Category: Mental Health

Mental Health, Mindfulness, Psychology

Embodiment Cannot Be Borrowed

Featuredby Stephanie BoschLeave a Comment on Embodiment Cannot Be Borrowed
Embodiment Cannot Be Borrowed

The Difference Between Language and Living

There’s a strange feeling that comes with watching someone use your words. Especially when those words were born from seasons that nearly broke you. The healing. The grief. The accountability. The rebuilding. The nervous system work. The quiet moments nobody saw.

It’s easy to learn the language. The internet is full of it now:
healing,
alignment,
regulation,
authenticity,
divine feminine,
shadow work,
sovereignty,
growth.

But true embodiment is different.

True embodiment is lived. It’s natural. It flows. It changes the way someone moves through the world consistently, not just the way they speak about themselves publicly. It shows up in behavior, emotional regulation, accountability, humility, relationships, and patterns over time.

And maybe that’s why this has bothered me more than I want it to.

Part of me wonders if I should simply rise above it. Maybe I should. Maybe imitation really is a form of admiration in some strange way. But another part of me struggles with watching deeply personal truths and hard-earned insight become performance pieces for someone else’s identity.

Because when someone borrows the language without fully doing the work underneath it, something can feel emotionally disconnected. Almost like trying on an identity instead of becoming one naturally.

And honestly? It feels less malicious and more like an identity crisis.

Carl Jung talked about the “persona” — the social mask people create in order to navigate the world and be accepted by others. But he also believed that real growth comes from individuation: the lifelong process of becoming fully integrated and authentically yourself.

That process requires honesty. Shadow work. Accountability. Self-awareness. It requires facing the parts of ourselves we would rather avoid instead of constructing an identity around appearing evolved.

But the saddest part is that people are ultimately doing themselves a disservice when they bypass that process.

The whole purpose of going through difficult things and doing real inner work is not to appear healed. It’s to actually transform. To become more self-aware. More accountable. More emotionally honest. More capable of healthy love, healthy boundaries, and authentic connection.

And the truth is, I am still doing the work too.

Real spiritual work is a practice. It’s ongoing. Sometimes you have to integrate the same lesson many times before it truly becomes part of you. There are still things I want to heal, things I want to improve, places where I still fall short. But the point is the willingness to keep learning. To keep becoming more conscious. More honest. More embodied.

That pursuit matters.

Spirituality as Performance vs Practice

Sometimes it feels like people are living inside of a movie — performing healing instead of embodying it. Curating an identity instead of allowing transformation to quietly reshape the way they move through the world.

Charles Bukowski once wrote:
“Beware those who seek constant crowds; they are nothing alone.”

And while that may sound harsh, I think there’s truth hidden inside it. Real embodiment does not depend on constant performance, validation, applause, or audience approval. It exists quietly too. In solitude. In consistency.

Because the choices we make when nobody is watching are called integrity.

One of the things I’ve come to believe is that energy responds to authenticity.

Not perfection. Not performance. Not curated spirituality. Authenticity.

People feel it. Relationships feel it. The nervous system feels it. And I think, in many ways, life itself responds to it too.

Because when someone is truly embodied, there is coherence between their words, actions, values, and energy. Things flow differently. Trust forms differently. Presence feels different. There’s less effort required to maintain an image because there’s less fragmentation underneath it.

And the opposite is true too.

Performative energy often creates dissonance. Even when people cannot consciously explain what feels “off,” they can usually feel the inconsistency somewhere underneath the surface. The body notices. Relationships notice. Life eventually notices.

You can temporarily curate perception.
You cannot sustainably fake energetic coherence.

And honestly, this is something many spiritual traditions have warned about in different ways for centuries.

In Buddhism, suffering often continues until attachment, avoidance, illusion, and unconscious patterns are truly seen clearly. Lessons repeat because the deeper understanding has not fully integrated yet. Karma is not usually viewed as punishment, but as consequence, pattern, and unfinished learning returning again and again until consciousness deepens.

You cannot spiritually bypass a lesson and expect life not to revisit it.

And I think about Jesus telling his disciples to go out into the world and carry his teachings forward. The point was never simply to preach at people. It was to live the way he lived. To embody compassion, humility, integrity, accountability, forgiveness, and love through action — not just language.

One of the more dangerous things about spirituality is that it can also become performance.

People can learn the language.
They can learn the aesthetic.
They can learn how to sound wise, enlightened, healed, awakened, embodied, conscious, evolved.

But sounding spiritual and practicing spirituality are not always the same thing.

We’ve seen this happen over and over again with public spiritual figures, self-help leaders, gurus, pastors, yoga teachers, and “healers” who built entire identities around enlightenment while privately behaving in ways that were manipulative, exploitative, dishonest, abusive, or deeply unhealed.

Because spirituality can become a persona just like anything else.

That’s why true practice matters so much.

Real spiritual work is not about curating an image of wisdom.
It’s about accountability.
Humility.
Integrity.
Self-awareness.
Compassion.
Emotional regulation.
Consistency.
The willingness to continually confront yourself honestly.

And that work is rarely glamorous.

Sometimes spirituality is quiet.
Sometimes it is uncomfortable.
Sometimes it means admitting you are wrong.
Sometimes it means recognizing you still have lessons left to learn.

The people doing real work are usually not trying to convince everyone they are evolved.
They are simply trying to become more conscious human beings little by little over time.

You can cosplay the Queen of Cups for a while.

You can learn the language.
You can master the aesthetic.
You can memorize the quotes.
You can curate the image of softness, wisdom, intuition, compassion, sensuality, healing, emotional depth.

But eventually embodiment reveals itself.

Because the real Queen of Cups is not a costume.
She is emotional intelligence.
Self-awareness.
Compassion with boundaries.
Depth earned through experience.
Intuition grounded in reality.
The ability to remain emotionally present without drowning in performance, fantasy, projection, or manipulation.

And that kind of energy cannot be sustainably imitated long term because it is not built from appearance.
It is built from integration.

Eventually the nervous system tells the truth.
The relationships tell the truth.
The patterns tell the truth.

Some people want to be awake without being willing to open their eyes.

