From Harshness to Loving Awareness

For years, the way I spoke to myself was brutal. I picked myself apart with words I wouldn’t even say to my worst enemy. Every glance in the mirror became an inspection, another chance to point out what was wrong with me—too big, too small, too much, never enough. Negative talk became a habit, and the worst part was I thought it was normal.

Somewhere along the way though, I realized I didn’t want to live like that anymore. Motherhood changed me, hardship changed me, time changed me. But more than anything, I started to see that there isn’t just one definition of beauty. There isn’t a single mold we all have to fit into. The world is full of so many different kinds of bodies, faces, and stories—and I finally began to believe that mine was worthy of love too.

People sometimes tell me, “You need to be kinder to yourself.” And I get why they say that, but I think I’ve gone past kindness. Kindness is gentle and soft, but what I’ve found is something even stronger: loving awareness. Kindness says, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Loving awareness says, “You are allowed to be exactly who you are.”

That shift changed everything for me. I can talk honestly about the parts of my body that used to feel like flaws, but I don’t say them with shame anymore. I can say I have a large nose, short stumpy legs, belly rolls, cellulite, stretch marks, a crooked tooth, grey hairs, big feet, and pale skin. I can list all of that without it cutting me down, because none of those things take away from my worth or my beauty. They’re simply part of me. And instead of fighting against them, I can hold them with love.

The difference shows up in everyday moments. When I catch my reflection in a window, I don’t flinch. When I see a new wrinkle or another grey hair, I smile instead of sigh. When I sit and my belly folds, I don’t see failure—I see life lived. That’s what loving awareness feels like. It’s not about pretending I never struggle. It’s about refusing to let the struggle define me anymore.

And here’s the truth: the way we speak to ourselves sets the tone for everything else. Negative talk shrinks us, but loving awareness expands us. It doesn’t mean I stop growing or improving, but now I do it from a place of love, not punishment. And that shift? That’s freedom.

My body is not perfect. It was never meant to be. It was meant to be mine. And that is more than enough.

These days, when old thoughts try to creep in, I meet them differently. I take a breath. I remind myself of the truth: I don’t have to love every single detail of myself to live in love with who I am. I can hold my body honestly—belly rolls, crooked tooth, grey hairs and all—and still smile. That’s the gift of loving awareness. It doesn’t erase the hard parts, but it lets me carry them with gentleness instead of cruelty.

Maybe that’s something you can try too. The next time you catch yourself in the mirror, instead of tearing yourself apart, notice if there’s even one thing you can meet with love. It doesn’t have to be big. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just one small shift in the way you speak to yourself. Those little moments add up—and they can change everything.

Why Family Doesn’t Mean Automatic Access

Recently, certain individuals in my life have told me I’m “selfish” for not bringing my son around them. They’ve even said it’s “sad” that I’m depriving him of a relationship with them.

Here’s what’s really sad—how they actually believe they’ve made an effort to be in my son’s life, when they haven’t. They remember a few moments from years ago and hold them up as proof of effort, while ignoring the months and years of absence, neglect, or hurtful behavior.

The truth is, I’m not “keeping” my son from anyone. I’m simply no longer going out of my way—begging—for people to be a part of our lives. I’ve done that before, only to be gaslighted, dismissed, and even told outright there was no interest in being involved. And now, somehow, those same people are painting me as the reason there’s no relationship.

And here’s what they don’t seem to grasp—my son doesn’t even want that relationship. At 11 years old, without me ever having to explain it, he understands the difference between genuine effort and the lack of it. He knows because I expose him to love, to family, to true connection. He knows what it feels like to be chosen, valued, and supported—and he can easily see when that’s missing.

If someone genuinely made the effort to build a real relationship with him, I would never stand in the way if he, on his own, decided he wanted that. But until that happens, I will not force it. I will not push my child toward people who have already shown him through their actions—or inaction—what he means to them.

I don’t avoid certain people to punish them. I avoid them because I’ve experienced their toxicity, their judgment, their abandonment. I’ve watched them show up only when it suits them, and vanish when it takes real commitment.

If I know certain people will bring him harm, disappointment, or feelings of inadequacy, why would I push for a relationship that will only hurt him? That’s not deprivation—that’s protection.

Some people live in a world of delusion where they believe being related to a child entitles them to access. But real relationships are built on trust, consistency, and love. If you haven’t given those things, then the relationship you believe exists is only in your imagination.

My job is to protect my son’s peace, self-worth, and joy. And that means allowing in only those who choose us without being chased.

I’d rather be called “selfish” than raise my son to believe that he has to beg for love.

Look Closer: Rewriting the Way You See Yourself

I’ve lost count of the times a client has opened their gallery and messaged me:
“Please don’t share any of the photos of me.”
“I don’t like how I look.”
“Honestly, I feel worse now than before.”

If that’s ever been you, I get it. I’m a photographer who also has to work at liking photos of myself. Here’s what I’ve learned—about images, about mirrors, and about the way our minds make meaning.

Look Closer, Not Less

I’m not here to tell you to stop looking in the mirror, to log off social, or to ditch magazines. I’m inviting you to look more—but differently. Look closer until the comparisons lose their grip.

Study yourself piece by piece and make amends with the parts you’ve labeled “flaws.” Ask what each part is really doing for you, then offer it love.

• The soft belly that kept you nourished through stress.

• The laugh lines that prove you’ve lived and loved.

• The shoulders that carry kids, cameras, groceries, and grief.

When you change how you look, you change what you see.

A Piece-by-Piece Truce

Here’s a simple 5-minute mirror ritual to try for one week:

1. Choose one feature. Hairline, jaw, arms, belly—small is good.

2. Name its job. “These legs get me to the river.” “These hands make art.”

3. Offer thanks. Out loud if you can: “Thank you for carrying me.”

4. Give it language. Replace the old label with one new word: strong, tender, capable, sacred, enough.

5. Breathe and release. Two slow breaths. Move on.

Tiny reconciliations add up. You don’t have to love every angle to live at peace with yourself.

How to Open Your Photo Gallery Without Spiraling

Before you zoom in to critique, try this sequence:

1. See the whole story. Notice the light, place, connection — not just your body.

2. Choose three favorites. Color, expression, movement — pick anything you like before naming what you don’t.

3. Ask kinder questions. Not “Do I look skinny?” but “Do I look like I was there?” “Can I feel that laugh?”

4. Save for later. Make a folder called “Future Me.” Photos you’re unsure about now often become treasures.

What I See (and What I Promise)

Through my lens, I’m chasing aliveness—your warmth, your humor, the way you soften with someone you love.

I promise to:

• Photograph with gentleness and direction that honors your body.

• Prioritize movement, connection, and light over perfection.

• Offer collaborative selects and opt-in sharing. Your boundaries are respected.

• Remind you (as many times as needed): photos are for remembering, not measuring.

If You Still Feel Heavy

Sometimes images poke old wounds. If a gallery brings up big feelings, pause. Step away. Come back when your nervous system is steadier. You’re not “too sensitive”—you’re human.

The Quiet Goal

Not to adore every photo. Not to perform confidence.
The goal is recognition: to see the person in the picture and think,
“There I am.”
Whole. In progress. Worthy.

If you want, I can build this practice right into your session—gentle coaching, movement that feels good in your body, and a little post-session reflection so your gallery lands softer.

When you’re ready, we’ll look closer together.

The Silent Ways We Close Ourselves Off

Last week, I was talking with my therapist about how ready I am to finally find my people — to feel that sense of community I’ve been missing.

He reminded me of something he’d suggested more than a year ago: a local healing retreat. At the time, I wasn’t ready. I could picture a place I would love to be… but one that felt a million miles from where I was.

In my imagination, the retreat was full of serene, quiet yogis — calm, peaceful, and effortlessly fit. The kind of people who sit cross-legged without a second thought about whether their belly gets in the way. The ones who flow into yoga poses like it’s second nature, and who probably roll out of bed looking gorgeous without trying.

And without even realizing it, I had already decided they wouldn’t accept me.

That’s when my therapist gently said something that stopped me in my tracks:

“Do you realize you’re judging them?”

It took me a moment to understand.
But then it clicked — I hadn’t met these people. I hadn’t seen their faces or heard their voices. I hadn’t spoken a single word to them. And yet, I had built an entire picture of who they were… and decided I wouldn’t belong with them.

The truth was, I wasn’t afraid they wouldn’t accept me.
I had already decided I wouldn’t accept them.

A Sign From the Universe

Not long before that conversation, I had seen something online from one of my favorite content creators — Teri Hofford, a photographer and body empowerment advocate. She had shared a series of memes about her experience shopping at Plato’s Closet as a grown woman.

Teri described singing a Justin Bieber song while browsing through the racks, all the while assuming she was being judged for even being in the store — a place she associated with teenagers. She noticed another woman shopping nearby, younger than her, and braced herself for silent judgment.

