I wasn’t drastically overweight, but I grew up hearing comments about my body from my stepmom… how I was “too tall” and “big-boned.” Those kinds of words don’t just disappear. They settle in and quietly shape how you see yourself. For a long time, I was never truly comfortable in my own skin. (That’s changed, but that’s a story for another day.)

Keto worked quickly, at least on the surface. I lost weight fast and felt like I had finally figured something out. But one morning, about twelve pounds down, I sat staring at my breakfast—hard-boiled eggs, bacon, and cheddar cheese—not a carb in sight and I remember I had this very clear thought:

That moment was the beginning of everything. Because I realized I didn’t just want to lose weight, I wanted to actually be healthy.

I knew I had to figure out what was truly healthy and not just listen to the noise from the toxic money hungry diet culture. From there, I went all in. I watched documentaries, read books, and went down more YouTube rabbit holes than I can count. And it was confusing. Everyone seemed to have a different answer. Eat meat but only white meat. Avoid potatoes or only eat potatoes. Dairy is essential… except when it’s not. Beans are great, wait no, stay away from beans.

It felt like trying to solve a puzzle where none of the pieces matched. But I kept going.

Eventually, I came across The Starch Solution by Dr. McDougall, and something about it just clicked. It was all backed by actually scientific evidence, not just some theories. It felt simple in a way nothing else had. From there, I watched Forks Over Knives and PlantPure Nation (highly recommend watching them, if you’re like me and wants real facts!), which introduced me to Dr. Colin Campbell, who grew up on a dairy farm, and his research in The China Study.

One of the most impactful takeaways from his work is that only about 20 percent of cancers are genetic. The remaining 80 percent are influenced by environmental and lifestyle factors, including diet. Dr. Campbell’s research also demonstrated that casein, the primary protein in dairy, can promote the growth of cancer cells by effectively “turning on” certain genes.

This concept, that genes can be activated or suppressed based on what we consume, shifted my entire understanding of health. It suggested that we are not simply at the mercy of our genetics, but active participants in our long-term well-being.

Watching documentaries also led me to Dr. Caldwell Esselstyn and his work on heart disease. He is a cardiologist who worked at the Cleveland Clinic, where his research found that a whole-food, plant-based diet can not only prevent but also help reverse coronary heart disease. Heart disease (more broadly cardiovascular disease) is the leading cause of death in the United States. Killing roughly 700,000 people a year.

What stood out most is that he doesn’t say meat contributes to heart disease, he says it causes it, and he has both the research and patient outcomes to back that up.

I had done all this research and felt confident that I had found what we really needed to be doing to get healthy. Then came the conversation with my husband…

It was the summer of 2019, and we had just moved into our first house. We had literally just bought him a Pit Boss grill a couple weeks prior. I looked at him and said, “So… Babe, I think we need to stop eating meat.”

He was not particularly thrilled, but he was open-minded and he listened. I showed him what I was learning, explained why it mattered to me, and over time something shifted for him too.

Now he genuinely loves eating this way. I’m not kidding. He can’t even stand the smell of meat anymore. It smells like death to him. And honestly, I get it. I actively avoid the meat department in stores now because of the smell.

We don’t cook meat in our house at all anymore either. It’s not even an option. And I didn’t expect this part, but it’s one of my favorites. No cross-contamination, no lingering smells, none of that. The few times my parents have cooked meat in our house, I’ve basically been hovering like, please don’t let that touch anything, please wash your hands immediately.

We even watched a black light test showing how easily germs from chicken spread all over a kitchen, even with “proper” handling, and I think it scarred us honestly. It completely grossed us out.

As all of this was unfolding, I realized I didn’t just want to follow this way of eating, I wanted to truly understand it. So I took it a step further and became a certified holistic nutritionist. That’s where things expanded beyond just food.

I read How Not to Die by Dr. Michael Greger and started diving into his nonprofit website NutritionFacts.org, where he breaks down published nutrition science into short, research-based videos that are easy to understand. No fluff, no agenda, just evidence. He’s also pretty damn funny.

One thing he said has always stuck with me: “If you tell me you’re vegetarian or vegan, you’re only telling me what you don’t eat…”

And it’s true. For example, Oreos are vegan. Just because something is vegan does not mean that it’s healthy!

That distinction really clicked for me. I began to understand that whole-food, plant-based eating isn’t just about cutting things out, it’s about what you’re choosing to put in. Foods that actually nourish your body. Fiber. Nutrients. Real fuel. I mean, we literally are what we eat. You can’t expect to put junk in your body and expect to get optimal health. Come on.

During my holistic nutrition course, I read The Disease Delusion by Dr. Jeffrey Bland, and that’s when everything zoomed out even further. Health isn’t just about food. It’s your sleep. Your stress. Your environment. Your relationships. The way you move through your life. All of it matters. All of it contributes.

That realization is what led to what you’re reading now, this space, The Holistic Route. Because you can’t isolate health into one category, it’s a full picture.

Somewhere along the way, this stopped looking like a diet and started feeling more like a way of living. Through the years we’ve found meals we genuinely love that are indulgent, hearty and comforting. Food that actually satisfies you and gives you energy.

I’ve pulled inspiration from Rip Esselstyn, Jane and Ann Esselstyn, Plantiful Kiki, Nisha from Rainbow Plant Life, Derek Sarno, and Andrew from Make It Dairy Free. I challenge you to watch any of them on YouTube and then say plant-based eating is boring! Go ahead!

It’s funny… even our kids are in the kitchen, cooking, experimenting, and actually enjoying this way of eating. When we travel and fall back into more processed food, they notice it, and they crave real food again. They actually ask for healthy food. How many kids say that? That says everything to me.

The impact on our health as a family has been undeniable too. I’ve almost completely eliminated my arthritis and psoriasis. They only flare up if I eat something I know is inflammatory, like sugar or dairy. We also rarely get sick anymore. COVID was mild for us both times we caught it, and things like colds and flu feel like a thing of the past. Whereas they use to make regular appearances in our household.

The only time I’ve really been sick recently was after my miscarriage, an incredibly hard and heartbreaking experience, and sitting in the ER for hours being exposed to who knows what. My body was depleted and my immune system took a huge hit. But besides that, I can’t remember the last time I had a cold or flu. My husband and kids never get sick either. It’s wild.

Now, this hasn’t been perfect. I don’t want to sound preachy or like we’ve got it all figured out. There have been cravings, old habits, emotional eating, and moments where we know what we should be doing but we haven’t always followed through.

Knowing and doing are two very different things, my friend. And I am absolutely not sitting here pretending we have it all together. We don’t. We are learning, adjusting, messing up, and trying again.

Progress, not perfection. Always. At the end of the day, I’m not here to tell anyone how to live. I’m just sharing what I’ve learned because I don’t want to die from something that could have been prevented. I don’t want to watch the people I love suffer if there’s something we could have done differently. I want to help educate people, so they have a fighting chance to live a life not riddled with disease, exhaustion, and pills.

I’ve already seen what that looks like. I lost my grandpa to Parkinson’s and my grandma to Alzheimer’s, something that’s now often referred to as type 3 diabetes. While Alzheimer’s is still considered irreversible once it develops, emerging research suggests we may be able to significantly reduce risk and potentially prevent it in many cases through lifestyle factors like diet, inflammation control, and metabolic health.

We all deserve better than their outcomes.

If I had to sum up what I’ve learned, it would look something like this:

1. Most chronic disease is largely preventable.

2. Only about 20 percent of cancers are genetic, the rest are influenced by lifestyle. You can have a gene, but if you never turn it on, it may never develop.

3. Dairy can promote cancer growth.
   Meat causes heart disease.
   Both contribute to chronic inflammation, which is at the root of most disease.

4. Oil is the most calorie-dense food on the planet and offers little nutritional value.

5. Most people aren’t eating enough whole plant foods, especially vegetables, which provide the fiber and nutrients our bodies actually need.

6. And animal agriculture isn’t just affecting our health; it’s impacting the planet and involves treatment of animals that most of us would find unacceptable if we saw it firsthand.

This way of living has changed my health, my home, and the way I see everything. It’s not perfect. It’s not always easy. But it’s real. It’s intentional. And it’s rooted in something deeper than just food.

It’s about being more connected to what we eat, how we live, and the choices we make every day.

Stay rooted in your own experience, be honest when something isn’t working, and stay awake enough to choose differently.

🖤 Love, Autumn

Here are the trailers to two amazing documentaries, if you feel called to learn more for yourself:

Ok, maybe that’s not exactly headline-making but contrary to popular belief, kindness and self-respect can absolutely coexist!

A lot of us grew up learning that being “good” meant being endlessly available, endlessly patient, endlessly understanding. But at some point, that stops being kindness and starts being self-abandonment.

The truth is not everyone who has access to you handles that access with care. That includes family, friends, people you’ve known for years—yes, even those you thought would always have your back.

We’re often taught to make exceptions for certain relationships. To tolerate more, excuse more, and stay longer than we should because of history, because of titles, because of who someone is supposed to be in our lives. But being close to someone doesn’t give them a free pass to hurt you!

Here’s the tricky part that trips a lot of us up: people-pleasing. It’s easy to confuse keeping someone happy with keeping the peace. You might think staying silent, overexplaining, or bending over backward is about their happiness but more often it’s about avoiding conflict, keeping the status quo, and protecting yourself from judgment. Sometimes it even feels like a superpower—you can smooth things over, dodge a fight, or make someone else feel better at the cost of your own comfort.

And if I’m being honest, I know this one well. I grew up learning how to read the room, how to keep things calm, how to make sure everyone else was okay. It felt easier to adjust myself than to risk tension, to fix things before they escalated, or at the very least make sure I wasn’t the one making it worse. For a long time, I thought that was just part of being a kind person. Turns out, that’s not the case!

But here’s the part that took me a while to understand… constantly putting yourself second doesn’t actually help anyone, not even them. It doesn’t make the relationship stronger, it doesn’t make the person suddenly appreciate you more, and it doesn’t give you any real control over how they behave. It just teaches everyone involved that your needs are optional and that your energy is expendable.

And let’s be real here, people-pleasing can feel like a form of survival. We worry about disappointing others, about being judged, about rocking the boat. We tell ourselves it’s easier this way, that it’s not a big deal, that we’ll deal with it later. But there’s a difference between being kind and being a doormat. You can care about someone, listen to them, and show respect without erasing your own boundaries or giving away your peace.

