
And please don't tell me to write a gd money story.

None of that addresses the core of my anger: I was never taught, as a woman, the importance of building my own wealth.

I was taught the importance of education, how to find a partner that treated me well, I was taught how to tend to a family and those that I loved, I was taught to be kind. But I was never taught to build wealth for autonomy, and not only for the sake of modeling that for my daughter, but to heal that very long Matriarchal money line that travels back generations.

On Monday, I had a Rune reading with my friend, Falki. We've worked together through my program, Change Your Story, twice. Not only has she become a friend, but she's a powerful, compassionate intuitive. Still, I had no plan to show up with THIS. I don't have shame about it per se, but every time I talk about this, it feels trivial or tone-deaf, sometimes gross. But when she asked me if there was anything coming up for me right now, it just fell out of my mouth. "I'm angry."

I won't tell you about the entire series of events, not only because some of it's personal but we'd definitely be going into TL;DR territory, so here is the gist: This work will not be another cognitive exercise. I knew this, my gut knew this. And this has been my hesitation, somatic work feels way hard and what will I do with all those Feelingsssss? But here I am at a crossroads, I could turn around and walk back to familiar territory and die with this unresolved. I'd be fine with my nice little life. Or I could walk toward this dark and contentious thing that is lodged in me. After giving me several somatic resources to explore, Falki left me with this, "This may sound strange, but tomorrow in your meditation, go to your Root Chakra. See what's there. Ask it what it has to say."

I did follow her advice, but before I tell you about that, I have to tell you about a synchronistic thing that happened along the way. After the reading, I immediately started Googling Falki's suggestions and many, as expected, are unavailable during Covid. I landed on one dance therapy that sounded interesting and after several clicks, ended up on the page of an Austin facilitator. As I watched her introduction video, it slowly dawned on me that I knew her. We'd worked together at a restaurant in the 90s and I don't want to tell her story, but let's just say she had a sobering impression on my 25 year old self. When we surrender and ask for signs, they are abundant.

As to the mediation, again I was distrustful in my abilities to heed Falki's advice. Although I've practiced meditation daily for two years, I still dance with my monkey mind and the monkeys often win. And that did happen this time, but I breathed and focused and within a few minutes, my direction went straight down my core. I knew I was there when my bowels actually rumbled. I was uncomfortable and wanted to flee, but I stayed. I heard a voice that said, "I'm afraid. I'm trapped here." Here is where I could tell you the whole memory, but it would be lengthy. I will tell you this, it's a memory that I visit often because it's my very first memory. I was probably three, sent to my room for something I'd done, there was yelling outside my door, I had to go to the bathroom and I was very afraid. Of course, I ended up pottying in my underwear and I was very, very ashamed. However, this time, I rewound the tape. My adult self appeared in the hallway, opened my bedroom door and took my little self gently by the hand, walked her to the bathroom, set her on the potty while I hugged her, wiped her tears and told her she was going to be okay. I wept and wept through the rest of the meditation.

If you are interested in working with Falki this way, she has a few tiers of engagement on her Patreon page. I know I've just cracked into this work, and there's so much dancing I must do to finally release this. I don't need millions of dollars in my bank account, I just want peace and for the first time ever, I think I'm finally getting a glimpse.

Fall! I beseech you!

Feel normal! And if that is impossible (it is), at least provide a moderate amount of levity.

Texans are good at faking Fall. Typically, there are only two seasons here: Summer and Winter, with Summer hogging most of the twelve months. We see you all with your sweaters and fireplaces, but we're still in bathing suits nursing our resentments with PSLs well through October. But as we very well know, 2020 is no ordinary year.

I'm unsure if it's the temperature then that feeds my usual extreme future-tripping this time of year, but historically my self-talk is: Ok lady, the year is almost over and another year will have gone by that you didn't accomplish everything you wanted to accomplish. Perhaps I have an inner middle-school volleyball coach. She can see my potential and wants the best for me, but she can be a little harsh. 

