The Tools That Helped Me Mend

(Not Fix, Not Cure — Mend)

For a long time, I believed healing was supposed to arrive all at once. A realization. A turning point. A clean break between who I had been and who I was meant to become.

What actually happened looked nothing like that.

What happened was mending — slow, uneven, often invisible. What helped weren’t revelations so much as tools. Tools that didn’t demand I reinvent myself, only that I stay present long enough to stitch what had frayed.

Over time, four influences began to shape how I live inside my own mind and body: SMART Recovery, cognitive behavioral tools, Carol Dweck’s growth mindset, and Jon Kabat-Zinn’s mindfulness. I didn’t adopt them as an identity. I absorbed them gradually, through use, resistance, forgetting, and return.

They didn’t change who I was.

They helped me work with what was already there.

SMART Recovery: Learning I Had Choices, Even When It Didn’t Feel Like It

SMART Recovery — Self-Management and Recovery Training — is grounded in science and psychology rather than labels or lifelong declarations. At its core is a quiet but radical idea: you have agency, even when things feel out of control.

The tools are practical — cost–benefit analysis, urge surfing, the ABC model — but what mattered to me was the tone. No one told me what I was. No one insisted I define myself by a single struggle. The focus was on how thoughts influence feelings, and how feelings influence behavior.

At first, using these tools felt awkward and overly structured. Writing things down didn’t magically stop impulses or emotional waves. But over time, something shifted. I stopped reacting automatically. I learned how to pause — just long enough to notice what was happening before I acted.

That pause didn’t solve everything.

But it gave me room to choose.

Cognitive Behavioral Tools: Separating What I Thought From What Was True

Cognitive behavioral tools taught me to examine my inner dialogue instead of obeying it.

The basic premise is simple: thoughts, emotions, and behaviors are connected — and changing one affects the others. What wasn’t simple was realizing how often my thoughts sounded authoritative when they were actually distorted.

I began noticing patterns: all-or-nothing thinking, catastrophizing, assuming intent where there was none. For years, these thoughts had passed as facts. CBT tools helped me slow them down and look at them directly.

Over time, my thoughts stopped feeling like commands and started feeling like information — sometimes useful, sometimes not. That distinction mattered. It softened my responses. It lowered the volume of shame.

I didn’t stop having hard thoughts.

I stopped letting them run the room.

Carol Dweck’s Growth Mindset: Releasing the Idea That Struggle Meant Failure

Carol Dweck’s work on fixed versus growth mindset reframed something I hadn’t questioned before: the belief that difficulty meant deficiency.

A fixed mindset says, “This is just how I am.”

A growth mindset says, “This is something I’m still learning.”

That shift didn’t make life easier — it made it more honest.

Through this lens, setbacks became information instead of indictments. I stopped treating mistakes as proof that I was broken and started seeing them as part of the process of learning how to live differently.

Growth mindset didn’t push me to be optimistic or relentless. It allowed me to be unfinished without being defeated.

Jon Kabat-Zinn and Mindfulness: Staying With What Is

Jon Kabat-Zinn’s teachings on mindfulness introduced me to a different kind of repair — one that didn’t involve changing anything at all.

Mindfulness, as he teaches it, is about paying attention on purpose, in the present moment, without judgment. Not fixing. Not suppressing. Not escaping.

At first, this felt counterintuitive and uncomfortable. Sitting with discomfort went against everything I’d learned about coping. But slowly, mindfulness showed me that I didn’t have to outrun my thoughts or emotions. I could observe them. Breathe with them. Let them pass without attaching a story or a verdict.

Mindfulness didn’t remove pain.

It removed the urgency to make pain disappear.

How These Became Part of Me

None of these approaches arrived fully formed or stayed consistently practiced. I forgot them. Resisted them. Returned to them. Over and over.

SMART gave me choice.

CBT gave me clarity.

Growth mindset gave me patience.

Mindfulness gave me presence.

Together, they didn’t create a new version of me. They helped me mend the relationship I had with myself — stitch by stitch, with long pauses in between.

Hope didn’t arrive as a feeling.

It arrived as a practice.

And over time, that practice began to hold.

A Gentle Invitation

If you’re reading this and feeling behind, overwhelmed, or unsure where to begin — you’re not doing it wrong.

You don’t need every tool.