Abandoning yourself just to keep the peace doesn’t really help anyone—not them and certainly not you. Choosing yourself doesn’t make you selfish. Sometimes choosing yourself is the kindest thing you can do for everyone involved.

Part of learning how to take care of yourself is recognizing the differences between the relationships in your life, because not all of them require the same response.

Some relationships are worth working through but only when both people are willing. When there’s accountability. When there’s honesty. When someone can hear you without immediately getting defensive or turning it back on you. Those relationships take effort, but it’s shared effort. It’s not one person constantly explaining, overextending, and trying to hold something together alone. And that means you have to be willing to show up too, to listen, reflect, and own your part. That’s what healthy work looks like.

Then there are relationships that simply exist. People you may like. People you’re connected to through family or circumstance. People who aren’t going anywhere but also aren’t necessarily safe places for your full self. In those spaces it’s okay to adjust your expectations. Not every relationship needs to be deep. Not every connection needs access to your inner world. You can be kind. You can be respectful. And still keep someone at arm’s length. You don’t have to force closeness where it doesn’t naturally exist or turn every connection into something meaningful just because it’s there. Sometimes peace looks like keeping things simple.

Then there are relationships that aren’t toxic but also don’t offer growth or safety. Sometimes these sit in the middle, quietly, until you realize there’s nothing more to do.

Finally… there are relationships where no matter what you say or do, there is always a problem. Conversations go in circles. Blame shifts. Goalposts move. You find yourself over-explaining, replaying conversations, questioning your own reality. If you’ve ever been in that kind of dynamic, you know how exhausting it is. In more extreme cases, especially with someone who shows patterns of manipulation, lack of empathy, or consistent emotional harm, there is no fixing it from your side. There is no right way to say things that will suddenly make them understand and no amount of patience will make them take accountability.

And I want to say this with love: just because someone is your family doesn’t give them a free pass to abuse you. It doesn’t matter if it’s a parent who’s constantly critical, a partner who makes you feel like you have to walk on eggshells, or a long-time friend who somehow always makes everything about them. Manipulation, gaslighting, control. These things are not normal. They are not healthy. And they are not something you have to tolerate to prove that you’re a good person.

Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is disengage. That might look like setting firm boundaries, creating distance, or walking away entirely. Not everything deserves your reaction. Not every situation needs closure. Not every relationship needs one more conversation. Sometimes the loudest, clearest thing you can do is quietly pull back your energy and stop participating.

That doesn’t make you cold. It doesn’t make you unkind. It means you’re finally listening to yourself. You get to decide what stays in your life. You get to protect your well-being. You get to choose peace—even if it disappoints other people.

You can be kind and still choose yourself.

Stay rooted in yourself, honest in your choices, awake to what truly matters.

🖤Autumn

They explore how childhood programming and early life experiences shape self-confidence, identity, and the way individuals navigate the world. What begins as learned behavior in formative years can quietly evolve into limiting beliefs, people-pleasing patterns, and a persistent fear of judgment in adulthood — something they’ve both had to recognize and work through themselves.

Together, James and Autumn explore:

• How early conditioning influences self-worth and internal dialogue

• The tendency to live for external validation rather than internal alignment

• Why so many people stay stuck in their own heads — and how that disconnect impacts daily life

• The process of building self-awareness and rewriting ingrained thought patterns

• What it looks like to embrace all parts of your identity, not just the socially acceptable ones

They also expand the conversation into lifestyle choices — discussing the shift away from materialism, the value of prioritizing experiences, and the intention behind designing a life that feels fulfilling rather than performative.

Throughout the episode, they speak candidly about the connection between mental health, self-acceptance, and authenticity — and the ongoing work it takes to show up as your full self, even when it feels uncomfortable.

If you’ve ever felt held back by your own thoughts, struggled to fully show up as yourself, or questioned whether you’re living in alignment with what truly matters to you — this conversation offers both perspective and practical insight.

🎙️ This episode continues the ongoing exploration of self-growth, mental health, and what it takes to create a life rooted in authenticity rather than expectation.

And like most of these conversations, this isn’t something they’ve mastered — it’s something they’re actively living, learning, and working through in real time.

People ask about it. They notice it. They tell you you’re good at it. And somewhere along the way, the question sneaks in… “So what are you going to do with that?”

As if loving something isn’t already enough.

Music has always been that thing for me. It’s been woven into my life for as long as I can remember. My parents actually met in the early 80’s because my mom’s band put out an ad for a guitar player and my dad showed up on her doorstep to answer it. That alone feels like proof that music was always going to be part of my story.

Life shifted after my little brother passed away in ’85 and my parents divorced, but music never left. My mom tells me that when I was three, I’d be in the backseat belting out “TRY, TRY, TRY!!!” to Magic Man by Heart like it was my full-time job. I didn’t know the rest of the lyrics, didn’t matter. I felt it.

With my mom I grew up on bands like Heart, Blue Oyster Cult, Fleetwood Mac… the kind of music that sticks to your bones. Then I spent years with my dad, tagging along to his band practices because he was a single dad doing his best. That’s where music like Double Trouble (Stevie Ray Vaughan), Pink Floyd and Little Feat found their way into me.

Music wasn’t something I learned. It was something I absorbed.

I ended up in band for six years, playing clarinet, usually first or second chair (humble brag). Then choir in high school as a first soprano. I’ve sung on stage with my mom more times than I can count. I sang Unchained Melody at my brother-in-law Jack’s wedding. And every single time I’ve sung in front of people, I’ve heard the same thing… that I’m good. Really good.

And for a long time, that confused me.

Because I’ve never had the desire to do anything with it.

Not in the way people expect. Not in the “turn this into something” kind of way. I don’t want to record an album. I don’t want to chase gigs. I don’t feel pulled toward making it a career or even a side hustle. And for years I sat with this weird question… why would I have this natural ability, this deep love for something, and not want to use it in a bigger, more tangible way?

It felt like I was wasting it.

But I don’t feel that way anymore.

Because I realized something… I do use it.

I use it for myself. And that doesn’t make me selfish. It’s just one of the ways I take care of who I am.

Music shifts me. It can pull me out of a mood or let me sink into one when I need to feel something fully. It’s how I connect with memories, with people, with versions of myself I don’t always have words for. It’s how I play, how I let go, how I show up with my kids when we’re dancing around the house being ridiculous. It’s how I love them too… even though I swore I’d never be the parent who randomly sings at their children like mine did.

And yet, here I am.

The point is, it has a place in my life that doesn’t require an audience or a paycheck to be meaningful. It gets to just exist as something that fills me up.

And I think that fact matters more than many people realize.

I learned that the hard way with photography. That was another thing I loved deeply. It lit me up. And even though something in me hesitated, I turned it into a business anyway. On paper, it worked. I ran a successful photography business for five years.

But the desire was never really there.

And slowly, something that once felt like freedom started to feel like pressure. Expectations crept in. Deadlines. Deliverables. What used to be intuitive started to feel forced. And now, I barely pick up my camera at all.

I knew that might happen. I felt it before I even started. I just didn’t listen.

Not everything you love is meant to be monetized. Not everything you’re good at needs to be turned into something more. Sometimes the “more” is what takes the life out of it.

There’s nothing wrong with building something from your passions if that desire is genuinely there. But there’s also nothing wrong with keeping something just for you. No audience. No expectations. No pressure to perform or produce.

Just joy.

So if there’s something in your life that lights you up, something you feel connected to in that quiet, steady way, you don’t owe it to anyone to turn it into anything beyond that. You’re allowed to protect it. You’re allowed to keep it sacred.

And maybe the better question isn’t “what am I going to do with this?”

Maybe it’s “what does this already do for me?”

If the answer is that it brings you back to yourself, that’s not small. That’s everything.

Stay rooted in what’s real for you. Be honest about what you actually want. Stay awake enough to not trade that away.

🖤Autumn

From glowing eyes under the bed to haunted hotels, spirit apps, EMF readings, and cemeteries that feel just a little too quiet… we’re diving into the paranormal with curiosity, humor, and open minds.

Autumn shares childhood encounters that still give her chills, along with personal stories of family spirits and unexplained experiences that blur the line between imagination and something more. James brings his scientific lens into the conversation, exploring EMF readings, residual hauntings, and the question: are ghosts energetic imprints… or something conscious?

We explore:

• Are residual hauntings like energetic “video loops”?

• Do traumatic events create stronger spiritual imprints?

• What might actually be happening during near-death experiences?

• Can spirit communication apps really predict names like Richard and Frank?

• Do we leave energetic footprints behind?

Whether you’re a believer, skeptic, or just paranormal-curious, this episode offers a playful yet thoughtful exploration of what might exist beyond what we can see.

Because sometimes, the best way to understand life… is to look at what might be waiting on the other side.

Hit play—and maybe keep your energy protected. Just in case. 👀✨

While the previous episode unpacked James’ early experiences, this conversation examines what happens when those same dynamics — manipulation, gaslighting, control, charm masking dysfunction — begin to impact a spouse, a home, and eventually children.

Together, Autumn and James explore:

• How personality disorder traits can infiltrate marriages and destabilize partnerships

• The subtle tactics — love bombing, silent treatment, triangulation, and reality distortion — that erode trust over time

• The emotional toll of chronic boundary violations

• The breaking point that forced clarity: the “get out of my house” moment

• How protecting your children can become the catalyst for finally setting unbreakable boundaries

They speak candidly about the mental health impact of prolonged exposure to manipulation — including anxiety, hypervigilance, suicidal ideation, and the deep confusion that comes from constantly questioning your own reality.

This episode isn’t about blame or revenge — it’s about pattern recognition, accountability, and the courage required to interrupt generational dysfunction. Autumn and James discuss what it means to choose your marriage, safeguard your children, and prioritize psychological safety over family loyalty.

If you’ve ever struggled with toxic in-law dynamics, felt destabilized by someone who presents one way publicly and another privately, or wondered whether you’re “overreacting” to repeated boundary violations — this conversation offers validation and clarity.

🎙️ This episode continues our ongoing exploration of healing after psychological trauma, and what it truly takes to reclaim your peace when the call is coming from inside the family.

(Or by waiting for clarity to show up with a clipboard and a five-year plan.)

For a long time, I didn’t know what I wanted my life to be about — my purpose, or what Ayurveda calls dharma: the work or path that feels uniquely yours, the thing that aligns with who you truly are.