But instead, the woman looked up and said something completely unrelated to her age, her presence in the store, or anything judgmental at all.
She simply said she liked the song Teri was singing.

It was such a small moment, but such a big reminder: sometimes, the stories we tell ourselves about other people’s thoughts aren’t even close to reality.

Seeing Teri’s post and then having my own conversation with my therapist later that same day felt like the universe underlining the point in bold.

Why We Do This

It’s easy to think this is just insecurity, but it’s often something deeper: self-protection.

When we’ve been hurt, excluded, or misunderstood, our brain remembers. It files those moments away under “Warning: Possible Rejection Ahead.” And the next time we face something new, that file pops open before we even realize it.

If we expect rejection, we feel more in control — like we’re bracing for a fall we know is coming. But in preparing for pain, we can unintentionally close the door on connection.

Sometimes we’re not just protecting ourselves from others… we’re projecting our own self-criticisms onto them. If I’m self-conscious about my body or my worth, it’s easy to assume others will notice those same “flaws.” So instead of asking, “Who might they be?” I decide, “They’re probably not my kind of people.”

This pattern can come from many places:

• Past rejection or criticism that trained us to look for danger before it happens.

• Perfectionism that makes us believe everyone else holds us to impossible standards.

• Comparison culture that convinces us others have it all together while we’re still figuring it out.

But here’s the thing about armor — it doesn’t just keep the hurt out. It keeps the warmth out, too.

When we assume someone is already judging us, we stop seeing them for who they are, and instead see a reflection of our fears.

Choosing a Different Story

I still haven’t been to that healing retreat — and truthfully, I’m still not ready.

But now I understand why. And I know that readiness isn’t about perfecting myself, losing weight, or becoming someone I think others will accept. It’s about loosening my grip on the stories I’ve told myself about other people, and letting them show me who they really are.

For now, I’m working on it.
Because maybe the first step toward finding “my people” isn’t arriving polished and fearless — maybe it’s arriving honest and open, even if I’m a little shaky.

Judgment will always exist. People can and will make assumptions. But if I want others to give me the benefit of the doubt, I have to start by giving it to them.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s how I’ll be ready when the time finally comes.

When Love Requires Distance: What I’m Learning About Boundaries, Truth, and Faith

For most of my life, people told me I should talk less. Be quieter. Keep things to myself. And for a long time, I thought maybe that was what God wanted from me too—to stay silent, to keep the peace, to not make waves.

But now, almost 38 years in, I’m finally asking the question for myself: Is that really what God wants? Would He really ask me to stuff everything down and call it love? Would He ask me to tolerate hurt, hide how I feel, and live small just to make other people comfortable?

I don’t think so anymore.

Because what I’ve been learning—slowly, painfully, but clearly—is that real love doesn’t mean staying quiet when someone is hurting you. Grace doesn’t mean pretending something isn’t wrong. And peace doesn’t mean keeping your mouth shut while your heart breaks.

As Christians, we’re told to love like Jesus. But I think somewhere along the way, a lot of us got confused about what that actually means. Loving like Jesus doesn’t mean letting people walk all over you. It doesn’t mean putting yourself last every single time until you forget who you are. And it definitely doesn’t mean hiding the truth just to avoid uncomfortable conversations.

I’ve wrestled with this a lot—when to speak, how to speak, if it’s even okay to speak at all. I’ve been at that crossroads more times than I can count: do I keep the peace, or do I finally say what I need to say?

The Bible says in Proverbs 4:23, “Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” That doesn’t sound like a command to stay silent. It sounds like permission to protect what’s sacred inside of you. And sometimes, protecting your heart means stepping away from people who keep breaking it.

Jesus Himself told His disciples that if people wouldn’t receive them or their message, they were free to walk away—shake the dust off their feet and move on. That’s in Matthew 10:14. He didn’t say, “Stay and try harder.” He didn’t say, “Take their abuse and be thankful for it.” He said, “Go.”

That’s not being unloving. That’s having wisdom.

You can forgive people and still create distance. You can pray for them and still protect your peace. You can love them—and still say, “This isn’t healthy for me anymore.”

And when it comes to speaking up, the Bible doesn’t tell us to keep everything inside. Ephesians 4:15 talks about speaking the truth in love. It doesn’t say “never speak.” It says speak—with love, with care, but speak. And Ecclesiastes 3:7 reminds us that there’s a time to be silent, yes—but there’s also a time to speak. And some of us have been silent for far too long.

If you’re carrying pain because someone has dismissed you, mistreated you, or ignored your boundaries, God sees that. He knows. He’s not asking you to pretend everything’s okay. He’s not asking you to carry that weight alone.

The Jesus I know was kind and merciful—but He also flipped tables. He called out injustice. He walked away from people who didn’t respect Him. He protected what mattered. And I believe He wants us to do the same.

You are allowed to say no. You are allowed to speak the truth. You are allowed to step back from people who continually hurt you. That’s not unchristian—that’s honoring the life and heart God gave you.

I’ve spent most of my life unsure when I was allowed to speak. I’ve been told that my voice was too loud, that my feelings were too much, that I was “too emotional” or “too sensitive.” And I internalized all of that. I kept quiet. I tried to be easy. I tried to be small.

And then I started wondering—what if Jesus never asked me to do that? What if the way I’ve been silenced had nothing to do with faith and everything to do with control?

What I’ve come to realize is this: Jesus never called me to be silent so others could feel more comfortable. He never asked me to carry other people’s guilt on my back. He never asked me to disappear.

He asked me to speak the truth in love. He asked me to walk in peace. And sometimes, that means walking away.

There is a holy kind of love that sets boundaries. A holy kind of strength that says “enough.” And there is absolutely nothing wrong—nothing unbiblical, nothing unkind—about protecting your heart, your peace, and your voice.

So if you’re in that place right now—wondering if it’s okay to speak, okay to leave, okay to feel—I hope you know that God isn’t mad at you for feeling tired. He isn’t disappointed in you for finally saying, “I can’t do this anymore.”

May the God of peace meet you right there—in the quiet, in the truth, in the boundaries you are learning to build. You are loved. You are heard. And you are worth protecting.

When They Break You, Then Blame You for Bleeding

Some people don’t break things by accident.
They aim.
They know exactly what they’re doing.

It’s not that they don’t realize the weight of their words—they do. And it’s not that they don’t notice the impact of their silence—they absolutely do. Some people thrive off the control that comes from being just subtle enough to deny and just loud enough to wound.

They toss out little comments designed to cut.
They withhold kindness and basic decency to keep themselves in a position of power.
They manipulate narratives—share half-truths, leave out key details, or tell outright lies—to shape the way others see the situation. And when the tension finally snaps and you stand up for yourself? They throw their hands up and say, “Wow, you’re being dramatic.”
They call you the problem.

And here's the twist—they love to play the calm one. The rational one. The “I’m not getting involved in the drama” one. But silence is not innocence.
Silence can be strategy.
Silence can be manipulation.
Silence can be violence when it’s used to deny reality and avoid responsibility.

It’s not always about what they say.
Sometimes it’s the apology they never offer.
The message they never send.
The effort they never make.
The way they conveniently go quiet while the wreckage piles up.

They sit back, smug and unbothered, while your name gets twisted, while the damage unfolds, while you’re left trying to hold together what they tore apart with their entitlement and their ego. And then they have the nerve to call it peace. But it’s not peace.
It’s passive-aggression dressed up as maturity.

One of the most insidious tactics they use is accusing you of “playing the victim.” Not because you are—but because they need to flip the script. They need to make you look unstable so they don’t have to admit what they did. They’ll slap that label on anyone who refuses to stay silent about being mistreated.

But you’re not “playing” anything.
You were hurt.
You were affected.
You were left picking up the pieces of someone else’s cruelty.
That’s not weakness.
That’s being human.

What they really mean is:
“You’re not letting me off the hook this time, and I don’t like it.”
“You’re finally telling the truth, and that threatens my version of events.”
“You’re not shrinking anymore—and your confidence is exposing everything I tried to hide.”

They don’t want resolution.
They want control.
They want to keep telling the story where they’re the hero, the victim, the “bigger person.” And anyone who challenges that—especially with facts, receipts, or boundaries—must be discredited at all costs.

So they mock your pain.
They downplay your experience.
They rewrite history.
And if they feel called out by words like these, they’ll either double down or disappear altogether.

Let them.

Let them spin their version. Let them whisper. Let them act like they’re above it. You don’t need to defend yourself in someone else’s fiction.

Because the truth?
The truth always outlasts the performance.
And the people who really know you? They see it. They feel it.
You don’t have to shout to be heard. You just have to stop pretending.

You don’t owe peace to people who weaponize your pain.
You don’t owe comfort to people who cause chaos and then hide their hands.
You don’t owe loyalty to the ones who only show up when it benefits them.

You’re allowed to outgrow people who refuse to grow.
You’re allowed to walk away without closure.
You’re allowed to speak the truth, even if it makes others uncomfortable.