If finding is the point of seeking, then perhaps it's time to really savor what's been found. Of course 2020 is different in a myriad of ways and I certainly don't need to belabor the point, but it also feels like Fall in Texas, y'all. There is a chill in the morning air that tastes so sweet on the inhale, you don't want to risk letting it go. I spent a few days with my Mom over an extended weekend and we played 100 games of Scrabble with 100 cups of coffee below an open window. The plant nurseries I visited were packed with other humans plotting something wild and lush for their patch of Austin backyard like we were and you could almost hear the chorus, "We're going to spend a lot of time out there in the next few months." Maybe it is the fortuitous temperature shift, but Fall is inviting me to plug into it's wonderment and just see what happens.

I can indulge in binary thinking like anyone else and it will show up like: If I can't go on vacation, I may as well work everyday. I love my work, so what's the harm? What I'm reticent to admit is how it feeds that insatiable hole of "never enough". The long weekend I took doesn't disrupt the flow, it IS the flow and there is so much freedom there. This is my definition of success and I like it. 

If you're still here, thank you. I often say that my journal is the place I get to tell the truth, and this letter is an extension of that. TL;DR, I changed my story about Fall. I took my own advice and I'm glad I did.

So I'd love to hear, how does binary thinking trap you? How do you define success? I'm wrapping up a few clients for my Change Your Story one-on-one coaching program and I can't wait to get some testimonies from them because we really move the needle during our time together. Don't hesitate to hit Reply if you want to chat about the program and see if it may be a good fit for you.

Beseech Fall. Ask of Her what it is you intimately want and then see what happens.

"When someone shows you who they are...

...believe them the first time." Maya Angelou 

My husband's birthday was yesterday. As I sat in stillness after my meditation, after we'd shared a cup of coffee together and he'd left for the office, as I was thinking about the ingredients I would have to shop for to prepare his birthday meal that evening, I remembered a few of his birthdays before I quit drinking. I remembered the grand gestures I'd made by buying his favorite bourbon or a couple of bottles of expensive French wine, only he'd never asked for alcohol. In fact, I distinctly remember him straining to feign gratitude because he knew that I was really buying those things for me. 

I was showing him exactly who I was and in turn, he was showing me.

Creation is the antidote to most states of my discomfort. It serves both being and doing. Engaging in a creative act requires every inch of you. Try writing while distracted, it's all but impossible. And even if you're stitching in front of Netflix, you're really only doing one or the other. Grounded in reality is the very definition of sobriety and immersed in creation, I'm being exactly who I am and by doing, I'm showing. Through creativity, I can put all of my desires for hopefulness, my pining for visibility, my anticipation of expectations that are ultimately not met. Creation is the medicine.

I'm making the personal universal through this letter I'm writing to you, through the stitching I will do later today, through the birthday meal I lovingly prepared for my husband last night. I get to show you exactly who I am: A woman who changed her story by doing the thing she didn't think she could do.

The good news is that every time you change, you get another opportunity to show the truth of who you are. You get unlimited first times. If you need a witness to your transition, I'm available. Check out Change Your Story. My hope for you is that the reflection you see in the mirror is the one everyone sees, the truth.

I should have seen it coming.

Leave it to an Enneagram type 7 to hack a circumvention to sadness.

It started with a desire to do a little Dolly research (yes, Parton, is there another Dolly?).

I don't think I know anyone who isn't a fan so to give you my Dolly resume feels a little vain, but let's just say, I grew up behind the Piney Veil of East Texas, where country was king and learning the two-step was a rite of passage. But I am working on some content ideas for a zine I'm developing (heretofore entitled Hot Flash) and I pulled up last year's podcast series, Dolly Parton's America, which I'd been saving to savor (and now fulfill a bit of rabbit-holing). 

It had been a minute since I'd listened to the song, My Tennessee Mountain Home, which if you've listened to the pod series, you know it makes a significant appearance. That sent me directly to Spotify to pad my playlist, Gone Country, which shot me right through the Tunnel of Nostalgia, back to my Texas Forested Home. Although full of contradiction, as inside the four walls was far from ideal, growing up as a feral child from the hours of 3pm to 8pm (after school until dinner) on ten overgrown acres was definitely idyllic. 