Sure, I had the grown-up stuff down — husband, kids, house, responsibilities — but what about me?

It wasn’t a dramatic crisis, just a quiet, lingering sense that something was missing. The kind that follows you through motherhood, marriage, and those years when everyone else seems to have found their lane, while you’re still figuring out which path is really yours.

Even when my kids were little, this question lived in the back of my mind. What would bring me joy? What would light me up once they didn’t need me in the same way anymore?

Before my husband went to college, I had real dreams of becoming an interior or fashion designer. Actual plans. I even had schools picked out. The Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising (FIDM) in Los Angeles. Parsons School of Design in New York City.

Big dreams. Big cities.

But we were living in Montana. Relocating felt impossible. And the local options just weren’t there. So, we made the practical choice. My husband went to school. I worked when I could and I raised our kids.

That choice wasn’t wrong. Not even a little.

But it also wasn’t the end of the story.

(Father of the Bride, 1991.)

Trying On Lives Like Clothes

I have always loved weddings.

It started when I was a little girl with Father of the Bride. That movie had my whole heart. Then came J.Lo in The Wedding Planner when I was in high school. I would watch these movies repeatedly when my children were babies and suddenly, I thought, wait. Maybe this isn’t just a movie obsession. Maybe this is something I could actually do. Plan weddings.

So, while my husband was off taking his classes at the college, I was home with our two small children, and I decided to take the plunge and study wedding planning. This was before online courses were a thing, so I enrolled in a by-mail program, ordered the books, and binge-watched Say Yes to the Dress like it was part of the curriculum. I studied between naps, diaper changes, and playtimes—fully committed, multitasking like a pro.

Then a close friend asked me to plan her wedding. I was ecstatic and immediately jumped into planner mode. She even gave me a name tag that said Autumn, Wedding Planner, which felt so official. I loved the details. The organizing. The creative problem-solving. Her wedding was beautiful, and everything went smoothly. And it turns out, I’m very comfortable telling people where to stand and what to do. Who knew? 🤭

Afterwards though?

I felt empty.

Not tired. Just empty. The stress from the busy day lingered in my body, and I realized something important. I didn’t want to live behind the scenes like that. The passion I expected just wasn’t there.

So, I chose not to say yes to the dress… or rather, the career — and I let it go.

Next came furniture flipping a couple years later.

Antiques, restoration, and creativity? Yes, please. My dining room quietly became a workshop, filled with sandpaper, paint samples, and pieces in various stages of “trust the process.” Over the course of a year, I flipped and sold every single piece I worked on. My favorite — a 1920s highboy dresser — sold for five times what I paid for it, which felt like a solid win and proof that I actually knew what I was doing.

But reality eventually set in. It wasn’t very scalable and required a lot of upfront investment — furniture, paint, tools, supplies — and then there was the challenge of finding buyers. Renting booths at markets or antique stores added up fast, and that kind of expense hits differently when you have three small kids and limited space in a second-floor apartment.

It was fun. It was fulfilling.
It just wasn’t sustainable for the season I was in.

So, I sanded it down, gave it a good finish… and set that chapter aside too.

Then came blogging.

Writing. Graphic design. Editing. Finally, a place where my voice and creativity could live in the same space. This one felt especially promising!

So, I did what I do best — I found a course and dove in headfirst. I learned the platforms. The systems. The “rules.” I studied what worked and what didn’t, convinced that if I just understood it well enough, it would click and I’d be a successful blogger in no time.

And through that course is when I learned what blogging “success” actually required… at least in 2016.

Toning yourself down. Drowning meaningful content in ads. Writing for algorithms instead of people. Hoping, praying, and manifesting your way into relevance.

No. Thank. You.

I didn’t quit blogging forever (clearly!) — I just quit the version that asked me to dilute my voice and perform for attention. I stepped away from something that rewarded compliance over authenticity, putting it on the back burner while I waited for a space where I could write freely again.

That space? Well… now it’s Substack.

The Things That Keep Calling You Back

Photography was different.

It was a hobby that never really left my interest. It stayed close and patient, like something that knew its turn would come eventually.

My Grandpa Reiny, my hero, always had a camera in his hands. Long before I ever thought of photography as something I could do, it was just part of my world. I remember flipping through countless photo albums as a child during my two-month summer visits to my grandparents in Montana.

Phones didn’t have cameras until after I was out of high school, so yes… I’m old. I know. But once they did, I started taking photos constantly. By 2009, when our son turned one, I decided I could do better than the overpriced, awkward Sears photos we’d received. I turned his room into a makeshift studio, shot everything on my phone, edited them myself, and sent them off to be printed.

When I picked up the printed photos from his first birthday shoot, an employee had written “Pro?” on the envelope—they wanted to check if the photos were professionally taken, to make sure I had the printing rights.

Flattered? Definitely. Proud? Absolutely. There’s something incredibly satisfying about creating something yourself and having even a stranger mistake it for professional work. Especially when said pictures were taken on a cell phone!

It wasn’t until 2011, while working at a pawn shop, that I finally got my hands on a professional Nikon.

(Some of the photos of little Ashton, with his cute little face censored for his privacy. Yes, this was 2009. Yes, it was an LG Env. No, I did not have a “real” camera yet. I don’t even remember what software I figured out how to use to edit these!)

Photography stayed with me after that. I documented my kids’ lives, quietly built confidence, and became the person friends and family called when they needed photos. It felt natural. Familiar. Like something I already spoke fluently without realizing it.

Eventually, after circling back to it again and again, I gave in.

I decided to become a wedding photographer in 2018 — a way to blend two of my greatest loves. It seemed like the perfect fit!

And once I made that decision, photography didn’t just fit into my life. It basically became my life — a little fun fact about me: when I get into something, I tend to go all in… maybe a tiny bit obsessively.

I found a photographer I really admired and signed up for her course, eager to learn everything I could. That’s where I picked up the technical side, and then I did what you’re supposed to do when you’re starting out: I practiced. Constantly. My family became my very patient (well… most of the time!) test subjects as I experimented with posing, lighting, editing, timing — all the things. Slowly, I got really good at what I was doing, and I loved every moment of being creative.

(A mock journal page capturing what I was learning — and some of our little family adventures!)

For five years, photography shaped my schedule, my seasons, my weekends. Summers were booked. Saturdays were gone. I was always shooting, editing, delivering, or thinking about the next wedding. It was intense and demanding, but it also gave me so much.

I loved the wedding days. I loved the energy, the emotion, the storytelling. I loved freezing moments that mattered and giving people something tangible to hold onto.

But over time, the backend work started to outweigh the joy. The monotony. The constant deadlines. The weekends away from my family. The oversaturation of the industry. Even something you love can become heavy when it takes more than it gives.

Even when something is good, it doesn’t always mean it’s right.

So eventually, after a lot of soul searching, I let that go too.

(Photo from the last elopement I shot in Olympic National Park.)

Purpose Fuels Passion

Near the end of my photography career, I came across a quote that resonated with me on a soul level.

That’s when it clicked. I wasn’t lacking passion—I was lacking purpose. But… what was my purpose? I knew it didn’t lie in photography or any of my previous endeavors. I’d also read that the things you feel drawn to are often breadcrumbs pointing toward your life’s work. At the time, I was diving deep into healthy eating, so I decided to explore nutrition next.

I went all in — again. I took another online course (are you sensing a pattern here?!), became a certified holistic nutritionist, and learned just how profoundly food affects the body — mind, mood, energy, everything. But as I started talking to people about what we eat, another truth became clear: not everyone wanted to hear that meat can contribute to heart disease or that dairy might play a role in cancer. And then it hit me — I didn’t want to spend my career arguing with people for a living. No thanks.

Somewhere in all of this, something finally settled in. I used to feel like a bit of a failure — trying one thing after another, only to realize it wasn’t my passion. But the truth is, none of it was a failure. Every path taught me something. Every version of me picked up a skill, a perspective, or a deeper understanding of people… and of myself. Those missteps and experiments were all part of the journey, shaping the person I was becoming.

Design taught me how to see visually. Photography taught me how to notice what matters. Writing taught me how to give words to feelings. Nutrition taught me how connected everything is. Motherhood taught me empathy, patience, and perspective. Even social media taught me how to communicate, create, and build community.

Out of all of that, The Holistic Route was born.

Not overnight. Not perfectly. But intentionally.

This is where it all comes together for me. My passion… my purpose. The storytelling. The curiosity. The depth. The healing. The design shaping the quotes I share. The editing shaping the podcast. The years of listening shaping the way I show up now.

I don’t see my past endeavors as dead ends. They were proof that I kept going. Proof that I tried. Proof that I didn’t stop.

They were steppingstones.

The Only Real Failure

If you don’t know what brings you joy, try something.

If it doesn’t work, try something else.

Purpose isn’t found by sitting still or playing it safe. It’s found by stepping outside your comfort zone again and again until something finally clicks.

As Madame Leota says in The Haunted Mansion:

“You try, you fail, you try, you fail. But the only true failure is when you stop trying.”

So don’t stop.

Your purpose might be one brave attempt away.

And honestly, it doesn’t have to be perfect.

It just has to be yours 🖤

Root yourself in curiosity. Stay honest with yourself. Keep awake to the possibilities.

-Autumn

This isn’t a post meant to be heavy or shocking. It’s an invitation. A quiet conversation about something we all share and rarely talk about — and how understanding it can soften fear, deepen compassion, and change the way we live.

Let’s talk about death, baby

Once upon a time, death wasn’t something we hid from.

It didn’t happen behind hospital doors, behind curtains, behind paperwork and hushed voices. Death happened at home. In beds that had been slept in for decades. Surrounded by family, neighbors, children, dogs underfoot, candles lit.

Families washed bodies themselves. They sat with them. They photographed them. There are entire collections of Victorian death photography — parents holding their children, spouses posed side by side — not because people were morbid, but because death was understood as part of life. Grief wasn’t outsourced. It was witnessed.

Now? We barely see it at all. At least in the Western World.

Today, most of us will never watch someone we love take their final breath. We’re ushered out of rooms “so they can rest.” We’re invited back in after the fact. The body is quickly removed, taken somewhere else, “fixed,” sanitized of anything that reminds us this was once a living, breathing human being.

We are protected from death — and I think that protection has cost us something.

We’ve turned death into a medical event instead of a human one.

