Please, stop reading my words.

My ex-husband's mom sent me an email letting me know that I would always be considered part of their family, a daughter to them.

I had been wanting to reach out to them. Patrick and I both unsure how to navigate the loss of the other's family in so many ways.

I was for the first time nervous about what I was posting. What I was sharing. Patrick and I agreed when we separated that we would stop following each other on social media so we didn't feel 'watched.' (Well, truth is, he would stop following me, because I use social media for my business, and my business is so much a part of the truth telling of my life.)

My compassion and sensitivity to what others in his life would see made it hard for me to post, to share. And yet, if I stopped sharing, the person I was, the person who guides women to be their authentic self would be squashed. He didn't want that. And neither did I.

I am not sure what his family sees. I am not sure what he sees. We are open with each other about the new people in our lives and he adores my business and is one of the biggest supporters of it.

But. And. It is all weird right now. Strange. Changing. Sensitive. New. Raw.

And I am so proud of us. And sometimes really fucking sad and hurt. I think about how we have walked this confusing and unchartered path with our three kids together. We don't do it well all the time. We have baggage. And we struggle.

One of the most common things that the women I coach are afraid of is who is reading their words and seeing their photos. They are in a paralyzed place often of not being able to be seen or show up as themselves because of this fear of being judged.

I get it. How do you write things that are about you without other people judging you?

Here is what I know now.

You don't.

Recently I went through hell inside of my online life touching those I love. The judgement fierce and swift and threatening to destroy the love and life I have built.

It knocked me over. It knocked my love over.

I tell my kids all the time that my online life is not theirs to view or read. Not now. When they are older, yes, of course. And they ask why. And I tell them. I explain the work I do. I explain that there are things that are sent out for adults that are not for kids. Like a rated R movie. They are not to follow me on Instagram or read my blog. At some point, they will. And I will be ready to talk about anything that comes up.

They secretly think I am a pretty cool mom. They each have a different understanding of what I do, of my work. And I love that. I love how they self monitor and ask and how I have chosen to raise them.

I love my life now.

When people who don't know me. 
Who have never met me. 
Who have decided to question who I am or who I am for my love or for my kids.

When people who don't know me decide to judge me based on the hurt they wish to spread to those I love because they believe they know best. 
Who have never met me. 
Who have never taken time to ask me questions or reach out and explore with me what I do, what I bring to the world.

When people who don't know me, decide that I am less than. 
Who have never met me. 
Who have decided that I am target practice to hurt those I love.

When people who do know me, who decide I am less than. 
Who do know me and decide to judge me. 
Who have decided that I am not who they want me to be.

When those people show up to my online home I will politely ask them, in my online space, to stop reading my words.

I do not write for them. I do not show up for them. If they were the people I was focused on I would not have been a part of the change inside of the lives of hundreds of women. Thousands now. But hundreds is less scary to think about.

So now I understand why the women I work with are scared. Because it is fucking scary. To be judged.

Based on my words. My tattoos. My body. My love. My compassion. My adoration of being inside of a woman's body. My desire to lift up other women. My realness, my flaws, my humanity.

And yet. It is my words. My tattoos. My body. My love. My compassion. My adoration of being inside of a woman's body. My desire to lift up other women. My realness, my flaws, my humanity.

It is all those things who make me who I am. And why I love this life now. Why I love who I am and what I have created.

The last few months have felt like the Universe as I know it collapsing down around me. Burn it down. Sit in the ashes.

The place that has always felt safe to me was my online home. Because it is me. All of me. My heart. My soul. My dharma.

So now it is all burning down. I get to choose.

I choose to be more. 
I choose to ask those who judge me to hurt others to stop reading my words. (Or, ask me out for tea or coffee and ask me what I do and why and I think we might actually get somewhere.)

These words aren't for the people who are out hurting me and those I love. They won't hear them or use them.

This post is for the women who are terrified. Of being who they are. Of being seen. Of showing up.

This post is for the women who I love and have yet to meet. Or sit in physical or virtual space with.

This post is for the women who are changing the world because they have decided to be brave. Tell the truth. To be seen.

What I have discovered over the past year is a compassion I have never known before. The compassion is for me. For my kids. For my ex. For my lover. For the women who adore me and the women who judge me. For my best friends. For all those who judge me, who have yet to sit with me and ask me why, or what, or anything they want to know.

I was angry. Then hurt. Then sad. And then I was back to my spirit. Which is love.

Love is all I want to embody.

So, please, please, stop reading my words. Unless those words fill you with faith and joy bubbles and inspiration and sameness.

Please, stop reading my words.