I let

One is happy, but fidgety, like he likes it but it isn’t as perfect as it could be. His fingers move wiggle at my sides, sneaking under various parts of me.

“What are you doing?” I ask?

Suddenly I am up, off my side, and on him. “Just trying to get you closer,” he says, trying to hide his smile, more self-satisfied or grateful, I don’t know. I lay my head down, snuggle into a position I most prefer – something I call “koala-ing.” He’s the eucalyptus now. I’d tell him, except his eyes are closed. It’s so rare he’s not chin-forward and hyper-vigilant. I let the man rest.

Another will not stop smiling. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it. His face looks like someone cracked a glass mask, all crinkles and lines and light shining through. It’s just morning. It’s just traffic. It’s just us and us isn’t anything with a name the world understands – just friends who get along better than people seem to realize. Just two people, one who trusts when it’s so hard for her to trust, one who understands when he rarely finds a grasp on anyone.

I think of pointing out his goofy grin, or the fact that he’s a little lost as I turn to leave. I think about saying “you love me a LOT, man.” But it’s not often he looks like the puppy he can be, when no one is barking at him. I let the man smile.


Love comes in so many forms, and I feel oppressed by how few are understood, appreciated, expected. I store up moments and memories, like I have always done. I wonder if I am single, if I have ever been single, if the definitions and measurements given me by an unexplained raising and patriarchal structures and mono-hetero-normative culture can serve any purpose – except that of helping me translate my soul to other people’s ideas, except I want out of the business of translating, anyway.

It’s not often any of us are capable of just being. I let myself just be.

Solstice Vibes Like

[image description: booksy stands in the sand, wearing a long sweater, looking out at the ocean]

Today I breathe and remind myself of my strength, knowing it is the solstice, the time to put down old things. The darkest day, longest night, is upon us. It only gets sunnier from here. But I want to enter the sunlight free of encumberments. Holding only what is mine.

That’s been a theme for me this year: I will only do MY work. I will do all of my work, imperfectly as humans do, but often with alacrity. Without trying, I am reliable to notice what needs doing, do it, and be investigating in the background what will need doing next go-around. For instance, it’s been on my mind for some time that I’ll eventually need to replace my vehicle. The other day, when the ignition didn’t immediately turn over, I knew the battery would soon need changing. Fresh on the heels of that realization, I now know exactly how much my car is worth for a trade-in, exactly what kind of car I want to replace it with, how much I’ll put down, where in my budget the payments will come from, etc.

In short, I am not one to let things idly go by, and be surprised or forget to put in labor. I am many things, and a worker is one of them.

But, because of that, I’ve long fallen into the pattern of enabling.

Let’s pause for a minute, because this realization was a pretty hot take when it occurred to me back when I was married.

In many ways, I survived an abusive marriage. This included me as the abuser, which I’ve talked enough about already, but as a recap: For the first six months I was married, I was, increasingly, verbally abusive of my husband by screaming things at him when I’d become sufficiently dysregulated. When I realized what was going on, I stopped, apologized, and I never did it again. In fact I’ve never screamed at anyone since then. Because I’d survived enough abuse to know I sure as hell wasn’t going to pass on the curse.

But when I stopped abusing, I saw how much I’d been abused. I saw that all of my dysregulation* was based on being gaslit, neglected, dehumanized, and lied to. And I saw that, in screaming myself into a puddle and then accepting affection and romantic bids from the person I was married to, I enabled both his horrible treatment of me and my own escalation into abusing.

*I just want to VERY CLEARLY state the difference between: “he treated me in ways that were dysregulating, and would have been, to anyone in an intimate relationship” and “his actions made me abusive.” The first is true and the second is bullshit. When I act, it is on me. And, the systemic issues that create an environment where a person is pushed to extremes also need to be understood, so they can be fixed.*

An act of abuse requires nothing of the victim. But a pattern of abuse requires the victim enable it. For my then-spouse to abuse me, I had to give him access to me. And I did. I gave that man every part of me. And it nearly killed me in various ways. My body gave up and stopped working. I lost the will to live. Because I kept letting an unsafe person douse me in relational poison. I soaked in it, to be close to him.

Until I didn’t, right?

And since the didn’t-ing, I’ve been trudging through the process of removing access to me from unsafe people. I’ve been working to establish boundaries that prevent, instead of enable, patterns of pain and harm.

Oh, I have examples.