I recently read In Between by Hadley Vlahos, a hospice nurse who writes about walking people through their final days. What struck me most wasn’t just the sadness (though there is plenty), but how alive those moments were. How meaningful. How intimate.

She writes about patients seeing loved ones before they die — a mother who passed decades earlier, a spouse, a sibling. At first, she questioned it. Wondered if something was wrong.

But the other nurses didn’t rush in to correct or medicalize it. They reassured her: this happens. This is part of the process.

That quiet knowing — from people who sit with death every day — matters.

Because we’ve been taught that death is clinical. Linear. A flatline. A before and after. But those closest to it understand that dying is a process. Something unfolds. Something the body knows how to do, even when the mind doesn’t.

There is more to dying than just “the end.”

This is also where I began learning about death doulas — people trained not to “fix” death, but to support it. To guide families through what the end of life actually looks like. To explain what’s happening in the body. To bring calm, reassurance, and presence when everything feels unfamiliar and frightening.

Someone to say: This is normal. This is not suffering. This is the body doing what it knows to do.

I think about this often when I think about my dad.

He had to watch my grandma die after her long battle with Alzheimer’s. For two days, he watched her body shut down — breathing changing, responsiveness fading. Without education or context, all he could see was suffering. And that experience lodged itself deep inside him. It scarred him.

But knowing what I know now, I can see that what he witnessed wasn’t her suffering — it was her body moving toward death in the way bodies naturally do.

That difference matters.

Because when we don’t understand death, we interpret it through fear. And fear can follow us for years.

Learning about death — truly learning about it — has changed how I show up in my own life and as a parent.

When my daughter’s guinea pig was dying, I recognized the signs. I knew how close he was. I was able to tell my kids that it was okay — that he wasn’t suffering, that his body was slowing down.

I wrapped him in a towel. Took him outside into the sunlight. Held him, rocking gently, until he passed.

And it was quiet. Loving. Peaceful.

Not long after that, one of our chickens fell ill and was actively dying. My son is 17, and he’s always taken care of the chickens. Because of the experience with the guinea pig, he wanted to hold her. He wanted to be there for her.

So, he did.

He held her until she passed, and then he sobbed — deep, full-body grief. No rushing. No hiding. He processed it in real time, and the compassion he showed was extraordinary.

We have a ritual in our family. When one of our animals dies, we go outside and pick flowers or small, beautiful things. We place them in a box with the animal. We stand together and each say a few words.

A small funeral. A moment of honor.

When death is witnessed with care and understanding, something shifts. Fear softens. Compassion grows. Grief has somewhere to go.

This is how emotional safety is learned — not through avoidance, but through presence. It’s how children learn that big feelings aren’t dangerous, that love doesn’t disappear at the first sign of pain, and that staying matters, even when it’s hard.

When we remove death from our homes and our conversations, we don’t eliminate grief — we just leave people unprepared for it. Alone with confusion, fear, and unanswered questions.

Hospice workers and death doulas remind us that death doesn’t need to be rushed through or hidden from. They invite us to stay. To witness. To understand what’s happening instead of panicking when things look unfamiliar.

To recognize that the end of life can still hold tenderness, meaning, and love.

I don’t think our ancestors were braver than we are. I think they were simply more familiar with death. And familiarity softens fear. It creates reverence instead of avoidance. Acceptance instead of denial.

When we allow death back into our lives — not literally, but emotionally — when we talk about it, learn about it, prepare for it, we also learn how to live better. More intentionally. More honestly.

Because when you understand that death is not just a moment, but a passage, you stop pretending you have unlimited time.

Talking about death isn’t morbid. It’s grounding. It teaches compassion. It teaches presence. It teaches us how to show up for one another when it matters most.

So yes — let’s talk about death, baby.

Not to be dark.
Not to be edgy.
But to remember something ancient we’ve forgotten.

That dying is still a part of living.
And that witnessing it — with knowledge, tenderness, and love — is one of the greatest gifts we can give.

May this be a reminder to stay rooted in love, honest about death, and awake to the life unfolding around you.
— Autumn 🖤

If this topic speaks to you and you want to learn more, I recommend exploring the work of hospice nurses, death doulas, and end-of-life educators — and the book In Between by Hadley Vlahos. Understanding what the body does at the end of life can be one of the most compassionate gifts we give ourselves and the people we love.

The In-Between by Hadley Vlahos, R.N.: 9780593499931 | PenguinRandomHouse.com: Books

James shares personal experiences from his childhood with a mother believed to be on the ASPD spectrum, opening up a powerful conversation about emotional invalidation, manipulation, gaslighting, and hypervigilance — and how these patterns quietly shape a child’s nervous system, sense of self, and adult relationships.

Together, Autumn and James explore:

• How ASPD exists on a spectrum, not a stereotype

• Why children of ASPD parents often feel like extensions rather than individuals

• The role of media portrayals (like Dexter) in helping survivors recognize behavior patterns

• How gaslighting and charm can mask deep dysfunction

• Why apathy can build like pressure — and the damage it can cause when it finally surfaces

They also dive into the long-term effects of growing up in this environment: distorted ideas of normalcy, struggles with boundaries, hyper-independence, emotional confusion, and difficulty trusting relationships. James reflects on friendships as lifelines, the symbolic loss of pets and belongings, and the moment it becomes impossible to ignore the patterns anymore.

This episode isn’t about diagnosing — it’s about understanding, naming what happened, and beginning the process of healing. James and Autumn emphasize the importance of emotional intelligence, education around personality disorders, and community support in reclaiming your voice and rebuilding a sense of safety.

If you’ve ever felt confused by someone’s behavior, questioned your reality, or wondered why certain relationships felt so destabilizing — this conversation offers clarity, validation, and a reminder that healing begins with awareness.

🎙️ This episode sets the stage for future conversations on our podcast about recovery, boundaries, and reclaiming your identity after psychological trauma.

You might remember my earlier essay about letting go of the role of “victim.” That piece was about what changed when I stopped defining myself by what happened to me. This one is about something deeper: how I learned to speak to myself with kindness, how my inner voice was shaped over a lifetime, and how I actively rewired it — not just letting go but learning how to be with myself differently.

The Voice I Inherited

For most of my life, I was never kind to myself.

I grew up in an environment where love felt inconsistent and criticism was constant. Approval had to be earned, attention could be withdrawn at any moment, and being “good enough” was never clear. Compliments were rare, and if they came, they felt temporary. Conditional. Like something that could be taken back at any second.

I didn’t learn how to speak to myself with patience or grace because I never saw it modeled. I learned to make myself quiet, to stay small, to go unnoticed—because that was safer than drawing attention to myself.

When I moved in with my mom at fifteen, she would tell me I was beautiful, smart, loved—and I wouldn’t believe her. I told her she had to say that because she was my mom. Years later, I said the same thing to my husband:

“You’re just saying that because you married me.”
“You clearly have bad taste in women. Look who you picked.”

My instinct was always to assume people were lying. Growing up without affirmation, praise didn’t feel comforting—it felt suspicious.

When I graduated high school, I almost swung the other way. A lifetime of silence and shrinking to survive had left me craving to be heard. I spoke more. I took up space. I wanted to reclaim myself. I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone; I was just learning to exist as fully as I could.

Having reclaimed my voice, I thought I was finally stepping into a life where I could just be myself.

And then I met my husband—and with him came his family.

Love, Control, and Family Patterns

I went from a childhood of neglect and constant criticism straight into a marriage where I was loved—but surrounded by a family system that treated me like the problem.

My husband loved me quickly and deeply, but he had grown up believing love was also conditional: on behavior, on keeping the peace, on being agreeable. Expressing himself—or standing up for me—wasn’t just unfamiliar. It wasn’t allowed. He didn’t yet know how to defend himself or me.

So when his family criticized me behind my back, he would come to me afterward with what they had said. Not gently. Not protectively. But framed as something I needed to fix.

There was nothing subtle about it.

I never knew in the moment if I had said something wrong, offended someone, or disrupted the unspoken rules. My loudness. My directness. My refusal to shrink—traits that had grown out of survival—were suddenly framed as problems again. I was told to watch my words.

To be better.
To be quieter.
To be easier.

Not because I wasn’t loved—but because he was caught between loving me and surviving the family dynamics that he had grown up in. In those moments, quieting me seemed like the safest option.

Internalizing Fault

Somewhere along the way, I became convinced that everything was my fault.

By adulthood, I had fully internalized the message: if something felt off, it must be me.

Someone having a bad day? I’m sorry.
Dinner not great at the restaurant I suggested? My bad.
An awkward silence after something I said? Damn it, I’m sorry. I did it again.

It wasn’t politeness. It was conditioning.

I apologized before anyone asked me to. Before anyone blamed me. I tried to preempt discomfort by taking responsibility for it—because experience had taught me that peace depended on my self-editing.

I wasn’t just apologizing for mistakes.
I was apologizing for existing.
For taking up space.
For having an impact.

I learned to assume responsibility for everyone’s discomfort, disappointment, or bad mood because growing up—and later, as an adult—that felt safer than questioning the systems I was in.

If I was the problem, at least the world made sense.

Motherhood Changed Everything

The real shift in how I spoke to myself didn’t come from marriage.

It came from motherhood.

I became acutely aware that my children—my son and my two daughters—were watching me. Listening. Absorbing. And I realized something uncomfortable and undeniable: we become the inner voice our children carry with them through life.

Even if we are loving. Even if we never utter a cruel word to them. They are still learning by watching how we speak about ourselves. About our bodies. About our mistakes. About other people.

So, I made a conscious effort to stop saying negative things about myself around them. Sometimes I just stayed quiet. Other times, I corrected myself out loud:

“That’s not true.”
“I’m allowed to make mistakes.”
“I don’t need to apologize for that.”

I also realized that the way I talk about other people matters too—how I handle frustration, disappointment, or conflict. Children notice the tone, the judgment, the self-criticism we direct outward as well as inward. They absorb not just the words, but the energy behind them.

It’s taken years to change that self-talk, and I still catch myself slipping back into old patterns from time to time. But now, I pause more often, choose my words carefully, and remind myself that I can be a source of compassion—for myself and for them.

Motherhood taught me that being kind to yourself isn’t indulgent. It’s instructive. It’s the foundation for the voices our children will carry forward.

Understanding Generational Patterns

I also realized something that changed everything: the way I was raised wasn’t about me. It was a reflection of how my parents were raised—their own struggles, fears, and patterns of negative self-talk.

