I’ve been a (very) inconsistent journal keeper ever since I learned how to write. When I am stressed my thoughts overwhelm me, so writing is a helpful way for me to make sense of the chaos inside my head. Just a few days ago, I decided to revisit what I wrote in the months when my depression was life threatening, in 2017. I was honestly dreading it, because I feared it might, well, depress me to read just how dark my thoughts were at that time. 

What I read instead gave me deeper insight into why I survived when so many others don’t. 

The story I’ve told for a long time is that I’m alive because of my children. Once I understood that my suffering was a result of trauma and not some moral or genetic failure, it took the option of traumatizing my own children through my suicide off the table. I decided I simply had no other choice but to fight. And that story is true, to some extent. 

I’ve outlined some of the steps I took in other posts, like this one. As I’ve pointed out however, many of these options are expensive and therefore out of reach for far too many people who need access to them. (Visit my website to read about my mission to change that.)

Reading through my journals gave me hope that there is an even simpler way to improve mental health, and it’s totally free: 

Self-compassion. 

What I found on those journal pages didn’t depress me at all. In fact, it uplifted me to read how I coached myself through some of my worst moments with kindness. Here is one example:

Wow am I glad to read the above. You came here to berate yourself and instead you were reminded just how much you’ve accomplished in such a short period of time. 

Page after page I read words of encouragement, patience, acceptance and grace. I certainly didn’t write every day. Often, weeks or months would pass before I’d update my journals. And though I was always kind and loving, I wasn’t necessarily easy on myself. I was firm and steadfast in my instructions to just. keep. fighting.  

Perhaps what is most remarkable about my ability to cheer myself on during that dark time was the fact that it was exactly the opposite of how I was being treated by the outside world where I was being gaslighted, bullied and abandoned by long-time friends and acquaintances alike. What I was hearing from them was that I was lying, crazy and attention seeking; that my needs weren’t worth being acknowledged much less met. Their accusations remain extremely painful to this day, but when I read my writings from that time I’m happy to see that even then their words didn’t sink too far below the surface. 

Self-compassion helped cure me because it created a feeling of self worth. This is important, because at the root of every suicidal thought is a belief around worthlessness. 

This relatively simple (if foreign) practice of self-compassion will start to bleed out from your thoughts into your habits, which positively changes your life. When you practice self-compassion you give your body the food it needs and wants. You drink more water. You learn no is a complete sentence and don’t overschedule yourself as much. You go to bed earlier. You only hang out with people who treat you like you’re starting to suspect you might deserve. You allow yourself to simply be instead of only placing value in what you do or produce. You start to believe that maybe, just maybe, your life has purpose.

Inevitably, and beautifully, compassion for self starts to turn into compassion for others. You simply cannot hate others for their mistakes when you’ve shown yourself grace for yours. 

If enough of us dare to do it, self-compassion might just change the world. 

Recently I saw a headline. I’m paraphrasing, but it went something like this:

“Scientists scramble to develop new antidepressants as suicide rates reach all time high.” 

That already got me thinking about this post. Then just yesterday, Elizabeth Wurtzel, the author of “Prozac Nation: Young and Depressed in America” died from cancer. She was 52. 

It motivated me to finally do something I’ve been avoiding: gather up what’s left of the medication I was prescribed in just a three year period as I fought severe depression, anxiety, bipolar mania, panic attacks and ultimately suicidal ideation. The results were a little shocking, especially considering there was more. 

The problem of mental health has only worsened dramatically in the decades since Ms. Wurtzel’s book was published. Suicide rates in the US are up 33% just since 2000. And yet as a society we cannot seem to imagine a solution that doesn’t involve numbing the sufferer and subjecting them to literally intolerable side effects. 

Contributing to my hopelessness and despair in those years was the ineffectiveness of the treatment options offered to me.  Some medications, like xanex, did help--but I was relying on it heavily when I found out that you can die from withdrawal from benzodiazapines. Here are just some of the side effects I endured: extreme lethargy, daily upper and lower GI distress, rapid weight changes in both directions, appetite loss, severe sun sensitivity, and an increase in suicidal thinking. 

In short: the “cure” is as bad as if not worse than the disease. 

Call me crazy--many do--but maybe, just maybe, there’s a better way?  

I have many criticisms about how we handle mental health care in this country (or more accurately, don’t), but it’s not enough for me just to be critical. I want to offer some practical tips for getting through a mental health crisis.

This list details the steps I took to recover from severe depression, anxiety and suicidal ideation in 2017, though it is not complete. Please note that some or all of these ideas may not work for you, and that’s ok. I encourage you to keep searching until you find what does work, because we need you here:

1. I admitted to my family and then my doctors how dark my thoughts had become. This was the hardest thing I have ever done, by the way.