And if someone reads this and feels defensive?
If they feel exposed, attacked, or “judged”?

Well…
If the shoe fits.

-AG-

When Healing Becomes Rebellion

I never realized just how deep the wounds were until I stopped pretending everything was normal.

Growing up in dysfunction doesn’t always feel dysfunctional while it’s happening. It just feels like life. You don’t know any different. You learn to read the room like a survival skill. You anticipate moods like weather patterns. You figure out how to stay invisible, or how to become the peacemaker, or the one who takes care of everyone else. And over time, those coping mechanisms shape your entire personality—not because that’s who you are, but because it’s who you had to be.

Recently, I finally gave in to something I’d put off for years: the textbook testing of trauma.

I took the ACES test—the Adverse Childhood Experiences questionnaire. Just 10 questions, but it manages to distill a lifetime of pain into a single score.

I scored a 9 out of 10.

And even that number doesn’t fully capture what it was like to grow up in an environment where safety felt unpredictable. Where reality sometimes shifted depending on the day, the mood, or the moment.

But this isn’t about blame. It’s about honesty. About what it felt like to live in a world that constantly kept you guessing.

And here’s what I’ve come to understand: many of us are walking around with fractured pieces of ourselves. No, maybe not with an official diagnosis. But still fragmented in the quietest ways.

We bury grief beneath sarcasm. We swallow our anger because it’s “too much.” We hide the parts of us that feel too needy or soft. We split ourselves into roles—parent, partner, provider, fixer—until we forget what it even feels like to be whole.

And the truth is, we all have different names for the things we carry. But the core wound is often the same: the belief that we are too much, too complicated, too burdensome.

Healing has meant learning to show up for every part of myself. The angry one. The scared one. The one who shuts down. The one who pretends it’s all fine. I’ve been learning to tell each of them: You’re safe now. You belong. We don’t have to live in survival mode anymore.

And that? That’s a miracle in itself.

Because even with all the work I’ve done, I still catch myself shrinking.

I still feel that little voice inside me—the one that learned early on to be small, quiet, and easy. I remember being a child, sitting with my knees tucked to my chest, afraid to need anything. Afraid to be seen.

And sometimes, that part of me still wins.

That’s the thing about trauma. It rewires you. It teaches your nervous system that silence is safety and invisibility is protection. Even when the danger is gone, your body doesn’t always believe it yet.

But now, I do.

Now, I sit with that younger version of myself and whisper, “You’re allowed to need. You’re allowed to speak. You’re allowed to take up space.”

Healing isn’t perfection. It’s not forgetting. It’s gently reminding every part of you that they don’t have to be afraid anymore.

One of the hardest parts of healing, though, is learning to stop defending your truth to people who remember it differently.

I still feel the urge to correct—to explain, to plead for understanding when someone rewrites the past in a way that erases my pain. I try to remind myself: we all see through our own lenses. But my body remembers what it lived through. I don’t need anyone else to confirm it.

Because healing doesn’t mean everyone sees it the same way—it means I finally trust myself enough not to need them to.

And here's something else I’ve had to come to terms with:

So many people have made me second-guess my memories—
Not because my truth is invalid,
But because they haven’t faced theirs yet.

They're still living in the “well, that’s just life” mindset.
Still normalizing the chaos they were raised in.
Still defending the dysfunction because it’s all they ever knew.

And when you start speaking a language they haven’t learned yet—
One of truth, boundaries, and healing—
It threatens the fragile story they’ve told themselves to survive.

But just because someone else hasn’t come out on the other side…
Doesn’t mean I have to stay stuck with them in the middle.

And then there’s the bitter pill of entitlement.

The sting of being made to feel like you owe someone for simply surviving. Like love or help came with a hidden price tag.

It’s a special kind of hurt to realize support came with strings attached—an unspoken tally sheet of “everything I’ve done for you.” Meanwhile, your own memories tell a different story—one where you went without more than anyone knows.

So now, even asking for help feels like a risk. Like a setup for guilt, or shame, or being reminded of your place. And on the rare occasions I do ask, I give something back—money, time, labor—just to avoid hearing, “After everything I’ve done for you…”

Because there are few things more painful than someone holding your struggle over your head like a trophy.

That’s not love. That’s control.

And I don’t want that kind of love anymore.

I want reciprocity that feels like choice, not obligation. I want boundaries that feel like freedom, not punishment. I want healing that doesn’t depend on other people validating my story.

I’ve redefined what family means to me. Blood doesn’t guarantee safety. It doesn’t guarantee love. I’ve learned to stop begging for closeness from people who are committed to misunderstanding me.

I’ve stopped shrinking to fit someone else’s comfort zone.

I’ve started asking the hard questions—even when the answers hurt.

Most of all, I’ve started parenting the younger version of me the way she always deserved to be loved.

If you come from dysfunction, I want you to know: you are not broken.

You were wired for survival. But now? You get to live.

You get to choose softness, safety, and truth. Even if it means walking away. Even if it means being misunderstood. Even if it means letting people down just to finally show up for yourself.

Because healing from trauma isn’t about revenge. It’s about release.

It’s about building a life so full of peace and honesty that your past no longer has the final say.

And maybe the hardest part of all?

When the very people who caused you pain mock your healing.

When they twist the story to make you the villain. When they laugh and say things like, “Some people just love playing the victim,” as if your pain appeared out of thin air.

They don’t see the years it took to even speak your truth. They don’t see the shame you had to unlearn. They don’t see the nights you cried silently, wondering if maybe you were the problem.

No, they only see a version of the story that doesn’t make them uncomfortable—and they cling to it.

Because if they acknowledged your truth… they’d have to face their part in it. And not everyone is ready to do that.

But let me say this:

Speaking your truth is not playing the victim.
Acknowledging pain is not manipulation.
Healing out loud is not attention-seeking.

It is courage. It is reclamation. It is survival.

You don’t owe anyone your silence to protect their comfort.

Your story is yours to tell. Your healing is yours to own.

And if someone ever calls you a victim like it’s an insult—remind yourself:

You may have been one once,
but you are not one now.
You are a survivor.

And that voice they tried to shame into silence?

Let it roar.

-AG-

He Just Needs One Good Person… But I Still Believe in the Village

When I became a mother—on my own—I was met with a thousand pieces of advice, most of them unsolicited, most of them impossible.

But one thing I heard again and again was:

“All it takes is one stable, loving adult to change the course of a child’s life.”

And almost every time, they’d follow it with a smile and a nod,

“And he’s got you.”

And that meant something.
It meant everything, some days.

It gave me something to cling to at 2am when he was crying and I was running on fumes.
It reminded me that my love had weight. That I could be enough.
And for a long time, I was.
I was his everything—his comfort, his structure, his story at night.
His whole world spun around me.
And I spun around him.

But slowly—beautifully—he grew.
And I had to grow, too.
I had to learn the quiet truth that no one wants to say out loud:

Love matters. But one person alone is never enough.

Because we’re human.
Because our children are, too.

I still believe in the power of one good person.
But I believe even more in something else:

It takes a village.

Not a perfect village.
Not a big, bustling one with matching t-shirts and potlucks.
Just a real one.
People who stay.
People who speak life.
People who show up—not for the photo ops, but for the long haul.

But here’s the thing:

That village is hard to find.

And I don’t think I’m alone in saying that.

We all hear how it “takes a village,” but no one tells you where to find it.
Or what to do when the people you thought were your village
turn out to be more interested in critiquing than supporting.

I’ve felt that.
Not in a self-pitying way—just in a this is real life kind of way.

I’ve watched people who were supposed to be part of our support system
pull away, judge, or sit in silence while we navigated life on our own terms.

It’s tough.
Because while I’m confident in the way I parent,
and proud of the life I’ve built with my son,
I’ve also had to constantly prove my value to people
who don’t understand the kind of hustle I’ve chosen.

They look at my work—photography, writing, creativity—and assume it’s all passion and play.
As if building something meaningful outside of a traditional 9–5 is irresponsible.
As if choosing presence, flexibility, and fulfillment somehow disqualifies me from being “stable.”

They don’t see the planning.
The long hours.
The strength it takes to build a life that fits both of us.
Not because we’re scraping by—
but because I want to live intentionally.

And that bothers people.

I’ve lived through more than most of them will ever know—
not because I’m hiding it,
but because they’ve made it clear they don’t want to hear it.

And that’s fine.
I’ve made peace with the fact that not everyone will listen,
or care,
or try to understand.

But what I can’t accept is when those same people
feel entitled to judge.
To talk.
To reduce me to their assumptions
while knowing nothing about the weight I carry with grace.

I don’t share this for pity.
Not even close.
I share it because I know I’m not the only one.

So many of us are out here doing our best,
loving our kids fiercely,
showing up every day—without applause—
and still feeling like we’re falling short in the eyes of people
who couldn’t walk a mile in our shoes.