Longing seems to be my portal to sadness, despair and even grief. I need to go there, even though I resist it. And it prepared me for what was to come, which was a sharing of past and current events in a couple of sacredly held online spaces with beautiful women that I trust with the most tender parts of me. 

When I first heard the word, Stay, or the words Lean In, the rebellious teenager in me screamed, What does that even mean? Like with most suggestions, I have to design a version that works for me. Here's what it looks like:

• I write. I write in my journal. I'm writing this letter to you. I write myself right.

• I listen to music. It's good a sort of trigger for me, and I allow myself to be sad.

• I drastically reduce social media engagement. Social media buffers, which is useful sometimes, but not for staying.

• I do things, but not as a means to change my feelings. The more repetitious the activity (like making), the more I'll ruminate.

• I meditate. It provides a tether to stability so I don't get too unhinged.

Feeling stuck or trapped is as uncomfortable as it gets for me, but I'm learning to be deliberate while I'm there. If I zoom out to see my life on a continuum, every memory is a useful touchstone. And not to keep me in the haze of my own limiting beliefs but to bolster mental clarity. It's like being in the eye of the storm, where space is still. Staying is a reprieve and it offers grace as a soft pillow to lay my head. 

What does staying mean to you? I'd be remiss if I didn't offer my space as a place of reprieve. There's room to breathe with lots of soft pillows, piles of journals and pens with unlimited ink. See you there.

It's like Googling your unconscious.

The answers are in you, sometimes you just need a gentle nudge.

So do you tarot? (Yep, it's a verb.)

I've used The Wild Unknown Tarot deck for a bit over four years. I use it by pulling a card every morning every morning and when I miss, I feel the absence. Here are some things that I've learned by engaging in this daily practice:

• I'm often swirling around something but I can't quite name it. It's uncanny how often the card I pull names it for me. The byproduct of that is often a shift in perspective that can lead to some writing or even better, clear motivation for new action.

• Occasionally I'll pull the same card for two (even three! It's happened) days in a row for those times when I'm an extra slow learner. Or the same card or cards within a suit will just show up a lot in a given month. It's never not an invitation to take a deep pause and reflect. 

• Sometimes I'll pull a card in the morning hour and it's one that is not particularly in the upper register of emotions that I prefer, like the Nine of Swords, and I'm all, Wrong, Tarot! I don't have no stinkin' anxious thoughts or worries until that night, that is. It will be the last hour before I go to bed and sure enough, something will get me spinning. Maybe that's confirmation bias but it's not like I think about the card all day waiting for a shoe to drop either. I like to think it's just magic like that. That's a bias too, I just like that one better.

• Finally, tarot has been an invaluable tool in my recovery. Some people use a daily reflections book (I wrote a really good one if you don't have it, btw), but tarot always resonated with me best. I think it's because it doesn't tell me what to do and instead, it asks me to dive into my own well of knowings. If sovereignty is a human aspiration, tarot is the best way I've found to build the muscle.

I've resisted buying other decks than The Wild Unknown because I've just wanted to learn this one thoroughly. I'm happy with that choice and now I honestly feel I'm connected to it. A friend recommended this one and for the first time I'm considering adding a second deck (it is really beautiful). I feel like I could make a clean transition between the two now without sacrificing any energy. 

So, do you tarot? Tell me about your experience, I'd love to hear. And if you don't have a pretty silk to wrap your deck's energy in, I make beautiful tarot card bags. They are few-of-a-kind, as they are made from recycled fabrics. That's an extra dose of juju right there, but perhaps I'm biased.

That time I yelled at Google.

And then I exploded into a cloud of glitter stardust and butterflies.

I love to be the clown on social media. Or I should say, loved. I loved to stay up late into the night, eighth glass of wine and bleary-eyed, and interject my wit into the comments of my friends' Facebook posts. Sometimes I'd strike up a banter, often it was uninvited or inappropriate and they were like, Who invited the clown? When FB memories occasionally reminds me, the posts are so transparent, the sad clown trope just bleeds out.  My reaction now is compassion for myself (with a side of cringe.)