2. I listened to my body, and with the help of my doctors weaned off all prescription psychiatric medication except for medical cannabis.

3. I sought professional help and followed through on all recommendations including a two week partial hospitalization program, Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) for trauma, Dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT) for emotional dysregulation, family, group, and individual talk therapy 

4. I practiced yoga with a tribe of people who were happy to see me no matter what mood I was in, and quick to give me a hug I didn’t know I needed.

5. I identified toxic relationships and ended them one by one.

6. I stopped drinking alcohol as my primary form of stress relief. I still imbibe occasionally; restriction always backfires for me (because I’m human).

7. I got really clear on my NEEDS (not wants) and was uncompromising no matter how inconvenienced others felt or the consequences that I incurred.

8. I stopped pretending to the outside world that I was perfect and accepted help in many forms.

I hope this help finds you if you need it. Sending you all my love and strength, brave ones. 🙏🏻❤️

I went on my first official diet January 1st, 1995. That it strongly resembled anorexia should have raised major red flags to the adults around me, but did not. On the brink of turning 16–and completely motivated by wanting attention from boys—I decided that I would not eat until I’d ran 4 miles  day, and even then I limited myself to grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, Snackwell cookies and other “diet approved” snacks. I lost 30 pounds in a single month, got the attention I was seeking from boys, and was praised for my “discipline” and “willpower” by my parents and friends. 

I was hooked.

For the next 20 years, I was either on a diet or eating everything in sight preparing for the next one—though none were as “successful” as the first. The weight loss was ALWAYS temporary, and it came back twice as fast as I’d lost it. I felt ashamed by every failure because I blamed myself instead of the diets. 

Reading the book Intuitive Eating (ironically written in 1995) literally blew my mind. As a physical therapist, I thought I was being a good example for my clients by exercising so vigorously and regularly. As a mom, I thought I was modeling to my children what was needed to “fight obesity” as I watched so many of my family members die young despite (because of?) their own dieting efforts. How could I have been so wrong?! This i information has been out in the world for 25 years now. WHY ISN’T THIS MORE WIDELY KNOWN?! 

The answer of course, is money. The diet and beauty industries make tens of billions each year, profiting from our self-blame when yet another “lifestyle change” has failed to yield the expected results. They profit off the lie that thin and healthy are synonyms, when nothing could be further from the truth. 

Not everyone is ready for this message, or this work. Some never will be, whether due to a lack of desire or access to support. Intuitive Eating is not easy, or quick. Weight loss is not the goal, nor is it guaranteed. It’s as deep as dieting is superficial. The aim is not to change your body, but your mind. 

The behaviors around food and exercise I now model to my clients and kids is much, much different.

I never count calories. I haven’t weighed myself in years. I practice gentle yoga rather than undergo punishing sweat sessions. I don’t binge on food OR booze any longer. I eat salads and vegetables because I want to, not because I have to. I also eat “play” foods whenever I’m in the mood. I don’t restrict myself from any food groups. I wear clothes that but regardless of the size. I’m comfortable in my skin, even when I haven’t done my hair or makeup. I express my feelings rather than stuff them down with foods. I’m a hell of a lot kinder to myself and less judgemental of others. I practice self care on a daily basis. 

Want to join me in ditching dieting forever? Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here to support you. 🙏🏻 

2010 ——-> 2019

I can’t believe the final day of this decade has arrived. The last 10 years have been the best and worst of my life—but mostly the worst. I look at the new mom-to-be on the left, and I weep for all that is to come.

She doesn’t yet know...

That motherhood will destroy her mental health, but her babies will also be the reason to pick up the pieces.

That her struggles with eating and drinking are symptoms of childhood trauma—not personal failure—and that moderation and healing is possible with the right support.

That the total 20 years she’ll spend dieting is a complete waste of time, money, mental space and energy. That the key to a healthy body is listening to it (aka eating intuitively).

That not everyone she has chosen to be friends with has good intentions, and even those who do won’t stick around when it gets too uncomfortable. That she will feel so isolated and confused and betrayed from this realization that—combined with intolerable side effects from psychiatric medications—her depression and anxiety will become so severe she’ll consider suicide.

That her marriage will be tested to the breaking point more than once, but that she and her husband will come out of it a stronger, happier couple, more committed to their family than ever.

That she isn’t “ok,” but she also isn’t broken.

That she is braver than she ever imagined, and is capable of really REALLY hard things.

That yoga doesn’t suck, and stillness is a greater teacher than any amount of calorie burn.

That after all is said and done, she is finally going to be ok.

