Danielle Hines's Blog, page 4

A Life of Softness

Celebrating 12 years of abstinence from bulimia today ❤️

This is the first year where I feel like a completely different person than who I was then—as if the mere thought of that level of self-harm is foreign to me now.

I am here for a life of softness.

For the past 11 years, I have used these posts to offer myself some grace, to celebrate how far I've come, and to implore us all to stop commenting on other people's bodies. To allow us all to exist in a space of body acceptance.

This year, I want to offer a lifeline to those who are suffering. Yes, there are organizations like Body Brave and NEDA, and please do use them—use their programs, resources and guidelines. Seek professional help. YES.

And... write.

So much of what I was suffering with mentally and emotionally was contained in a tailspin of thought. The only way I could begin to untangle it was to write.

I began by journaling. Then blogging. And eventually, my mind relented, and my throat eased enough to say out loud that I needed help.

Your relationship with food can be healthier. You can be gentler with yourself and your body. It will mean meeting a wounded part of you who is in desperate need of love and kindness. And it may mean your body will change.

Just keep in mind: you can have and deserve a life of softness.

I want that for you as much as I embrace it for myself.

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Soon, you'll be 18. I know this.

Letting go of you

and letting life be as it will

and letting myself rest in the sadness of that for a while.

The world is shifting again, and I’m still playing catch-up from the last round of changes.

You are blanketed in possibility with your crown fixed firmly and beautifully to your head. There is nothing you cannot do. And there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you when you need me.

All those years of nonstop everyday-ness still live in my brain like an automatic download every morning. But that’s not how it is anymore.

I can let go.

All the homework, and driving, and sleepovers, and activities, and meals, and friend dramas, and arguments, and breakups… it’s just different now.

I can let go.

Soon, you’ll be 18. I know this. And it’s not that you need me less (though you do) as much as it is that you need me differently.

So I can let go.

And, baby, I promise. I’m trying.

I am trying.

For now, though, I am letting myself rest in the sadness. Because you are my baby, and there is a part of me that was birthed at the same time you were birthed, and that part will never, ever, ever let you go.

It is what it is. ❤️

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Writing The Sweetwoods...

From book 3, Sweetwood Christmas

Zena needed to splash some cold water on her face before she

met with this guy. She made her way to the bedroom that was

always reserved for her. The nerve of Holly Blake! And how come Miss

Divorced from NYC knew about her aunt and uncle before Zena did?

It was maddening.

She rounded the corner at the top of the stairs and headed down

the hall leading to the set of rooms that were designated for Zena and

her brothers. Ever since she was little, it was a source of pride that she

had a bedroom to herself while Jacob and Keith had to share. Auntie

A was a fierce defender of the decision. “A girl needs a space of her

own,” she’d said.

But as she approached the doorway of her room, she was horrified

to find it occupied—so horrified that she let out a shriek.

“Ah!” shouted a tall, dark-haired man in his thirties. He recovered

quickly, more quickly than Zena. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “You

startled me.”

She could not help the expression her face made at that. “I startled

you? This is my room!”

The man looked confused. Zena put together that this was the “underwear

lawyer” and yes, he was good-looking. And well-dressed. And

smelled like leather, lemons, and smoke. He pointed to a suitcase on

the floor, then to himself. “I—uh, this is where Joseph left my things

but I can absolutely move if this is your room, Ms.?”

“Sweetwood,” she said. “And I think I see what has happened.

Joseph thinks he’s hilarious.”

He stepped toward her, his hand outstretched. “Ms. Sweetwood,

I am Gabe Da Silva, and I’m very sorry for the mix-up. I’ll gather my

things at once if you can point me to a different room.”

Zena shook his hand and sighed. “Yeah, come on,” she said, already

hating that he was being nice and so, she had to be nice in return. “You

can sleep in my brothers’ room next door.”

“They won’t be needing it in the coming days?” Gabe asked.

Pre-Order The Sweetwood Series

She laughed. “God, no. They haven’t set foot in this house since we

were all kids. I’m the only one who is still in regular contact with our

aunt and uncle.”

“Ah, so you’re the niece.”

“And you must be the smart lawyer because you put that together

so quickly,” she said, regretting the sarcasm almost immediately. Why

could she never play it cool in these situations? Her emotions always

seemed to get the better of her.

