if you have a lot of issues with worrying about your own morality like I do, I truly recommend this poem by Mary Oliver. It is such a great reminder for me. “Wild Geese” You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

A reflection I never saw myself being able to write✨ One year ago today, I was spiraling for a second time because I wasn’t sure what was happening to me, again. Getting through it once was doable but twice? I truly thought I was losing my mind. OCD wasn’t just a shadow in the background — it was a loud, relentless voice narrating fear, doubt, and compulsions into every corner of my life. I couldn’t trust my thoughts, couldn’t rest in silence. I was questioning everything. I was exhausted coasting through the motions of life trying to survive every minute of every day. But today — I’m here. Still imperfect, still human, but finally free in a way I didn’t think was possible. I got here by learning the hardest, most empowering lesson of my life: I had to stop depending on anyone else to pull me out. I had to stop outsourcing my safety, my certainty, my worth. I had to become the person I could rely on — not in a cold, lonely way, but in the most solid, liberating way possible. You see, healing didn’t come when others gave me reassurance — it came when I stopped needing it. When I realized no one could fight the war in my mind for me. It had to be me. Not because others didn’t care — but because I had to be the one to stop running from fear. I had to choose courage over comfort, again and again. And boy was that rough. But I did. Through therapy, I retrained my brain. (Shout out to Casey Knight🙏🏼) I stopped dancing to OCD’s obsessive rhythm and started rewriting the song. And yeah — the beat dropped a few times. But I kept moving forward. Slowly, I started turning my mind into a place I wanted to live in. I made it beautiful. Not by forcing positive thoughts, but by planting seeds of truth: 🌱 Not every thought deserves attention. 🌱 Discomfort doesn’t mean danger. 🌱 Uncertainty is not the enemy — it’s just part of being alive. I started treating my mind like a garden instead of a battlefield. I let go of perfection and started watering what was real, what was kind, what was mine. And let’s be honest — there were still a few weeds. (Hello, OCD — always trying to “check in.” ) Because healing isn’t linear, I still have days where I feel back to square one, but it’s a day, not a week, month, or another year of surrendering. But here’s the “punny” truth: OCD tried to check me, but I checked myself — with compassion, courage, & a whole lot of practice. To anyone still caught in the spiral — I want you to know: you are not broken. You don’t need to wait for someone else to save you. No else will. The strength you’re looking for? It’s already in you. It might be buried under fear, doubt, and rumination, but it’s there — patient and unbreakable. Start small. Start scared. Just start. Because when you stop relying on the world to reassure you, and start trusting your own ability to face uncertainty, you get something even better than comfort — you get freedom, resilience, power & SO much more. You don’t have to control every thought/urge to have a beautiful mind. You just have to stop believing every thought/urge is the truth. You don’t have to be fearless , you just have to act in spite of fear. You are not crazy You are not a monster You are not evil You are human You are capable And if OCD ever tries to take over again, just smile and say, “Nice try. But not today.” — Someone who came back to life, one brave thought at a time 🧡

