Hello

When I was about eight years old, I stepped out onto the porch of my parents’ house in Massachusetts. It was a beautiful spring day, and my mom, dad, and grandma were all sitting together, soaking in the sunshine.

 

Something important to note about this moment: my mom didn’t like my grandma. There was a long, complicated history between them, and any time my grandma was around, my mom would get really tense. But my mom also believes in hiding her emotions—she sees vulnerability as an open invitation for others to prey on you. So unless you knew her well, you probably wouldn’t have noticed just how tense she actually was.

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Enter me, strolling in from the back, casually tossing out, “Mom, your roots are getting really bad—you should probably dye your hair.”

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In that moment, my mom lost it. She laid into me about my “smart mouth,” snapping with a level of heat that definitely didn’t match the comment.

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I felt so ashamed and embarrassed in that moment. Looking back, I feel deep sadness for that little girl—because she didn’t deserve that. Some people might disagree, but let me explain.

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That wasn’t the first time something like that happened. And it wasn’t the last. Because of the trauma I experienced, my mind has blocked out most of those memories. What I’m left with is a lingering, gnawing feeling that I was never enough.

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I couldn’t control my mind. I couldn’t be the perfect daughter. I couldn’t even make myself do the things I genuinely cared about. I lost my sense of direction. Instead of owning my life, I followed others—slipping from one relationship to the next, hoping someone would finally fill that gaping hole inside me.

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The truth is, my neurodivergence could’ve been a gift. A beautiful strength. But in the environment I grew up in, it felt like a curse. It made me “the smart mouth.” I was intelligent, sure—but also ditzy, or at least that’s what I was told. “Blonde,” they’d say, in that sarcastic tone that stings more than it lands.

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It took a long time—a lot of learning, unlearning, and therapy—to forgive my parents. That wasn’t easy, especially because they haven’t changed much. I had to accept that I couldn’t change them. Instead, I had to become the kind of person I wanted to be. I had to find new role models—and learn how to recognize the right ones.

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College gave me my first real taste of freedom. Without the constant noise of my parents’ judgment, I could finally explore who I was and what I wanted. And when I took my first counseling class—where I truly felt seen, heard, and understood—I knew. This was it. This was what I was meant to do.

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Later, I worked at a company that emphasized evidence-based treatments. I learned how to use proven methods to help people. And I learned something else, too—what worked and what didn’t. Not just for clients, but for me. I’ve never asked anyone to try something I haven’t tried myself.

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This workbook is a result of everything I’ve learned. It’s made up of the therapy tools and life skills that helped me survive, grow, and thrive. So when I talk about resisting change, I get it. When I talk about feeling stuck, or using social scripts to get by—I’ve lived it. I know the shame of feeling like you’re not enough. I also know what it means to heal from that shame.

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This workbook is my gift to anyone who has ever felt the way I did. It’s an invitation to do the work. Because I’m telling you—the other side? It’s so beautiful.

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I’m now in a relationship that’s supportive, kind, and real. That didn’t happen by accident. My partner and I have both done the work—individually and together. If your partner is the one asking you to start this journey, I want to ask you to say yes. Say yes to healing. Say yes to you.