But Gabe let the comment go as he grabbed his things and followed

her to Jacob and Keith’s room. “Thank you for this,” he said curtly.

He was clearly waiting for her to leave, and she realized that she

had probably offended him. Well, too bad. She wasn’t apologizing.

This guy was literally here to break up her Aunt and Uncle. Who

cared if he looked like he belonged on a billboard in Times Square?

She wasn’t going to go out of her way for him. No way. She was going

to break him, make him feel like garbage for what he was doing to

her family.

“You’re welcome,” she uttered in spite of herself.

~~~

Gabe closed the door and swallowed hard. The niece was here! And

she was beautiful… and kinda mean. He really should be accustomed

to being automatically disliked based on his line of work, but

this felt different. She seemed genuinely hurt by his presence.

Even now he was picturing how tightly she’d held her red lips and

how her dark hair kept getting in her eyes the more frustrated she

became. And the way his body reacted to her—as if she glowed with

both excitement and warmth. He felt instinctively drawn to her, which

was confusing considering the circumstances.

In fact, his thoughts were going against every cutthroat lawyer

instinct he normally had. He found himself mentally researching

ways to help her. But maybe it wasn’t just the beautiful niece inspiring

these ideas. Adora had seemed so sad and almost… dissociated. Gabe

didn’t know her, of course. But that didn’t change the fact that something

was off.

So, what was he going to do about it? As Adora’s lawyer, he was

meant to be working on her behalf. Of course, she hadn’t officially

hired him yet. Cherry was on vacation for a few days, not back until the

day after tomorrow so Gabe was waiting on the papers to be drawn up.

No money had been exchanged. Nothing had been signed. This meant

he had some time to help the niece. Was it a sketchy, unprofessional

move? You betcha.

After a hot shower, shave, re-application of cologne, a fresh suit

change, and one last look in the mirror, Gabe was ready to knock on

her door. And a minute later, they were face to face.

Credits: Book Trailer created by viocreatevfx.com, Music by Keoni

The Power of "Yes"

My son ran joyfully through the neighbourhood splash pad, his menacing, yet innocent laugh flying through the air. I was watching him closely, but making a point of letting him be. He was six years old now. He didn't need to me every ten seconds anymore.

My dear friend sat beside me playing a game on her phone. We were both quiet today. The air was warm and the breeze light, a perfect day to run through water without a care.

I felt soft. The past few months had rendered me so. A lot of letting go and a lot of prayer had brought me to this point.

"Goodness, your eyes are full," said my park bench companion looking up from her tiny screen. "You seem on the verge of many things. As if you have some decisions to make."

I tucked my thumbs under the straps of my black tank top and tugged at them gently. "You're bang on, as usual," I said quietly. There were many moms around us and the turn of this conversation made me shy.

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"Well, go on then," she urged, putting her phone away in her white leather bag.

I shifted myself toward her and lowered my head slightly.  "There were things in my life that just weren't working. I let them go." I looked up briefly to spy my son. He was helping a little girl who had tripped and fallen. I smiled and continued. "I told you before that I had been living my life for other people."

She nodded. "Yes, I remember."

"I've stopped doing that," I said with a certainty that surprised even me a little. "I started being honest about what I wanted."

My friend gave tiny claps in celebration and I had to laugh.

"I know, right?" I said. "As a student of spirituality, one of the things we're encouraged to do is to share everything with our Inner Guide...with Spirit. I began to tell Spirit about everything I wanted and as I did I could feel this heavy, underlying feeling of guilt...like I didn't deserve to be happy."

"Yes, sweetie. I know it well."

"So I would feel this and tell Spirit about that as well. But here's the thing, I have many wants and desires, but I've lived enough or in such a way that I know that getting what I want won't make me happy."

"Right. Yes," she said, nodding emphatically.

I shielded my eyes from the Sun and scanned the playground for my child who was putting his face up against  a plastic whale spout. "Being honest about what I want and then letting it go and declaring that I am open to getting what I need, now that...that felt good. Scary, but good."

"Scary because you don't fully trust your Inner Guide yet."

I took a deep breath and looked down at my lap again. "Yeah, I still feel like I've lost so much."

"And yet?"

"And yet, it's all ok. It's better than ok some days even." I felt myself smile. It wasn't even a conscious choice to do so; I just did it. "So beginning to trust has been kinda trippy. Lately, everything I've asked for in earnest has come my way."