When I get jokey on social media these days, it's judicious and discerning for the most part. Interesting how one can read the room better when she isn't squinting through one bloodshot eyeball. Even with that pause, I have to say that most of my best ideas come out my mouth like they were catapulted.

Case in point: a friend (my age, this is relevant) posted on Facebook that she was thinking of starting a zine, and referenced back to one she contributed to years ago. I took a beat, assessed the crowd and then volleyed in that I had also contributed to the formidable Austin zine of the 90s, Dry Heave (sarcasm, but also true) and if I were to start a zine today, I'd call it Hot Flash.

After I had a minute to come down from the high I get when I deliver a good zinger, I was like, Sondra, that is actually a brilliant idea! And now that my brilliance isn't just left on a barstool but has a chance at life, I Googled it to see if it's been done before. And this is what I got:

Are you serious, Google? No, I don't mean "hot flash wine". I actually mean something quite the opposite of that. I mean, igniting this fiery feminine energy and shooting it out like a laser beam, intentional and precise. I mean, creating something magical out of thin fucking air. I mean, taking your search suggestion, popping it in the toaster, slathering with avocado and a pinch of Himalayan salt and eating it for a snack. 

That's what I mean.

So should I start a zine called Hot Flash? Rhetorical question (unless you want to comment and I love it when you do), because it's happening. I've already visualized the cover and much of the content in my dreams and morning meditation. 

And here is the true brilliance to experience as a sober creative: I can spend time nurturing ideas just for the joy of doing it. I don't have to have it all figured out. I don't have to know that people will see it and like it, that it will make me successful or be a worthy venture. The worthiness is in the thrill it brings me to take an idea, mold it and shape it until it becomes a precious thing I can hold in my hand.

If you want some guidance and structure to help you take an idea from lightbulb to tangible, I can mentor you through my Change Your Story coaching program. You can be someone who has follow-through, someone who gives ideas a chance at life, someone who makes something magical out of thin fucking air. I hid deep pain behind my clown make-up, I know that pain intimately. I changed the story. And now I'm glitter stardust and butterflies. 

My one regret...

But I'm going to start with the good stuff first.

The few years leading up to quitting alcohol, I went from wanting to die every other day to counting my breaths until it was time to go to bed. After twelve months or so of days practicing this new way to live, I started to catch a glimpse of personal aspirations again. As time healed, eventually I could hold that same capacity for my children.

As parents, we often want our children to want what we want, mirror our own qualities and habits (particularly the ones we like). More often, we want them to do what we tell them to do and to NOT do what we tell them to avoid. But if you've had kids for longer than a minute, you know that if you wax on every day for two years about the evils of SpongeBob SquarePants, the first sleepover they have, they're going pull an all-nighter in a blanket fort watching SpongeBob (anecdote based on a true story, not mine).

At some point, you learn that unclenching your grip is way more effective. I'm not so sure I would have been in full acceptance of this had I not gotten sober: kids do what you do, not what you tell them to do. And they don't always do it on your timeline and that's okay.

In light of getting sober, I've wanted my kids to enjoy my healthier coping tools for life, like exercising and reading, but my son just wasn't picking up what I was putting down. It wasn't until he experienced some mental health issues of his own this year, and trust me, I wanted to come at him so hard with a list of everything he should do to help himself feel better, but instead I just kept doing what I do. Something shifted for him shortly after and he picked up a skateboard. Now every evening when he feels himself sliding, he tells me it's time to hit the streets. Now that Covid Summer is winding down, he's connecting some threads he's been exploring and has jumped on his bike to the used bookstore three times in a week.

That being said, if I had to name one regret, it's that I will never have a baby as a sober Mom. Grief can be a mysterious emotion for me, but this can knock the breath out of me. However, I can't change that. I can only write this new story. 
So like you other Mamas reading this, I'm just going to keep doing what I do. Our kids will still make choices we wish were different but keep modeling the solution. Our kids may not be listening but I promise, they are watching 🦋

If you are on the cusp of a transition, you can see your next phase but it feels just out of reach because old stories of regret or shame are keeping you circling the drain...if you are ready to move from survivor to thriver, I can help you rewrite that story. Modeling a solution is the good stuff and my hope is you get there too.