Better than ok, in fact—because her experiences will help others, especially that little boy in her belly and his brother who follows in 2013.

For that reason, I’d do it all over again. 🙏🏻

“When a child tells you something, listen as though it’s the most important thing in the world, because to them, it is.”  Unknown 

If I had to choose one thing that separates my parenting style from the way I was raised (frankly, there are many) it would be this:

I listen to my children. 

When my boys are experiencing negative emotions, I try my best to understand why. I don’t minimize how sad, frustrated, worried, overwhelmed or angry they feel, no matter how small the problem seems from my adult perspective. If they ask, I try to help them come up with a solution, but if they tell me it won’t work I don’t take it personally because I trust they know their school culture or friendships or bodies better than I do. If there’s no neat and tidy solution to be found--which is often the case in life--I soothe them through cuddles, deep breathing and Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT) techniques to help regulate their emotions. Basically, I recognize that their feelings are as real and valid as my own, and I hold space for them to express themselves.

Even if I’m tired. Even if I’m stressed. Even if I’m dealing with my own emotional shit. Even if it’s after bedtime.

This might seem quite intuitive, but it is a quantuam leap over how I--and so many others of my generation and those that preceded mine--were brought up. My parenting style is the antithesis of a common phrase I heard when I was young: “children are seen and not heard.” To be fair to my parents, I probably had more of a voice in my house growing up than they did in theirs, but just because I was allowed to express my opinions doesn’t mean they were taken into serious consideration. At the end of the day, the decision was theirs and I was to live with it, no matter how unfair or muddy the circumstances. 

Just so we’re clear: I am not a perfect parent by any stretch. I’m disorganized. I’m usually late. I rarely cook. I’m not crafty. I lose my cool and swear too often and easily. My kids spend a lot of time on screens. 

When they come to me with something weighing on their heart or mind, though, I am all theirs. I can only hope that makes up for all my shortcomings. 

Allow me to introduce myself.

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My name is Kathleen Schwarz. I’m 40 years old and have been a physical therapist for the past 17 years. I became a yoga teacher 3 years ago after practicing gentle yoga had a *profound* effect on my mental health. Since then, I’ve also become certified in Thai yoga and Reiki healing. I called my company Compassionate Healing Services because I truly believe it is my compassion for others that makes me most unique (that, and a weight-neutral approach). It is my mission to make yoga and other holistic wellness services affordable and ACCESSIBLE to all regardless of age, size, physical ability or even financial status. 

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I’m also a proud feminist. Not sure what that means? Activist and author Cheris Kramarae perhaps summed it up best: “feminism is the radical notion that women are people.” I think we can all agree with that, no? 

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Let me be clear, though: I’m no white feminist. In fact, the feminist movements of the past have done more to uphold white supremacist patriarchy than to dismantle it. Until white women as a whole check their privilege and start centering the voices of those who are most marginalized, we will never achieve the equality we seek. As I say in my bio, if your femimism isn’t intersectional, it’s harmful. 

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Are you someone who believes “white supremacy” “patriarchy” “rape culture” and “white privilege” are all BS terms made up by the “liberal media”?

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Cool. You’re entitled to your shitty opinions, but let’s not waste either of our time by commenting or trying to change mine. (I’d also humbly submit our Rapist In Chief as exhibit A.) 

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If you do resonate with my posts, though, PLEASE follow me on Instagram @chsyoga.

I’ve been following the breadcrumbs over the past 3 years, and how I plan to achieve my mission has finally come into full view. I won’t reveal details just yet, but it’s BIG and SCARY and THRILLING and I will need all the help and support I can get. 

.Thank you for reading. ❤️

I didn’t hear about the #AsSheIs campaign on Instagram until today, and I certainly did not plan on posting an unfiltered pic with acne and a cold sore. I always appreciate an invitation to step out of my comfort zone, though, and the reason this campaign exists is too close to my heart for me not to participate.

For far too long—and because of was modeled to me by my family and culture—the appearance of being ok mattered more to me than actually *being* ok. I hid my insecurities behind perfect grades, stellar job performances, makeup, expensive clothes and accessories, constant dieting, and of course, perfect photos posted to social media of my ‘perfect’ life.

I drank a lot to keep this facade up. I knew from the moment I drank alcohol at 16 that I was not in control of my usage, but it would be another 21 years before I’d be forced to address it. By the time I was 37, several glasses of wine was a nightly habit, and I drank much more if I was in a social situation. Drinking was literally the only way I knew how to relax before finding yoga.

After several mental health breakdowns I finally had to admit to myself that I wasn’t, in fact, ok. That the feeling in my chest that had accompanied my every waking moment since about age 6 had a name:

ANXIETY.

