I used to run from my emotions like I was running from a house on fire.

Fast. Urgent. Wanting to escape.

Yet no matter how far or how fast I went, they were still there.

If anything, they grew louder, more present, and harder to ignore.

More insistent.
More present.
Harder to ignore.

Until I learned something different.

I have been fascinated with emotions for most of my life.

Not because I understood them—but because I wasn’t allowed to feel them.

When my father died, we were told we could not be sad. We were told to move on, to be strong, to shut it down. And what I came to understand, much later, is that you cannot shut down one emotion without shutting down all of them.

So I did.

And then I became interested.

My mother taught me not to feel. It took a lifetime — and my daughter — to unlearn it.

My father died when I was two.

My mother was left with six children. Five boys and one girl. Me. The youngest.

She did what she had to do. She kept the house running. She kept us fed. She kept moving forward.

Her motto was simple.

No one likes a whiner.

After we hung up the phone, I noticed a strong feeling move through me. I checked in with my heart and stayed with what was there.

First came resentment — resentment that she could travel, that she could get up and go while I felt stuck here.

Underneath the resentment was jealousy. And underneath the jealousy — something I wanted. To travel. My emotions pointed to something real.

But there was still no peace. Something deeper stirred. So I stayed.

Then the word arrived.

Abandoned.

And with it — a memory. Seven years old. My mother has left the country for three weeks. I am staying with my grandmother. I do not feel safe there.

I felt it.

I found myself inside an emotion I didn't recognize. It wasn't despair. It wasn't fear. It was something new.

For a year and a half, my business had been in a season I didn't expect. I kept telling myself to stay open. Stay trusting. Stay generous. Nothing shifted the way I thought it would.

I was sitting with Sarah McCrum. She invited us to notice what was present. That's when it surfaced.

I tried different names. Hopelessness came close but didn't land. Helplessness — too familiar, wouldn't settle.

Then the thought arrived, simple and flat: Nothing I do makes a difference.

It hit like a dull bite. That's when the word came.

Futile.

✧ The Truth Beneath Our Words

It was 7:00 AM.
I was in line at the checkout, holding nothing more than tampons and Advil.
When it was my turn, the clerk smiled and asked,

“How are you?”

With my best smile, I replied,

“I’m fine.”

She looked me straight in the eye and said,

“You’re a liar.”

Last Thursday morning, I asked my partner if he’d like to walk the Lafayette Reservoir with me.
He said he’d love to.

I love walking there early. The birds swoop through the willows.
Morning light shimmers on the water.
Hawks call out their presence across the open sky.

But as we walked, I could tell my partner was in a low mood.

Soon I began to regret inviting him.
Every time I said something, he shot back a snarky comment.
My agitation rose. I started blaming him—for ruining the peace I’d wanted.

And then I caught it.

Returning to Center: Love, Power, and the 25th Gene Key

Would you like to experience more love in your life?
I know I do.

Not just romantic love—but that deep, quiet, peaceful feeling that fills you from within.
I used to think this came from other people or special moments—
a meaningful conversation, a hike in the hills, or a perfect meal.

But now I understand something more:
That feeling of love isn’t something I find. It’s who I am.
It’s the steady hum within me—like bees in a hive.

In a faded ballroom near the San Francisco Airport, I stood on paisley carpet, the chandeliers trembling as planes roared overhead. Richard Strozzi, a sixth-degree black belt in Aikido, had just said:
“Stop and feel your feet.”

I couldn’t.

I knew my feet were there, but I couldn’t feel them. That moment opened a doorway I didn’t know I was seeking—a longing to experience myself from the inside out.