It ain't for the faint.

Life, that is.

Another Black man shot in the back and the RNC suggesting a family vote where the "Man of the House" has the last word.

If you've been sober through this mess, please take a minute to acknowledge your courage and your unbelievable strength. Most people are using alcohol right now to turn off this steady stream of fuckery, so seriously, give yourself a hug and a high-five.

This is not like the time I renewed my driver's license before I got a ticket and expected a parade and bouquet from my husband but instead got a golf clap and a "Welcome to Adultland". No, this is hard and I just needed to say that.

Unpacking last week, I came across this list I'd written on the back of a handmade Mother's Day card from my son. He was in kindergarten, it was 2008, I was almost 40 and pregnant with Chloe.

What I need you to know about this is no matter the delicious taste of freedom I was experiencing at this moment, I went right back to drinking and even weaned my daughter early because I couldn't stop. I could not mitigate early motherhood, it had been no different with my first. I unraveled quickly and I had no other strategy for gluing myself together than with the temporary stickiness that wine provided.

I had no support. I was delusional to believe that the resilient human spirit succeeded alone. When and how did I internalize this message? I can't tell you the precise moment or even a specific person I was modeling. My only explanation for this story is that I was searching for my reflection in a capitalist, hierarchical, patriarchal culture and I could never find it. The only way to digest that lie was to wash it down with alcohol.

What I know now that I didn't know then: there isn't anything we can do well, alone. No thing. You don't even need a village necessarily, you just need one other person. You need someone who can be the glue when you unravel, who can provide a shelter when you're getting pelted, who can be a structure when you are without form. 

I hope you have someone but if hope isn't getting you very far right now, I can be your person for a leg of this marathon. Putting words to your needs, saying them out loud is a huge and courageous first step. Consider this your bouquet.

xoxo

Brevity, FF's sake.

Because I've been talking A LOT lately.

But I have a lot to say and when I'm excited, it's just what happens. I'll have to retreat to a dark room soon for restoration, so thank you for bearing with me. I'll try and keep this letter short and just spill the facts on what I've been up to lately.
 

• Still unpacking.

• I moderated a panel of creative leaders in recovery with Tammi Salas last Friday for The Creative High Film Inspiration Series. The closing gathering is tomorrow, featuring one more workshop but if you buy a ticket, you can get access to the previous workshop and panel. It was fun and such an inspiring group of fellow creatives. 

• Tammi and I are doing some short-ish riffs on The Unruffled Podcast this month. This week, we released one all about the media we're consuming and the next two, we are each talking about the evolutions of our recoveries. Mine is up first, and I may be dropping some transparency, so be sure to tune in!

• I was interviewed this week on my friend Jodi White's new podcast, Journals of a Love Addict. Not sure when it's dropping but look out for it, I'm sure I'll share on IG.

• Speaking of IG, I'm doing a new Enneagram series, and this one is all about autonomy. I'm typing some 80s/90s fictional characters for fun. So far no one has challenged me so maybe I'm nailing it. (Or no one cares .)

• Speaking no one caring, got sucked into the Compare And Despair vortex recently when I was looking at other people who were doing what I do and doing it longer and better. Ever do that? So I started thinking about how I could personally stamp my message because that's staying in solution. I've been noticing all of the new light and shadow patterns in my newly remodeled house, because that's what photographers be like, and remembered back when I was in photo school and how I took self-portraits (pre-selfie) all the time. So I'm using my skills and that medium to deliver some power-pose messages. I wouldn't hate it if you joined in! Tag me, I'd love to see them!

• Finally, I'm still in full purge and marked all the caftans in my Marketplace down! I'll get back to stitching soon but until then, I'll just say, Enjoy!

Ok, that was supposed to be brevity, FF's sake but I guess I'm not quite there yet. Ride it while you got it! I'd follow that with, that's what I always say but honestly I've never said that. See, I can't stop talking. 