Recently, I kid you not, a family member got mad at me for fucking someone (who I was not fucking) and yelled at me (but wouldn’t clearly articulate why) while I was out of town, dealing with my father – who was in the ICU, on a ventilator, after his lungs collapsed and his heart stopped.

I was talking to this family member because, until this point, she’d been safe for me. She’d been so safe that she was the first person I reached out to in the emergency. I had every reason to trust her and expect her to be loving toward me, as she had been since we both reached adulthood.

But when she wasn’t loving – when she was cruel and biting and confusing and inconsiderate (I cannot give a sweeter descriptor to yelling at someone who has just left the ICU where a loved one is having trouble breathing) – I stopped. She deleted me from social media. She did not reach out to reconnect. And in the past, I’d have spun out on options to “fix” the relationship.

But it is not my (or anyone’s) work to fix an entire relationship. It is the work of each of us to be ethical and wise and do our parts. Inasmuch as suits the situation, it is our work to be curious and clarify to keep from unnecessary pain. Ask questions, sure. But some situations don’t need to be better understood before they are declared unsafe.

For instance, when someone yells at you and then cuts you off, you don’t have to ask questions. Whatever their motivations, it’s not about you. It’s about their reaction to you. And if they’ve made some boundaries that you’d prefer change (like…. I would prefer be in contact with this person, if it were the loving, friendly communication that typified our contact for so long) – it will probably help you to ask yourself “Is this a safe boundary to approach?”

Some are. I have a dear friend who often battles depression and has given consent to us to batter-ram the door to get to them. They have said “I will disappear, please come see me.”

But many aren’t. When we get ghosted or cut off, especially after we’ve been harmed, those are boundaries that serve to remind us, “Oh, right. That person put up walls. We are peers, so it’s not my job to have them evaluate the wall. It’s my job not to injure myself knocking into it.”

This was true in my marriage when I asked my spouse to move out so I could experience safety from him, and he just ignored me. For a week. He did not speak to or check in with me. He didn’t know what I was doing in that week, nor did I have any idea what was going on with him. That week taught me so much. It taught me that he wouldn’t go out of his way to hurt me if we weren’t connected. It also taught me that mine was the only work keeping us connected.

It was my effort that kept us together. It was my enabling that kept him hurting me.

So, I stopped.

And that has been much of my work, since. The stopping. The cessation of work once I’ve done mine, such that what I see of others is: what they are like when they just do their work. Such that the access they have to me is access they have earned via consistent (not perfect) trustworthy behavior.

this is a stock image from Unsplash, of a raggedy little dog. it seems to be begging and was chosen for mirth.

I am, in my most natural states, a trusting creature. When my walls are down (and to have them usually up is not only exhausting, but an occupational hazard) – I give benefit of the doubt. I am not cynical, and I am only suspicious in as much as it serves me. I will never chase down someone’s internet happenings or check in with mutual friends to assert “did-this-person-say-or-do-that.” I admire, in many ways, those who are hungry for facts and find them. But I know that facts rarely serve me. Much like words, they are meaningless without consistent actions.

Finally, finally, finally, this year I have worked so intentionally on letting ambiguous situations go. I have said, over and over, “I do not understand everything that happened. But I do know that much of what happened is unacceptable, not my fault, and not at all about ME (so much as your reactions to/perceptions of me) and if you do not see that and choose to rectify it, I do not choose to re-engage with you.”

Back in the spring, I unexpectedly lost a little group of love. It shook my foundations, but also reminded me of my roots. In a situation where I was un-trusted and misunderstood, I chose me. I chose to say “I have been reliably good. I have been humanly loving. I have used the words I mean and mean nothing I haven’t said.” And when that was not enough, or more likely when it simply was not seen (for how often do we miss what is in front of us for our eyes being full of fears?), I said “enough,” and I let it be.

And it stayed down. So I knew. I knew i did not lose anything. I just saw the situation, the relationships, revealed for what they had been already.

The solstice is here, beckoning us to the mystery of the dark and the snap of the cold and the dangers of aloneness, perhaps the worst of which is being alone while surrounded.

So I surround myself only with those who will be warm and safe and sharing.

And sometimes, that’s just me and the dog.

But you and I are our own good company. And others will come. More quickly ushered in when room is created for them.