I didn’t give up alcohol completely, but I did give up lying to myself about why I was using it. Labeling that feeling was the first step towards labeling what had caused it:

TRAUMA.

I’ll be talking a lot more on Facebook and Instagram about trauma and anxiety, alcohol, cannabis, body image, perfectionism, and mental illness in the hopes that it reaches young women and men who find themselves where I was two years ago: hopeless, terrified and suicidal.

The purpose of the As She Is campaign is to encourage more women to be their authentic selves online. I see so much potential for good with social media, but it is also known to increase depression, anxiety and even suicidality among its users. Let’s break down the barriers and silence the voices that tell us women only exist in this world to be pretty and thin and agreeable. Fuck that shit. I’d rather hear about your depression and anxiety than your death.

If you aren't already following me on Instagram @chsyoga, please do! Let's create a world where authenticity matters more than appearance.

My youngest son Charlie just started kindergarten yesterday. He loves school and had nothing but great things to say about his first day. Today when I picked him up, I told his teacher as much, and she had an equally glowing review of him: “I’m so glad. He’s doing great. He picks things up very quickly.” 

On the way home, Char asked me a couple of questions to clarify what the teacher meant. Then he said “Oh! Does that mean I’m the smartest kid?” I told him it didn’t matter, because everyone is smart in their own way.

His response hit a little too close to home: 

“But mommy wouldn’t that be good if I was the smartest? Then everyone will like me and I’ll have a lot of friends. You want everyone to like me, right?”

You know that feeling when you just don’t know what to say? This was not one of those times. My response was immediate: 

“No baby. I want you to like yourself no matter what anyone else thinks of you.”

I won’t bother being modest: I was the smart kid in school. My ability to study and achieve perfect grades up to and including graduate school was always a point of deep pride. It was also a sign of deep insecurity. (Perfectionism generally is.) I was perfect, because I *had* to be perfect in my own mind in order to feel worthy. My self esteem was non-existent if I wasn’t being validated by others, and so I looked to the grades on my report cards (and eventually the number on the scale) to decide how I should feel about myself. 

This is not a long term strategy.

When I earned a Master’s Degree at age 23 and started my career as a physical therapist, it was unmooring to let go of academia as a measure of my self worth. So I doubled down on diet culture, counting every Weight Watchers point eaten and burned for the next 13 or so years. It wasn’t until I started eating intuitively and found yoga that it even occurred to me that my weight and worth aren’t linked. 

Let me save you a few decades of suffering: they aren’t. In fact, no number of any kind will ever measure your worthiness, which is inherent, and cannot be taken away from you. 

I can only hope my smart boy picks this lesson up as quickly as the others.

On Tuesday, just a few minutes after I sent the boys into the backyard to play, I heard screaming that I soon realized belonged to my eight year old. Ben flung open the patio door and told me he’d been bitten by “a big brown insect or spider.” Sure enough, I found two small puncture wounds, one on his chest and the other on his finger. The chest wound had a small raised white bullseye already surrounding it. 

I used all my skills not to panic, because he was doing enough of that for both of us. He was shaking, his eyes wide open. His breath was shallow and fast. His arms were stiff and outstretched, his body language begging for comfort and help. There is no other word for it: he was traumatized. As someone who lives with complex PTSD, I know a lot about trauma. 

I scooped him up in my arms, validated his pain and fear and started talking him through breathing exercises to relax his body. I called the pediatrician and received a quick call back from the nurse who confirmed my suspicion that this wasn’t a serious *medical* emergency. I gave him motrin for the pain and put antibiotic cream on the affected areas. I told him he could sleep with me that night, which comforted him and me both by allowing me to watch for worsening or delayed symptoms. 

Of course, it took a LOT more than this to reassure Ben, who deals with anxiety on a daily basis. My nature lover was already declaring he might never go outside again, and was absolutely convinced that he had been poisoned. 

For the next several hours, my husband and I took turns comforting each wave of fear as it came. As we sat eating tacos for dinner, I reached over to pick up a piece of meat that fell on his shirt. Just seeing something brown in color instantly stiffened his body, and he burst into tears. I didn’t have any magic words. I made space for his fear because it was valid. I reassured him that he was now safe. I told him that the statistical likelihood of him ever being bitten again much less by something venomous is low. I dug deep (and took breaks) to find the energy and patience to remain present with him, to not minimize how genuinely frightened he was. Little by little, each episode got less intense and lasted for a shorter duration. I did Reiki on him before bed, and he surprised us both by sleeping soundly.