You don’t need to be consistent yet.

You don’t need to be ready.

Sometimes mending starts by holding one loose thread and deciding not to pull away.

That’s enough for today.

It’s Nuts! My Career Change at This Stage

Feeling Like You’re Starting Over

Switching careers at this stage feels a lot like trying to crack a nut with a spoon. Exciting? Sure. Overwhelming? Absolutely. Some days I feel like I’m moving forward; other days, it’s enough just to show up.

 

The Challenge Is Real

Making a career change later in life—or after a long break—comes with its own hurdles. Fear of the wrong move, learning new skills, and keeping pace with younger professionals can be exhausting. And yet, here I am, trying anyway.

 

Steps I’m Taking

I don’t have it all figured out, but these steps are helping me gain traction:

  • Researching roles and industries that fit my strengths. I’m mapping where my skills meet opportunities, even if it takes time to find the right fit.
  • Updating my resume and online presence. Tiny tweaks each week make a difference and help me feel more confident.
  • Reaching out to mentors and contacts. Honest conversations bring clarity, encouragement, and sometimes a new perspective.
  • Focusing on technical training. I’m building skills for remote roles—learning tools, software, and processes that will make me competitive.
  • Starting small while seeking the right remote job. Temporary work, contract gigs, or volunteer projects keep momentum going and help me test interests without the pressure of perfection.

 

Lessons I’m Learning

Progress isn’t a straight line. Some days feel like tiny victories; other days, survival itself counts. Balancing training, job searching, and life feels messy—but each step forward, no matter how small, is proof that change is possible. Success isn’t speed—it’s persistence, curiosity, and the courage to keep trying.

 

You’re Not Alone

If you’re navigating a career change at this stage, know you’re not alone. Every small action—taking a course, sending an email, exploring a new path—adds up. Even when progress feels slow or uncertain, each step moves you closer to a role that fits your skills, life, and future. Eventually, the nut does crack.

 

Dear Resilient Reader,

What’s one small step you’ve taken recently toward a new path, skill, or goal? I’d love to hear about it in the comments—or feel free to just reflect silently. Every effort matters.

One of Those Days

Today felt off.

After a few genuinely productive days in a row, I woke up irritable, unsettled, and uncomfortable in my own skin. The weather can’t seem to decide what it’s doing—hot, then cold, then hot again—and my allergies are clearly taking that as a personal invitation to act up. My body noticed before my mind did.

Life has a way of doing that. Just when things feel like they’re smoothing out, it throws a few quiet twists and turns. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to remind you that control is mostly an illusion.

At some point today, I resigned myself to a simple truth: this just isn’t a good day.

I once heard Mel Robbins talk about the “rule of thirds.” A third of the day goes well. A third is neutral. And a third is… less desirable. Despite good intentions, decent habits, and real effort to “be well,” my physical and emotional state landed squarely in that last third today.

And that’s frustrating—especially when you’re doing all the “right” things.

Still, the day wasn’t a total loss. I got most of my basic chores done. I crossed one or two things off my to-do list. The world didn’t end. Nothing caught fire. Progress just showed up quietly instead of triumphantly.

The biggest win came late in the day, when I finally stopped arguing with myself.

I told myself it’s okay.

It’s okay to feel unpleasant feelings without fixing them. It’s okay to sit with discomfort instead of trying to out-think or out-work it. Whatever moment this is—it will pass. They always do.

So tonight, the plan is simple: refocus, reset, repeat.

And wipe itchy watering eyes and sneeze.
Because apparently that’s part of it too.

Michelle

Still Driving

Long-term stress doesn’t always look like panic.

Sometimes it looks like competence.

Like shutting off the extra feelings,

narrowing life down to what’s necessary,

doing the next right thing

because someone has to.

You learn how to function in crisis.

How to calculate, absorb, carry.

How to keep moving while your inner world goes quiet—

not dead, just muted—

while the weight stays heavy in the chest and hands.

The danger isn’t the fight.

It’s the slow temptation to shut down completely.

To mistake numbness for strength.

To confuse survival with living.

By the end of the day,

the tank is almost empty.

Numbers don’t add up.

Warning lights blink.

Dead-end signs appear more often than exits.

The flames feel closer now—

close enough to warm,

close enough to burn.

And still…

we keep driving.