Because awakening sounds beautiful in theory — until it requires accountability.
Until it asks people to confront their patterns.
Their wounds.
Their projections.
Their contradictions.
Their ego.
Their avoidance.
Their dishonesty.
Their coping mechanisms.
Their shadow.

Real consciousness is not just feeling spiritually inspired.
It’s being willing to see clearly.

And sometimes clarity is uncomfortable.

Sometimes awakening means realizing you have hurt people.
Sometimes it means grieving illusions you wanted to hold onto.
Sometimes it means recognizing that the identity you carefully constructed is not fully aligned with who you truly are underneath it.

That is why embodiment matters so much.

Because true awareness is not performative.
It changes the way a person lives.

Remembering

And honestly, I don’t even know if I would call it an awakening anymore.

For me, it feels more like remembering.

Sometimes it happens doing the most mundane things — driving on the highway, washing dishes, watering plants, cooking dinner, running trails, sitting quietly with music playing in the background.

Nothing dramatic.
Nothing performative.
No audience.
No altered state necessary.

Just moments where the separation softens and I can feel the deeper connection and flow underneath everything again.

And maybe that’s part of embodiment too.

Real spirituality is not always found in grand declarations, ceremonies, aesthetics, or curated identities. Sometimes it’s found in ordinary life. In presence. In awareness. In the quiet ability to feel connected while fully inside your humanity instead of trying to transcend it.

Not escaping life.
Entering it more fully.

Maybe that’s why true wisdom often becomes quieter over time. Less about appearing awakened and more about learning how to live consciously, honestly, compassionately, and authentically in the smallest moments of everyday existence.

The pain is supposed to teach you something.
The discomfort is supposed to deepen you.
The work is supposed to free you.

Eventually the nervous system tells the story.
The patterns tell the story.
The relationships tell the story.
The consistency tells the story.

The fruit always reveals the garden.

And to be clear — I don’t believe I own spirituality, healing, or any of these concepts. None of us do. Human beings have been searching for meaning, healing, sovereignty, and connection for centuries. We all borrow language, wisdom, inspiration, and insight from each other along the way.

But spirituality without embodiment can become performance. And words without lived experience eventually lose their weight.

Because ultimately, enlightenment is not something you perform.
It is something you practice.

Not performance.
Not transcendence.
Remembering.

Anxiety, Mental Health, Psychology

Social Media, Anxiety, and the Developing Nervous System

Featuredby Stephanie BoschLeave a Comment on Social Media, Anxiety, and the Developing Nervous System
Social Media, Anxiety, and the Developing Nervous System

Two Realities, One Nervous System

If you’re parenting in this era, you’re parenting against something we were never trained for: an always-on world. A world where your child can be reached, influenced, evaluated, and emotionally impacted at any hour—without ever leaving their room. Social media changed childhood, and the nervous system is still catching up.

This post is about what constant online pressure does to kids, what happens when trauma gets stuck in the body, and why healing often isn’t about thinking your way through—it’s about learning how to feel safe again.

A few years ago, I went to hear Dr. Margaret Wehrenberg, PhD speak—aka “Aunt Peggy.” She’s a specialist in anxiety and depression, and she’s also my good friend Amy’s aunt. I remember thinking it would just be an informative night—one of those “let me learn something and go home” kind of talks.

But what she spoke about stayed with me: how social media and smartphones are impacting kids, not just socially, but psychologically—how it can amplify anxiety in a nervous system that’s still learning what safety even feels like.

Then she mentioned something I’ve never forgotten. She talked about Monitoring the Future, a long-term national measurement that’s been tracking adolescent outcomes since 1975, including things like dropout rates, teen pregnancy, substance use, and mental health trends like anxiety.
https://monitoringthefuture.org

And she said that for decades, the needle on anxiety barely moved.

Until around 2010.

That’s when it spiked—by something like 40%—right around the time social media became a normal part of daily life for kids.

I’ve also been reading The Anxious Generation by Jonathan Haidt, and it puts language and numbers to what so many parents have felt in their bones. He describes this shift as a “great rewiring” of childhood—from play-based to phone-based—and connects it to the sharp rise in youth anxiety and depression since 2010.

In that same window of time, rates of self-harm for young girls nearly tripled, and suicide rates for young adolescents increased by 167% from 2010 to 2021. (The Anxious Generation)

Haidt also points out something important: these effects aren’t always the same for everyone. In the book, he describes how social media tends to harm girls more through social comparison, perfectionism, and social pressure—fueling anxiety and depression—while boys are more likely to withdraw into virtual worlds, isolating themselves through gaming and online escapism. (The Anxious Generation)

And I need to say this part too, because it’s honest: I live with the regret that I gave my kids screens too soon.

I didn’t understand what we were dealing with. Most of us didn’t. We were told it was the future. We were told it was normal. We were told it was how the world worked now.

And when everyone around you is doing the same thing, it doesn’t feel like a decision with consequences… it just feels like parenting in the modern world.

But the truth is, we’re learning as we go.

And what’s wild is that even the people who helped build this world were cautious about it. Steve Jobs famously restricted his own children’s access to smartphones and tablets because he was worried about screen addiction, social skill development, and mental health.

That trend—tech leaders limiting their own kids’ exposure—wasn’t random. It reflected a desire to protect developing brains from addictive algorithms and constant stimulation.

When I Realized It Wasn’t Just “Teen Stuff”

Jason, my son, had a rough time online when he was thirteen. He got tangled up with people on the internet, and it turned into bullying.

What hit his nervous system wasn’t just what was happening online—it was what happened because of it.

The police showed up at our door.

It got serious enough that an adult called the police to check on him because they were worried he might hurt himself.

They were called out of concern, not punishment.

But when you’re a kid, your nervous system doesn’t understand nuance.

It only understands fear.

It only understands shame.

It only understands: something is happening and I’m not in control.

Looking back, I can see why it landed so hard. Because the online world kids live in now isn’t one our nervous systems were designed for—and sometimes it follows them into real life in the most terrifying ways.

And here’s the part I want to say out loud, because I know other parents might be carrying it too: I had no idea this was happening. I didn’t know  how quickly it could turn, or how deeply it could get into a developing nervous system.