I’ll be the first to tell you that investing this much attention into the emotional health of my family is exhausting, and it can even be isolating. It takes daily, guilt-free self care to be able to give this much energy to not only my children but to my clients and friends as well. I’m sure many will read this and mock my husband and me for “coddling” our son, but I know the importance of getting this message out.

My experiences understanding and then healing from my own traumas over the past two years has opened my eyes to the inadequacies of our current belief system around what qualifies for the label of trauma. And frankly, WHO qualifies. For instance, did you know that former foster children are more than twice as likely to have PTSD than military vets who served in Iraq? Post traumatic stress can occur anytime someone fears for his safety or her basic needs aren’t met (this includes emotional needs); complex trauma results when this is a chronic occurrence.  

Let me be clear: I’m not in any way suggesting that my or any child would develop PTSD from one relatively minor incident. I am suggesting, however, that brushing aside his legitimate fear and telling him to “man up” as our society is prone to do with boys would have long-term effects on his mental and emotional health. And I’m even suggesting that--since our culture does this on a grand scale--this is contributing to some of the worst crises we face societally: namely opioid addiction, suicide and mass shootings. As the saying goes: only hurt people hurt other people. Imagine if those same individuals had been "coddled" with empathy and compassion as children, or even as adults.

I’m thrilled to report that as of yesterday, my child was happily playing outside again.

I don’t always get this parenting thing right.

My kids and I had a (mostly) wonderful Sunday in Ocean City, NJ at Wonderland Pier. Toward the end of the day at the amusement park, my boys decided that they wanted to go through the mirror maze. They had been through the maze earlier when my mom was in charge, and so I assumed that I didn’t have to reiterate the importance of keeping their arms outstretched to avoid hitting their heads.

You know what happens when you assume, right?

I proceeded to watch both of my children start barreling through these mirrored, disorienting tunnels without any of their usual safety mindedness. (This is not sarcasm; both of my boys are typically very careful.) I yelled for both of them to stop running and to put their hands up for protection, but neither could hear me which only increased my anxiety. I watched in horror as my 5 year old hit his head not once, but three times over the next couple of minutes as he clumsily made his way out of the maze. He wasn’t smiling but he seemed unfazed. I was freaking the fuck out.

Yes, I’m a mom. I’m also a physical therapist in an acute rehabilitation hospital. I don’t mess around when it comes to head injuries. I know the long-term damage even one concussion can cause.

So I did what any great parent would do (that was sarcasm): I yelled at him.

“I THOUGHT YOU KNEW THE RULES! WHY WEREN’T YOU MORE CAREFUL?! LET ME SEE YOUR HEAD.”

He burst into tears, and buried his head into my stomach, clearly embarrassed and ashamed. After I assessed that no ER visit was needed, *I* felt embarrassed and ashamed.

I grew up in a family where love was often expressed as fear. My dad had a famous saying that would be leveled like an accusation anytime my sibling or I hurt ourselves or overslept or were late or simply acted like children: “what’s the matter with you?!” It was almost like his catchphrase, and in the 19 years since his death we've recalled it with a fondness it doesn’t really deserve. Those words sunk deep. If anyone knows the power of careless words, it’s me.

Once I had this realization, I picked him up and looked him in his sad eyes. “Wow. You hurt your head and then I hurt your feelings. No wonder you’re crying.”

He sobbed and nodded in confirmation. We took several moments together (including this one, captured by big bro) to breathe and feel our crappy feelings. Then Charlie said he was tired of feeling sad and we told jokes until we felt happy again. Here is a family favorite:

“Why did the old man fall down the well? He couldn’t see that well.” :-)

Admitting when we get it wrong is just as valuable to our children as getting it right, if not more so. They need to know it’s not only ok, but totally normal to make mistakes. They need to know grown ups aren’t perfect, so when they’re imperfect grown ups they won’t incorrectly wonder if there is something wrong with them.

If you aren’t failing, you aren’t trying. And damn, at least I’m trying.

I never would have found yoga had it not been for finding my way *out* of the disordered eating and exercise habits that had consumed my life for over twenty years. As a physical therapist, I convinced myself that the countless dollars I spent on Weight Watchers and fancy gym memberships were necessary “for my health”. But, in actuality, my habits were anything but healthy. I ignored my hunger signals all week, eating too-small meals to stay within my “points” and exercising vigorously to earn a few more, only to binge on greasy food and alcohol all weekend long. Vacations and holidays became an excuse to overeat until I felt physically ill. As ashamed as I was about my behavior, I couldn’t seem to control it...until I gave up dieting completely.