We don’t need sympathy.
We need space.
Respect.
And every now and then, a little understanding wouldn’t hurt.

So yes—maybe I was the one good person my son needed to begin his life.
And I will always be proud of that.

But he deserves more.
And so do I.

He deserves a village that sees him.
And I deserve one that sees me.

Not because I’m falling apart—
but because I’ve held it together for a long, long time.

And while I’ve learned how to carry this life with strength and intention,
I still believe in the beauty of being held sometimes, too.

We don’t talk about that enough—
how the strong ones still need support.
How the ones who look like they’re doing fine
still long for real connection.

So this isn’t a complaint.
It’s a truth.

It’s a quiet hand raised from one mom to another, saying:
“If you’ve ever felt this too—you’re not alone.”

We’re still building our village.
Still hoping.
Still showing up, every single day.

With love.
With grit.
With heart.

Even when the village is small.
Even when the world is loud.
Even when we feel unseen.

We keep going.

Because we were never the problem.
We’re just the ones brave enough to say it out loud.

-AG-

When “Too Nice” Isn’t Actually Nice

It always starts off sweet.

He’s kind. He compliments me. He checks in. He listens. He says the right things. And at first, it feels like maybe this could be something.

But then—too often—it all starts pouring in a little too fast.
Suddenly, I’m being adored before I’ve even had a chance to be known.

He starts doing too much. Trying too hard. Offering things I didn’t ask for. Complimenting me constantly, almost like he’s trying to convince himself he deserves to be there. And that’s when I start to feel myself pulling away—not because I don’t want love or kindness, but because something about it doesn’t feel real.

When someone likes you that much, that quickly—without having taken the time to know your heart, your flaws, your voice when you're tired—it starts to feel less like love and more like desperation. It doesn’t come from connection. It comes from fear. Fear of being alone. Fear of not being chosen. Fear of not being enough without bending into someone else’s fantasy.

I’ve learned that when a man loses himself trying to win me, it doesn’t feel flattering—it feels suffocating. It puts pressure on me to match energy I didn’t ask for. And it shifts the dynamic from two people getting to know each other to one person trying to earn worth through self-sacrifice.

I don’t want someone to worship me. I want someone to see me.
And still choose me—with clarity, not with codependency.

So when I say no—or even just “not yet”—you’d think, at the very least, we could still be kind. Still be friends. Still share mutual respect for what was or what almost was. Right?

Wrong.

Because the moment I set a boundary, suddenly everything changes.

The “nice guy” becomes a stranger. Cold. Distant. Sometimes even spiteful.
I’ve had men who said they cared deeply about me turn around and act like I never existed the second they realized I wouldn’t be their girlfriend.

So let’s be honest:
If you only wanted me when I was available to date you…
If you only respected me when you thought you had a shot…
If friendship was never truly on the table unless it came with romantic access…
Then you never really cared about me. You just wanted the role filled. You wanted the idea of me, not the actual human I am.

Because if your kindness disappears the moment I express a boundary, it was never kindness. It was a transaction waiting to be fulfilled.

And I’m not here for conditional care.

I can love people deeply in friendship. I can honor connection without needing to label it or own it. I’ve had some of the most meaningful relationships in my life with people I never kissed.

But if you’re only sticking around because of what you think you’ll get—
If my “no” to romance makes me disposable—
Then what you were offering was never love. It was control dressed up in flowers.

So no, I’m not cruel. I’m not playing games.
I’m just not interested in being idolized, chased, or pressured into something that doesn’t feel right for me.

I want connection. Real, rooted, respectful connection.
Not flattery. Not fantasy. Not fear in disguise.

If you can’t meet me there, that’s fine. But don’t pretend I’m the problem just because I won’t play a part in a story you wrote without me.

-AG-

A Letter to the Ones Who Looked Away

There’s a kind of pain that doesn’t leave bruises.
No blood. No breaks.
No bandages to make people ask, “Are you okay?”

Instead, it lingers quietly, shaping who you are in the shadows—until one day, you realize you’re not just hurting from what happened to you…
You’re hurting from who didn’t care enough to ask.

This is for the ones who have been betrayed by their own blood.
The ones who were exiled by their own family—not for doing something wrong, but for surviving something no one took the time to understand.

You want to know what it feels like?
It feels like watching the people who watched you grow up… disappear.
It feels like being judged by people who never even bothered to know the chapter you’re in—because they’re still clinging to the table of contents.
It feels like drowning quietly while your “loved ones” discuss whether your suffering is real enough to matter.

When you leave an abusive partner, it doesn’t feel like freedom right away.
It feels like war.
Like dragging your broken self across a minefield of shame, fear, and grief, just hoping you’ll still have a heartbeat on the other side.
You don’t leave because it’s easy.
You leave because staying is slowly killing you.

But people don’t see that.
They don’t see the manipulation, the gaslighting, the way your sense of reality was dismantled one lie at a time.
They don’t see the panic attacks. The checking over your shoulder. The way you flinch at raised voices.
They don’t see the courage it takes to say, “This isn’t love. This is destruction.”

Instead, they see you anxious. Emotional. Isolated.
And they say, “She’s unstable.”
“She’s dramatic.”
“She’s crazy.”

They talk about you like you’re a case study—not a human being.
And here’s the worst part: They do it without ever picking up the phone.
Without asking, “What happened?”
Without saying, “I don’t understand, but I want to.”

Instead, they whisper.
They assume.
They judge from afar.

And then they wonder why you don’t come around anymore.
Why you’re distant.
Why you’re guarded.

Let me tell you something—
Survivors don’t owe you their vulnerability.
We don’t owe you pretty packaging for the ugly truth we lived through.
We don’t owe you silence just because the truth makes you uncomfortable.

If you have never taken the time to ask what someone went through—
If you have never tried to understand what surviving abuse actually does to a person—
Then you don’t get to roll your eyes when they can’t trust easily.
You don’t get to label them “too sensitive” when they’re triggered by things you’ll never understand.
You don’t get to call them broken when you were never there to hold any of the pieces.

To be betrayed by an abuser is expected.
To be betrayed by your own family is devastating.
Because somewhere, deep down, you always hope that blood means something.
That someone, somewhere in that tangled family tree will reach for your hand and say, “I see you. I believe you. I’ve got you.”

But sometimes, they don’t.
Sometimes, they walk away.
Or worse—they stay silent, and their silence speaks louder than any insult ever could.

So this is a call-out to anyone who has ever sat in the comfort of their own assumptions while someone they “loved” was fighting for their life:
Do better.

Don’t wait until it’s too late to say, “I didn’t know.”
Because you could have.
You could have asked.
You could have shown up.
But you didn’t.

To the survivors reading this:
Your pain is valid.
Your story matters.
And you don’t need anyone else’s permission to heal loudly, unapologetically, and on your own terms.

They don’t get to define your worth because they never bothered to learn your truth.
And if they walk away? Let them.
Because you are not here to make other people comfortable at the expense of your own soul.

You are here to reclaim your voice.
To live your truth.
To become whole—whether they understand you or not.

-AG-

Needing Help Shouldn’t Make You Less

There’s something quietly cruel that happens in our world—a message that slips through conversations, social media, and even the backs of our minds:

“If you need help, there must be something wrong with you.”

Whether it’s financial assistance, disability benefits, therapy, subsidized housing, food stamps, free school lunches, childcare help, or just leaning on someone during a hard season—somehow, we’ve been taught that needing care makes you less.

Less capable.
Less worthy.
Less human.

And I’m tired of it.

I’m tired of hearing people I love say they live in fear because they need help.
Fear that if they laugh too loudly in public, someone will assume they’re “fine.”
Fear that if they take on a side job, fall in love, or post a happy photo, their survival might be questioned.
Fear of being cut off. Judged. Watched. Dismissed.

People shouldn’t have to perform their pain to prove they deserve to live.

Why Do People Bash Those Who Need Help?

Because it makes them feel safe.
Because it lets them believe they’re in control.
Because if needing help means you’re lazy, broken, or scamming the system—then they don’t have to face how fragile life really is.

We live in a society built on the illusion of self-sufficiency.
But no one is truly self-made.
No one gets through life without leaning on others—whether that’s family money, health insurance, food pantries, or emotional support.

Still, people need to believe that their success is purely earned.
And that anyone struggling must have done something wrong.

It’s easier to say:

“They should just get a job,”
than to admit:
“Our systems aren’t built for people with real, complicated needs.”

It’s easier to point fingers downward than to confront the corporations, policies, and price tags that keep millions of people one emergency away from ruin.

When Needing Help Changes How People See You

And here's the part no one talks about:

You can be deeply loved.
Respected. Admired. The “strong one.” The “smart one.”
But the second people learn you’re financially struggling, something shifts.

A pause. A judgment.
A suggestion you didn’t ask for.
A kind of polite distance that leaves you more alone than ever.