I had parental controls set. I monitored what games he downloaded and what apps he could access. I was paying attention. But where there’s a will, there’s a way—and kids can always find loopholes we didn’t even know existed.

I thought I was doing what most parents do—making sure he was home, making sure he was okay, relying on parental controls on his device, trusting that “quiet” meant everything was fine.

And I missed it.

The World Our Nervous Systems Didn’t Evolve For 

Here’s another thing I can’t stop thinking about: it’s not normal for the human nervous system to have this much information, this much access, and this many people in our mental space who aren’t actually in our physical presence.

We were built for real-life proximity.

For tone.
For facial expression.
For context.
For repair.
For the natural limits of a day.
For the boundaries of a neighborhood.

But online, those limits disappear.

Now you can be exposed to hundreds of opinions, hundreds of interactions, and hundreds of little hits of rejection or approval without ever leaving your room. People can make fake accounts. They can move sideways. They can watch without being seen.

They can say things behind a screen they would never say face-to-face. And when you’re still developing, your nervous system can’t always tell the difference between a real threat and a social threat.

It just registers it as danger.

Psychologically, it creates dissonance.

Because you’re living in two realities at once: what’s happening in your actual life, and what’s being said about you in a digital one. And that split alone can overload the system.

Social media is also private in a way most adults didn’t grow up with. A lot of what happens there is invisible. And because it’s invisible, kids will hold things in.

And even with parental controls on their accounts, kids can still find surreptitious ways around them. Not because they’re bad, but because they’re curious, because they’re social, and because the internet is built to pull them in.

So even the best controls in the world can’t replace something more powerful:

real connection, real check-ins, and paying attention to subtle shifts.

If you notice your child acting differently—withdrawn, irritable, unusually quiet, suddenly emotional, not sleeping, not eating, snapping more than normal—ask.

Even if you asked yesterday.
Even if you asked this morning.
Ask again.

It’s not just my kids. This is showing up in kids everywhere, in ways we didn’t grow up with. It’s not just happening in our home—this is a real part of parenting now. And so many of us are learning in real time what constant online pressure does to a developing nervous system.

If you’re a parent reading this and nodding quietly, I see you.

It’s so important to stay on top of it, because the truth is… it’s easy to miss. I’m guilty of it too. They’re on their phone doing their thing, the house is quiet, everything looks fine, and quiet can feel like peace.

But sometimes quiet is just what’s happening on the surface.

Underneath, something can be building.

Boundaries Aren’t Punishment, They’re Protection

And while I’m talking about kids here, I also want to say this: I have felt my own anxiety around social media.

I got off Facebook, even though that’s where most of my family and close friends share content. Around election time, I got off entirely. I miss seeing my memories and checking in with folks every now and again—but I also know what it does to my nervous system when I stay on too long.

On my Chefsteph Instagram page, I removed 7,500 people and narrowed it down to people I actually know, or at the furthest, friends of friends. I go offline to rest and restore. I recently made my account private because boundaries are important to me.

And I’m done accepting fake accounts or people coming at me sideways. If someone can’t show up honestly, I’m not accepting them.

Not just for my sake—who is this person, really, and why are they showing up behind a fake account?—but as a matter of principle.

Because I want to practice what I preach and teach my kids that we don’t invite unclear energy into our lives just because it knocks.

I’ve also started thinking about boundaries differently—not as punishment, but as nervous-system protection. A simple rule like two hours of screen time per day can make room for something kids desperately need:

their own life.

Because when the phone goes down, something else has to come up.

  • Reading a book

  • Going to the library

  • Family time

  • Puzzles (this one is so underrated)

  • Chores

  • Cooking

  • Going outside

  • Moving their body

  • Sitting in the same room together without everyone disappearing into a screen

Some way to find connection aside from the phone.

And honestly… sometimes it’s just being bored.

Boredom leads to creativity.

And we are not bored enough anymore. We want to fill every empty moment. But the brain reads all those scrolls and swipes as dopamine hits—tiny rewards that keep us reaching for more.

Over time, it can start rewiring the brain’s pathways, making real life feel dull, making quiet feel uncomfortable, making a normal day feel like it’s missing something.

And that alone can feed anxiety and depression.

And I think about all of this a lot, because I didn’t just hear it in a lecture.

I’ve watched it show up in my own home.

When Trauma Gets Stuck in the Body

My wish is that the person who was worried would’ve contacted me first and let me handle it privately with my son. I understand why they did what they did. I don’t question the concern.

I just wish the first step had been a conversation—because once the police are involved, a kid’s nervous system doesn’t file it under “help.” It files it under fear.

Here’s the part that breaks my heart as his mom:

Five years later… he’s still processing it. Afraid that any little thing he does is going to get him in trouble with the law.

He’s still running the loop.

And he’s not doing it because he’s dramatic. He’s doing it because his nervous system never finished that moment. So he keeps circling it from every angle, trying to settle it with reassurance.

He’s tried to find answers from people who feel like safety—police officers, attorneys, his parents, his therapist, his friends.

And it works… for a while.

Because talking through it can calm the mind. It can bring logic back online. It can make the story feel organized. It can give you the sense that you’re back in control.

But reassurance has a short shelf life when the pain is still lodged in the body.

Eventually, it rises again.

And that’s how you know the trauma isn’t resolved.

It’s just being managed.

Trauma Doesn’t Stay in One Place

This is what trauma does as you grow older when it isn’t fully processed:

It generalizes.

It stops being “that one thing that happened” and starts becoming the lens you see life through.

It can show up as:

  • Anxiety that doesn’t make sense on paper

  • Hypervigilance

  • Irritability

  • Shutdown

  • Trouble trusting people

  • Fear of being in trouble, even when you’ve done nothing wrong

  • The feeling that you have to prove you’re good

  • The constant question underneath everything: am I safe now?

And when you can’t get the feeling of safety to stick, you start reaching for substitutes.

Sometimes we don’t run to what’s healthy. We run to what’s familiar.

And familiar can feel like safety—not because it actually is, but because your body already knows the pattern.

Your nervous system hears “familiar” and thinks:

I know this terrain.
I know the rules here.
I’ve survived this before.