This radical idea was not my own. In 2015, I read a book called Intuitive Eating by Evelyn Tribole and Elyse Resch, and it helped me realize that dieting was having the exact opposite effect I’d hoped: it was having an adverse effect on my physical and mental health. My painstaking attempts at weight loss would predictably lead to me regaining even *more* weight over time, leading me to start yet another diet. The book not only had a scientific explanation for why this was occurring, more importantly it offered an evidence-based solution! I was more than ready to find freedom from the food and body shame and anxiety that had plagued me for over 20 years.

Establishing a healthy relationship with food required me to quit exercising for about a year, and when I felt ready to return to it I knew I had to try something completely different. That’s when I discovered the power of a *gentle* yoga practice. Somehow, an hour of focusing on my breath left me feeling more relaxed, happy and empowered than ever before! In contrast, the decades I spent sweating on the treadmill or in the aerobics room usually left me feeling dehydrated and defeated, since I always felt so far from my “goal”. Once I established a regular yoga practice, I was finally able to do what I once thought impossible: accept and appreciate my body as it was, not as I wished it to be. I felt so confident that I started yoga teacher training just six months after that first practice.

So what is Intuitive Eating, or IE? Simply put, it’s the way humans were born to eat. Our bodies send us signals regarding what, when and how much to eat, but dieting teaches us to ignore these natural signals to the point where they’re often suppressed. Dieting also teaches us to reject entire food groups that contain vital nutrients our bodies need to run optimally, and to only participate in exercises that result in weight loss or body change. The goal of IE is improving your relationship with food and your body by promoting healthy thoughts and behaviors--NOT losing weight, though for some this is a possible side effect over time. Like yoga, it is a practice (not a perfect). It’s not a fad or a quick fix.

There are ten principles of Intuitive Eating, but the process can be summed up as follows:

Eat and move in ways that feel supportive of your health--including your mental health. Avoid feeling too hungry or too full. Be patient and forgiving. Aim for satisfaction, not perfection.

I was doing an exercise with one of my coaching clients that I think would benefit literally everyone. Do this as a one time thing, or leave room to add on as often as you're inspired to.

List all the things your RIGHT NOW body can do that you're grateful for.

Having trouble? Start simple:

1. Breathe on my own. 2.Turn over in bed. 3. Eat without help. 4. Drink thin liquids. 5. Use the bathroom without assistance.

These are all things that you are likely taking for granted, and you are not alone. I would too, were it not for my profession of physical therapy. Working in acute rehab, I'm FORTUNATE to help people fighting battles with their bodies they never imagined they'd face. Those who face it with courage and tenacity are my greatest teachers, but I also bear witness to a lot of heartache. It never fails to leave me humbled and grounded in this work.

It's one of a million reasons I can no longer get on board with body shaming of any kind. Our bodies work 24/7 to keep us alive in ways unseen and unappreciated, and when challenge meets will, bodies are capable of truly amazing feats. Yes, even fat and ill and injured and disfigured ones.

We are all fighting battles in our own lives, but if you can walk across the room and meet your basic needs, I promise that you do have a body to be grateful for. Start thanking it.

"A body you hate will never feel healthy" is something I say a lot to the people who come to me seeking help to heal after years or even decades struggling with eating disorders, the diet/binge cycle or poor body image. (Which, sadly, covers most of us. It's rough out there.)

Here’s the thing: the thoughts you think/allow are quite literally creating how you feel. If you speak of your body critically and are constantly wishing or working for it to be different, you’re gonna feel like crap, no matter your size. If you speak appreciatively of your body, and treat it with care and respect, you’re gonna feel fantastic—REGARDLESS OF YOUR SIZE.

It really is that simple—and that hard.

On a recent warm and sunny April afternoon, I was at the rehabilitation center where I work as a per diem physical therapist. As I passed a young woman, I overheard her say to a patient “it’s too beautiful outside to feel depressed!”

“Wow,” I thought to myself. “She really doesn’t understand depression.”

As the April weather was warming up just two years ago, I found myself in a hole so black and deep it felt impossible to escape from. Mental health challenges after the birth of my children resulted in several incorrect diagnoses including bipolar disorder, and the medications I was prescribed to help me did a whole lot more harm than good. By the spring of 2017, I was so depressed that I was unable to work or care for myself much less my children without the help of family. Yes, I occasionally sobbed, but it was far more involved than ‘sadness’: anxiety caused me to vomit nearly everything I ate. I slept as much as possible just to survive.

I’m going to be frank here: it was so bad that I wanted to die. Dying felt preferable to living through the amount of pain I was in on every conceivable level: physical, mental, emotional and spiritual. I will tell you the exact reason I did not harm myself two summers ago: the root of my suffering was childhood trauma, and therefore traumatizing my own children was a complete nonstarter.  