Because when someone they know and love needs help, they’re faced with a truth they don’t want to accept:

It could happen to anyone.
Even someone they admire.
Even someone like you.

And that’s terrifying. So they redefine you.
They stop seeing your wisdom and start seeing your “situation.”
They see you as someone to fix or pity.
They stop inviting you, start explaining you, start measuring your worth against a job title or tax bracket.

And that’s not about you.
That’s about how deeply our culture ties money to value.

Of Course We Wish It Were Different

Of course we wish the world made it possible for everyone to earn a living, no matter their struggles.
Of course we want our children to believe that hard work pays off.

But needing financial help doesn’t make you a lazy pile of shit.
It doesn’t mean you’ve failed.
It means you’re navigating life without the invisible safety nets others never realized they had.

We can believe in hard work and acknowledge that effort alone doesn’t guarantee stability.
We can celebrate independence and admit that none of us make it through this world alone.

A Little Personal Truth

I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.
That change in tone. That slow fade.
That invisible shift from being seen as “whole” to being quietly categorized as someone struggling.

I’ve watched it happen to people I love, and I’ve watched people I love become the ones who judge.

But I’ve also watched people rise. People build beautiful lives through community, resilience, and humility. People who are more whole, not less, because they know what it is to need others—and to still keep showing up.

What You Can Do Instead of Judging

• Check your assumptions. Needing help doesn't mean someone isn’t trying.

• Stop asking loaded questions. (“Why don’t you just...”) is rarely helpful.

• Offer kindness, not pity. There’s a big difference.

• Speak up. When someone bashes people on assistance, say something.

• Vote with empathy. Support policies that make life more livable—for everyone.

• Remember: You don’t have to understand someone’s need to respect it.

You Are Not Less

If you’re struggling—really struggling—and reaching out for support, you are not the problem.
You are not selfish.
You are not gaming the system.
You are not “too much.”

You’re surviving.

And if someone sees you differently because of that, let them.

Let them wrestle with their own discomfort.
Let them face the truth they’ve been avoiding.
Let them grow—or let them go.

But don’t you dare carry their shame.

You are not less lovable, less intelligent, or less worthy because you need help.
Your story still matters.
Your voice still matters.
You still matter.

People are not disposable because they need help.

If this hit home for you, you’re not alone.
Feel free to share this, add your story, or simply let it remind you that there is nothing shameful about being human.
Let’s dismantle the shame. Let’s talk louder than the stigma. Let’s stand with each other—even when the world looks the other way.

-Ag-

It's Not Me You're After

By Crystal Thomson

There’s a certain kind of message I’ve come to recognize almost instantly.

It starts out casual — friendly, even. A little check-in, a compliment disguised as curiosity.
But then it shifts. It always does.

Suddenly I’m in a conversation I never asked for — with a man who has a partner. A wife. A girlfriend. A fiancée. A family.

The most recent one asked me out for drinks.
My gut told me to look deeper — but I didn’t really have to, because it was all right there on his social media.
Married.
Twenty-five years. Kids. Grandkids. Just days before he messaged me, there were photos of them on vacation — smiling, relaxed, arms around each other with their children and grandchildren.
They seemed so happy.

And maybe that’s what hit the hardest.
Because it wasn’t just some broken marriage behind closed doors — it was a man living two very different lives in full view of the world.
And expecting me to play along like it didn’t matter.

I called him out.

And without flinching, he said:

“Yeah, I’m happily married. I’m just looking for a friend… with benefits. My wife knows. She doesn’t care.”
“She won’t be involved.”
“It’s better than divorce.”

Those lines stayed with me.

Because what I think he meant was:

“It’s easier to keep things quiet than face the truth.”
“It’s easier to go behind her back than to build the courage to be honest.”
“It’s easier to look elsewhere than to ask what might need healing at home.”

Then came the final twist:

“My sex drive is bad.”
Which I assume meant “too strong” — not “lacking.”
As if that explained the whole situation.
As if I should hear that and think, “Oh, that makes sense now.”

Another man told me I seemed “exotic and fun.”
Like I was a vacation from his wife.
Like I should feel flattered to be his little detour- and I’d be lying if I didn’t feel just a little bit flattered. I am human after all.

And the explanations? They’re just as varied.

One man said he and his girlfriend were “on and off,” and he wanted out — but she wouldn’t let go. He painted himself as trapped, helpless, misunderstood.
And then — in the very next breath — he talked about wifing me up.
He told me he adored everything about me. That he could see himself moving me in.
He laid out a whole imaginary life with me, as if I was a fresh start he could claim without ever closing the door behind him.

It was all fantasy — built on top of a reality he refused to actually deal with.

Another explained that his wife was “too controlling,” especially when it came to sex. He said:

“She sets all these rules. Only at night. Lights off. No spontaneity. No passion.”

And then he added, “I don’t believe we’re meant to be with just one person.”

As if that idea somehow justified everything.

Married. Engaged. “Separated.” Open relationships their partners may or may not know about.
Over and over, men approach me with situations full of blurred lines and unmet needs — assuming I’ll be the solution. Assuming I’ll say yes. Assuming I’ll stay quiet.

But it’s not something I invite- at least not knowingly and not with intention.

It’s not because I flirt too much, or dress too openly, or “give the wrong impression.”
It’s because something about me — maybe my calm, my compassion, my presence — makes them think I’ll let them cross a line without consequence.

And that’s what I’ve started trying to understand.

So lately, I’ve begun to ask — not out of interest or judgment, but genuine curiosity:

“This isn’t something I seek out, so I’m curious — why me?
It’s not the first time someone’s approached me like this, and I’m honestly trying to understand what signals you saw that made you think I’d go for it.”

Sometimes they get quiet.
Sometimes they try to backpedal.
Sometimes they say: “You seem safe. Cool. Not like other women. Not the type to make it a big deal.”

But here’s what they don’t understand:
It’s not that I don’t want to be part of something real — I do. But this is only a distraction. A detour.
an escape from reality at the cost of someone else’s trust.
I want to be wanted fully — not as an escape from responsibility, but as a choice made in truth. It’s that I refuse to build anything on a foundation of betrayal.
I won’t be the beginning of someone else’s ending.
I won’t let connection come at the cost of another woman’s pain — or my own integrity.

I’ve worked hard to become the woman I am now — and she doesn’t confuse attention with affection.
She doesn’t play side character in someone else’s unresolved story.
She doesn’t soften her standards because someone else is feeling restless.

Understanding the Pattern

I reached out to someone who’s spent years helping men navigate the internal terrain behind these choices — Sven Masterson, author of From Milk to Mastery. His insight opened a deeper layer:

"At the core, I believe these men aren’t seeking ‘sex’ or ‘connection’ in the ways they think they are. What they’re really chasing is relief... mostly from the emotional pressure, disconnection, and shame they feel in their committed relationship but don’t know how to name or navigate... They’re trying to borrow from your self-possession what they lack in their own. You become a mirror of the man they wish they could be — unburdened, powerful, whole."

Sven calls this a false refuge. They’re not choosing the “other woman.” They’re running from themselves.

He later added:

"Most men who believe they have a high sex drive or a high libido, in reality, have a high drive for validation and affirmation, and they've got a belief system that equates sexual attention and performance to their self-worth. So when they feel low, they seek sex. When they don’t get sex, they’re unhappy, edgy, mopey, and disgruntled. Then their partner folds, and they're fine again for a few days before the cycle repeats... They see sex as something to get, rather than a gift to give. It’s a great way to tank a relationship."

So what’s driving these men to cross lines and seek out women like me? Here’s what’s often underneath:

They want to feel desired — without doing the work to be desirable.
They’re not looking to earn love — they’re hoping to extract admiration without vulnerability. You become the “fix” not because you’re broken, but because you’re warm, emotionally present, and safe.

They’re playing fantasy games — and you’re the imagined escape.
When a man talks about “wifing you up” while still entangled, he’s skipping accountability. You’re not the exception. You’re the placeholder for a version of himself he’s not brave enough to become.

Some men crave risk and resentment more than resolution.
For some, cheating is a pressure valve. It lets them avoid confrontation while convincing themselves they’re still “good men.” But it’s cowardice disguised as compromise.

They see you as emotionally intelligent — and they weaponize that.
You’re chosen because you’re kind, calm, and seem unlikely to create drama. But that calm is exploited. You’re not seen as a woman — you’re seen as a safe container for bad behavior.

They’re avoiding their own mirror.
Men who engage in these patterns are often disconnected from their own pain. They use your presence to feel whole — not because you complete them, but because you help them forget how fragmented they really feel.

As therapist and author Dr. Alexandra Solomon puts it:

“Intimacy isn’t about proximity; it’s about vulnerability.”

Many men, she notes, “long for emotional closeness, but fear what it will cost them — namely, their sense of control.”

And as renowned couples therapist Terry Real says:

“Most men are trained to perform, not connect. They’ve never been taught how to tolerate the discomfort of emotional exposure, so they chase comfort instead — even if it costs them everything.”