Hope becomes stubborn at this stage.

Not loud or confident—

just persistent.

A refusal to accept the word terminal

even when it’s posted in bold letters.

Are we crazy for this?

Or just human—

wired to live on the edge

because stopping feels more dangerous

than continuing forward?

Maybe hope isn’t optimism at all.

Maybe it’s simply choosing not to turn the engine off

yet.

Learning to Live Daily: ADHD, Healing, and Gentle Discipline

Lately, I’ve been working intentionally with my severe ADHD tendencies—not by forcing myself into rigid systems, but by building something sustainable: a daily baseline checklist, paired with goals that are specific to that particular day.

The shift matters.

Instead of addressing my life in frantic spurts of productivity followed by burnout or avoidance, I’m practicing something new: mindful consistency. Certain routines and priorities show up every day, not perfectly, but deliberately. They anchor me. Everything else becomes flexible rather than overwhelming.

Today, for example, was still very much a catch-up day—household tasks, loose ends, half-finished projects that had been lingering longer than I’d like to admit. And yet, what made today different wasn’t how much I completed.

It was the inner dialogue I carried with me while doing it.

Learning to Speak to Myself Like Someone I Love

As I moved through the day, I practiced pacing myself the way I would a close friend—someone I care about deeply. That means honesty without cruelty and kindness without enabling.

When frustration tried to creep in, I didn’t fight it or shame it away. Instead, in my mind’s eye, I noticed it… and gently redirected my thoughts. Not with toxic positivity, but with grounded reassurance:

You’re doing what you can today. Keep going. One thing at a time.

This kind of self-talk doesn’t come naturally to me. It has been learned slowly, through awareness, repetition, and a willingness to pause instead of panic.

The Gift—and Cost—of Space

I’m deeply aware that this healing has required space—space I might not have had if I were still caught in the hustle, expectations, and relentless pace of a full-time job that never aligned with how my brain works.

Not having my own income hasn’t been easy. It has stretched my pride, my patience, and my sense of identity. And yet, I’m grateful for the room it gave me to do the kind of internal work I couldn’t rush.

What’s interesting is that as I get healthier, I’m actually working more—just differently. I’m setting my own goals. I’m engaging with projects that excite me. I’m building toward something that feels aligned rather than constantly trying to contort myself to fit into systems that were never designed for minds like mine.

Gratitude Without Denial

None of this has been possible without my husband’s commitment and support. That partnership mattered. So did my own awakening—what I can only describe as a spiritual kind of healing. Not performative. Not dramatic. Just deeply calming. The kind that slowly settles a nervous system that has been on high alert for most of a lifetime.

I don’t have much in the way of material wealth. I don’t have children to carry on a visible legacy. But I do have perspective—earned through experience, struggle, and reflection.

And I’m learning to appreciate that.

Redefining Richness

I’ve come to believe that peace and happiness without wealth or status can be richer than a life filled with possessions, titles, or external validation. Especially when peace is rooted in things that endure beyond circumstances, roles, or productivity.

I’m still learning. Still practicing. Still catching up some days.

But I’m no longer abandoning myself in the process.

And that, for me, feels like real progress.

My prompt is this:

When that familiar voice shows up telling you who you should be by now, how can you pause long enough to interrupt the transmission and redirect yourself with the same love and care you would give a best friend or loved one?

Think on that, and if you’re able, leave a comment below.

When Creating is an Act of Prayer

Lately, the world has felt loud. Heavy. More than a little “off”… I’ve found myself absorbing more than I meant to—headlines, tension, the low hum of collective worry—and needing to step back, not out of apathy, but out of care. When things feel like too much, I don’t disappear; I withdraw intentionally. I slow. I breathe. I make something with my hands.

Creativity has become my way of re-entering life without force. Painting, sewing, writing—these quiet acts help me stay present without being overwhelmed. They’re how I pray when words or actions feel insufficient. How I offer steadiness when the world itself seems to be searching for its center and often a bit lost trying to make it there. In choosing mindful creation, I’m not turning away from what’s happening—I’m choosing how I show up to it.

Have you noticed where you instinctively retreat when the world feels unsteady—and what helps you come back with a little more softness or clarity? I’d love to hear what’s been grounding you lately. Scroll to the far bottom and leave a comment, if you would like to, below.

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