My friend grinned. And it was the kind of grin that said: "Been there."

"I was honest about the relationship that I wanted, and it circled back to me. I was honest about my short-term work goals, and an opportunity showed up with ease. And I was honest about needing a big kick in the butt to force me out of my rut and out of the country, and lo and behold, it appeared."

"This is all great! So why aren't you smiling anymore?" she asked.

I brought my knees up to my chest and tucked my chin in between. "I haven't said yes to any of it yet."

"You're scared."

I nodded.

My friend sighed and sat back against the bench looking out toward the playing children. "You know, I've had moments where I've felt like my own wills and desires were not actually my own. I've had moments where they seemed planted in my heart from some lovely unknown place. And they felt true. They felt right. It didn't necessarily stop me from being scared about seeing them come to fruition, but it did ease the guilt of getting what I wanted because I had an inkling that this was me living my divine purpose. This was me being truly helpful."

I could feel a tightness in my chest begin to ease and I had not even realized it was there. "I think that's what these are too. The relationship, the job, the kick in the butt. I think I'm meant to say yes."

Just then my son came running up to me, soaking wet and blissfully out of breath. "Mommy, I just met a boy named Jack. He wants to be my friend. I think I have to say yes," he told me, huffing and puffing.

I pulled him close not caring how wet he was and kissed his temple. "Then do it, baby," I said. "Go tell him 'yes'."

💞

**originally written September 2014

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Scenes from a Bridal Salon

“Are we covering up the tattoos?” called the young woman from the dressing room.

Her friend, the bride-to-be, scoffed in reply. “We would never cover up Mama Jade and Raven Sky.” She turned to me. “Her ancestors,” she whispered with a wink and a smile.

Of course, she knew I could hear them. We were all packed into the bridal salon like passengers on a streetcar at rush hour. Banquet chairs lined one side of the hall with mirrored change rooms on the other. My daughter was trying on prom dresses while I sat holding myself tightly. It was still odd being in such close quarters with this many people.

The bridesmaid friend walked out clad in a gorgeous gold satin gown. Her intricately beautiful tattoos now on full display, she beamed when she saw her reflection. “It looks so much better than I thought!” she said. “I can see myself in this. I’m dancing; I’m doing shots.”

“You’re fixing my train and getting me snacks,” the bride retorted, smiling drily.

The friend waved her off. “Once you say your vows, you’re Tim’s. He’ll handle you.”

“Mm hm,” said the bride with a roll of her eyes. “So how’s the size? Your weight may fluctuate between now and November.”

“Not likely,” said the bridesmaid with confidence. “I like to say I’m a sturdy two thirty.”

The bride laughed out loud. “A sturdy two thirty and loyal to the bone! I’m the luckiest.”

“You are.”

And then my daughter alit from the dressing room, glowing in a shimmery baby blue gown. I gasped for the sixth time that day at her effortless beauty. “I love it, baby,” I said. “It matches your eyes.”

She held her phone up and spoke into the mirror. “So, my mom likes this one—says it matches my eyes. But I’m not sure. I’ve got these hip dips and they’re like so prominent in this dress.”

It takes me a second to realize she’s sending a snap message to her friends and not actually speaking to me. She turns to me with a smile. “Should I try on the purple one?” And I nod.

On the other side of me, a woman in her early seventies is trying on a sequinned gown and complaining to her friend. “These dinners,” she moans. “By the time I’m done buying dresses for this cruise, I’ll have spent more money than the actual room price.”

“You’re lucky,” replied the friend. “Joe doesn’t take me anywhere.”

“Well, you’re not missing much, Nancy,” she said. “Dave loves to cruise but I think he’s nostalgic for when he would go with his parents in the 60s. It was classy back then, dignified. Now, I dunno… it feels more like ridiculous indulgence in a burning world.”

“It’s never ridiculous to seek out joy,” said the friend softly.

“Mom! Can you zip me up?” called my daughter.

“Yes, baby,” I said.

Lost Without Her

Lily had always been the one to direct their days. That was, perhaps, the biggest adjustment that he had to make when she passed. How to fill the time that she had so capably plotted out for him all those years? He loved routine and predictability. With Lily gone, all that lay before him was chaotic potential, a sea of hours and minutes that seemed to scream at him. He’d heard other widowers complain about the silence, but to Mr. Ivankov it was the noise that hurt his heart.