Hey everyone — I just want to say upfront that as someone who actively deals with real events OCD, most of the posts I share here are going to come straight from my personal experience. Just real & lived reality. Because I know how lonely this type of OCD can feel, and if there’s even one person out there who reads my words and feels less alone — then it’s worth sharing every piece of it. Now… let’s talk about the kind of OCD that doesn’t get enough attention. The kind that doesn’t just whisper scary things — it reminds you of real ones. Real Events OCD. This isn’t about bizarre or outta nowhere intrusive thoughts. This is the kind that takes real things you’ve done — whether it was a genuine mistake, a cringey moment, a bad decision, or even something you already made peace with — and it replays them on a loop like a horror film in your head. It’s the constant questioning: “Am I actually a good person?” “Was that actually wrong and I just didn’t realize it?” “What if I’ve hurt someone and don’t deserve to be okay?” And it’s exhausting. I’ve had moments where I can’t focus, can’t sleep, can’t breathe because my brain pulls up something from years ago and convinces me I’m evil, dangerous, unforgivable. I can be having a good day, laughing with people I love, and boom — my mind hits me with “Remember this? You should feel horrible about it forever.” Even if I’ve apologized. Even if I’ve changed. Even if I’ve done the work. Real Events OCD doesn’t care. It thrives off your guilt. It uses your conscience against you. And when you’re young — still figuring out who you are, still healing — it makes you question whether you even deserve to move forward. That’s what’s so cruel about it. It doesn’t just make you anxious. It makes you feel like you’re a danger to the people you love. That you’re secretly the villain in your own story. But let me tell you something I’ve been learning — slowly, painfully, but honestly.. You are not your past. You are not your worst mistake. And you are not the voice in your head trying to punish you forever. You’re a person with a heart. A person who cares. And that’s exactly why OCD picked this flavor to mess with you. ERP is SOO helping. So is community. But the biggest help? Giving myself permission to stop chasing reassurance and start living again. I do not have to confess, over and over, for the rest of my life. I do not have to torture myself to prove I’m good. I can grow — and growing is enough. So if you’re reading this and you know exactly what I’m talking about… I see you. I am you. Let’s keep showing up. Let’s keep living. Let’s keep healing — even when OCD tells us we don’t deserve to. You do. I do. We all do.

I have a 56 year old brother who struggles with substance abuse, homelessness and mental health. I began to notice a patter that when his life would be thrown into the maelstrom, it would often trigger my OCD and put me into thought spirals and feelings of depression. Well, I’m here again. My brother is in a South Florida drug rehabilitation clinic and of course I’ve back slidden into an OCD spike. My brother is at the end of his rope, and hinted to not having the strength to do this anymore, so I just shared this metaphorical story with him just now. I think it was written by a Christian author years ago, and their name escapes me. When I texted him the story, it occurred to me that there is relevance here for my fellow OCD sufferers. I’m am not a holy roller by any means, in fact I’m a lapsed Catholic who often struggles with faith and its meaning. The Lizard on the Bow: A Story About Holding On There was a man who had a tradition of taking a quiet rowboat ride early each morning. He’d walk down to the lake, uncover his old canoe, and slowly push off from the dock. It was his time to clear his head and connect with God. One morning, he set off like usual. The lake was calm, and the air was still. As he rowed out to the center, dark clouds began to gather. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and soon the rain began to fall. The peaceful morning was quickly turning into a storm. Deciding it was best to turn around, the man began rowing back toward the safety of the shore. That’s when he noticed something—on the bow of the boat, just ahead of him, sat a small lizard. It must’ve jumped on when he launched from the dock. Now it was stuck—surrounded by water, perched on an unfamiliar surface, and the storm was closing in. The lizard started to panic. It darted back and forth, unsure what to do, its tiny body trembling with fear. The man, watching, began talking to it—softly, calmly: “Hang in there, little guy. We’re heading back. Just hold on—we’re only 500 yards from shore.” But the wind picked up. The waves slapped against the sides of the boat. The lizard became frantic, searching for an escape—darting left, then right, then freezing, overwhelmed. “Almost there,” the man said again, “Just 200 yards to go. You’re doing fine. Stay with me.” But the storm didn’t let up. The lizard, confused and terrified, couldn’t see what the man saw—the steady progress toward safety. All it knew was fear. Despite the man’s reassurance, it made a desperate leap into the water. It didn’t realize that shore was just ahead. That rescue was almost here. That if it had just waited… just held on… it would’ve made it. The Message This story isn’t really about a lizard. It’s about us—about how, in the middle of life’s storms, fear and pain can cloud our judgment. When everything feels too dark or too broken, we start looking for an escape. Even if it’s one we can’t undo. But God is in the boat. And He sees what we can’t. He knows how close the shoreline is—even when we don’t. Sometimes, all we’re being asked to do is hold on a little longer. Not to fix everything. Not to be perfect. Just… hold on.