The Best Breaking

4I wanted to tell you when it happened, but it makes more sense now. Now that I’m practicing the changes. Now that I’m working out what it means. Now that I know, a little bit more, hot much I don’t know.

It’s raining, and cold, outside. We run inside and get the dogs situated and I get to the shower quickly, prioritizing warm water over anything else. I hear him scuttle about and fidget about in the bathroom.

“Can I join?” He eventually calls from the next room.
“Yeah!” I chirp, “Almost done, all yours.”

I realize when he walks in and looks down that I wanted the water to warm me up, but he wanted the HIM to do the work.

It’s still good that I’m done first, though. I’m talking about whatever is on my mind when I look back and see his silhouette in the shower curtain. I stop talking, run to get my phone, and direct his stance so I can get the shot I want. Changing tracks from food and fireworks to art directing him in the shower doesn’t surprise him. We’ve been friends for more than a decade. Kindreds most of that. Wars and terrors untold connecting our souls, my peace and his strength connecting our hearts. We love each other in a way that is not romantic and fits perfectly within the bounds of “why Maritza is a relationship anarchist.”

Dry and a little warmer, I hop into bed. The dogs follow suit. He ambles in, less sure than the rest of the creatures in the room, but glorious in his own right. “NO!” I yelp when he tries to cuddle up to us. “It’s cold! We need blankets!” He growls, and it’s sexy and funny and confuses the dogs, who I convince to at least move to the end of the bed, and he comes and covers me, tucking me in on two sides and sliding into the third. “Hi,” he says. I wiggle back so we’re touching, then tangled. “Hi,” I breathe back.

That afternoon, we have a different kid of sex. We’ve slept together before – with sleep and without, but this is the first time for many things. Most notably, it’s the first time I experience making love.

I hate that term, as it applies to my life. I hate it the way I hate general expectations for romance, and for the same reason – because it feels not just foreign but inapplicable to me. Like, I never experienced emotionally connected sex with my spouse (we had a sexual relationship for about 3 years) until the last time. And then, we were just connected in sadness.

(Sidenote about something I’m learning. I don’t have to be safe or happy to be able to make someone else feel that way. I can easily switch into a caregiving mood that, if I’m not checked in with or known, can make partners think I’m as chill and happy as I’m helping them feel. And then once they’re settled, I’ll just… leave. I don’t like anything about this pattern and I’m willing to do the work of asking for what I need and refusing to enable by just shutting down my needs in favor of tending to theirs. But what I’d really like is to just have a partner/partners who will check in, or better yet…. well let’s get back to the story.)

So for a long time, I’d casually brush off the idea of connecting emotionally, wanting romance or foreplay, or “making love.” I didn’t understand it and I was embarrassed to be so different. But I also really like sex of all kinds, and knew how to relate to other people discussing their needs- so it was an “it takes all kinds” area in my brain. Some people had sex with feelings. Some did but only sometimes. And some, like me, didn’t, ever.

The first time I had sex with someone after my marriage ended, it was HOT, y’all. It was fire and desire and a time warp. It stayed that way for a year, every time I was with that person. And I thought, oh, I can have connected sex! And it’s so GOOD. So then I mostly wanted partners who I had good chemistry with. But still, “making love,” was a theoretical concept. Because I wasn’t in love with anyone. And I thought that was a prerequisite.

Thankfully, over the last few years, I’ve learned a lot about the various forms of love, how few of them have anything to do with sex, and what a wide berth sex can cover.

It’s raining and he’s breathing, deep and heavy and peaceful on my neck. We’re falling asleep, until I turn around to snuggle closer. Or maybe  start writhing. Hand-to-God, I am always writhing and never aware. “Thanks for letting me know what you want,” I’ve heard. Lord. I didn’t want anything, I’m just sensory seeking. But I’ll take it. Anyway, something happens, and we’re not falling asleep anymore.

It’s not obvious at first. We are friends and we love each other and we are good to each other. But I’ve had sex with this man before, even if not PiV sex. I’ve spent long nights and road trips and afternoons in the sun and this aggressive goofball has a style I’m familiar with. He’s a cannonball. Our first time, he’s made of rebar – holding himself tightly together and springing on me when I finally ask for it. He is power usually stored and finally released, all at once and everywhere and for a while. He is a force, elemental in bed in a way he isn’t out of it. But not today.