Even if it’s messy.
Even if it isn’t good for you.
Even if it keeps you stuck.

So familiar people can become a kind of nervous-system medication. They soothe you. They calm you down. They make the panic soften for a minute.

But they can also keep the loop running because they offer temporary relief without requiring the deeper thing:

feeling it all the way through.

The Hardest Part to Explain

The hardest part to explain is that it isn’t something you can think your way through.

You can understand the story intellectually and still have your body respond like you’re back in it.

Healing often means going back—not to relive it, but to finally process what never got processed in real time. It can be uncomfortable and it can be scary, but in the right setting, with the right people, it can be deeply therapeutic.

Because when those feelings finally move through, the nervous system gets the message it missed the first time:

you’re safe now.

Trauma Is Like a Splinter

I tried to explain it to my son like this:

Trauma is like getting a splinter.

At first, it hurts and you know it’s there. But digging it out hurts more, so you avoid it. You leave it alone. And eventually, it calluses over.

Sometimes the pain goes numb. Or you get used to it. It becomes part of your normal, and you stop questioning it.

You start to think: this is just who I am now. This is just how life feels.

But the truth is, it never fully heals if the splinter is still inside.

Healing means digging through the layers, feeling what you didn’t get to feel back then, and finally getting it out.

Because until it comes out, it will keep finding ways to hurt.

You Have to Feel It Through

Until he can go back to that day—not just in memory, but emotionally—and actually feel what his thirteen-year-old self felt…

he’ll keep circling it.

He’ll keep looking for safety in other people’s words.
He’ll keep trying to talk it away.
He’ll keep trying to logic his way out of something his body is still holding.

And I say this with so much love:

You can’t think your way into feeling safe. You have to feel your way there.

Why This Matters Right Now

Jason leaves for the Navy soon, and it matters to me more than I can even explain that he makes peace with this before he sails off.

Not because I think he’s broken.
Not because he can’t handle hard things.

But because I want him to have a fresh start.

I want him to go into the world with a nervous system that knows how to come back to center. I want him to see the world through the eyes of safety and emotional regulation—not through the lens of “I’m in trouble,” “I’m not safe,” or “I’m about to get blindsided.”

The Navy is structure. It’s pressure. It’s new environments and new people and new intensity.

And I want him to meet all of that from a place inside himself that feels steady.

Not braced.
Not waiting for the next hit.
Just grounded.

Because when you make peace with what happened, you stop living inside it.

And you finally get to live from who you are now.

What I’m Doing Next: Somatic Therapy

This is why I’m working to find him a therapist who works with somatic release—somatic therapy.

Because I don’t think he needs more people helping him figure it out.

I think he needs help letting his body finally release what it’s been holding for five years.

Somatic therapy is different from only talking through the story.

A somatic therapist will still listen, of course—but the focus is on what’s happening inside your body while you’re talking.

Where do you feel it?
What changes when you bring it up?
Does your chest tighten? Does your stomach drop? Does your jaw clench?

Because trauma isn’t just a memory.

It’s survival energy that got stuck in place.

And the goal isn’t to relive it. The goal is to help the nervous system complete what it never got to complete—so the body can finally understand:

that was then.
this is now.
you’re safe.

Somatic work can look like noticing sensations, grounding, breathing, learning how to stay present in small pieces, and letting the body discharge what it couldn’t release back then—shaking, tears, deep exhales, warmth moving through the chest… all the things we’ve been taught to suppress.

Not dramatic.
Not forced.
Just real.

Because that loop of anxiety and reassurance-seeking isn’t weakness.

It’s a body that still believes it’s in danger.

And you don’t talk a body into safety.

You teach it.

Another Tool That Can Help: Cognitive Processing Therapy (CPT)

His therapist diagnosed him with PTSD, and that diagnosis actually helped me make sense of the “loop” he’s been stuck in. Because PTSD doesn’t always look like what people think it looks like.

Sometimes it looks like overthinking.

Replaying.

Reassurance-seeking.

Hypervigilance.

Avoidance.

Shutting down.

Trying to control the outcome before anything bad can happen again.

One evidence-based therapy that’s often used to treat PTSD is Cognitive Processing Therapy (CPT). CPT is a structured, 12-session form of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) designed specifically to help people process trauma by identifying and challenging the beliefs that formed in the aftermath of it.

In other words: CPT helps you find the “stuck points.”

Those beliefs that get written into the nervous system like truth:

I’m not safe.
I can’t trust people.
If I’m not in control, something bad will happen.
Something is wrong with me.
I don’t deserve peace.
I’m going to get blindsided again.

CPT helps people notice those beliefs, challenge them, and replace them with something truer and more stable. It’s not about pretending the trauma didn’t happen. It’s about updating the brain and body so they stop living like it’s still happening.

CPT also works through five core themes that trauma often damages:

Safety
Trust
Control
Esteem
Intimacy

And when you think about it, those five themes are exactly what gets distorted when a kid is scared, overwhelmed, and powerless in a moment they don’t understand.

This is why I’m taking his healing seriously now, before he leaves for the Navy.

Because I want him to walk into adulthood without carrying that day like a shadow behind him. I want him to be able to trust himself. Trust his instincts. Regulate his emotions. And live from a place that feels safe in his body.

Not just for his future.

For his peace.

If You Want a Place to Start

And if you’re reading this and you recognize your own child in any of these patterns, I want you to know you’re not alone. There are real, evidence-based ways to manage anxiety and trauma, and it’s never, ever too late to start healing.

If you want resources you can hold in your hands, I recommend three that are highly rated, easy to understand, and truly effective:

The Feeling Good Handbook by David Burns
https://books.google.com/books?q=The+Feeling+Good+Handbook+David+Burns

The Anxiety and Phobia Workbook by Edmund Bourne
https://books.google.com/books?q=The+Anxiety+and+Phobia+Workbook+Edmund+Bourne

The PTSD Workbook by Mary Beth Williams and Soili Poijula
https://books.google.com/books?q=The+PTSD+Workbook+Mary+Beth+Williams+Soili+Poijula

Reaching out isn’t invasive—it’s love.

