Why I Write Anti-Affirmations

Because there’s a glitch in the good enough. Because reassurance makes the onslaught worse. Because everyone tells me I’m too hard on myself. Because praise amplifies my deep down fears. Because affirmations only beg the question what if my harsh inner critic isn’t being harsh enough? Because they may have missed a fault. Because a known fault is safer than a surprise mistake. Because OCD cannot be reasoned with. Because irrational fears are built on a kernel of truth. Because what ifs cannot be disproved. Because I tried talk therapy yet Poison still swirled behind my sternum, pulsed in my veins, white hot like shame. Because each bud of doubt branches into a new failure. Because ruminating and problem solving are not the same thing. Because neurodivergence (is that an identity I can claim? want to claim?) means techniques that work for others won’t work for me. Because atypical antidepressants bring slight relief to my atypical brain. Because logic is a losing game. Because surrender is the only way. Because exaggeration helps me regain control. Because my triggers are not going away. Because avoidance shrank my life. Because fear’s a dominatrix and not the sexy kind. Because allowing is better than fighting. Because trying to manage managed me. Because the only thing certain about a doubting disorder is that you can never be certain enough. Because OCD is not a cute quirk. Because perfectionism is a prison. Because I claim to value grace. Because I know my worth is not in my performance, output, or productivity. Because I will not waste my one wild and precious life acquiescing to a bitch like OCD. Because I’ve tasted the chance to be free. 

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For context, I’ve been sharing some of my “anti-affirmations” (ERP in OCD lingo) over the past year since I was diagnosed. My journal is filled with pages of phrases that say “I’m failing…” “I’m bad…” “I squandered…” “I wasted…” and though it sounds terribly depressing, just acknowledging my fears has brought more relief than I have ever known. It’s counter-intuitive, but somehow naming the fears stops the cycle of worry so I can move on with my day. I no longer need to figure out if I’ve failed, I can just be.

I am so grateful to have found a diagnosis and tools to break the OCD cycle. Before last year, I had no idea compulsions (in the obsessive-compulsive cycle) can be mental thought loops, not just physical actions like handwashing or cleaning. I had no idea I was engaging in mental compulsions that fueled my anxiety all. day. long. My compulsions look like checking, replaying, ruminating and trying to solve the unanswerable question, “Did I fail? Am I failing? Will I fail?”

If you can relate to any of this, here is an OCD test you can take. Remember, compulsions can be physical or mental and while germs and contamination is a common theme, your obsessions/fears can be about anything that you hold dear (doing something wrong, dying, worrying about your kids’ safety, etc.).

NOCD is a resource I’ve relied on a lot since been being diagnosed. They have an amazing app you can use on your own or with a therapist. I also love NOCD’s Instagram account for their relatable and easy to understand explanations of the OCD cycle and recovery process. I would also love to chat with you if you’d like! I am by no means an expert, but I can share what I’m learning on my own journey.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "A Question".

Sand Stays at the Beach

On an ordinary Friday morning we go to the beach for no reason in particular except that we can. 

We find a close parking spot in the neighborhood. We have graduated from the beach wagon and each kid carries a bucket filled with faded plastic sand toys and their water bottle while I carry a beach bag and towels. 

Our lunches aren’t fussy–their bento boxes are packed with the same circle sandwiches they eat on school days, blueberries, peanut butter pretzels, a couple grape tomatoes. I have a simple turkey wrap and treat myself to a Spindrift sparkling water that is now beading sweat.

The kids scamper off to scoop sand and return to drizzle soupy handfuls across my bare feet. 

“I want to remember this,” I think. 

I snap a picture of their faces radiant in the sun, but the shadows obscure their joy.  The glare on my phone’s screen makes their faces seem out of reach, and I wonder if my memory of the day will be obscured like this also. 

There is wisdom in paying attention. In finding the beautiful in the ordinary. 

There is pressure, too. 

Don’t blink or you’ll miss it! They grow up so fast! 

The gentle whisper, “I want to remember this” gets sharper, “You must remember this.”

It’s an ordinary moment turned extraordinary–the light just so, their laugh just so, the day just so.  I want to squeeze and savor it. But the moment starts squeezing me. 

And I’m snapping more pictures and grasping for phrases in my mind to describe the delight in their squeals and the salty sea curls at the nape of my daughter’s neck. 

I felt conflicted writing about this as an “ordinary” day at the beach with my kids. 

I know we have it good in San Diego with the weather and the beaches. I know we have it good with my part-time schedule and summers off. I know we have it good with two perfectly healthy, smart, and thriving kids. 

Sometimes the goodness feels oppressive. Like if I don’t notice it enough, give thanks enough, document enough, it will be ripped away. 

At the beach, I put down my phone and close my eyes. I scoop up a handful of warm sand and let it slide between my fingers. 

Maybe the moment isn’t meant to be captured. Maybe it’s allowed to slip away.

My kids run and splash, drop their sandwiches in the sand and eat the gritty bread anyway. I poke my index finger across my shoulder and watch a white fingerprint fade back to light pink; my signal to reapply sunscreen or pack up. I collect the buckets and shovels and shake out the towels. 

Back at the car, I peel the wet bathing suits off my kids’ damp, sticky bodies and rinse their feet with my water bottle.  

“Sand stays at the beach,” I tell them. 

I brush the grains off my own ankles as a pang of guilt washes over me. How can I be sure I’ll remember this ordinary Friday, these extraordinary days? 

“Sand stays at the beach,” I tell myself. It’s enough to know we lived the memory. I can let it slip away. 

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Ordinary Inspiration."

Permission to not have the best summer ever

I hereby grant you permission to not have the best summer ever

To have no writing plan or strategy

To stay in bed on the days your head pounds and another wave of lingering Covid fatigue crashes down

To not improve

To not be the best version of yourself

To be a flawed and barely scraping by version of yourself soaked in grace

To not punish yourself when you feel like you deserve it

When something doesn’t go according to plan

When you’re not as far along as you think you should be

When you yell, “I never want to see you again”, waste the day, devour a bag of goldfish at the kitchen table in the dark

When you back out of plans and don’t reply to texts

When you give in to the OCD spiral

Choose grace anyway

Choose something delicious and delightful and disarming to do with your time

Jump in the pool, take a walk, brush your teeth

Write anyway, send the text late, kneel down and apologize to the kids, grab their hands and kiss their soft cheeks, let grace spill down like tears

Start over

Start over

Start over

Choose the always-moving-on memory of a child

Practice loving the flawed and barely scraping by version of yourself soaked in grace

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Permission Slip".