I assume he is tired and getting warmed up, though he’s never needed to before. But then it’s the way he gently palms me to move me, the way he doesn’t watch me, like so many have, but he sees me, and when I see him doing so, I have no desire to look anywhere else. It’s how he checks in, silently, testing slowly what limits are and aren’t. It’s his hands sliding all over me in adoration, not consuming, just being with. I realize he is noticing with all of his senses, and somehow it makes him more here than he was before.

We are locked in, and everywhere and everyone and everything else is locked out. It is us us us and “us” is new.

This is different, and it breaks me in a way I’ve been dealing with ever since.

After, we smile and snuggle and I breathe him in deep, smelling soap and sex and joy. He settles into me and it is the most peaceful I’ve ever known him to be. I’m reminded of once, in a huge crowd, when he reached for my hand without thinking and shrunk back, embarrassed, after. I grabbed his hand back and said “MINE!” and his shoulders left the residence they’d taken up by his ears. He smiled and said, looking down, “You’re like human Xanax. I couldn’t be here with anyone else.”

I head home. I float there. I am dripping in the bliss of being loved and connected with sexually, and without ego. I think: I want this. I want a version of this that can keep. I want to know someone well enough, know how to love them well enough, that we can be together with none of the usual bullshit separating us.

I think of how we got there. A dozen years of jokes and adventures and conversations and understanding and trying and commitment to friendship in many forms. I think of all the work I was glad to do.

And I realize, well, fuck. Goals change and call for new game plans. I’ve dated in a way that worked for me because it met me where I was, but it also kept me there. And I don’t want to be there anymore.

So, we’re shifting gears, friends.

Ever needed to just talk about it? I’m here for you. I use my blog to write the things I think will be helpful for others to read about. But sometimes you need to engage further. Check out my about me or book a session to discuss more about where you are, and where you want to go. Let’s do this, together.

I’m Just Out Here Trynna Take Up My Space and Honor the Humanity of Others

CW: Sexual Assault

I woke up on the couch, and the TV was on. I’d been binge-watching Married At First Sight, which I can not in any way recommend and which gave me anxiety in that way that makes me skip through episodes to just know WHAT HAPPENS…

Anyway there was a wedding on the screen. For a moment I thought, “oh, huh, i wonder what I’d like in a wedding.”

BECAUSE I TOTALLY FORGOT I ALREADY HAD A WEDDING. I forgot I was divorced. Just for a moment. I remembered in a few blinks. But not with that reality-crashing-down-on-me kind of way. Just… remembering. Oh yeah, already did that. Was pretty. Marriage wasn’t great. Man I love my living room….

One of the forms of therapy I do is called EMDR, it’s a protocol to help people recover from the psychological effects of trauma. Through my training, I learned that there are different parts of your brain, including one that mainly processes facts, logic, and reason, and one that mainly processes feelings.

Most memories are supposed to have both. I imagine a bundle of feelings wrapped in protective packaging of facts, logic, and reason.

Like: your childhood pet died. That was really sad when it happened. You can remember that it was sad and maybe feel a tinge of that sadness. But in a helpfully-processed memory, you also remember that pets die, and you loved them well while they were here, and you’re okay.

In a memory of a traumatic event, it’s not like that. It’s like the two parts of the memory get stored in different files. And sometimes you remember the facts without any connection to the reality of them. And sometimes you just have the feelings without any sense of why.

I still experience a similar phenomenon -sensations that don’t align with the experience of the moment-  during sex with new partners. A friend date-raped me back in September and it was so confusing and surprising and painful. I did teh work, personally and in counseling, to address the trauma of it. But it’s still a thing to deal with in the everyday wear and tear of life.  Like when I have sex (which i prefer to be a little rough), unless I have near-perfect clarity and security (I’m fortunate enough to have had partners who loved me really well before they ever touched me, so this is something I’ve road-tested), I get overwhelmed and have to stop and talk about what’s going on.

I have to say “yellow” or “pause” and talk about what I’m afraid of. Like any part of being intimately close to me, sex with me is a lot of work for me and for the other person. In part because of left over feelings that need resolving, and in part because I’m a complex creature and as I heal, that means integration of my complex personality into all areas of my life. In other words, I can’t be a dude about sex anymore. The veil has been lifted. The feels have been felt. It’s still going to take a minute for my behavioral patterns (hopping in the sack when i’m horny) to catch up with what I know I need to do.