I tell my kids all the time: I’m doing this because I care. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t worry, I wouldn’t ask, I wouldn’t try to help.

And if you’re a parent doing the same, I see you.

Keep going.

Mental Health, Psychology, Spirituality

Rooted

Featuredby Stephanie BoschLeave a Comment on Rooted
Rooted

As I near the year’s end, I’ve been doing a great deal of reflecting.
There’s something about standing at the edge of a chapter — still holding what was, while slowly turning toward what will be — that makes you look at your life with clearer eyes.
And this year, clarity came in waves.

This year has been about standing in my truth —
even when my heart felt torn,
even when other people’s emotions swirled around me like storms,
even when everything in me wanted comfort instead of growth.

I refused to be pulled out of my purpose by anyone else’s immaturity or lack of awareness.
I learned that I can be the tree:
my branches may sway in the wind,
but my roots do not move.

I see people.
I study them.
I can read the quiet shifts in energy before they ever speak.
I can sometimes predict a person’s behavior before they act, not because I’m magical, but because I’ve lived enough life to recognize the rhythm of human patterns.
And I’ve learned to trust what I sense.

I have been burned.
I carry scars, and some of them still ache.
I have been yelled at, embarrassed, dismissed, bruised, and neglected.
I’ve had moments where life brought me to my knees.
But in those shadows, I found others like me —
other survivors, other fierce women
who finally stood up to the people who underestimated them and said,
Not anymore.

I’ve had to prove myself.
My loyalty has been tested.
My patience has been stretched to its breaking point.
And through all of it, I kept showing up.
Through my strength, I became respected.
Not because I demanded it,
but because I embodied it.

I have been invited to tables I once stood outside of.
I have kept my wits in rooms designed to shake me.
I have kept my composure when falling apart would’ve been easier.
And I have earned trust — not through perfection, but through consistency.

This year, I also found myself stepping away from chapters that defined me for decades.
When you spend nearly 25 years walking beside someone, it shapes you.

But sometimes, without blame or bitterness, you realize that a path you have walked for so long is no longer the one your soul can continue on.
Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is gently step back from what has been familiar
and choose yourself again.

Quietly.
Respectfully.
Truthfully.

Life has a way of showing you when you’ve outgrown something… or when you’ve finally grown into yourself. And I realized that I have leveled up—emotionally, spiritually, energetically. I am no longer willing to stay in places where my spirit must shrink to fit. Some paths end not with anger or blame, but with a deep exhale and the understanding that your soul is ready for more.

I don’t rise or fall according to someone else’s storms anymore.

When you ask, you shall receive. I asked to grow, to see the truths that had been quietly holding me back.
I asked to rise, to evolve, to expand in ways I wasn’t yet ready to understand.

And life answered.

Not through ease or comfort, but through the exact lessons that would strip away every illusion I still clung to. Through people who tested my boundaries, through moments that shook me awake, through situations that forced me to stand in my own power. I learned not to react when others wanted me to fail, not to absorb the wounds they tried to hand me. Their pain is not my responsibility, their projections are not my story.

I leveled up—not because of a job, not because of a man, not because of validation from anywhere outside of myself—but because something inside me finally aligned with the spiritual love that has always been mine. The love that moves quietly beneath everything. The love that asks nothing except that I show up as truth, as balance, as authenticity, and as reciprocity.

Going forward, the energy I call in is equal. Equal friendships. Equal partnerships. Equal work. Relationships and places that meet me where I stand, that support me as deeply as I support them. A shared reflection. A mutual rising.

This is the path I asked for.
And I’m walking it now—eyes open, heart steady, spirit unshakeable.

Every heartbreaking moment,
every painful lesson,
every disappointment,
every betrayal,
every silence
was preparing me —
not punishing me.

Growth is rarely soft.
It hurts.
It cracks you open.
It pulls you from your comfort.
It demands that you shed the versions of yourself that survived,
so you can become the version that thrives.

This year, I broke patterns that no longer belonged to me.
I stepped away from situations that didn’t feed me anymore —
and some that never fed me at all.
I stopped confusing familiarity with nourishment.

And I learned to hold onto myself.

I do not make other people’s problems my problems anymore.
I no longer absorb what was never mine to carry.
I can care without carrying.
I can love without losing myself.
I can witness without becoming wounded.

Their storms are not my storms.
Their chaos is not my calling.

I am steadfast now,
not because my life has been easy,
but because I allowed it to shape me into someone stronger than my circumstances.

I know who I am.
And I am done apologizing for the fire it took to become her.

So here I stand—rooted, rising, and finally aligned with the woman I was always meant to become.
I am no longer shrinking to fit old stories or old versions of myself.
I am no longer bending under the weight of other people’s expectations.
I am choosing a life built on truth, reciprocity, and grounded joy.
A life where I am met, not managed; supported, not drained; cherished, not tolerated.

I am stepping into this next chapter with my head high, my heart open, and my roots firm in the earth beneath me.
Whatever comes next, I will greet it with the same courage that carried me through every fire before this one.
Because I know who I am now.
And I finally trust that the world ahead of me will rise to meet that truth.

Autism, Mental Health

Anchored by Courage

by Stephanie BoschLeave a Comment on Anchored by Courage
Anchored by Courage

Next week, my son — my second born, my first boy — will be sworn into the United States Navy.

It’s hard to even type that without feeling every version of him flash through my mind. The gorgeous baby who seemed perfectly fine until around 18 months… when the world suddenly became too loud, too bright, too overwhelming for him. When my sweet boy started having emotional outbursts I didn’t yet understand. When his little brain locked onto things the way only he could — obsessive, hyper-focused, determined — even when his words couldn’t quite keep up.

For a while, he spoke in his own language. A language only he and my mom understood, because she never tried to correct him or make him fit the world. She just met him where he was. Those two bonded in this magical, gentle way that still brings tears to my eyes.

Leaving him anywhere was impossible. Even the gym drop-off — I’d hear him crying for me from across the building, screaming in panic until I came back to hold him. Eventually I hired a nanny so he could stay home where he felt safe. And little by little, through preschool and with so much love and patience, he began to blossom. That’s around the time we finally got answers. Asperger’s Syndrome.