And so over the next several months, I clawed my way out of that hole, inch by inch and day by day by figuring out what worked for me. I emphasize that last part because we all have unique physiologies, backgrounds and beliefs and I wouldn’t pretend to know definitively what will work for anyone else. If even one thing I share gives a person currently suffering through this nightmare new reason to hope, however, I’m happy to pass this list along. It is not complete.

1. I admitted to my family and then my doctors how dark my thoughts had become. This was the hardest thing I have ever done, by the way.

2. I listened to my body, and with the help of my doctors weaned off all prescription medication except for medical cannabis.

3. I sought professional help and followed through on all recommendations including a two week partial hospitalization program, Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) for trauma, Dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT) for emotional dysregulation, family, group, and individual talk therapy

4. I practiced yoga with a tribe of people who were happy to see me no matter what mood I was in, and quick to give me a hug I didn’t know I needed.

5. I identified toxic friendships and ended them one by one.

6. I stopped drinking alcohol as my primary form of stress relief. I still imbibe occasionally; restriction always backfires for me because I’m human.

7. I got really clear on my NEEDS (not wants) and was uncompromising no matter how inconvenienced others felt or the consequences that I incurred.

8. I stopped pretending to the outside world that I was perfect and accepted help in many forms.

When you look at this list you’ll notice that walking outdoors on a warm and sunny day simply didn’t make the cut. And while I fully acknowledge that this young woman meant no harm in what she said, hers and similar comments have the potential to make depressed people feel even more alone than they already do.

So to them I say this: you are not alone, not even close. And you are worthy of the work it will require to find what works for you.  

I haven’t written a blog post in a long time. I could easily blame the holiday season, or prepping for and promoting my workshops, or celebrating my fortieth birthday in January (I’m currently on a yoga retreat in Mexico doing just that). But the truth is this:

Self-doubt got in the way.

True, it didn’t come out of nowhere. Shortly after a family member chastised me for putting too much information online, someone unsubscribed from my mailing list citing “content not what I expected.” I was already in a vulnerable emotional place, and it derailed my confidence and conviction.

After some time and reflection—and perhaps the wisdom that comes with embracing a new decade—I’m happy to report:

THEY'RE BACK.

To get here, I drew on some wisdom from an unknown source, “what other people think of you is none of your business.”

In yoga, we talk a lot about non-attachment. If I am authentic and truthful and put forth my best effort, how my writing, spoken words, and actions are received is out of my control. I know what is in my heart, and that my words and teachings will find the people they are meant to help.

Don’t let others tell you who you are or who to be. I promise, I won’t let it happen to me again.

This summer I began using Instagram for business purposes. I know 39 isn’t technically old, but it’s old enough to have graduated both college and physical therapy school using the library’s Dewey Decimal System instead of internet search engines. My husband Matt is a software developer, so for the last 14 years I’ve been able to pass off any computer issues to him to deal with. And, Stevie takes care of the technological stuff for Compassionate Healing Services. In short: I’m spoiled. At this point, my mom is better with internet research than I am (though she still hunts and pecks on her keyboard lol).

Twitter gives me a headache, and I don’t understand the point of Snapchat at all. Facebook has turned me off with the spread of misinformation and not protecting our user data. So, to Instagram I tentatively turned. The thing is: I don’t take a lot of pictures of myself, and I especially don’t take pics of myself doing yoga. I do and teach yoga primarily for the mental health benefits, and I can’t touch the strength or flexibility of most yoga teachers. What the hell was I going to post?

Having no idea where to start I bought “Instagram for Business for Dummies” but higher priorities have prevented me from delving in. So, I’ve tackled this as I have every challenge with this business: thoughtfully and intuitively. And like everything else with this business, my efforts are slowly but surely paying off.

The result is a page I’m proud of filled with inspirational people, quotes, students, stories, class/workshop announcements and yes, the occasional unimpressive yoga pose. My posts are inconsistent, practical, truthful and run the gamut from serious to funny. In short: they represent me perfectly.

If you’re on Instagram, please follow @chsyoga and let me know what you think!

Five years ago today, my younger son Charlie entered this world —and life as I knew it shattered. The trauma of his birth made previously manageable levels of anxiety unbearable and uncovered previously repressed traumas. I had been seeing a therapist for “postpartum depression” (aka undiagnosed bipolar 2 disorder) since Ben was born, but after Charlie’s birth I entered the frighteningly imprecise world of prescription mental health care. There were many missteps, and in 2017 I came close to losing my battle with suicidal ideation. Every time a terrifying thought of self harm entered my head though, I pictured my boys. Tonight, on this snowy day that ruined everything except this little boy’s smile, the irony that he ruined AND saved my life is not lost on me. I wouldn’t hesitate for even a second to go through it all again because this smart, funny, gregarious, silly, sweet and empathetic soul is *that* delightful. I’ll end this sap fest with a touch of his humor. As I wrote this, tears streaming down my cheeks he said “mommy, are you ok?” “Yes baby, I’m ok. Believe it or not, I’m happy.” “Oh ok. So you’re *too* happy??” 🤣❤️ Not too happy, my love. Exactly the right amount.