Which brings us to the partner — the one left in the dark.

I've been her too.
I’ve felt the gut-punch of knowing someone you love chose secrecy over honesty.
And I’ve stayed — trying to forgive, trying to understand, trying to rebuild.

So I say this with full awareness:
If you're the woman on the receiving end of betrayal — you didn't cause it, and you didn’t deserve it. But you can reclaim your clarity.
And if you’re the woman being approached to join in — your boundaries are a gift to both women. Including yourself.

Should You Tell Her?

This is one of the most conflicted questions women face in this situation:
“Do I keep the secret, or do I tell?”

Sven offered this:

“There’s a difference between holding someone’s confidence and becoming a co-keeper of their secrets. If a man is inviting you into his darkness, you’re allowed to walk away. You’re allowed to say: I won’t help you hide.”

He emphasized that if you feel uncomfortable, you can ask directly: “What are you hoping to get from this?”
This one question often causes the fantasy to collapse — because the man is forced to look at his own motives.

Sven adds, “I live by the golden rule. If I were the partner, would I want to know? If yes — I act accordingly.”

Final Thoughts

Not every man who flirts is a monster. Many are simply hurting, lost, or unskilled in emotional maturity. But that doesn’t make the behavior okay. And it certainly doesn’t make it your responsibility to manage.

So if you find yourself being pulled into someone else’s shadow work, remember this:

You don’t have to explain your boundaries.
You don’t have to carry the weight of their marriage.
And you don’t have to play small to avoid their discomfort.

Pick your integrity.
Pick your peace.
And if a man ever asks you to choose him while he’s still with someone else —

Tell him: Pick your wife. Pick healing. Pick growth. But don’t ask me to carry your avoidance.

And if you’re a man reading this who sees himself in any of these stories — I don’t bring this up to shame you. I bring it up because I believe in your capacity to do better. There is another way — a braver way. And if you’re willing to explore it, I highly recommend the work of Sven Masterson. His insights aren’t about quick fixes — they’re about true transformation. You can find more at svenmasterson.com.

Sources & Further Reading:

• Sven Masterson, From Milk to Mastery — svenmasterson.com

• Dr. Alexandra Solomon, Loving Bravely

• Terry Real, The New Rules of Marriage

• Esther Perel, The State of Affairs: Rethinking Infidelity

For the Ones Who Struggle to Celebrate Themselves

If you're anything like me, you’ve probably found yourself here before—on the edge of something beautiful, something hard-earned, something you poured your whole heart into... and yet, you can’t feel the joy.

You want to be proud. You want to soak in the celebration, let it wash over you. But instead, you feel stuck. Disconnected. Afraid.

You’ve accomplished something real. Maybe it’s something you’ve dreamed of for years. For me? I just published three books. That sentence alone should come with fireworks in my chest, but instead, there’s this dull hum of doubt. A voice that whispers:

“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Don’t get too excited.”
“What if people laugh?”
“What if they think you’re full of yourself?”

It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that somewhere along the way, I learned that celebrating myself was dangerous. That being happy made me a target. That being seen made me vulnerable.

So I stayed small. I got good at minimizing. I built quiet masterpieces and hid behind the curtain, hoping someone would find them, love them, validate them—without me having to speak a word.

But here's the truth I’m learning (and maybe you need to hear this too): Joy isn’t arrogance. Self-celebration isn’t shameful. Wanting to be seen isn’t wrong.

You are allowed to be proud. You are allowed to feel the bigness of your small beginnings. You are allowed to say, “This matters to me.”

Even if no one claps.
Even if someone mocks.
Even if you’ve been taught your whole life that pride should be earned through suffering and perfection.

You’ve survived so much already. And still, you created something beautiful. That alone is worthy of pause. Of recognition. Of joy.

If no one else has said it, let me say it for both of us:
I’m proud of you.
I see how hard you’ve worked.
I see how scared you’ve been.
And I see how brave you are for doing it anyway.

So maybe today, we just let the pride in a little. A small sip. A soft smile. A whispered, “I did it.”
That’s enough. That’s everything.

And we keep going from there.

Not Everyone Is Meant to Stay

It’s a hard truth to swallow—but one that’s freed me time and time again:
Not everyone is meant to stay in your life.

Some people are only ever meant to be temporary.

They arrive with a purpose. Maybe they hold space during a hard time. Maybe they teach you something you didn’t even know you needed to learn. Maybe they make you feel alive—for a moment. But once their role is complete, once the chapter changes, you’re allowed to let them go.

And honestly? Letting go isn’t always sad.
Sometimes, it’s liberating.

It’s a powerful thing to recognize the toxicity in even the best relationships—the ones you thought were different—and to walk away anyway.
Not because you’re bitter. But because you’ve finally realized:
This person’s best is not good enough for me.
And that doesn’t make me cruel. That makes me clear.

I, for one, am tired of being mind-boggled by people’s behavior and still sticking around, trying to justify it—just because somewhere along the way, I was taught to “see the best in people.”
But the truth is:
Some people’s “best” only shows up every now and then.
And the rest of the time? It’s damage control.
It’s dismissiveness. It’s disrespect.

And I’ve decided that’s no longer enough.

Maybe that sounds shallow. Maybe even a little judgmental.
That’s okay.

We all get to choose our boundaries.
And I’ve chosen to put up an electric fence.

If you can’t show up with kindness, consistency, and respect—then I’m perfectly content letting that fence do its job.
And if nothing else?
Maybe the shock will serve as a wake-up call.

Because the reality is, everyone in your life should add to it.
Not drain it. Not confuse you. Not make you feel small.
They should support your becoming—not pull you backward into pieces you’ve already outgrown.

Sometimes, especially when we’re struggling, we don’t see it clearly.
We hold on. We hope. We squint at red flags and call them personality quirks.
But eventually, the truth gets too loud to ignore.

You outgrow the chaos.
You detach from the drama.
You stop begging for crumbs from people who barely know how to feed themselves emotionally.

And you start choosing peace.

Because healing isn’t just about what you say yes to.
It’s about what you finally say no to.
And when you get to that point?
You don’t need a scene. You don’t need closure.
You just need to walk away—head high, soul intact.

Some people were only meant to walk with you for a moment.
Carrying them beyond that only weighs you down.

And me? I want lightness. I want truth.
I want relationships that feel good to my nervous system.
Anything else?
That fence is humming—and I’m not sorry about it.

If you’re reading this and there’s a chirpy little bird flying around in your head and butterflies in your belly trying to tell you to cut the shit—maybe it’s time you listen.

Maybe it’s time you stop romanticizing the red flags.
Maybe it’s time you stop explaining away the things that hurt.
Maybe it’s time you stop clinging to what once was and start paying attention to what is.

You already know what you need to do. Your body knows. Your heart knows.
That buzzing in your gut? That’s not anxiety. That’s your truth trying to scream through the noise.

You can’t heal in the same space that keeps wounding you.
You can’t grow in soil that’s been poisoned with excuses.
And you can’t keep dragging people into your future who were only meant for your past.

So let this be the permission you’ve been waiting for—
To draw the line.
To build the fence.
To stop letting people drain you just because you “see the good in them.”

See the good. Bless the lesson.
But don’t forget to walk away.

You don’t owe anyone access to you just because you used to love them.
You owe yourself peace.
You owe yourself softness, safety, and space to breathe.

And if someone in your life can’t meet you with love, respect, and consistency—
then maybe it’s time to let the fence hum.

And maybe this time, you be the one who leaves without looking back.

-AG-

“Not Even to Explain”

He looked at me like I was light,
Said I was his and he was right.
With soft-spoke words and burning eyes,
He built a world on practiced lies.

I got the notes, the beach, the songs,
The promises that felt so strong.
He said he'd never love again—
But monsters know just how to pretend.

At first, I trusted every word,
Believed the pain in stories heard.
Of women cruel and love gone wrong,
I swore I’d prove I’d stay lifelong.

But snark turned sharp, and love grew cold,
And silence screamed the truth untold.
A glance, a sigh, a slammed-back door—
I learned what heavy hearts are for.

The man the world would never see
Was not the one who lived with me.
They saw the charm, the harmless grin—
Not rage disguised in fragile skin.

My son would run when tires spun,
We braced for storms that always won.
I walked the floors with quiet dread,
Afraid to breathe, afraid he’d tread.

I watched him twist the world with ease,
Turn guilt to truth and shame to peace.
Gaslighting burned like subtle flame,
While he convinced them I’m to blame.

She thinks she knows—because he spoke.
But every word was just a cloak.
And if she thinks I’m just insane,
Well, let her stay inside that frame.

I’ve left the house, the lies, the war,
I don’t stand guard behind the door.
I don’t explain. I don’t defend.
That story met its bitter end.

I don’t decode, I don’t prepare,
I’m not afraid of who’s not there.
No burn accounts or checking phones—
Just peace that lives in quiet tones.