Elementary school was okay… but even then, his teachers and counselors noticed how different the world felt for him. And to this day, they still ask about him. Every single one of them said the same thing:
he had the kindest, sweetest soul — he just struggled to fit in.

Middle school and high school were harder. Traumatizing at times. The world didn’t always give him grace. Kids didn’t always give him space. And still — he kept going.

Then came the moment he had dreamed about his whole life: joining the military.
He wanted to be a soldier from the time he was old enough to speak.

But the Army rejected him — not because he wasn’t capable, not because he lacked courage, but because he had once seen a counselor to help him navigate his emotions and anxiety. Because he took medication for a while to cope with the weight of the world on his young shoulders.

Imagine telling a young man that choosing to get help disqualifies him.
It broke something in him.
And it broke something in me.

But life has a way of putting people exactly where they belong.

When we walked into the Navy recruiting office, they were shocked by the rejection. They said it was an absolute shame — that someone trying to understand themselves, to get healthy, to process their feelings, would be punished for it. And in that moment, I knew:
the Navy was his home.

They saw his strength.
His resilience.
His heart.
They saw the man he has become — not just the struggles he once had.

And next week, this same boy who once couldn’t let me out of his sight…
this boy who fought through sensory overload, misunderstandings, and so many silent battles…
this boy who kept standing back up…is raising his right hand and swearing in to serve our country.

There are a thousand kinds of courage in this world. But choosing to rise from a hard beginning, choosing to walk a path that wasn’t built for you, choosing to serve despite every obstacle — that is a rare kind of bravery.

I am so proud of him. Not just for joining the Navy, but for the journey it took to get here.

My son is proof that the hardest beginnings can create the strongest, kindest, most resilient souls.

And next week, when he becomes a sailor, my heart will burst with pride.

Aging, Education, Mental Health, Mindfulness, Psychology

Don’t shoot the messenger

Featuredby Stephanie BoschLeave a Comment on Don’t shoot the messenger
Don’t shoot the messenger

This piece was written by my good friend and neighbor, Kelly Wolz.  It is dedicated to all the girls I’ve loved before, my sisters of the present, and all the women I will meet and share life with in the future.

My sentiments exactly.

XOXO,

Steph

———–

I have been seeing a lot of reviews on the Barbie Movie, and to be honest, I haven’t seen it, and I’m not sure if I will.

It’s not that I’m not a supporter of females or blind to all the adversities we feel and deal with daily. Trust me. I could write a book on how dirty I and some women in my industry have been played.

Disclaimer, I know what I’m about to say will come off as wholly arrogant, and that’s okay. I feel a bit entitled and proud of my hard work and where I am, and it didn’t come easy.

Sadly, I’m not the norm regarding confidence, and I’m incredibly comfortable in my skin.

Here is the truth. Unfortunately, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows regarding being a confident female. Unfortunately, that confidence comes with extreme guilt, sadness, hate, and wonder.

Regarding the hate, I take action from Jay Z’s playbook “Gone brush your shoulders off.”

It’s the wonder of women that always gets me messed up. Women always wonder what other women have or how they walk around with such confidence—constantly questioning the validity of their own persona and doubting that someone with a certain face, size, kind of car, hair, makeup, kids, husband, no husband, etc could be so happy.

Instead of being happy and proud, most women are in disbelief and wonder why someone could be so delighted with who they are and what they have.  

Just know, What’s good for me or someone else, may not suit you. Good thing, I am me, and you are you.

And for me one of the hardest things for me as a female is to watch another female (especially if it’s someone I respect) bring another female down. What’s even worse than that???

Witnessing such beautiful women struggle with what they see in the mirror and then letting that image affect them mentally.

So you know, some of the most physically beautiful friends and family I have, maybe some of the most insecure people I know.

Society has led people to believe we should be concerned and worried about women who don’t charm the world and the insecurities they may have as a result. (Don’t worry about us; our milkshakes can still bring the boys out to the yard). 😉

I am more concerned about our children and the women who hold the power to charm the world and feel that pressure always. They spend their time counting calories, feeling the need for the best of everything: the perfect body, hair, clothes, and makeup.

It’s almost as if the world treats them like performers. Their sole purpose is to be easy on the eyes of society.

And the moment they take a break from trying to impress the world, they feel that negative energy from everyone because people hold so much value in their beauty that they don’t take the time to see their inner beauty.

Ladies, can we make a pack? To be more supportive of each other and more open about our confidences and insecurities. Can we build each other up instead of ripping each other down when we think someone has surpassed where we want to be?

Let’s use our women super powers and determination to ensure our children have fewer adversities than we do. We are all in this together ❤️

Mental Health, Spirituality

Built Soul Tough

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Built Soul Tough

The other day, I was mindlessly scrolling when a video stopped me cold—a baby bear and its momma climbing a dangerously steep, snow-covered mountainside.

Momma made it up easily. The baby… not so much. It would climb, slip, and tumble backward, over and over, sometimes so far down I gasped out loud. My heart broke for that little bear. Just when it seemed hopeless—when I thought I was about to witness tragedy—the baby flung out a paw and caught hold of a single, bare rock.

And then, something changed.

You could almost feel the grit rise up in its tiny body. With a fierce, unshakable will to live, the baby climbed again—this time with relentless focus—until it reached the top, where Momma waited. Off they went into the trees, together at last.

I cried. Not because it was cute (though it was) but because of what it meant: the pure essence of grit. Grit is the bridge between self-preservation and perseverance. Self-preservation is instinctual—it makes you grab the rock so you don’t fall to your death. Grit is what comes after, the soul’s voice that says, “I’m not done. Keep climbing.” Survival instinct might save your life in the moment, but grit is what carries you to safety, to growth, and ultimately, to the life you want.

Grit is courage and resolve. It’s the spiritual toughness that doesn’t live on the surface. It sits deep in your chest, somewhere near the heart, and only wakes when life demands more from you than you thought you had to give.

I think of it every time I trail run. My legs don’t get me to the finish line. My lungs don’t either. It’s my soul. My brain screams, “What the hell are you doing? Stop!” But my soul whispers, “Keep going. I have to do this.”

