As I flipped the page of a calendar on the fridge, I stared at that word, pausing to feel all that it represents. August. My throat constricted and my stomach clenched. I used to dread August because I have lost eight loved ones over the years in this month.

I had enough. Enough with disregarding the hurt. Enough with shoving aside my emotions. Enough with ignoring my intuition.

It’s certainly been a challenge for me. In fact, my daughter just knocked on the office door, exuberant about sharing an idea for a song she’s writing. I shook my head and told her not now, sweetie. I am writing my weekly story.

Uttering and even writing those three words makes me perspire. I just wiped a palm on my floral pajama pants. And I barely sweat when working out!
Speaking of exercise, I remember one of the first times I met with my trainer. What started as physical therapy to strengthen my post-C section abs (or what was left of them!) has continued. One day, after a year of training with him, he shut off Def Leppard and scratched the back of his head.

My body screeched to a halt. Since when did hump day, otherwise known as Wednesday, morph to bump, bleed, and bruise day? I didn't get the memo. Between scouring drawers for Band-Aids, chewing Tums, and swallowing Advil (this is not a Walgreens advertisement), a question popped into my mind: Why do the littlest things hurt the most?

“It’s not my job to protect the people who don’t protect me.” In the middle of my podcast interview Wednesday, that phrase popped into my head and right out of my mouth. Live on Instagram.
And I didn’t stop there. For the first time, I publicly expressed that I, like my guest Darcey, am a survivor of emotional abuse. Ummm. There’s another first. Using those letters, typing them to form that gut-wrenching word.