Understanding that they did the best they could with what they had helped me finally see that I wasn’t the problem. I hadn’t done anything to warrant the treatment I received. I was worthy of the love they weren’t able to give me.

And yet, I had a choice. I could go within, confront those patterns, and begin to heal. Not just for myself, but for my children. I could become the voice I had always needed—a voice that showed them what love, compassion, and kindness toward themselves looks like.

What I’ve Learned

I’ve learned that optimism isn’t denial. It’s not pretending everything is fine or forcing gratitude where it doesn’t belong.

It’s choosing not to brutalize yourself for being human.

It’s replacing “I’m the problem” with “Something hurt me.”
Replacing “I’m too much” with “I feel deeply—and that’s not a flaw.”

It’s the small, daily decisions to treat yourself with the same compassion you would give someone you love, even when the old voice in your head insists you’re failing. Even when your mistakes feel monumental. Even when the world feels harsh and you’ve carried the weight of others’ judgments for decades.

If any part of this feels familiar, I want to say this gently:

Pay attention to how you speak to yourself.

Would you say those words to your child? To your younger self? To someone whose heart you cherish?

If the answer is no, pause. Breathe. Try again.

Because self-talk isn’t just about being “positive.” It’s about being truthful without being cruel. It’s about acknowledging hurt without turning it into blame. It’s about giving yourself the space to feel, reflect, and heal.

Be the voice you needed growing up. The one that says:

“You’re allowed to exist here. You don’t have to be perfect to be loved. You can make mistakes and still be enough.”

Breaking the habit of self-criticism is hard. It takes time. It takes patience. Sometimes it takes support. Sometimes it takes consciously rewiring patterns that have been with you for decades.

But it’s worth it.

Because at the end of the day, the voice you carry inside your head shapes every experience of your life. And you deserve a narrator who is kind. Who believes in you. Who shows up for you, even when no one else does.

Be gentle with yourself. Be consistent. Be your own safe place.

Keep yourself rooted, your words honest, and your mind awake.

🖤 Autumn

Lately, I’ve realized that growth alone isn’t enough.
I’ve done the work of becoming more aware, more regulated, more intentional. But there’s a piece that kept asking to be seen. Healing doesn’t fully happen if you only move forward without ever going back.

I’ve learned that I can’t just tend to the woman I am now without also tending to the little girl who carried me here.

When I think about inner child healing, I picture little Autumn. She is quiet. She is sad. She is alone more often than anyone realized. She learned early how to sit with herself, how to disappear into her own world, how to survive without being held the way she needed.

I see her so clearly.

And in my mind, I scoop her up. I wrap my arms around her small body and hold her close. I tell her she is loved. That she is beautiful. That she is perfect exactly as she is, without changing a single thing.

I tell her the truth gently. That her life will not be easy. That she will be misunderstood. That people will try to tell her who she is and who she should be. That she will feel deeply in a world that doesn’t always know what to do with that.

But I also tell her this.
She is safe now. She is not alone anymore. I am here, and I am not going anywhere.

(Below are a few photos of little me)

This letter is for her…

To the girl I was,

I see you.
Not the version you think you are supposed to become, but the real one. The one who feels everything deeply, asks too many questions, and notices shifts in rooms before anyone else does.

You are so lonely.
Not just alone, but unseen. You learn early how to sit with yourself because you have no other choice. You become your own witness. That isn’t weakness. That is survival.

Even when it doesn’t feel like it, you are loved.
You are smart. You are kind. You are thoughtful in quiet, steady ways. You notice things others miss. You care deeply. You try hard. None of that is wasted.

You aren’t wrong. You aren’t too much. You aren’t broken.
You are perceptive. You are honest. You are sensitive in a world that often rewards numbness.

I know how hard you try to make yourself easier to digest. You soften your edges so other people can stay comfortable. You’ve learned to quiet yourself because your voice feels like it takes up too much space. People will misunderstand you. They will judge you. They will talk about you. They will mistake your openness for arrogance, your volume for confidence, your presence for something threatening.

That noise will follow you for a while.
But it will never be the truth about you.

Other people’s reactions are not a measure of your worth. Much of what hurts you will come from other people’s pain. Pain you didn’t cause. Insecurities you didn’t create. Expectations that were never yours to carry.

You don’t need fixing.
You need safety. Direction. Time.
You need someone to tell you that you are already enough and to mean it.

The things you try to bury—your voice, your curiosity, your depth—are the very things that will one day allow you to connect with others in ways that matter. What you see as flaws will become strengths once they are guided, not erased.

Every single thing you are going through matters.
The loneliness. The misunderstandings. The grief. The moments that harden you and the ones that crack you open. None of it is wasted. All of it is shaping the woman you are growing into. Someone who can hold complexity. Someone who knows when to stay and when to walk away.

You will learn that leaving is not failure.
That peace is louder than approval.
That not everyone will like you, and that is okay.

You will survive things you think will end you. You will carry grief and still build a beautiful life. You will lose people, and it will teach you how to love more honestly, without waiting or holding back.

So hold on.
Stop negotiating your softness.
Stop mistaking silence for strength.

You are becoming someone who chooses herself.
And every step it takes to get there is worth it.

I love you.

With love,
The woman who learned how to protect you 🖤

If this stirred something in you, maybe there’s a younger version of you asking to be held, too.

They are small, they are fragile, they are waiting for your arms.

Healing isn’t about fixing what was broken.
It’s about finally holding the pieces we’ve carried all along.

Sending so much love, with a reminder to keep yourself rooted, your words honest, and your mind awake.

🖤 Autumn

Together, they talk honestly about how grief shows up in real life: the anger, the exhaustion, the complicated family dynamics that surface in the aftermath of tragedy, and the way funerals can bring both connection and tension. This conversation isn’t polished or performative—it’s raw, reflective, and grounded in lived experience.

They also explore forgiveness, mental health, and what it means to keep going when life reminds you how fragile it really is. This episode is a reminder that grief doesn’t follow rules, healing isn’t linear, and tomorrow is never promised—but love, presence, and meaning can still be found, even in the hardest seasons.

🖤 Gentle note: This episode discusses loss, grief, and death. Please take care while listening.

I used to tell my story like this: look at everything that happened to me.

If someone confronted me about something I did or said that wasn’t great, my go-to response was defensive:

“Well, I am like this because…”

And then I would insert a story of trauma or loss—my brother died when I was little, my parents divorced, my husband’s family treated me unfairly. I was showing the world I was the victim before it even got a chance to call me out.

At the time, that was the only way I knew how to make sense of myself. Those stories weren’t exaggerated or untrue—they were real, and they shaped me. But they also became the lens through which I explained everything about who I was and how I showed up.

I grew up with a quiet loneliness that didn’t have language yet—just a constant sense of being different, separate, on my own. I’ve always spoken my mind, asked questions, and felt deeply—and for that, I was judged harshly. Labeled difficult. Too much. Intense. And for almost two decades, I endured manipulation within my husband’s family, especially from his mother, that slowly chipped away at my sense of self.

When you line all of that up, it’s easy to see how I ended up viewing life through a pessimistic lens. A subtle woe-is-me mindset. Not loud or dramatic—just a steady internal narrative that life was something happening to me, rather than something I was participating in.

And I want to be very clear here: the pain was real. None of this is about pretending it wasn’t. Loss is loss. Trauma is trauma. Being misunderstood again and again changes a person. Some experiences do create victims—and naming that truth is often a necessary part of healing.

The Moment Growth Began

At some point, I realized that while pain may not be my choice, staying inside the identity of the victim is.

That realization was uncomfortable. Because the victim story explained everything. It gave context. It gave justification. It gave me a reason to stay guarded, cynical, and braced for disappointment. But it also quietly limited my growth. It kept me reactive instead of reflective. It kept me focused on what had been done to me instead of who I was becoming.

Growth didn’t arrive as a lightning bolt moment. It came through small, often unglamorous choices. I chose to listen—to other people’s stories, especially the ones that challenged my own worldview. I chose to educate myself instead of clinging to assumptions. I chose curiosity over defensiveness. I started asking better questions:

Why does this trigger me? What am I protecting here? What else could be true?

Slowly, my relationship with the world began to change.

I realized something both grounding and empowering: I may not control what happens to me, but I do control how I meet it. I get to decide whether pain hardens me or refines me. I get to choose whether suffering becomes bitterness—or wisdom. I get to decide whether my past is a prison or a teacher.

Seeing Myself Through Someone Else’s Eyes

I recognized the shift in myself, but it wasn’t fully clear until someone reflected it back to me. After I wrote an article about not labeling everyone a narcissist, a reader said:

“This is thoughtfully written. But what is beautiful is that ultimately The Holistic Route chooses light and growth when faced with difficulty and pain.”

I had known that I had a better way of looking at life now, but I loved the way this reader described it. I hadn’t exactly thought of it in that context, and it made me pause and really appreciate the conscious choices I am making every day.

I don’t label myself a victim anymore—not because I wasn’t hurt, but because staying there no longer serves me. And this is where the nuance matters: acknowledging victimization is not the same thing as living in victimhood. One is about truth. The other is about identity.

Body, Brain, and the Weight of Stories

As I began learning more about trauma and the nervous system, I became increasingly aware of how closely the brain and body are connected. Pain doesn’t just live in our thoughts—it settles into our nervous system, our muscles, our breath.

I learned that when we keep revisiting the same painful story, the brain doesn’t always register that it’s in the past. The body can respond as if the event is happening right now—heart rate increases, adrenaline spikes, shoulders tense. It’s the same reason you can feel your body react just by talking about something that made you angry years ago. Talking things through can be healing. But endlessly replaying the same story can quietly keep us stuck in survival mode, long after the danger has passed.

What really resonated with me was learning about certain Indigenous teachings around storytelling and healing. In some Indigenous cultures, there is a deep respect for when and how a story is told. People are given space to speak—to be witnessed, believed, and held within a safe, sacred circle. And there is also an understanding that once a story has been spoken and integrated, it must be released. Not denied. Not minimized. Simply laid down.

That perspective stayed with me.

The healing isn’t just in the telling—it’s in knowing when to stop carrying the story on your back. To honor what happened, take what it taught you, and then allow your body to rest. That balance—expression and release—feels like something many of us are still learning how to practice.

