What, Like It’s Hard?

I already wrote one book, why not just one more?

It’s not like I have anything else better to do… Or wait—that’s not true. I have so many fucking things to do, it’s unreal.

So many people who care about me, who deserve for me to love and care for them right back—especially those little (ish) humans who call me Mother.

They definitely deserve my time and attention. They deserve a mom who makes their priorities important to her as well. And they don’t have to get up early or go to a public school for me to do that. We can have a weird, wild-ass schedule and still feel loved and cherished.

The Note That Wasn’t a Note

They asked me last night about their dad’s suicide note.

It wasn’t a note, though. It was a text message.

Both pairs of eyes shoot over to me. And I can't remember if I saved that text or not. I never intended to let them read it in its totality. His self-serving apologies carried little weight for me anyway—especially because of the actions he took immediately after he pressed send that fateful Friday in May, nearly four years ago.

They seemed content enough with that answer. The conversation shifted back to something else that felt more comfortable to talk about. I don’t remember exactly what.

Ghosts of Grief

It’s funny how our brains trail off like that when we get near something uncomfortable from our past.

I find it weird too—the things that pop up from previous memories. And not just old Facebook posts from years past. I mean the ghosts of past holidays, memories of good and bad days, anniversaries of loved ones passing… things like that.

As I approach the anniversary of his death this year, it looks different from previous ones.

• The first anniversary? I was anticipating our vacation to Ireland to spread his ashes.

• The following year? My partner moved in that May.

• Last year? I was completing the rough first draft of my book.

Now I’m here, writing another book, and planning to complete it before May.

Is that crazy of me? To push out a whole other project before the first one is even in print?

One Baby, One Wildfire

That first one is my baby. My life on pages in black and white. So real and raw and scary to share.

This second book feels less personal. Sure, it’s real and raw too—it just has fewer details and less focus on my actual life, so it feels simpler to share it first.

Plus, I think in the back of my mind—or maybe universal intelligence had always gifted me with some bit of foresight—it feels like this was always going to be what happened.

As soon as I began writing, it’s like all these other book ideas bubbled up inside of me.

How would I write just one? I couldn’t. There was no way.

I’d have to write at least four books in my lifetime if I wanted to get my head and heart onto paper in hopes it would help heal humanity and the planet.

So I’m done wondering if I’m nuts.

I’m just devoted to the page.

To the words in my heart that desperately want to land on the right ears. The ones that cry out to me at 3am. Fiending for the right soul to come across these realizations—so that she can save her own life, the way I did.

This Is the One

This will be the book I share first. This will be the one that spreads like wildfire. This one will sell millions. Then people will be begging for my next book—and it’ll sell off the charts.

Oh, and I’m Busy AF Too

I’m also FINALLY going to start The Artist's Way. I’m getting ready to host Self Care Socials with Lyndsey. And I’m starting on my yoga teacher training journey as well.

I learned something in Human Design yesterday: I’m a fighter. Not just someone who can fight, but someone who can have the tendency to fight just for the sake of fighting.

The key to not getting all burnt out, overwhelmed and frustrated in the fight? Find something worth fighting for.

This Book Is Worth It

This book feels like that. The topic of unhealthy relationships that end in death—feels like the thing that’s worth fighting for.

Who gives a flying fuck how many penises are on a soccer field when murder is the number one cause of death in pregnant women, specifically at the hands of their partner?

I know I’m more worried about my kids ending up in a relationship like that than I am what’s underneath the jerseys on a sports field.

My children are more in danger of domestic violence and abuse than they are in danger of an immigrant or a trans human taking some opportunity from them.

Why aren’t people talking about this? Isn’t this the real danger here?

Let’s be real.

Stats That Should Stop You

According to my quick Google search:

• In the US alone, out of 510,000 athletes competing at the collegiate level, there are fewer than 10 who publicly identify as transgender.

• Approximately 20% of college students report experiencing at least one form of intimate partner violence (IPV), including emotional, physical, sexual violence, or stalking.

• Nearly 1 in 3 college women report being in an abusive relationship.

My Son Gets It

My son told me the other day in therapy:

He’s 11 years old, and he understands the importance of emotional intelligence in relationships because of what he saw growing up. He knows that that type of example ends in the type of story that his dad ended in.

I’m glad that he is aware enough on some level to realize that although he wants to be like his father, he wants to be a healthy, emotionally healed version of his dad.

Basically: the dad he didn’t get to have.

The True Legacy

So yeah, forgive me if trans athletes don’t seem that scary. I’m far more concerned with making sure my children have tools and knowledge to regulate their emotions and stay safe and healthy in relationships.

Emotional health and safety within relationships—that’s the generational wealth I want to pass down to my children.

Sure, I wanna hand them a big fat bag and inheritance that will change their lives, so they don’t have to work themselves to death or feel constant stress.

But the true wealth I want to give my children is the ability to have a relationship better than the one their dad and I had.

Not just, “go find someone who’s totally not like your dad.”

Because newsflash: that’s not how it works. We don’t actually do that.

The Real Work

The problem is more within us than around us.

So if all I ever did was tell my kids to avoid someone “like their dad,” they’d just end up finding someone exactly like him:

A gaslighter. A manipulator. A narcissistic pawn-player, trapping them in the same game of cat and mouse, push/pull, rollercoaster, love-bombing bullshit we were stuck in for years.

My kids deserve more than just for me to love and care about them. They deserve for me to work on and heal myself. They deserve for me to learn the things I didn’t know—so I can teach them better.

They deserve to go out and make their own fucking mistakes, not just repeat mine… or the ones of my ancestors.

For All the Kids

All of these kids—the ones who came from unhealthy, unstable homes. The ones who never learned conflict resolution. The ones who were abused. The ones who suffered mistreatment on any level— Too many hugs, not enough hugs… Those scars cut so damn deep.

These kids deserve better.

We all do.

We all deserve healthy relationships—including you. Including me.

That’s what this work is about for me.

Self-love is the best love. Because when you love yourself, you will surround yourself naturally with other people who love you, too.

And the road? The road will rise up to meet you…

Thanks for being here, friend. Thanks for reading this far and for coming along on this journey with me. Speaking of journey… I am almost halfway finished with this new book and if you can’t tell, I’m insanely excited to share it with the world! That’s why I’m sharing it with SubStack FIRST!

Want behind-the-scenes updates as I write this next book, sneak peeks at chapters, and personal reflections I won’t be sharing anywhere else?

I’m reading chapters live, and sharing all kinds of sneak peeks over on my paid SubStack. Join for all the goodies!

There’s so much more to come. Let’s walk this healing path together.

Love you mean it,Mindy