At first, Wendy helped. She and Geoff came to stay at the house for the funeral and a few weeks after. But soon Wendy became increasingly twitchy and uncomfortable. Too many reminders of mom, she’d said. And Mr. Ivankov did not know how to handle a comment like that. Was he supposed to rid the house of her? Lily had always whispered that Wendy was a selfish creature, and he was seeing it now. It was strange—he’d always felt sure of his role as a father with Lily around, but those weeks with his daughter and son-in-law in his house showed him that something was missing. He should not need his wife in order to connect with his own family. Was this another thing Lily was right about? Was he lost without her?

It took him years to settle into that fact. He may be lost without her but his alternative was suicide and that was not an option. No, he would have to muddle through as best he could. And though her voice was always in the back of his mind, he could silence it for a while when he was with his animals. He’d never felt needed—his whole life. He had never been anyone’s best friend. His parents had always put one another first. And his wife was entirely self-sufficient, almost to the point of ignoring him altogether. Wendy flailed, of course, but she had married so young rendering his fatherly presence irrelevant. The animals though were drawn to him.

There was an unspoken bond—as if they had all agreed this is the way it would be now. They would come to him for food, for comfort, for shelter. He would provide, they would accept. 

So, now at Manfred’s home after the horrible fire, he was lost again. He had not seen his beloved raccoons in over a week. The house, or what remained, still gave off heat and a bit of smoke. He was fairly sure they had all been frightened away. What would they do now? Sure, they could search the green bins of the street as they used to, but who would care for them? They had become accustomed to him and he to them. Why did he keep losing things? And not just things, souls he loved?

His mind was still a haze from all the changes. Having lived a life that had looked the same for decades, he could not escape the feeling of overwhelm in his new situation. He was powerless and at the mercy of relative strangers. And yet, there was freedom.

He did not have his newspapers, nor his junk but it was a relief. Since this wasn’t his space, he didn’t feel compelled to fill it. And he also noticed that Lily’s voice was not as loud here. He slept in sometimes, drank three cups of coffee if he wanted. He didn’t have to lighten his tread because Manfred slept like the dead. Now, if he could somehow add Sarah to the mix, this could be a much happier home. He found himself not wanting to leave, only to make his existence here more comfortable.

And he did believe that Manfred liked having him here too. The boy had taken to buying his favourite brand of coffee and setting aside Tuesdays as his laundry day. When he had first moved in, Manfred would spend nights alone in his room, but now he would march downstairs to read his Douglas Coupland novels in the wingback across from him. Mr. Ivankov couldn’t help it. He was honoured.

So, no. Lily had not been right. He was not lost without her. In fact, for the first time, he was finding his own way.

*excerpt from novel-in-progress The Lonely People

Even Though I Hate Being Chased

Yesterday, I played laser tag with my family. It was something my boyfriend and I planned because the kids tend to get cabin fever on Sundays. I wasn't particularly looking forward to it. Being chased is something I do not like at all, but I sucked it up for the kids. Aside from my aversion to being stalked, there are these thoughts that always linger in the back of my mind: "this place will be crowded and busy," "new people are scary," "I don't know how this works, what if I make a mistake?"

For the kids, I put these thoughts aside. For the kids, I did this normal thing that, to me, isn't so normal because of the anxious thoughts it induces. It's amazing what we just blindly do when something is more important to us.

So I went. AND. It was so goddamned fun. I got pummeled. I was chased and shot by strangers and it was awesome! For thirty minutes I told anxiety to eff off and did the hard thing and because it was for the kids, it wasn't hard at all.

Connection is so damn good for us. It lifts our heads up to see the Love. After the end of my marriage, a friend gave me this advice:

"Danielle, trust that God is putting truth at you so that you can truly know peace. Surround yourself with loving support right now. Don't isolate. Go to Big Book meetings, go to ACIM groups. Be part of community and trust that you are being guided."

"Okay," I replied.

But I didn't want to. I wanted to go through life with a zombie-like approach until my kids were asleep and then just cry in bed while looking at Pinterest or writing bad poetry. I wanted to take it all seriously because I wanted it to meansomething. If this pain didn't mean anything, then I didn't mean anything. For me, I could feel the full effects when alone. To be around others meant to deny it. As ever though, I'm willing to be wrong.