Home is where your Pyrex is.

And your shoes. And your KitchenAid standing mixer. And...

I've been writing this post in my head for days now and there's no way to say it without sounding both insensitive and sappy. So here I go...

I'm overly sentimental about things. I'm a maximalist. And for the last year, my family and I have been pared down in a small apartment with just the minimum. And it's not that I longed for my stuff daily, in fact, I didn't think about it much. But I knew that was temporary and since I've been reunited with my belongings, I was so happy to see them. I know that "home" is not your "stuff" but without my stuff, I didn't feel at home.

Americans have a lot of stuff. We had to go to the Container Store yesterday because one of the Elfa closet organizers was missing a piece, and I couldn't believe how packed that store was. A hundred people in there buying contraptions to organize their stuff. On the way there, we whizzed by a homeless encampment under the overpass. Austin recently passed an ordinance that allows for public camping and since then, there have been elaborate structures erected with tents and shopping carts and lean-tos. As we drove, I wondered if they longed for the home from which they'd had been displaced, one that had photo albums and mementos and a favorite blanket or sweater. I wondered if it felt like home without their stuff. 

My son recently turned 17 and based on his room design plans, I knew that he would be parting with some things upon moving back in. I didn't know how it would effect me though. I expected that he'd finally let the Legos go but he even wanted to release things he'd just been gifted two Christmases ago. It's like I want him to be more sentimental than he is, I want him to think about home in the same way I do. As I've been unpacking, I keep thinking about the day that both my kids are gone. Perhaps I'll think about stuff and home differently, maybe home will be everything my husband and I can pack into an RV and drive across the country. At least I can make decisions about things, what to keep, what to let go. When I was still drinking, I would let things linger in boxes for years after a move. I've changed, and I'm certain I'll change again.

One thing I am sure about is this, I no longer wish I was someone I'm not: a minimalist, unsentimental, more cursory in my decision-making. I spent many years beating myself into submission of who I thought I "should" be, but none of this became crystal clear until I got sober. If you need help removing alcohol from your life so you can trace the essence of who you are, I can help you. Sign up for Change Your Story today. Today is a good day to begin.

Just Call Me Miss A. Chance

I guess that's better than Miss A. Ditch or Miss A. Self-inflicted-black-eye. 

Do you ever wake up incredulous that you were never a dancer on Broadway even though the religion practiced in your childhood home forbade public dancing so the nearest you ever got was memorizing Pat Benatar's moves from Love Is A Battlefield via MTV?

Are you ever in disbelief that you don't have a song on the radio because you are at least as good a singer as Cher or Madonna but you've never even had one voice lesson? 

Are you astonished that your book hasn't been turned into a movie yet when you haven't even written the book?

JUST ME???

And these aren't even missed opportunities, really, they are opportunities never pursued. I simply made other choices that WEREN'T THESE. Yet, why do I still long for the ships that have sailed? Arguably, I can take a dance class and a voice lesson and write a book...all of these are available to me (especially as a woman who no longer wakes up with a hangover). What are most likely not available, though, are the accolades and validation and I'm embarrassed to admit that sometimes this keeps me from the pursuit of desires this late in the game of life. 

So yeah, I just said that. 

I will forever be a cheerleader for any woman in mid-life who wants to start something new, fulfill a dream, do something unexpected but if there is resistance because without recognition from at least one person, why bother...I get it. I haven't parsed out if social media culture has done this to us or we'd feel the same if we were 50 in the 80's. I guess it doesn't matter, it exists even if I haven't excavated the Why. 

So tell me, friends, do you pursue things just for the sheer pleasure and with nary a nod to validation? Do you give one flip about fame and fortune when considering a longing (and by fame and fortune, I mean some social media high-fives or an atta-girl from a friend)? If you answered YES to either of those questions, show me your ways, Miss R. U. Yoda!

As for the ships I did catch, I am a pretty good sustainable designer and seamstress. I've put in the time so I can say that with 100% confidence (which gives me less need for validation, interestingly enough). If you do want to give me some atta-girls, however, I'll take them.