Last month, for the first time in eight years, I didn't publish a monthly newsletter. I watched myself throughout this process of NOT sending a newsletter, and found it fascinating. While certainly different from Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief, there truly were stages.

The day after my husband and I moved to our current home (nearly three years ago), I sat at the kitchen counter eating lunch and gazing out the window. To my astonishment, I saw a bear in the tree of our front yard.

Last month my beloved, Hazel, celebrated her 18th birthday. In recent months, I noticed, rather than being part of the kitty greeting committee, Hazel sleeps right through. I also find, her meow is now so loud, it practically shatters the windows! A couple of weeks before her birthday, I finally put the pieces together. Our aged gal has lost her hearing.

So, what's an emotional affair? I thought I understood at the time, and were I honest with myself, I was participating in at least three. But, truth be told, I didn't fully get it. Only in hindsight am I able to see the full nature of "emotional infidelity," and realize its impact - particularly on my marriage.

Several years ago, a friend suggested I read the book, "Room." I gave it a shot, and couldn't get past the first few pages. When the film version came out, another friend highly recommended it. When he reminded me of the story line, I just couldn't rouse any interest. Then, Brie Larson received an Oscar nomination for her acting in the film, and I resigned myself to give it a go.

And then I realized...hmm... I'd just fallen prey to the first line of defense for adult fear: "I don't have the time; I don't have the money." It's the most common excuse I hear from every adult I know, and I used it right up front, until I caught myself - put down my deposit, bought my ticket - and looked deeper within.

A day before the world began mourning the passing of David Bowie, a lesser known star departed this earthly realm. And yet, she touched many lives in her magical way, mine included.

I grew up in a Catholic household, and before my parents met, married and divorced, my father attended seminary school. All things religious or spiritual caused me to physically cringe. Just simple words like: faith, prayer, God...ugh...completely shut me down to any possible new information or opening within.

While hard to imagine strapping a bomb to my body, walking into a public place, and setting off the triggering mechanism. I am no better than those who have. Because while we are individuals, existing in separate human form, we are also one. Yeah, yeah, I know - it's a little philosophical for a Tuesday, but stay with me a moment.

Nearly every resident I've met in South Africa speaks at least two languages, including Afrikaans and English. The folks who run the Dell Cheetah Center, where I've spent the past two weeks, speak both with ease and eloquence. Every once in a while, though, there will be a small difference translating.

I have clients and friends who have, and do, participate in 12 Step recovery programs. The value of these support networks is undeniable; however, I have also come across a theme that disturbs me. Here's the message: "I am an addict."

Edwin is the athlete in my family. Blessed with a lean and long build, he easily leaps from a slight crouch to a height of double his length. Edwin practices yoga to the point of contortion-ism. The kind of stretch Edwin sucks at, though, is the kind I regularly encourage my clients to take: extending oneself to take a risk; speak an inner truth; do something that scares you!

About eleven years ago I became pregnant and experienced a miscarriage. For just over three months, I walked a path of interest, confusion, and emotional discomfort - my head spinning with every belief I'd ever held about what it meant to be a mother. I felt I'd never be just myself again. The notion of being both me and a mother, as a possible truth, simply didn't enter the picture.

A group of 44 women formed a tight seated circle, and just behind me I heard the primary facilitator say, "Ha, there's no place for me to get in." Without a second thought...well, for that matter, without a first thought, I leaned a bit to the right, as my neighbor scooted a bit to the left, effectively creating a path for her to enter. "What are you two doing?  I didn't ask you to move," she said. 

In truth, I have not yet attuned to how I might be “shoulding” on myself, and I leave the question open for exploration. In the meantime, I'll share a lesson I've been reminded of, in my work: "Just because you can, doesn't mean you should."

A few weeks ago, I learned something new. It feels important and true, yet not quite solid in my being. My head understands it; my body embraces the truth of it, and still I am staying open to a deeper level of knowing...the kind of knowing that leaves me glowing with it from the inside out.

I believe language matters. The individual words, body posture, tone, and energy injected into our language, to voice our message, matters. These components embody the intention and meaning we wish to convey. Three specific words come to mind.

For nearly 17 years, a cat I named, Bobbi, graced my life with her presence. By far, Bobbi was the neediest cat I'd ever met, let alone lived with!

Welcome to my personal growth tantrum. Lest you have any notion that I do not experience such things, because coaching is what I do for a living, I share with you now...I only wish! So, I invite you to bear witness.

For the first gazillion years of my life, I sincerely claimed I didn't have a creative bone in my body. After multiple conversations with a close friend, I started to perceive creativity through a broader and more accurate spectrum.