And I was.

What my friend was saying was not to deny it. She was encouraging me not to make it precious, like a jewel I hold close and treasure, refusing to let go. No. Don't do that. She was saying: "Go, be you. Don't pretend, but don't make it everything. Go, do normal things with people who love you. Cry if you need to and don't apologize. Be open to God's Love in those you love."

No amount of tweeting or pinning or posting on Facebook is going to give me the kind of connection my soul craves. That comes from God. That comes from good friends. That comes from family. It comes from a decision to see Love instead of fear.

So what does this have to do with laser tag? Everything. More and more I put myself in situations where I feel scared and keep going in order to feel connected, in order to feel joy. I look fear in the face and trust myself to get through it.

Even though I hate being chased. Even though I feel uncomfortable in crowds. Even though I had no idea what to expect. I did it.

I have to celebrate this. It's big. 

Photo by Matheus Bertelli

♥

Congrats

At precisely 7:55, I begin to close up the gallery. For the past eight hours, I have had one customer (an elderly woman asking to use our washroom) and one phone call (wrong number). This has got to be the least successful art gallery in Canada. But why do I even care? Filomena doesn't need the money, and I get paid regardless of how much she sells. Who knows? Maybe I simply want to see Filomena do well.

I lock up the back door, gather my things, and flip the sign from "Open" to "Closed."  My phone buzzes and I get a little excited thinking it's probably my brother, Wes. But it's not. It is, in fact, the last person I would have ever expected to hear from—my ex-boyfriend, Mo.

Hey Bean. Miss u. Just letting u know I'm engaged. Talk soon. Mo.

My first thought is that I can't take any more upsetting news. I can't. I feel dizzy but refuse to give in to another panic attack. Instead, I bolt outside and lock the door. And standing in the freezing cold, I feel the rise of my pulse threatening to push me over the edge once more. I force myself to breathe deeply and the frigid air stings my nose, throat and lungs.

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Mo is engaged. The guy who couldn't commit, who would blow me off for a football game, who couldn't look me in the eye for the final two months of our relationship was going to marry someone. The pain of it feels like someone standing on my chest. It was me all along. I was the problem. He just didn't want me.

And then a memory, an ancient moment in time flashes across my mind: the first time Mo and I were alone together.

He always had a way of letting me know when he wanted me. His stance was closer, warmer somehow and his breathing became faster with a quiet wheeze to it like he wanted me to listen, wanted me to place my ear to his chest to understand.

He walked up to me while I was sitting at the information desk of the museum where we worked. I had just started my shift and he was ending his. We had been friends, he, Christy and I, for about three months at this point and so it wasn't abnormal for him to approach me and start a conversation, it was actually expected. I pretended I couldn't see him coming and instead surveyed him out of the corner of my eye. His walk was assured, almost predatory. He had intentions, I just had no idea what they were.

I took a deep breath. Christy knew I had a thing for Mo. She told me it was blatantly obvious. When I asked her if she thought Mo knew, she tossed me a look that said 'Yeah, dummy.'

"I've been thinking," he said leaning over the desk just out of my field of vision. I turned my head to respond.

"Have you now?" I asked, feigning a confidence I didn't actually have.

He cleared his throat and shifted closer so that he was standing directly in front of me. His security uniform was navy blue. It smelled like soap and looked freshly pressed. I raised my eyes to him. "Yes," he said. "I think people should start calling us Mo and Ro. You know, start something new."

I raised my eyebrow. "But nobody calls me Ro. Not ever. Everyone calls me Bean. You know that."

He just smiled at that. "Like I said, something new."

"And besides," I continued. "What about Christy? Shouldn't she have a name too?"

"She does. It's Christy. It doesn't rhyme with us. This is just about you and me," he said meaningfully.

"Oh," I replied quietly.

"What time are you done here?" he asked, leaning into my desk further and further with each sentence he uttered.

"Six," I said, my voice much higher than usual.

"Okay, I'll be back here at six. I'll take you to the Elephant and Castle. Sound good?"

It was our first date, though I would never call it that in front of Mo. He explained his situation to me that day. I think I hid my disappointment from him as well as I could. There was something between us right from the beginning, but he never told me how he felt about me except to say that he thought I was cute and valued our friendship.