Recently, Stevie looked down at her phone and suddenly started laughing hysterically. Despite having no idea what she was laughing at, within moments I had tears rolling down my cheeks too. Laughter is pretty universally contagious, but if like me you walk around “catching” the emotions of those around you--even the unpleasant ones--you might just be an empath, or highly sensitive person.

Despite being one, I probably would have rolled my eyes at the term “empath” before my older son Ben was born, but he undoubtedly fits that description (as does Stevie). He recently put it this way: “Mommy, I feel what other people feel. When they’re sad I’m sad, and when they’re happy I’m happy.” He means this literally. I’m equal parts proud of his compassion for others and concerned that this cruel world will break his heart as it has mine so many times.

I have no idea if Marilyn Monroe was an empath, but her famous quote, “if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best” makes it a distinct possibility in my mind.

Sensitivity and empathy are signs of strength, not weakness, but they are traits that make life more difficult for both the empath and those in relationships with us. We can’t simply “move on” from hurtful comments or actions from those we love, and if we do so for peacekeeping reasons the hurt doesn’t dissipate, it gets stored in our bodies which can easily breed resentment or even make the empath turn to substances to numb emotional pain or become physically ill. (For instance, I broke up with a toxic friend, and I ceased vomiting on a near daily basis.)

On the other hand, empathic people are extraordinarily giving, supportive of and invested in the well being of those we love. We rarely (if ever) hurt other people purposely and will go to the ends of the earth to apologize to someone we accidentally offend, often multiple times.

Just as our capacity to feel sorrow is bigger, so is the intensity with which we experience joy and excitement, and those around us benefit from that. As a mother to a highly sensitive child, I can say unequivocally that the challenges he presents parenting wise are easily outmatched by the gifts his loving and caring heart brings to our family and this world.

While compassion and empathy are expected of women (but rarely rewarded), these traits have been “feminized” by our culture, so my heart goes out to men and boys too afraid to be who they authentically are. Please know you’re in good company. Famous male empaths in history include Jesus, Mahatma Gandhi, George Orwell, the Dalai Lama and Claiborne Paul Ellis (KKK wizard turned civil rights activist).

If this describes you or someone you love, do not be ashamed. The world so desperately needs your unique gifts.

October 10th was World Mental Health Day. One of the many goals I hope to accomplish through this business is to raise awareness and reduce the stigma surrounding mental health disorders. Official statistics say that 1 in 5 people live with mental illness, and while that 20% figure may cover chronic and severe sufferers, I believe *most* people deal with mental health challenges at some point in their lives and have no idea help is available OR are too ashamed to seek it out.

I was diagnosed with complex PTSD and bipolar II disorder in 2017 but developed the conditions as a young teenager. Let me be clear: I didn’t just live with my conditions. I thrived with them. I’ve had a job since I was eleven years old. I dedicated myself to my studies and then my physical therapy career. I met and married my husband and had two beautiful boys. It was only once I had children that my illnesses--misdiagnosed for years as postpartum depression and anxiety--started affecting my ability to cope with life.

How could someone have TWO severe, chronic mental illnesses for nearly thirty years and not even know it?

The answer is that mental illness doesn’t look anything like I thought it did. Mental health is a spectrum, and the severe cases that come to mind are the exceptions, not the rule. Mental illness isn’t represented only by those who cannot perceive reality or those who take innocent lives. In fact, those who live with mental illness are far more likely to be VICTIMS of violent crime then perpetrators of it. Mental illness may simply look like stress, irritability, emotional sensitivity, fatigue, high energy levels, distractibility, worry, rumination, disordered eating, excessive drinking and even perfectionism. It may look like above average levels of intelligence and empathy. It may look like racism and misogyny.

When I was struggling last year, my wise teacher Alex gave me this advice: “don’t take ownership of it. *You* aren’t depressed, you’re dealing with depression. It’s not who you are, it’s just something you’re living with.”  Separating myself from what I was experiencing was a first step toward empowering me to fight this battle I neither asked for nor deserve. We all have our battles to face, though, and this just happens to be mine.

I’m finally finding my place in the world. Not in spite of my mental illnesses but because of them.