He can perform. He still might try.
But I don’t flinch, and I don’t cry.
The truth is mine, I won’t be swayed—
That’s power, not the mess he made.

The weight is gone. My ground is plain.
I won’t go back—
I won’t explain.

-AG-

Dating in Your Mid-to-Late 30s: Too Young for the Dads, Too Wise for the Sons

Dating in your mid-to-late 30s is… complicated. You’re young enough to date the son, but grown enough to date the dad—and somehow, neither one feels like the right fit.

Both age groups, oddly enough, share one trait: they’re afraid of “settling.” The younger guys are paralyzed by FOMO, clinging to the idea that if they commit now, they’ll miss out on someone “better.” The older ones? Many have been through marriages, divorces, and life lessons—and they’re too tired or jaded to put in the work again. So they retreat into casual comfort or stay emotionally unavailable, assuming the right person will just magically appear without effort.

But even more frustrating than the search itself is this: most people aren’t honest about what they actually want.

Too often, they say what they think you want to hear. Out of fear, out of selfishness, or maybe just the habit of trying to “win” people over. They perform. They pretend. They mirror your desires to keep you interested—only to pull away once it gets real.

I have the utmost respect for someone who can be upfront. Tell me you're just looking for a fling? Great. Tell me you're looking for a lifelong partner, marriage, kids, and forever? Awesome. Even if it’s not what I’m looking for, at least I know. And that’s the beauty of honesty—it gives both people the freedom to choose what aligns with them before time, energy, or feelings are wasted.

It’s not about being perfect. It’s about being present. Being honest. Being real.

I’m not afraid of effort. I’m not afraid of love. And I’m certainly not afraid to walk away from anything that asks me to water myself down just to be accepted.

So yes, dating in your 30s is weird. But I’m living my life—fully, openly, and without apology. And I still believe the right one will show up when it’s time… not because I chased or settled, but because I stayed true.

Just some food for thought.

-AG-

Breaking the Chains of Shame: Why Body Empowerment is Sacred, Not Perverse

In a world that has spent decades telling women (and men) that their bodies are somehow wrong — too big, too small, too much, not enough — it’s time we set the record straight:

Body empowerment is not shameful. It is not perverse. It is healing, sacred, and necessary.

Body empowerment photography sessions, art sessions, and retreats are not about vanity or exploitation. They are about reclamation.
They are about taking back the narrative from a culture that profits from our insecurities.
They are about seeing yourself with kindness, perhaps for the first time in your life.

What Body Empowerment Is — and What It Isn’t

It isn’t pornography.
It isn’t about sexualizing yourself.
It isn’t about seeking approval.

It is about standing in your truth — fully and unapologetically.
It is about breaking cycles of shame that were handed to you by generations of fear, judgment, and misunderstanding.
It is about saying, "I am enough. I am beautiful as I am."

When you step into a body empowerment session, you are not "showing off."
You are stepping into your own skin — claiming it, honoring it, and loving it without strings attached.
For some women, it is the first time they have ever looked at themselves without criticism.
For some, it is a quiet revolution against years of being told to shrink, hide, or apologize for existing.

Healing Happens When Shame Leaves the Room

Shame thrives in silence.
Shame grows when we are told that wanting to love our bodies is somehow wrong.
Body empowerment dismantles that shame. It invites light into places that have long been hidden. It says:

"You do not have to live at war with yourself anymore."

These sessions are often emotional, tender, and filled with moments of real transformation.
Tears are common. So is laughter. So is a sense of awe when someone sees themselves truly — maybe for the very first time.

It's Not About What You Show — It's About What You Claim

Whether someone chooses to be fully clothed, partially clothed, or even tastefully bare in a session, it is never about putting their body "on display" for others.
It’s about showing up for themselves.
It’s about saying, "This is my body. This is my story. And I do not owe anyone shame for existing in it."

Every curve, every scar, every line carries a life lived.
We are not meant to be statues of society’s expectations — we are living, breathing works of art in our own right.

Why I Sometimes Share Empowerment Images Publicly

One of the most common questions I get is,
"If these sessions are so personal and sacred, why do you share the images online?"

The answer is simple — and powerful:
Visibility creates permission.

When we share real, raw, empowered images of everyday women — women of all shapes, sizes, colors, and stories — we challenge the narrow definitions of beauty that have trapped us for generations.
We show others that it is possible to stand in your own skin and feel proud, not ashamed.
We offer proof that healing is real.
We create a ripple effect.

For so many people quietly suffering with body shame, seeing someone else reclaim their body with confidence can spark something life-changing:
Hope.
Courage.
A sense of, "Maybe I can love myself too."

Of course, no images are ever shared without permission. Every client who allows me to share their photos does so knowingly, bravely, and with the intent of helping others.

They are not saying,
"Look at me!"
They are saying,
"Look what is possible."
They are offering their victory as a light to others still stuck in the shadows of shame.

When we hide empowered bodies, we reinforce the idea that they should be hidden.
When we celebrate them, we help normalize self-love — in all its forms, in all its bodies.

Sharing these images isn’t about exposure.
It’s about liberation.

Final Thoughts

If you’ve ever felt the call to celebrate yourself, trust it.
It’s not shameful.
It’s not selfish.
It’s sacred.

You deserve to take up space in this world — and to love the body that carries you through it.
You are art. You are strength. You are enough — exactly as you are.

From Self-Doubt to Self-Love: 10 Happy Habits for a Positive Body Image

Your body is amazing just as it is! Developing a positive body perspective is all about celebrating yourself and feeling good in your own skin. Here are some fun and empowering ways to love the body you're in:

1. Be Your Own Best Friend 💕

Speak to yourself with kindness! Imagine if your best friend needed encouragement—what would you say? Now, say those loving words to yourself every day!

2. Celebrate What Your Body Can Do 🎉

Your body is powerful and full of potential! Whether you’re dancing, stretching, laughing, or hugging a loved one, take a moment to appreciate all the wonderful things your body allows you to experience.

3. Curate a Feel-Good Social Media Feed 📱✨

Unfollow anything that makes you feel "less than" and fill your feed with positivity! Follow people who inspire self-love, body diversity, and confidence—it makes a world of difference!

4. Dress for Joy 👗💃

Wear clothes that make you feel fabulous, comfortable, and you! Forget trends that don’t resonate—rock what makes you smile when you look in the mirror!

5. Practice Gratitude for Your Unique Self 🌸

Every day, list at least one thing you love about your body. Maybe it’s your strong legs that carry you through adventures or your radiant smile that brightens someone’s day. Gratitude shifts your focus to all the good!

6. Surround Yourself with Positivity 🌟

Spend time with people who uplift you, make you laugh, and remind you how wonderful you are. Positivity is contagious—let it surround you!

7. Move in Ways That Make You Happy 💃🎶

Exercise isn’t about changing your body—it’s about enjoying it! Find movement that brings you joy, whether it's dancing, swimming, hiking, or just having a spontaneous kitchen dance party!

8. Speak Love Into the Mirror 🪞💖

Instead of focusing on "flaws," practice looking in the mirror and saying something positive—like “I am strong,” “I am beautiful,” or “I love the person I see.” Your words have power—use them to build yourself up!

9. Embrace the Beauty of Diversity 🌍✨

The world is filled with beauty in all shapes, sizes, and colors. The more you celebrate body diversity, the easier it is to see the beauty in yourself—because you are one of a kind!

10. Reach Out for Support If You Need It 🤗

If negative thoughts about your body are weighing you down, talk to someone who can help—whether it’s a friend, a mentor, or a professional. You don’t have to navigate this journey alone!

🌟 Remember: Your body is an incredible, one-of-a-kind masterpiece, and it deserves to be loved and appreciated! Keep celebrating you—because the world is brighter with you in it. 💖✨

When Words Sting: Navigating Triggers and Embracing Self-Love

As a firm advocate for body empowerment, one might assume that I could easily ignore every negative remark about my body image and not give it any consideration whatsoever. Unfortunately, I am occasionally reminded that even individuals engaged in healing can experience triggers. The most challenging aspect of these triggers is that they often do not originate from a clearly harmful source. Instead, they can come from those we care about, appearing so innocent that it feels as though we lack the right to express our feelings. This brings up the question: how should we approach these situations, and what strategies can we use to manage being triggered?

When someone we love says something that stings, it can feel like an unexpected betrayal. Even if their words weren’t intended to hurt us, the impact is real. Overcoming this kind of emotional trigger requires a mix of self-awareness, compassion, and boundary-setting.

First, recognize your reaction without judgment. Your feelings are valid, even if the words weren’t meant to harm. Take a breath and step back before reacting—this gives you space to process rather than lash out or shut down.

Next, try to understand the intent. Was it a careless remark? A difference in communication styles? Or perhaps a reflection of their own struggles? Sometimes, people we love speak from their own wounds, not realizing how their words land.