We slept together seven times. I hated myself for keeping track, but I did. In my head, I liked to think those times were special, but they weren't. I know that now.

So this text doesn't have to feel personal. I don't have to feel like I'm nothing because we weren't right for one another. I can breathe, text him back, walk home and move on.

Congrats xo, I type. And with a deep breath, I hit send.

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Image by StockSnap from Pixabay 

To the Girl

So here I am this morning in my sweats, complete with greasy hair, taking a mirror selfie because I don't give a shit right now. And, as it turns out, I think not giving a shit is the most helpful thing I can express. Having tween/teen girls in our house means we have a lot of talks about looks, likes, and just being yourself. They're so smart, crazy-beautiful, hilarious, and incredibly kind. But like everyone, they have their bad days, and so do their friends. Now, I'm just a mom, but if I can say or write anything that will ease the suffering of another, even just a little bit, then I will do it.

To the girl who's feeling ugly,

To the girl whose anxiety is high and whose breath is short,

You are not alone.

And I could write ten thousand words testifying to your beauty and strength, but I think—for now—I'll do something else. I think I'll relate how, in spite of all you believe, when your mind runs out into the dark woods of fear, you can live a good life.

I am thirty-nine (aka: old as dirt) and I have struggled with my weight, appearance, and anxiety since I was ten years old. And despite all of that...

I have fallen in love (more than once), traveled to Europe (more than once), I have swum in the Black sea and floated joyously in the tender waves of Lake Huron.

I have had secret admirers, secret nights—even if I've always just yearned for something stable and true.

I've flown to New York eleven-teen thousand times to see some of the women I love most in this world.

I've held grieving friends through the worst and allowed them to hold me.

I've given birth (more than once), and hold three children so dear it brings tears to my eyes to think of them.

I have written one million words and will write ten million more. Because even though thirty-nine may sound old to you, it is but half a life. And I'm coming at the second half with my head held high.

These I have done, and so much more and NONE of it could be stopped, even if I was believing I was ugly.

Life will carry you, my love, to everything you need. The only variable is how you will feel along the way.

So, keep good friends. Keep the cheerleaders, the protectors, the truth-tellers. Keep the ones who refrain from telling you who you are, and instead remind you. Keep the ones who don't tell you what to do, but help you remember that you already know what's right.

And remember, words like ugly are really just placeholders. What you're really saying is "undesirable" or "different" because there are plenty of people in all sorts of bodies embracing every inch of themselves and living fabulous lives. And ugly? Well, this world will never completely agree on what's ugly or beautiful, not ever. So you may as well let that go.

Take care of you. Take care of your thoughts. Don't avoid; don't gloss over. Question. Because your life won't stop, and you may as well enjoy the ride.

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio

Clarity is a Love Language

"I don't have the energy for her," said Sarah with a flip of her thick brown hair as she and Manfred walked a local, heavily-wooded trail on a mild February afternoon. The sun was high above them, just discernible through the canopy of pines. They both wore heavy sweaters and boots, their dogs at their sides.

She was speaking about her cousin, Shawna, with whom she often butt heads. It was a relationship she had decided was best lived out at a distance. Manfred had always liked Shawna—her pensive blue eyes, shyness and soft-spoken way of saying only what was necessary were comforting to him. To Sarah, however, Shawna's mannerisms seemed to be a constant annoyance—as if something had been planted in childhood that was yet to be reaped.

"What has she asked you to do?" Manfred asked, his tone even.

Sarah shook her head. "It's not like that," she began. "She emailed me, reminding me about a text exchange we'd had a few weeks ago. She wanted me to know how it affected her."

"Okay," Manfred said, encouraging her to continue.

"Basically, she told me she'd felt dismissed. And I'm like, 'So?'" she said, getting animated now. "She and I had been talking about our grandmother, and at a certain point, I didn't like the questions she was asking, so I stopped texting her."

Manfred paused before he replied. This was something he'd learned to do with Sarah. His default was to fix things so she didn't have to feel badly. He hated seeing her struggle and yet, he'd lately realized it wasn't his job to prevent her from ever feeling hurt. "Okay, wait. Are you just wanting to vent right now? Or do you want my honest feedback?"