Life hands us moments like that baby bear’s climb—moments when quitting is easy, almost seductive. The rational mind offers every excuse: It’s too hard. You’ll never make it. Why bother? And quitting takes zero effort. But the price of quitting is steep: disappointment, discouragement, and the ache of an unmet desire.

To persevere is to take the road less traveled, paved with exhaustion, doubt, and fear. But on the other side of that road—whether it’s a race finish line, a diploma, a healed body, or a dream realized—you discover the real prize: the unshakable knowing that you can count on your own soul to get you there.

I watched my brother do this after a horrific motorcycle accident. A doctor told him he would never walk again. He could have believed that and surrendered to a wheelchair. Instead, he listened to the voice inside—the one that said, “Get up. ”And he did. Today, he walks with only a slight limp, living proof that the soul knows what the mind refuses to believe.

Fear keeps many of us from the hard road. We avoid risk. We stay safe. We confuse existing with living. But living—really living—requires that we reach for that extra, the hidden reserve inside us that shows up only when invited.

And like any muscle, grit grows with practice. We practice by doing hard things. By choosing the hill, the risk, the challenge that scares us. By saying yes when our brain says no.

Frost said it best:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Take the hard road.
Catch the rock.
Keep climbing.

The view from the top
will stay with you forever. 🖤

Autism, Mental Health, Psychology

Napalm in the Morning

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Napalm in the Morning

When he was three years old, my son was diagnosed with Asperger’s, a variant on the autism spectrum. By the time he was five, I had read everything I could get my hands on about what they (at the time) referred to as Asperger’s Syndrome. “A syndrome is a recognizable complex set of symptoms and physical findings which indicate a specific condition for which a direct cause is not necessarily understood.” Though I suspect there is a direct correlation between agent orange exposure in Vietnam War veterans and the rise in Autism among their grandchildren.

Asperger’s is generally marked by:

  • Emotional Sensitivity.
  • Fixation on Particular Subjects or Ideas.
  • Linguistic Oddities.
  • Social Difficulties.
  • Problems Processing Physical Sensations.
  • Devotion to Routines.
  • Development of Repetitive or Restrictive Habits.
  • Dislike of Change.

There also tends to be a co-morbidity between mood disorders like anxiety and depression and behavior disorders like attention deficit disorder (ADD) and obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). And please note, in this context, the word behavior is defined as a particular way of functioning (i.e., can’t focus) versus how a person chooses to conduct themselves. 

When Covid hit and schools closed, I became Jason’s teacher. I then realized how far behind he was academically. Unfortunately, he is not only cognitively impaired but also socially impaired. And because of it, he was being bullied at school.

He often ate alone at lunch (he later told me it was easier because he didn’t have to worry about what to say). He likes quoting Francis Ford Coppola movies (Apocalypse Now is his favorite movie) and telling you the specifics of various World War 2 military battles. And let me tell you, those are not exactly great 6th-grade conversation starters.

And then, one day, a girl asked him if he’d be her boyfriend. I knew this girl and his troubles with her in the past. I warned him, but he was thrilled. And when he said yes, she proceeded to mock him and joke to everyone that he would never stand a chance. As his mom, this hurt, of course, but I also believe in getting hard knocks out of the way early. The school handled the situation remarkably, and Jason learned fundamental lessons about the human condition.

I kept him home for the next two years and became the county’s least-paid full-time middle school teacher. And that’s when I realized how bad his attention deficit disorder was. Not being able to focus also caused us a lot of anxiety. But he also comes by his inability to concentrate, rightfully. I could’ve had this piece written in two hours, but I got up at least 12 different times to do 12 other things. The squirrels in my head are also fast! But I don’t like labels and told Jason that if he can harness his ADD, it can be his superpower. 

We got ahead in school because we could stay with a topic until he “got” it. But I knew that was not possible in high school, where they covered a subject and moved on. I had held off on medicating him but knew his ability to focus was critical to his success. So, we did it, and he started meds over the summer. And academically, he’s doing great!

Thankfully we stopped his moodiness and outbursts when he was little with no meds needed. I read about the correlation between food and Autism and removed all dairy (specifically the casein protein) and gluten from his diet. There is a direct correlation between the severity of symptoms and these sticky proteins.

Anyway, high school has been great. He is good in math and bad (but getting better) with girls. He is also taking medication for anxiety (which he also gets from me) and for ADD. His grades are good, and he genuinely seems to be happy. Still, when he told me he had put his name in the ring for Homecoming court, my first thought was, “Aw, crap.”

My oldest, who loves her brother and wants nothing more than to protect him, pleaded with me to convince him not to run. But I told her that was not possible. He was way too excited. My only warning was to run a fair and well-mannered TikTok war with his opponent!

And guess what? He won and was elected to the freshman homecoming court. It turns out they were right. You are free to be yourself in high school, and nobody cares. Before he started high school this fall, he nobly reached out to the kids he had issues with in middle school and apologized. Those same kids have grown to know and embrace Jason and were instrumental in getting him the homecoming sash.  

If I had discouraged him from running, I could have robbed him of his success, of getting the win. And what a shame that would’ve been. He came up to me after this picture was taken and told me it was the best night of his life! That made this momma smile and even cried a little.

Mental Health

Uncommon Valour

by Stephanie Bosch1 Comment on Uncommon Valour
Uncommon Valour

My father died last week. He had just turned 70 years old. The official diagnosis was Agent Orange Related Parkinson’s Disease. The official cause of death was asphyxiation. He died choking on his blood. And though he may have died on January 29, 2020, the truth is, Agent Orange exposure killed him 50 years before. He died a slow, painful death.

He told my mom once that being a soldier was the only thing he was ever really good at. Yet, after doing his duty (with honors), he came back to a nation that spit and yelled at him. Can you imagine?

For the first two years of their marriage, my mom was the recipient of many a late-night trip to the floor as my father would grab her and toss her, yelling “incoming.” The only story I had ever heard about his time in Vietnam was one in which he was riding shotgun, holding an M-16 rifle, as their convoy passed through a small village. As was often the case, the villagers in town would gather on each side of the road as the soldiers would throw provisions and food. The young Vietnamese children would run up yelling, “chop, chop,” which meant candy.