Reflection Questions for Growth

2025 was one of the hardest years of my life. Losses stacked. Expectations shattered. Things I thought were solid weren’t. And yet, even in one of the toughest years I’ve ever faced, I found so many things to be grateful for. Those moments of gratitude—small victories, lessons learned, the people who showed up—helped me grow and reach an even better place than before. They put me on a completely different path forward in my life, and I am so grateful, because I chose not to let the hardships harden me.

Reflecting on this, I kept asking myself questions—not in a bypassing, toxic-positivity way, but in an honest, curious way that allowed me to learn from the year rather than be trapped by it:

What is this teaching me? What is this shaping in me?

If you’re in that in-between space—no longer in denial, but not quite free either—here are a few questions worth sitting with. Not to judge yourself. Not to rush healing. Just to reflect:

• What part of this experience genuinely needs compassion, and what part might be asking for a little personal responsibility?

• Is the story I tell about this helping me move forward, or just giving me a front-row seat to my own pity party?

• What did this situation teach me about my boundaries, my needs, or my values?

• If I stopped centering who hurt me, who might I become instead?

• What good can I find that came out of this situation, even if it’s small?

• What would growth look like here—not perfection, not forgiveness, just honest, messy, human growth?

These aren’t questions meant to bypass pain. They’re meant to help you metabolize it.

Choosing Growth

Growth doesn’t mean denying what happened. It means deciding what happens next.

It means choosing responsibility without shame. Perspective without self-abandonment. Accountability without cruelty.

I choose optimism now—not because life is easy, but because I’ve seen what happens when I don’t. And that choice sits at the very heart of The Holistic Route.

This space—this work—has never been about spiritual bypassing, toxic positivity, or pretending wounds don’t exist. It’s about integration. About holding pain and wisdom in the same hands. About learning how to live with depth without letting suffering become our identity.

The Holistic Route is a commitment to growth over grievance. To curiosity over condemnation. To asking better questions instead of rushing to labels. It’s the belief that healing isn’t about becoming unscathed—it’s about becoming honest, accountable, and whole.

Imperfection Is Part of the Journey

I want to be clear: I am not perfect. I still catch myself sometimes slipping into that language:

“Well, I had to deal with…”

…and then insert whatever old hurt I’m leaning on. There are still things I am working on letting go of. My anger towards my mother-in-law, for example, (because of the gaslighting I endured for years) still pops up in moments when I see similar behaviors in others. That’s part of why I am so passionate about learning everything I can about NPD and ASPD. People who operate that way often seem to get away with everything, while the people they hurt are confused and blame themselves. It’s a cruel pattern—and I want to help others see the truth, so they don’t fall into the trap of victim-blaming themselves, like I once did.

I still mess up. I still catch myself. And none of that takes away from the growth—it’s how the growth keeps happening.

Your Invitation

And that’s why I want to extend an invitation to you:

Take a deep breath, ask yourself the hard questions, and then choose one small act of growth today. It could be setting a boundary, telling a truth, or just allowing yourself to laugh at how absurd life can be sometimes.

That’s it. One tiny, deliberate step toward light. And if you keep taking them, slowly, gently, unapologetically… you’ll find that you’re no longer defined by what happened to you. You’re defined by how brightly you choose to shine.

Life will hand you heartbreak, unfairness, and messes—but how you respond? That’s always your choice. Stand tall, take your power, and keep showing up with courage.

Keep yourself rooted, your words honest, and your mind awake.

🖤 Autumn

This episode is a big one. We’re sharing our recent miscarriage — the shock of an unexpected pregnancy at this stage of life, the fear, the grief, and how this experience opened up layers of loss we’ve both carried in different ways. It’s honest, emotional, and as minimally edited as possible, because we want these conversations to stay real and grounded.

And I’ll be honest — it’s not perfect… but I am pretty dang proud of how it turned out. 👏🏼 This is the beginning of something new, and I’m excited to keep learning, growing, and honing this whole podcasting craft as we go.

A quick heads up:
This episode is marked explicit — we do use some honest language. If cursing isn’t your thing, I totally understand and want you to know that upfront.

Thank you for being here at the very start of this journey with us. It means more than you know.

Rooted. Honest. Awake.
Welcome to The Holistic Route!

xx,

James + Autumn

Before we dive in: this is my story. I’m not judging my parents, and I’m not writing from blame. They were doing the best they could with what they knew. I just want to share how my experiences shaped how I see the world, judgment, and compassion.

Growing Up Between Two Worlds

Growing up as a child of divorce meant moving between two households, each with its own rhythm and emotional climate. I lived with my dad from ages 5–15 in Washington, and then with my mom from 15–18 Montana. My time with my dad came with structure, responsibilities, and expectations. Praise wasn’t abundant, affection was practically nonexistent, and emotions weren’t really discussed.

When I eventually moved in with my mom, things felt different. She was more openly affectionate and expressive, and she tried to show love in ways I wasn’t used to. There were still rules, expectations, and challenges. At one point I was grounded for five months over bad grades, so definitely not a teenage paradise. Both households shaped me in important ways, and neither one was simple or easy. Each gave me experiences that helped shape who I am today.

Because of those contrasts, affection and emotional connection felt unfamiliar and confusing for a long time. I didn’t grow up hearing things like “you’re kind,” “I’m proud of you,” or even “you’re enough.” And when affirmation was scarce, it’s easy to start searching for worth in sideways places, like comparison, self-criticism, and sometimes judgment.

Judgment as a Teenage Habit

Oh boy, did I lean into judgment as a teenager. It became almost like a reflex, a way to deflect attention from the parts of myself I didn’t like or feel confident about.

Clothes, shoes, hair style, choice of backpacks (like hello! JanSport was the only way to go in 1999!) — basically anything that could be pointed at and critiqued became my little outlet. Classic mean-girl behavior, but from someone who felt very unseen and unheard.

One day, in the middle of a tirade, my mom asked:

Oof. I hadn’t thought about it like that. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what she meant but it was enough to make me stop being so outwardly critical. The full realization of why I acted like that didn’t really sink in until much later in my life. But looking back now, I can see the truth. For a moment, yes, saying those things did make me feel a little better, not in any meaningful way though. It was a tiny hit of false confidence, a patch over the deeper feelings of not being good enough, of never hearing “good job” for chores, grades, or accomplishments.

Even though I stopped saying those things out loud, the habit of judgment didn’t magically disappear. It would sneak back in through gossip, assumptions, or silent critique. Judgment can feel addictive, like emotional junk food — salty, crunchy, and completely unsatisfying in the long run.

Friendship, Perspective, and Misconceptions

Another experience that shaped my understanding of judgment was my friendship with my best friend in high school. She’s Indigenous, and I spent a lot of time with her family, even living with her dad and stepmom for a few months. Their home was warm, funny, structured, and full of love, exactly what my teenage self needed to see.

Her mom, however, lived on a reservation, and eventually my friend moved back there too. Over the years, I watched her life take really painful turns — None of what she endured made her a “bad person” but it reflected something bigger: the weight of generational trauma that so many Indigenous families are still carrying.

Meanwhile, I’d hear people repeat cruel, dismissive stereotypes about Indigenous communities, especially those living on reservations. Things like “they’re all drunks,” “they’re lazy,” “they don’t want to help themselves.” Those comments made me uncomfortable and sad. I knew they were wrong, but at the time, I didn’t yet understand the full history or the generational trauma underlying those misconceptions.

School didn’t teach it, at least not when I was growing up. We weren’t taught about children being taken from families, about livelihoods being stripped away, about families being forced to leave their homes to only be placed on desolate land, or about the trauma that echoed through generations afterward. None of that was in the textbooks.

It’s one thing to know someone’s background superficially, it’s another to understand the depth of disruption and trauma that shapes entire communities.

(Stock image from Canva. Image chosen because it makes me think of Danny and his sister when they were growing up in Canada with their parents.)

Stories, Trauma, and Generational Impact

Years later, reading Good Morning, Monster by Dr. Catherine Gildiner gave me a clearer understanding of how trauma can ripple across generations, especially through Danny’s story. He and his sister were taken from their parents and sent to one of the many “schools,” where they were separated, subjected to horrific abuse, forbidden from speaking their native language, and told they were savages — made to feel inferior simply for being Indigenous. Their family’s livelihood as trappers was destroyed, and they were forced to live on a reservation in Canada. Everything that had grounded them — their identity, purpose, and sense of belonging — was taken away.

The struggles that followed weren’t “bad choices.” They were the aftermath of rupture, grief, and survival. Danny’s story showed how trauma affects more than just one person. It ripples through families, patterns, and generations.

These stories, along with what I witnessed in my friend’s life, helped me see why culture, language, and heritage are so fiercely protected in Indigenous communities. When something has been repeatedly threatened or nearly erased, preserving it becomes an act of resilience.

They also highlight why it’s crucial that we listen, support initiatives like finding missing and murdered Indigenous women (instead of only prioritizing missing white woman, otherwise known as “missing white woman syndrome”), and have uncomfortable but necessary conversations. We may not be the ones who caused the harm, but we do live inside systems shaped by it, which comes with responsibility to use awareness and privilege to help, advocate, and amplify voices in marginalized communities.

Reflections on Life, Judgment, and Compassion

All of this — my past, my teenage mistakes, my observations, and my learning — led me to a simple truth. Most of the time, how people react has very little to do with you. They’re reacting through the lens of their story.

I’ll be honest, I’m definitely not perfect. I still take things personally sometimes, even when I know better. But I try to respond with compassion, even if internally I’m freaking out!

That’s the thing about compassion: it doesn’t mean you don’t feel your emotions, it means you choose a kinder response anyway.

Slowing down and trying to see the story beneath someone’s behavior changes everything.

Over the years, I’ve learned that:

• Pausing before judging someone and considering what they might be carrying can change the entire interaction.

• Curiosity before defensiveness can save a lot of misunderstandings and relationships.

• Reflecting on your own story while listening to someone else’s helps you understand them and sometimes lets you soften toward yourself too.

• Growth happens in the messy middle, so don’t expect perfection.

Why We Chose This Book Club Kickoff

This is why my husband and I chose Good Morning, Monster to start our book club. We wanted something meaningful, something that invites reflection, conversation, and compassion. We’ve both read it before, and the stories stayed with us long after the last page.

For those who didn’t see the subscriber-only chat, we’ll be reading together at a gentle pace. I’ll put together a reading schedule so we can all stay, pun intended, on the same page. The goal is to give everyone time to reflect and share thoughts in the discussion chat.