"Feedback?" she said, eyes wide with humour, holding her mouth tight.

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"So that's how the exchange ended? You stopped replying?"

Sarah stopped. "I didn't owe her anything!" she said. "Like, I get that she was concerned, but it started to feel like she was questioning how I was handling things. And it was the last thing I needed."

"Right," he replied. "I get that. But you didn't tell her that."

"Sometimes silence is an answer," she said, turning forward and leading them all up a steep hill.

"Absolutely," he agreed. "And in this case, your answer made your cousin feel dismissed."

Sarah shrugged. "That's not my problem. I don't owe her a conversation whenever she wants one. I am allowed to have boundaries. It's like she only wants to take out her shit on me."

This was new, he thought. Now she was reading Shawna's mind? "How is she doing that?" asked Manfred finally.

"Because anytime she doesn't like how I treat her, she's got something to say. Like, not everything needs to be a big deal. And I'm sorry, but I'm not responsible for her insecurities."

Manfred pulled his dog gently away from a patch of thorny twigs and quickened his pace to catch up with Sarah. "Of course, you're not. I'm just not sure that she's asking you to be. It sounds more like she wants clear communication between you two. And that's healthier than what you're suggesting."

Sarah let out a noise he took to mean she vaguely agreed. She was being a bit unreasonable, and she knew it. He continued. "Can I ask you something?"

She turned back to him, and, avoiding eye contact, she nodded.

"Is it possible you avoid talking to your cousin because she tends to hit a nerve?"

Sarah rolled her eyes as if he'd said the most obvious thing in the world.

"Right, okay," he said. "Listen, you're right. You don't owe her a conversation whenever she wants one, but I'll be honest with you, Sarah. It sounds like she's asking for the bare minimum here. It sounds like she's asking for clarity and common human decency."

"You haven't read what she posts about me on Instagram," she said softly. "It's all this thinly-veiled crap... memes, reels. I know she's talking about me."

He scratched his head, considering her words. "But if she's as insecure as you say she is, why would it all be directed at you? How can you know it's not something that pervades her life?"

"She's always been jealous of me," Sarah said. "Ever since we were little. Trust me."

They stopped at a bridge and took long sips from their water bottles. "Maybe you're right. And if you're reading her social media posts, a part of you still cares what she thinks. So, where does that leave you two?"

She narrowed her brow in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've got a decision to make. If you don't want to speak to her again..."

Sarah waved a hand dismissively. "I never said that."

"Okay, that's good. Then it would be best if you simply decided how vulnerable you're willing to be with her. And if you're not willing to be vulnerable, offer gentle honesty. She's not disposable, Sarah. She's a human being. And just because you disagree with her doesn't mean you can't tell her that respectfully."

"She triggers me!" she said, heated now. "And I don't have the energy to engage with people who trigger me."

Manfred swallowed hard, feeling the truth of her words. "Got it," he offered quietly. "This is good information, right?"

She wiped at her eyes and laughed sardonically. "I regret bringing this up."

"Okay," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "We can drop it."

She shook her head. "No, it's alright. I just... you're making me see it's not simply her being annoying. I clearly have work to do. And I don't particularly want to do that."

Manfred stepped closer to her and gently kissed her forehead.

"Ugh," she said. "Why can't I leave it? Why can't it just be all her projecting onto me?"

He smiled. "I hear you. But that's not how relationships work—even the ones where you don't see the person often," he said. "But you knew that already."

"Yeah, yeah," she said, a note of exhaustion in her voice. "Too little too late."

Manfred laughed. "Listen, you said you don't have the energy for her at the outset. So, start there. Let her know that you've listened to what she has said and are committed to doing something about it, but it will require you to take time and space. And you can end by saying you will let her know when you're ready to communicate again. Clarity is a love language. And my guess is it's your cousin's love language."

Sarah stopped. "Damn," she said, observing him with love and maybe even a little lust in her eyes. "That's like really mature."

Again, he had to laugh. "Well, that's the result of sending some very immature texts and emails in the past and having to take responsibility for that."

"Got it," she said. "So basically, I'm benefitting from years of you fucking up."

"Yes," he replied. "Yes, you are."

❤️

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Photo by Erik Mclean

*excerpt from my novel-in-progress, The Lonely People