Communication is key. If the words cut deep, express how they made you feel, rather than assuming malice. Saying, “When you said that, I felt hurt because…” opens the door for understanding instead of conflict.

Most importantly, build inner resilience. The more we learn to self-soothe and validate our own emotions, the less power these moments have over us. Remind yourself of your worth and choose to focus on the love beneath the words rather than the momentary sting.

Healing doesn’t mean never feeling hurt—it means learning to move through it with grace, both for yourself and the people you love.

Overcoming body insecurities is a journey of self-acceptance, patience, and shifting the way we see ourselves. In a world that constantly bombards us with unrealistic beauty standards, it’s easy to feel like we’re not enough. But the truth is, our worth has never been defined by a number on a scale, the shape of our features, or how we compare to others.

Start by changing the way you talk to yourself. Would you say the things you think about your body to a close friend? If not, it’s time to rewrite that inner dialogue. Replace criticism with kindness—*“I hate my stomach”* becomes *“My body carries me through life, and I’m grateful for that.”*

Shift your focus from appearance to function. Your body allows you to move, experience, and connect with the world. It’s not just something to be looked at—it’s something to be lived in. Treat it with care by nourishing it, moving in ways that bring joy, and resting when needed.

Limit comparisons. Social media and media in general often showcase only the best angles, filters, and highlights of someone’s life. Remember that perfection doesn’t exist, and beauty comes in infinite forms—including yours.

Finally, practice self-love, even when you don’t feel like it. Confidence isn’t about always loving every part of yourself; it’s about choosing to show up for yourself anyway. Wear what makes you feel good, stand tall, and remind yourself daily: *I am enough, exactly as I am.*

Click here to see some different ways to practice self love!

-AG-

The Importance of Self Love as a Photographer

Self-love isn’t always the easiest thing to implement into our lives, often presenting numerous challenges along the way. It can be particularly tough to love ourselves in the same way we expect others to love and appreciate us. This journey requires patience and understanding, as we navigate through our own insecurities and self-doubt.

I speak on this topic passionately because I’ve experienced several levels of self-betrayal throughout my life, and I’ve had many days where I found myself looking at my own reflection in the mirror, feeling a deep sense of disdain for the image that was reflected back at me. These moments have not only shaped my understanding but have also fueled my commitment to addressing these feelings head-on.

I’ve spent several years dedicated to deeply exploring the intricate process that is my mind, and through this journey, I’ve successfully broken through many barriers that once significantly halted my progress in life, effectively preventing me from experiencing the numerous possibilities of joy and fully realizing my autonomy. Through determination and resilience, I have managed to overcome these obstacles that previously seemed insurmountable. That’s not to say that my insecurities no longer exist; rather, I have come to understand and appreciate the parts of myself that I considered flawed. I have learned to love them, as I recognize that even flaws can possess a unique charm and inherent beauty that contribute to my individuality.

While therapy and tuning into myself has been a profound blessing in my journey, the real vision came when I truly discovered how common feelings of self-loathing are all around the world, affecting countless individuals in various ways. Looking outside of myself and ultimately becoming a keen observer of people around me provided me with a unique perspective that I can’t easily forget. This experience opened my eyes to the intricate dynamics of human interaction and the diverse stories that each individual carries with them. The truth of the matter is, when you take a closer look at our lives and experiences, we’re not all that different from one another after all.

What was once just a simple trip to the beach quickly transformed into an insightful case study for me. Observing other women as they carried around different types of bodies and noticing not only how they proudly held themselves but also how they managed to focus their attention on those around them—this experience completely shifted my thought process altogether. I no longer look at any body type and think to myself, “Wow! That chick needs to put some clothes on and cover up her body” or “she is way too _______ to be wearing that." In fact, I’ve actually NEVER looked at a woman with such judgement. Instead, I find myself looking at every single body with a profound sense of admiration, coming to the realization that every body is uniquely different, and that is precisely why every body is inherently beautiful!

I used to pick myself apart on a daily basis for lacking all of the physical qualities that I thought women were supposed to possess in order to be fully accepted and embraced into the often elusive world of beauty. Growing up watching popular television shows like America’s Next Top Model probably didn’t help my thought process regarding body image and beauty standards. I often saw these very slender and long-legged bodies elegantly strutting down the runway, and I witnessed some of those talented women being disqualified simply for being deemed overweight. The issue wasn’t that they weren’t beautiful in their own right—because they truly were—but the problem lay in the harsh reality that they didn’t conform to the disturbing standards set by a shallow society. This society was quick to judge women based solely on appearance, often applying criteria that I consider to be borderline unrealistic and frequently associated with unhealthy lengths of physical torture. All of this was done for the fleeting reward of a cover photo and the coveted title of “America’s Next Top Model.”

The consequences of such contests don’t stop with the contestants on the show, as their influence reaches far beyond the immediate participants… I was a young girl watching these competitions unfold, and the unrealistic beauty standards they portrayed became embedded into my immature and still developing brain. At that time, I didn’t think it was acceptable or even normal to be a 5’6 curvy woman with short legs and some extra meat on her bones, which made me question my own self-worth and body image. If these incredibly beautiful and talented models couldn’t gain acceptance from society, how would the world ever respond to me and my own unique qualities? This is a question I have repeatedly asked myself for most of my life, and, of course, that uncertainty was once a significant problem for me. However, now I embrace that question with a sense of acceptance, self-love, and even some insightful answers that have come to me over time. This particular topic has increasingly become something that I passionately engage in and study in depth with other humans like me.

Moving past all of that, my journey of self-love has consisted of a handful of thoughtful tactics and helpful tools that aid me not only in my ongoing efforts to continue to fall deeply in love with myself but also to genuinely believe that I am beautiful in all the various phases I tend to go through. As a photographer—especially one focused on body empowerment—I find this to be incredibly important; it feels akin to the saying “practice what you preach,” doesn’t it? How can one effectively preach the concept of self-love if they do not actively engage in loving themselves? This question invites us to consider the authenticity of our messages and the importance of embodying the values we advocate.

When working with my incredibly brave and inspiring clients, the primary goal isn’t solely to fill their heads with an abundance of compliments and provide them with stunning photographs. Instead, the true aim for me is to facilitate an understanding that they don’t need to resemble anyone else to be genuinely beautiful in their own right. My mission is to thoughtfully document their journey as they navigate their unique features, all while saying goodbye to the pervasive negative self-talk and, most definitely, ridding themselves of the harsh echoing and imposing weight of societal "norms."

My body empowerment sessions are truly where my heart finds its rest as both a woman and a photographer. This is an area of my work that deeply resonates with me, as I have personally experienced the struggle and am actively living through the healing process. It is in these sessions that I connect with others on a profound level, sharing our journeys and embracing the transformative power of self-acceptance. I genuinely don’t believe that I would be the right person to photograph others in their most vulnerable selves, if I didn’t first love and accept myself in my own most vulnerable being as well. Embracing the complexities of who I am allows me to connect deeply with others, thereby fostering a safe space for genuine expression.

What would the outcome of a client's session look like if I hadn’t endured such a long and transformative journey? Well, as I shared in another blog post recently, it would likely consist of me taking photographs that I thought were merely flattering, rather than capturing the true essence of YOU. The editing process would likely mirror that of the individual who felt the need to alter my own images by editing out my curves, my freckles, and my stretch marks during my boudoir session a few years ago. That person couldn’t appreciate the beautiful qualities of my body; instead, she chose to remove the natural elements she didn’t think should exist, and she altered the parts of me that she believed needed fixing. She transformed a curvy, freckled, redhead with stretch marks and rolls into a fantasy version of Disney’s Ariel. This experience haunted me for quite a while. However, I eventually came to the important realization that the issue wasn’t with my so-called “flaws”; it was with the editor's lack of depth and her narrow mindset when it came to defining beauty standards. What a dull and uninspiring world it would be if we were all exactly the same in appearance. Would we all truly be considered beautiful if that were the case? The human body is, indeed, a magnificent work of art—each one of us is a unique masterpiece. While it is true that beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, we are exactly as we are meant to be, and there isn’t a single person on this planet who is entitled to the role of deciding that we should conform to being someone else.

Whether you choose to work with me someday in the future, or perhaps decide that there is another photographer who meets your specific needs and requirements, please take a moment to consider the values and beliefs of your photographer. It is essential to never hesitate to question their perspectives regarding beauty standards and how they interpret them in their work. Their response is not only critical, but it should also align with your own expectations and values for a meaningful and authentic photographic experience.

If you should ever find yourself in a similar experience that I endured, please remember that someone else’s opinion of you is NONE of your business (respectfully) and also, unless stated in your signed contract that they will edit and alter your body to reflect THEIR version of how they think you should be- you reserve the right to be photographed as you are and leave with a final product that says “girl, you are PHENOMENAL”- and if you still don’t believe that, keep showing up until you do because the truth will always remain the same.

Love you all! Now go love yourselves too! <3

-AG-