This is actually also upward trajectory. I’m not just staying in an uncomfortable situation and toughing it out. Or, more often, staying until I break down. But it’s still this encountering of the bundle of feelings screaming WE NEED FACTS LOGIC AND REASON TO CALM DOWN. And so I ask for those things. “Tell me you like me? Remind me I’m safe?”

And some partners don’t need asking. And some partners don’t tell. And each of these things is informative.

(are you wondering if I have a lot of sex partners? Well. I don’t not.)

The divorce was … well the divorce wasn’t traumatic. But the marriage, the whole relationship was. It gave me PTSD and once I was recovered from that it still took me through self harm and to the brink of suicidality. Which, by the way, I still feel embarrassment over saying that. There is still some internalized judgement that suggests being so into a relationship that I’d let it’s toxicity take me that far – is a sign of my weakness of character.

But it’s not true. I didn’t suffer through that relationship because I was weak. I suffered because the strength of my love and resolve were not matched by my abilities to draw good boundaries. I got dragged into the water because I didn’t know that the best thing to do is to throw a float.

I don’t want you to feel shame about any hard relationship you’ve ever had, any trauma you’ve ever survived, any abuse you’ve suffered OR perpetuated. I think the likeliest case is that your situation exceeded your resources, and the only way to recover from whatever role you played is to know that role, give it compassion, and move forward, imperfectly.

Imperfectly is the only way anyone will ever be able to do it.

I went through trauma therapy after the divorce. And I thought I’d need to talk about how things ended. But I really needed someone to help me wrap facts, logic, and reason around how things went before that. I needed a narrative that allowed me to acknowledge the facts, logic, and reason of my marriage so they could wrap around the feelings when the memories got reprocessed. I imagine memories like files in a filing cabinet. A traumatic, unprocessed memory is like throwing a Philly Cheesesteak in a manila folder and hoping it goes well when you need what’s inside. A processed memory with all its part is like a wrap sheet with a mugshot. Lots of info, maybe a smell from where the sheet was typed or the folder lived. Maybe a color that symbolizes something. But, overall, just something you can pull out to get what you need, and put back away.

And that’s what happened when I went to trauma therapy for my marriage. I became able to just talk about it. It still hurt, there were still feelings, but the feelings weren’t the only players, nor were they in control of guiding my actions. They were just part of the tapestry.

I woke up, forgetting I’d had a wedding. Remembered I have had a divorce, so I must have had a wedding. Remembered wedding was traumatic. Thought it sure is nice how brains work, and can heal, and that we know how to heal lots of things. Got up and got a snack.

I’ve gotten the sense lately that it would be really helpful if I wrote more about how I healed from my divorce – and how it kicked me into haling from many other relationships and set boundaries to keep them helpful.

I don’t want to. I don’t want to be a divorce person. It seems more damning and less glamorous than anything else. It seems like admitting a lot of things about myself that aren’t great and that I don’t want to say.

But I do want to be a healing person. A person who is always in the process of healing in a world of entropy, and a person who helps heal others.

So, did you know that you can eventually heal so much, you don’t even remember, day-to-day, the pain of the thing. Or even the fact of it? You can.

Check out more of how I can help you, here.

Dear White Men

This isn’t going to go where you think it’s going to go. I promise. You can let your shoulders down, put away your “well, actually”s, and breathe for a minute.

Because, White Men, I want to talk. I specifically want you to pay me for my time when we talk, but that’s another matter. For the purposes of right now, I just want to say a few things.

I want to tell you that, in my clinically-informed opinion, and by my rational observation, I don’t think you’re evil. I don’t think you’re bad. I don’t think you’re trash. I think you are human, imbued with all the qualities of inherent dignity true of any living thing. I think you’re worthy of care and concern. I don’t want to throw you away, or to the wolves.

And, bubs, I gotta tell you, unless you’ve been in diversity classes and worked on this already, you’re dripping in entitlement.

No matter how poor or abused or “othered” you were growing up or may still be. If you are a white man in the western world, you live surrounded by structures that uphold your freedom and abilities above and to the detriment of others. None of us can live in a world like that and be immune to how it warps us. The only way to live in a broken world and remain an upright person is to intentionally fight those broken structures, even if they leave plenty of room for you, personally (but they don’t) (not really, the just leave room for one, shitty, version of you).

We all lose our humanity, bit by bit, whether oppressed, oppressor, or bystander in communities and countries built on corruption, simply because of how brains develop. We see things modeled and we pick them up. Unless we are taught and practice to do otherwise, we’re all just a product of our raisin’.