The book has five stories, each revealing complex family dynamics, patterns of trauma, and resilience. Beyond Danny’s story, the other narratives explore surviving childhood neglect, the long-lasting effects of parental mistakes, family secrets, and the ways people cope with love, loss, and guilt.

We’re also considering a livestream conversation once everyone finishes the book, a space to talk about themes, takeaways, emotions, and whatever the reading stirred up. This isn’t just about finishing a book — it’s about connecting, understanding, and practicing compassion together.

A Quick Note: The Holistic Route Podcast!

Articles will now be published every Friday, a little ritual to look forward to each week. And honestly, it keeps me accountable because if I say I’m doing it, I actually have to show up 😅.

Now for something I’m really excited about. My husband and I are starting a podcast! Our first episode will explore a deeply personal topic — how we navigated our unexpected pregnancy and the miscarriage that followed. It’ll be heavy, but we approach grief in a way that’s honest, open, and a little different than most people.

Just like here, the podcast will explore life as a whole — the messy, beautiful, confusing, heartbreaking, funny, ordinary, and extraordinary parts. Take what resonates, leave what doesn’t.

The conversations will be the kind you only get with a couple who’s been together forever: honest, real, occasionally awkward, often warm, and full of the playful banter that comes from years of shared life. We’ll eventually bring on guests because sharing stories is one of the most powerful ways we grow, connect, and help one another heal. Episodes will drop every Wednesday, giving you a midweek space to breathe, reflect, and feel a little less alone.

This space, both the Substack and the podcast, is meant to be a home for connection, growth, healing, and deeper understanding through story.

There’s no perfect way to start learning about challenging topics like this. The point is to listen, stay open, and be willing to be humbled if you accidentally say something wrong. It’s all part of understanding better and showing up with respect.

Keep yourself rooted, your words honest, and your mind awake.

🖤 Autumn

For our family, 2026 comes with a very different kind of goal. It isn’t about adding more into our lives — it’s about letting go.

This year, my husband, our kids, and I are preparing to sell practically everything we own so we can travel and choose experiences over things. Over the last few years, we’ve slowly realized that stuff doesn’t hold the meaning we once thought it did. Our time matters. Our love matters. The memories we create together — those are what stay.

We’ve never really been big on possessions anyway. Our house is so minimal that someone once asked if we had just moved in… and I laughed and said, “Nope — we’ve been here three years.” Honestly, we’ve been low-key training for this move for a while.

Now we’re taking it a step further. We’re letting go of what we don’t need — selling what has value, donating the rest, and getting ready to hit the open road with lighter bags and fuller hearts. Not because we think this is the right way to live, or a more enlightened path than anyone else’s — but because it’s what feels true for us in this season of life.

Part of it is practical too. Between rising property taxes in Washington and the cost of just existing, our mortgage has been creeping up while our leftover income for fun, travel, and memories keeps shrinking. Working just to cover bills and survive isn’t resonating with our souls. We don’t want to simply scrape by — we want to thrive. And thriving, for us, looks a lot more like exploring the country, meeting new people, and living with intention than owning more “stuff.”

We also want to see how other people live across the country. We want to meet new faces, hear their stories, and share in their experiences. We want to show our kids a life beyond the bubble we’ve known here in the Pacific Northwest — to walk where history unfolded, to feel the moments that shaped our country, and to see the incredible diversity of places, people, and ways of being. This journey isn’t just about letting go of things; it’s about opening our hearts and minds to the richness of life in all its forms.

Instead of trying to “start over” on January 1 — because, honestly, who decided a calendar date should dictate our lives? — we’re leaning into the wisdom of the seasons. Winter is naturally a time for reflection, slow movements, and nourishing the soul. That’s why we have soups simmering on the stove, early nights by the fire, and quiet moments to sit with what’s truly important. Right now, we’re moving slowly, preparing our home, letting go of what no longer serves us, and trusting that we are exactly where we are meant to be.

Spring, on the other hand, has always been a time of growth, planting, and fresh starts. If you’re looking to take on new habits, goals, or big life shifts, nature’s timing can teach us that spring is often a better season to really move forward than a randomly assigned date on a calendar. Change is cyclical, reflective, and organic — and honoring that rhythm has made this journey feel lighter, more intentional, and a lot more joyful.

I want to be really clear about something: this isn’t about judgment, comparison, or trying to look like we’ve figured it all out. Far from it. I’ve seen people misread choices like this as superiority, and I’ve had to remind myself that those reactions usually have more to do with someone else’s story than with my intentions. We’re all growing, all learning, all fumbling through life in our own way — myself included.

For me, this choice is part of what I mean when I talk about The Holistic Route. It’s about living with presence. Honoring the seasons we move through — times of building, times of shedding, times of stretching into something new. Listening to our hearts. And doing our best to walk that path with love.

If loss has taught me anything, it’s that life is fragile and achingly precious. We aren’t promised tomorrow. We can’t take our belongings with us when we leave this planet — but we do carry the love we shared, the memories we made, and the moments that rearranged our hearts.

So instead of a resolution to gather more, our intention for 2026 is beautifully simple:

Less stuff, more living.

More presence. More curiosity. More space for wonder.
More conversations, more laughter, more courage to choose a life that feels alive — even if it doesn’t look conventional from the outside.
More moments of laughter, music, and just letting go.

And if any part of this sparks something in you, I invite you to treat it as a gentle nudge — not to copy what we’re doing, but to look honestly at your own life and notice where you feel called to make a shift. “More living” doesn’t have to be big or dramatic. Sometimes it’s rest. Sometimes it’s letting go. Sometimes it’s choosing joy on an ordinary Tuesday.

Take a moment to reflect — maybe journal, talk it through with someone you love, or just sit with the question:

Where in my life am I ready to choose more living?

If you feel comfortable, I’d love for you to share your reflections in the comments. My hope for The Holistic Route isn’t to stand on a pedestal or speak like I have the answers — it’s to spark conversation. To build connection. To grow alongside each other as we navigate our own seasons with curiosity, humor, and love.

Your voice is part of this space. When you share, it doesn’t just deepen your story — it lets others feel seen in theirs.

Here’s to all of us finding our own ways of living more fully, together. And maybe having a little fun while we’re at it.

This little space has grown to 50 subscribers, which—let’s be honest—is no small handful of people choosing to be here! This community has been growing slowly, intentionally, and with heart, and I’m genuinely so grateful.

This has never been about chasing numbers. It’s about connection, curiosity, and having honest conversations about life, death, healing, growth, and all the beautifully messy stuff in between. Knowing there are 50 of you who resonate with that means more than I can say.

And because this space is growing, I wanted to share a bit of what’s coming next. My husband and I are getting ready to launch The Holistic Route podcast. We just celebrated our 22nd wedding anniversary, which means we’re creeping very close to a quarter of a century together — a sentence that somehow feels both sweet and mildly alarming (when did that happen?). Expect real conversations, loving banter, laughter, and the kind of honesty that only comes from truly knowing someone for a very long time.

We’re looking forward to having guests on the podcast in the near future, because I truly believe we can learn so much from other people’s lived experiences.

We will also be starting a book club of sorts — choosing books that spark reflection and conversation. Our first pick will be Good Morning, Monster by Catherine Gildiner. Written by a therapist, it follows five patients as they unpack deep trauma and explore what healing looks like when people are finally seen and understood. It’s heavy at times, but deeply human, compassionate, and hopeful. Future picks will include books like Maybe You Should Talk to Someone by Lori Gottlieb and Sociopath by Patric Gagne.

As we read together, we’ll talk about what we’re learning, what parts hit home, and what you take away from it too. This is meant to be a conversation, not a lecture — and that includes you!

We’re currently working behind the scenes to get the podcast up and running and should be recording soon. You can expect the first episode sometime at the beginning of next month.

Thank you for being here — truly. For reading, reflecting, and helping turn this into a space that feels thoughtful, honest, and alive. I’m really grateful you’re part of it. 🖤

With gratitude and excitement,

Autumn

I’m writing from my own experience and the knowledge I’ve gathered over time. This space is meant to share insights, encourage reflection, and create understanding — not to judge or attack anyone. If you feel triggered or upset while reading, please know that it’s not my intention, and it’s okay to take care of yourself first.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how casually we throw around words like narcissist, sociopath, and psychopath.

Someone’s selfish? Narcissist.
Someone has a bad reaction? Psychopath.
Someone hurts us and doesn’t apologize? Sociopath.

And listen… I understand why we do this. We’re trying to make sense of behavior that feels confusing, painful, or just plain off. Language gives us something to hold onto when things don’t make sense.

But somewhere along the way, these words stopped being descriptors and started becoming shortcuts. Catch-alls. Weapons, even.

And when that happens, we don’t just lose accuracy — we lose nuance and compassion. For others and for ourselves.

This isn’t me trying to sound like an expert or tell anyone how to talk. I’m not a clinician. I’m just someone who’s done a lot of reading and research over the years to better understand certain people and dynamics in my own life — not to label, but to stop internalizing things that were never mine to carry.

Clarity helped me breathe easier.
So I wanted to share some of that clarity here.

Narcissism Isn’t Just “Being Full of Yourself”

Fun fact (because I’m a nerd and can’t help myself): the word narcissist comes from the Greek myth of Narcissus, the guy who fell in love with his own reflection. Which feels fitting… but also a little misleading.

When people hear Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD), they usually picture someone arrogant, self-obsessed, or obsessed with their reflection.

In reality, it’s often much quieter — and much more fragile.

At its core, NPD is usually rooted in insecurity. A shaky sense of self that needs constant reinforcement. Admiration, validation, control — not because they feel superior, but because without those things, everything feels like it might collapse.

These behaviors aren’t random. They’re survival strategies.

Protect the ego.
Avoid shame.
Stay in control.
Don’t feel exposed.

Empathy can be limited. Self-reflection is often uncomfortable or threatening — not always because someone is malicious, but because looking inward risks cracking the very thing they’re trying to protect.

Understanding this doesn’t excuse harmful behavior — but it does explain why calm conversations, logic, or emotional appeals often feel like talking to a wall.

And sometimes that understanding is freeing.

Sometimes the most healing sentence is simply:
Oh. This isn’t about me.

Sociopath vs. Psychopath: Why It’s Not as Black-and-White as We Think

This is where things get especially messy.

