The “New” Me

By Linda Hoffman Kimball


my healed hand

In my September post “Lessons from the Fall” I ruminated about the August 12th break of my right wrist. My ulna and radius bones have healed as well as they’re going to. What can I say now in the aftermath of their healing? What lessons did I learn after months of healing, pampering, cajoling, heating, exercising, and massaging my arm?

The major lesson I continue to learn is: I am not the same. Yes, my bones healed but the accompanying mashup of arthritic bits and the remaining stiffness and swelling in my hand (as opposed to my wrist) means I can’t move my hand in all the ways I could before. I can do much, but I rely on workarounds a lot.

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Anxiety Requires Courage

By Megan Wilcox Goates

I teach university writing to a rotating group of amazing and funny undergraduate students, and every semester I see first-hand the reality of mental health issues that Millenials and Gen Zs currently face. Even if they weren’t vocal about these challenges (which they are—openly discussing on Twitter their therapy, hospitalizations, and medications), these issues are …

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By Melonie Cannon

When I found out that Carolyn McGraw does Poetry Therapy, I couldn’t wait to get her on Segullah’s podcast to hear her story and to explain what she does. YOU ARE GOING TO BE SO HAPPY YOU TOOK THE TIME TO LISTEN TO THIS PODCAST!! A former teacher in Sacrmento schools, Carolyn used poetry for …

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Summertime (with a side of semicolons)

By Linda Hoffman Kimball

Kinnison Photography, farm in rural Illinois after a storm

We’re dipping our toes in the shallows of summer here in the Northern Hemisphere. As a grown-up, I look across the calendar and concern myself with scheduling trips away and visitors coming, with deadlines for projects, with – this year at least – a constant queasiness about chaos in our country. Reflecting on the summers of my free-range Midwestern childhood, I know that my mindset then was far different.

I assumed my parents would keep the world spinning by going to work; weeding the garden; buying groceries; preparing our meals;

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Guest Post: Part 3: How my life changed once I finally started to heal

This is Part 3 of a three-part guest post series about therapy after sexual abuse. Erin’s first post is here, and the second post is here. – Kel, Blog Co-Editor If you haven’t experienced this change – of not being triggered – it is difficult for me to describe what it was like and what it meant. …

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Guest Post: Part 2: What therapy was actually like

This is Part 2 of a three-part guest post series about therapy after sexual abuse. Erin’s first post is here, and the final installment will be on December 31, 2016. – Kel, Blog Co-Editor Now this is not the point in the story where suddenly everything gets better. This first therapist, while a good person, was …

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Guest Post: Please Consider Trauma Therapy for Sexual Abuse

This is a difficult post to write. For some time I have considered sharing my experience with sexual assault and the healing I experienced through quality therapy. I have ranged between wanting to keep this experience private to wanting to shout to the rooftops. Ultimately, I have decided to finally share my experience because sexual …

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By Rena Lesue-Smithey

I sometimes lost my grip on gratitude, on optimism, when my husband’s debilitating depression dropped like an anchor in the center of the house. For hours, sometimes days, Rick would shut himself in the bedroom. The purple and red sheets I had jimmied into curtains would be drawn across the windows, a menstrual shroud over …

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Patterns of Dark and Light

By Jennifer DeLapp Pocock

Much of our knowledge of the Life/Death/Life nature is contaminated by our fear of death. Therefore our abilities to move with the cycles of this nature are quite frail. –Clarissa P. Estes At dusk I slip out alone, through the dunes to the shoreline. It’s spring, just a few weeks after an early Easter, so …

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To rip or not to rip…

By Melissa Young

While visiting with a friend a few weeks ago, I casually mentioned that I edit my journal. Once she started breathing again and retrieved her jaw from the floor, she spluttered, “But you can’t do that–it’s history!” (Guess what she majored in? Yup, history.)

So we talked about it, and in the end, we agreed to disagree.

Here’s the thing: she’s a talker. Her life is a very open book, and there are not many thoughts that fire through her brain that don’t also roll out of her mouth. It’s one of the things I love and admire about her. She’s very verbal and rarely writes.

Here’s the other thing: I am not a talker. People have labeled me as “quiet” from my earliest memory, and it’s because…well, I am. Words don’t fall out of my mouth easily, and on the rare occasion they do, I often find myself wishing I’d kept mum.

The way I’ve found my voice is through my fingers.

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