So, White Men, I don’t want to call you out. I don’t want to spend my time or energy on that. But I do want you to have a WAY out. I think it’s just as tragic for you when you are bound by toxic masculinity and narrow frameworks and the crippling fear of failure that accompanies being raised in the highest social caste. I have seen you crying when you realize how lonely you are because you desperately want to connect but everything you’ve been taught about “logic” is railing against intimacy in your relationships. I’ve held some of you as you shook with rage – not even sure why or with whom these feelings started. I’ve heard you, in passing, rationalizing how some bitch is crazy as you shrunk, a little, maybe feeling it in the moment, because the 1-dimensional lens you use (you were taught to use) to view others is also how you selfie-identify.

White men, you got the short stick when it came to getting woke. You are not set up for success in encountering what hurts. You didn’t choose fragility of ego (no one would) but it was handed to you like your need for sunscreen. And yet, despite the systems set against you, if you’re a person who wants to change, you can. Like all humans,  part of what you need to change is inherent – I can’t give you that. You either want to change or you don’t. You either see what you’re perpetuating or are open to seeing it – or you aren’t.

But if you see the problem, and you just aren’t sure how to fix it… If you think there may be some areas for improvement, but you’re afraid of working on it because it seems too big or scary or confusing, or because people just keep yelling about how you’re a dumpster fire (it’s okay, bub. we’re all dumpster fires sometimes.), then I am definitely available to help.

I’m not perfect, and I don’t have all of the answers. Which is actually good news, because none of us are/do. But I read a lot. I’m hella educated. I’m kind and investigative and patient and I’ve spent most of my life helping people, especially people in positions of power and privilege, get where they’re going. Now, I want to help you. If where you’re going is a place of freedom and integrity, I want to help you get there.

Because: you can do it! You can access your resources and gird your loins! I believe in you!!

I believe in you and I also know that going it alone is the harder way – that not all scars heal.

I know that you deserve help. I have seen you, and I have experienced this – that what we all want and need is the version of you that is the most free, the most loving, the most loved and human and YOU. It’s not that you need to be less, just truer. Less bound by bullshit standards, sure, but more free to experience life without defensiveness.

You are capable of acting like an ass-clown, a dumpster fire, or just trash – but that’s not unique to your color or gender, it’s just the system that didn’t set you up for success. You can be horrible, but you are also amazing. You are full of creativity and possibility and you’re probably funny or interesting or enjoyable – you just may not be safe yet. You may not yet know how to engage critically in conversations about people who differ from you. You may not know how to encounter anxiety about what other people think while also being kind about them telling your those thoughts.

You might not know how to be wrong, and still be nice about it.

You might not know how to be RIGHT and still be nice about it.

You might now know how to tell if you’re wrong or you’re right and you might also not feel safe talking about it – which is perhaps the most reasonable and understandable part of it all.

Because the harmful systems that you contribute to, the ones that hurt others? They are hurting you too. They rob you of your humanity, your dignity, your soul. They tell you that you can only be one way, that other ways are foolish and shameful and you cannot have them and be a man.

But that is not true. You get to be all of you, whatever version of you, and when YOU is a person with freedom and compassion, dignity and resources, established worth and helpful boundaries, everyone wins. Big wins. Big, non-penis-joke awesomeness.

White Men, I am literally here for you. I run a consulting business and we can meet online to talk about and work on these things. It can be SO much easier than it is right now.  I am available to spend time, energy, and resources to help you be who and how you want to be, and to get there without the shame and confusion that might otherwise accompany the journey. I’m here for the “I’m not sure how to say this, but…”s and the “is it racist for me to…”s and all the other questions and comments you think but (hopefully) don’t say in public. I am here for the “I think I fucked up”s and I am here to give the “it’s not about what you did, it’s about what you do next.”

There’s a lot about my journey and background and education that you might want to know before you get into a professional online relationship with me. I get that. I want you to know those things. There may be other areas you want help in and we can lump em all together, like your brain does. We can fix a lot of your fixable problems in a way that works for everyone.

Ready? Okay, check out the rest of the booksybooty website. Fill out the application. Book a session.

I am here, you can be too. Let’s do this, together.

(We can also talk about dick jokes, that’s fine, you’re paying.)

-all images used with permission via unsplash