The terms sociopath and psychopath get thrown around a lot — usually dramatically and without much nuance. Clinically, though, they’re now generally grouped under Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD) because the overlap is significant and the differences are difficult to reliably separate.

ASPD is also a spectrum, which really matters here.

Some people are more calculated, emotionally detached, and controlled — traits often associated with psychopathy.
Others are more impulsive, reactive, or volatile — traits often associated with sociopathy.

Across the spectrum, common themes tend to include:

• limited or absent empathy

• little to no remorse

• disregard for others’ boundaries or rights

• emotional apathy

Many people with ASPD are content with who they are and don’t feel motivated to change — not because they’re villains, but because empathy and concern for others aren’t internal drivers.

That doesn’t make them monsters.

But it does mean these terms shouldn’t be used casually to describe everyday behavior or conflict.

Someone having a bad day isn’t a psychopath.
Someone being emotionally messy isn’t a sociopath.
Someone setting a boundary isn’t a narcissist.

Words matter. Context matters.

Why I Care About Getting This Right

I didn’t learn any of this to diagnose people or slap labels on behavior.

I learned it to understand patterns.
To protect myself. To protect my family.
To stop blaming myself for things that were never mine to carry.

Knowledge didn’t make me colder — it made me clearer.

And clarity is kind.

We can hold compassion and boundaries at the same time.
We can understand behavior without excusing harm.
We can learn without turning psychology into a weapon.

Awareness isn’t judgment.
And boundaries aren’t cruelty.

Why I Wish We Talked About This Before It Hurts

I also genuinely believe personality disorders should be talked about more openly — not in a sensational way, not as insults, and not only after emotional damage has already been done.

Most people don’t go looking for information like this out of curiosity.

They look for it because something already hurts.
Because they’re confused.
Because they’re questioning themselves.
Because the fallout has already happened.

And I can’t help but think… what if these conversations happened before that point?

What if understanding these patterns was just part of general emotional literacy — like learning about attachment styles or communication differences? Not so we could label people, but so we could recognize red flags earlier, trust our instincts sooner, and better protect ourselves and the people we love.

Talking about this isn’t about fear.
It’s about preparedness.

It’s about understanding that not everyone experiences empathy, connection, or emotional responsibility the same way — and that awareness allows us to make clearer, safer choices without turning ourselves into armchair psychologists.

Education doesn’t make us paranoid.
It makes us grounded.

If You’re Still Here

If this topic resonates, you don’t need to become an expert or start analyzing everyone in your life. Sometimes learning is simply about finding language for experiences your body already understands.

That’s very much the heart behind The Holistic Route — curiosity over judgment, clarity over chaos, and self-trust over self-blame. It’s also something my husband and I will be exploring more deeply when we launch The Holistic Route Podcast, alongside many other conversations around healing, relationships, and understanding ourselves better.

If you want to explore this further, Dr. Ramani’s YouTube channel is a grounded, compassionate resource, and Sociopath by Patric Gagne offers a surprisingly human perspective that challenges stereotypes without sugarcoating reality.

Take what helps.
Leave what doesn’t.

Knowledge isn’t about hardening your heart.
It’s about softening confusion, trusting yourself, and moving through the world with a little more understanding — for others, and especially for yourself.

And honestly? That feels like a pretty good place to start.

LINKS —

Dr. Ramani's YouTube

Sociopath by Patric Gagne

We met at 18 and 19 (married at 19 and 20), young enough to believe love could fix everything and old enough to think we understood what “forever” meant. (We didn’t. But we learned.)

But what we did know was that we genuinely liked each other. Yes, it was a little sweep-you-off-your-feet in the beginning — that spark was real — but underneath all of that was this immediate comfort, this “I can breathe around you” feeling. We could talk for hours. We could sit in silence. We felt like friends and soulmates all at once. And after twenty-two years? That easy, steady friendship is still what holds us together.

People love to talk about long marriages like there’s some secret spell: stay madly in love, never go to bed angry, keep the spark alive. Please. If marriage ran on butterflies alone, everyone would tap out by year three.

The truth is way less glamorous and way more real. Marriage lasts because two people learn how to communicate — and then relearn — and then relearn again as life changes, as they change, as love shifts into different shapes.

We’ve had seasons where we hurt each other, not because we wanted to but because we were scared, overwhelmed, or didn’t know how to say what was actually going on. We’ve had moments where the distance between us felt too wide. We’ve had nights where both of us wondered silently if we’d make it.

And looking back, all of those moments had one thing in common: we weren’t talking. Sometimes we were both afraid to say what we truly needed. Sometimes we stayed quiet to “keep the peace.” Sometimes we both hoped the other would magically guess what was wrong.

And shocker — neither of us is a mind reader! That’s where things cracked, not because we fell out of love, but because we fell out of communication.

Here’s what I know now: love changes over time — that initial rush, the obsession, the butterflies — they settle down. But that doesn’t mean the connection or attraction has to disappear. What keeps it alive is friendship, honesty, and effort. You have to say what you want, what makes you feel loved, what you miss, and what you wish were different.

Love doesn’t survive on guessing. It survives on showing up, speaking up, and being willing to give and ask for what you need — all while building a friendship that holds everything steady when the butterflies quiet down.

That friendship? That’s the real foundation. Liking each other has carried us through things passion alone never could. Passion is loud, but friendship is steady. It’s what lets you grow and still come back to each other. It’s what lets you stay together even when you’re not at your best.

If you’re reading this and you’ve had your own moments of “Can we make it?” — you’re not alone. Every long relationship has those chapters. Nobody glides through decades untouched. The couples who last aren’t the ones who never hurt each other; they’re the ones who keep coming back to the table, keep speaking up, keep risking honesty, and keep choosing each other even when it’s uncomfortable.

Whatever season you’re in — new love, tired love, rebuilding, or trying not to scream into a pillow — you’re not failing. You’re human. Relationships take work, but they’re worth it when both people show up.

That’s what twenty-two years has taught me: talk to each other. Tell the truth. Ask for what you want. Say what’s hard. And don’t forget to like the person you love.

That’s the part that lasts.

A little note directly to my husband:

Happy 22 years, Babe 🥳

We’ve grown up together, survived together, laughed ourselves stupid together, and built a life that’s ours — imperfect, honest, and full of heart. Thank you for choosing me, for choosing us, even when it was messy or heavy or stretching us in ways we didn’t expect. I’d do every version of our story again if it meant ending up right here with you.

I love you so much. Cheers to us 🥂

Love always,

Autumn

Grief doesn’t come in one size. It has no standard form, no neat stages, and absolutely no interest in showing up the same way twice. Sometimes it arrives like a quiet fog. Other times, it hits like a tidal wave that comes out of nowhere and shows no mercy.

Grief is personal, unpredictable, and deeply tied to the shape of the love you lost.

Over my life, I’ve lost more than twenty people — siblings, family, friends, a baby I never got to hold… a future I only imagined. And not once has grief shown up in the same outfit. Not once has it asked permission. Not once has it matched the grief before it.

Because that’s the truth no one likes to say out loud:

Every grief is different because every love is different.

You don’t grieve your grandparent the way you grieve a child. You don’t grieve a friend the way you grieve a sibling (usually). You don’t grieve the past the way you grieve the future.

Each one is its own language, its own lesson, its own wound.

The Brother I Lost Before I Could Remember Him

When I was just shy of two years old, my baby brother died at three months old. I don’t have memories of him — not in the traditional sense — but that didn’t stop his absence from shaping me.

I grew up alone but always with a silent outline of someone who should’ve been beside me. A brother who never got to become part of my story, yet somehow remained a quiet part of me anyway. It wasn’t the grief of memories — it was the grief of “what if,” the grief of a sibling-shaped space that stayed empty.

The Grief of a Life Imagined

Last month, I experienced a miscarriage. There’s no guide for grieving a life that never got to unfold. It’s a grief built from hope — from imagining names, moments, futures, and love that never got to lift off the ground.

It’s invisible grief. Private grief. But deeply, painfully real.

And in some ways, the silence that surrounds it makes it harder.

The Grief That Blind-Sides You

Then there’s the grief that crashes into your life without warning — the kind that breaks the world in half.

Fourteen years ago, at 3am on December 4th, 2011, we got the call no one is ever prepared for — the kind that splits your life into a “before” and an “after.” In those first moments, it didn’t even feel real. It was like our bodies went numb before our minds could catch up. My brother-in-law — my husband’s little brother — had been killed in a car accident at just twenty-three. One minute he was here, the next he was gone. He left behind three young children who adored him, and we were left sitting in the dark, trying to process words that didn’t make sense yet. Shock has a way of slowing everything down and speeding everything up at the same time — you hear the words, but you don’t feel them until later. And when it finally hits, it hits hard.

Some deaths are loud. His was shattering.

I will never forget the moment we all sat together to tell my six-year-old niece that her daddy wasn’t coming home. Her confusion. Her heartbreak. Her innocence facing a truth adults can barely carry. That moment carved itself into me. Into all of us.

And because someone else caused the accident, the grief grew roots of anger and injustice. But eventually, my husband and I realized forgiveness wasn’t for the man who caused it — it was for us. So that grief didn’t harden into something that stole more from us than it already had.

The “Expected” Losses Still Hurt

People assume losing grandparents or older relatives should hurt less — as if age makes heartbreak logical. But loss doesn’t care about logic.

Over twenty losses have taught me this: there is no hierarchy in grief. There is no ranking. There is no “supposed to.”

Each love forms its own grief. Each grief shapes you in its own way.

The Anniversary Effect

And even now, every year around my brother-in-law’s death anniversary, something in me shifts. Even if my mind isn’t consciously thinking about it, my body remembers. Sometimes the heaviness creeps in quietly. Sometimes it stings. Sometimes it floods.

And that’s okay.

We’re not meant to “be over it.” We’re meant to live with it.

What All These Losses Have Taught Me

People think grief gets smaller with time, but really, we grow around it. We adapt. We stretch. We learn how to carry what once felt impossible.

So if you’re grieving — one loss or many — here’s what I hope you hold close:

✨ Your grief doesn’t need to look like anyone else’s

✨ You’re allowed to feel it decades later

✨ You’re allowed to cry, laugh, fall apart, and rebuild — in any order

✨ Every version of grief you’ve lived through is valid because every version of love you’ve lived through was real

Grief doesn’t follow the rules. And honestly? Love never did either.

Here’s to crying, healing, laughing… and doing it all imperfectly 🖤

— Autumn