My Dad said he often knew when they were among the Viet Cong because no one gathered. But this particular day, as the crowd parted, a young Vietnamese girl about four years old walked from the crowd and stopped about 20 feet ahead of them. My father saw the grenade. As the truck stopped, he got out and slowly made his way over to her. He spoke to her in Vietnamese and asked her to drop it. He asked again, and he asked again. In one failed swoop, my father made a decision that changed his life forever. He never got over that little girl.

I get pretty indignant when I see opportunists and careerists treat our Constitution like a placemat. Why have good men and women died brave and honorable deaths while the reprehensible cowards and power-hungry seem to thrive? I fear I’ll never know.

The only other story I have heard about my Dad, and Vietnam, came last week at his service. This letter was written by one of my Dad’s platoon buddies. Jay had reached out to my Dad via email before he died, but my Dad could not respond. So after letting the pastor know about the email, he decided to reach out to him. This was his letter.

Hello Reverend Apple,
Thanks so much for letting me know about Glenn’s passing. I am sorry to hear that he is gone and wish we might have had the opportunity to reconnect. My thoughts and prayers are with his family.
Glenn did indeed save my life on Easter Sunday 1969 (April 6) in a clearing in the jungle near Black Virgin Mountain Nui Be Den) in Vietnam. Our company’s lead platoon was ambushed earlier in the afternoon, with two men either killed or badly injured laying in the clearing, exposed to fire from North Vietnamese Army soldiers concealed in well-camouflaged bunkers. Our platoon was called forward to try to reach the casualties, and the platoon leader instructed me to send a fire team (3-4 guys) forward toward the nearest body to pull it back. Leading the team, I crawled across the clearing but was suddenly hit by a burst of fire from an AK-47, which tore my rifle from my hands and also punctured my left lung, just missed my heart, and wedged within an inch of my spine. About the same time, a rocket-propelled grenade went off in a tree at the edge of the clearing, and I was also spattered with shrapnel. I did some serious praying, and God sent Glenn Dale and the platoon leader across that bullet-swept field to pull me back. The enemy was still very much present, as I was shot again in the leg after being pulled back to our side of the clearing.
I suspect that Glenn did not receive an award for bravery for his actions that day (enlisted men seldom did), but he certainly deserved to do so, as he openly exposed himself to the enemy fire in order to carry me to safety. Without his action, I would certainly have died there and then.
Later in the afternoon, I almost missed the medevac helicopter, as they thought I was a goner. When I finally lay on an operating table at a MASH hospital in Tay Ninh, a priest gave me the last rites. You cannot imagine my surprise when I awoke the next morning. I spent the rest of 1969 in military hospitals until discharged – from the hospital and the army – on December 31, 1969.
Please express my condolences and my eternal thanks to Glenn’s family for sending him to me on that Easter over a half-century ago.
Jay Phillips
P.S. The two men we were hoping to rescue, Angelo Figueroa and Melvin Lee, did not survive, and their names are on panel 27 West, lines 24 and 25 of the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC.

I love you Dad.

Aging, Fitness, Mental Health

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

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Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

The other day I got a letter addressed to me from AARP.  Yep, the American Association of Retired People.  I did a double-take and was immediately incensed that someone thought I was old enough to get a letter from Matt McCoy.  I tore it up and haven’t stopped thinking about it since.  

The truth is, I’m turning fifty in November.  When I was a kid, I thought that a fifty-year-old person was old.  I mean, they weren’t old, old, but they were definitely old.   Then again, anyone over the age of 30 was old.  But what I am is neither young nor old.  I am no longer sprightly, yet not weary.  I am not foolhardy, but not wary and skittish either.   Sandwiched by aging parents and younger children, I am somewhere in the middle of all these things.  

If the year were 1921, I would have already lived 83.3% of my life. Yep, exactly one hundred years ago, the average lifespan for a woman was sixty-one and sixty-years-old for a man. Thanks to substantial health improvements (although this is declining in the US), we are all living longer lives.  They say fifty is the new forty, and technically it’s true.  Globally our lifespan has doubled since 1900.  We live longer, but our quality of life is diminishing, and the stigma of getting older still exists.  

For me, middle-age hasn’t meant much. According to my doctor, I have the bloodwork of a healthy twenty-five-year-old. I credit my plant-based diet, my yoga practice, and my love for physical activities. I have also recently taken up kayaking and trail running. After years of pounding the pavement, I am now more of a dirt and roots kind of girl. I am seeking things that challenge me physically and mentally push me out of my comfort zone. I am, as Thomas admonishes, “raging against the dying of the light.” I know that it is up to me to keep the flame burning bright. I think, therefore, I am.

But if age really is a state of mind, then I will leave you with the wise words of my Guru.  

“Growing old is a long-established habit of losing the authority to remain vital. It’s an approval and disapproval that’s passed through generations of DNA with body language, eye and facial expressions, tones of voice, gestures with the hands, and countless conversations about exhaustion. Staying young and vibrant throughout life — mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually — requires maintenance of an authority to be unique and never give up. This means honoring the cells of your body; the ideas in the mind, and the freedom to relate in a heart-to-heart way with everyone.

When conscious of this, you grow wiser and remain vital, and life’s stresses dissolve in a healthy awareness. Human beings need to capture this immortal authority. . . random traits with no real value, or vitality that do no good. To remain youthful, vital and healthy, you must give yourself permission to be full of yourself, and then validate this freedom. This freedom discovers the true nature of evolution . . . a step by step process of progress. It’s a trial with errors and healthy forgiveness with loving kindness . . . a check and balance that assures the ultimate accuracy of your growth. This allows you to keep up in the midst of “normal” doubt and the “looks” you’ll receive for impacting the Earth so dramatically.

Our prayer is that you choose to remain this vital and free, rather than following the habits of the crowd; that your ideas remain as tolerant of others as you expect others to be of you; that you connect your physical world to your immortal soul, and allow this marriage to guide you through a kind and loving life on Earth that extends the envelope everywhere, and does this well beyond one hundred years.” —Guru Singh Yogi