Let’s start with a little self-honesty. When we’re on autopilot, under stress, or refusing to grow, here’s what “bad behavior” might look like for each type:

• Type 1 – The Reformer: “I’m just being honest” (but really, they’re criticizing or controlling)

• Type 2 – The Helper: “I’m just trying to help!” (but really, they’re overstepping boundaries)

• Type 3 – The Achiever: “I’m just driven!” (but really, they’re steamrolling or image-managing)

• Type 4 – The Individualist: “I’m just sensitive!” (but really, they’re withdrawing or brooding)

• Type 5 – The Investigator: “I’m just independent!” (but really, they’re isolating or withholding)

• Type 6 – The Loyalist: “I’m just being cautious!” (but really, they’re suspicious or reactive)

• Type 7 – The Enthusiast: “I’m just having fun!” (but really, they’re avoiding discomfort or commitment)

• Type 8 – The Challenger: “I’m just direct!” (but really, they’re dominating or bulldozing)

• Type 9 – The Peacemaker: “I’m just easygoing!” (but really, they’re disengaging or avoiding conflict)

When we excuse these patterns as “just who I am,” we miss the point of being human: we’re always invited to grow.

Apologizing is one of the most powerful—and challenging—skills we can practice. It asks us to pause, reflect, and take ownership of how our words or actions affected someone else. It asks us to face discomfort, to step beyond black-and-white thinking, and to lean into growth.

But let’s be honest:
👉 Sometimes, we struggle to apologize at all.
👉 Sometimes, we over-apologize, bending when we shouldn’t.
👉 Sometimes, we deflect or make excuses, avoiding true ownership.

Why is it so hard? Because apologizing requires vulnerability. It requires us to acknowledge:

• I may have been wrong.

• I may have hurt someone.

• I didn’t have the full picture.

And yet—when done well—apologizing helps us build trust, deepen relationships, and become better versions of ourselves.

Do you remember getting that birthday present?

The one you had your eye on for so long. You made hints to your parents, left sticky notes, maybe even cut the picture out from a catalog and taped it where they couldn’t miss it. You wished. Dreamed. Desired. You concocted stories in your mind about what life would be like when that item was finally yours. When it was no longer just something you longed for—but something you owned.

And then it happened. It was in your hands.

You would own it.

That moment, simple as it seems, speaks to something much deeper about human nature: our longing for ownership—for agency, for responsibility, for the right to say, this is mine.

But ownership, as we grow older, becomes more complex. It’s more than just holding the object of your desire. It can feel like a privilege, a responsibility, a right… and sometimes, a burden.

Writing your life story is brave.
Not because it’s polished or perfect—but because it’s honest, and honesty can be heavy.

As a trauma-informed memoir coach, I don’t just help people write. I come alongside them as they unfold their narrative—the tangled threads of memory, meaning, and identity—and try to make sense of it all on the page.

Writing a memoir can be deeply cathartic, but it’s not easy. Especially when your story holds trauma. It’s one thing to revisit a moment in your mind; it’s another to reenter it in language—to give it shape, weight, tone, and voice. That’s where the real work begins.

When my five children were growing up, I often felt like the soccer ball in a preschool match—surrounded at all times, everyone running after me, bumping into me, needing me. They were close. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. I knew what snacks they liked, what shows they were watching, who they were mad at, and what made their eyes light up. I was woven into every moment, every rhythm, every high and low.

And now, they are growing into their own lives—becoming adults with opinions, interests, beliefs, and boundaries that are beautifully different from mine. They’re finding their own way, as they should. And I’m learning to let them.

This strange, liminal space—the in-between time—isn’t often talked about. It’s the space after a big ending but before a new beginning has taken root. You might feel untethered, exhausted, hopeful, grieving, curious, raw, and relieved all at once.

It’s not quite grief.
Not quite reinvention.
But something tender, vulnerable, and necessary in between.

It’s a time of rewiring, rethinking, and reassessing.
A time of pausing.
A time of allowing your mind, body, and heart to process what has ended…
… and slowly, carefully, begin to ask, what now?

You are not too old, too late, or too broken.
You are becoming.
And the more you’re longing for?
It’s already unfolding within you.

We don’t talk enough about what really happens in midlife—not the wrinkles or the hormones—but the inner unraveling.

Brené Brown describes this season so clearly in her article The Midlife Unraveling:

“Midlife is not a crisis. Midlife is an unraveling. By definition, you can’t control or manage an unraveling... It can’t be fixed like a car or upgraded like a phone.”

We all long for connection—for a place where we feel seen, safe, and supported. Where someone will show up with a casserole when we’re sick, where our kids have built-in playmates, where Friday night means laughter around a bonfire or a Bible study or a shared meal.

And that’s what many high-control systems offer at first glance: a promise of belonging.

They tell you:

You matter here.
We’ll take care of you.
You don’t have to do life alone.

From childcare to chore help, spiritual advice to potlucks, these groups show up with enthusiasm, affection, and a structure that feels secure. It’s known as love bombing—an intense outpouring of praise, attention, and community that makes you feel immediately important, even chosen.

Somewhere between managing calendars, raising kids, building careers, or faithfully playing the roles we were given, we start to hear a quiet voice asking: Is this it?
Or perhaps even louder: Who am I now?

Beneath the layers of adult responsibilities, past traumas, and protective mechanisms lies a younger version of yourself—your inner child. This is the part of you that once explored the world with wonder, embraced vulnerability without hesitation, and held dreams so pure they could light up your soul. If you’ve ever felt disconnected from that playful, joyful version of yourself, it might be because that child is in hiding, waiting for a safe invitation to come out.

The truth is, imposter syndrome can serve a purpose. It can push us to improve, to refine our skills, to seek deeper self-awareness. But it can also keep us stuck in a cycle of self-doubt, preventing us from owning our expertise and stepping into our full potential.

We all carry a story within us. Our lives are shaped by the narratives we tell ourselves about where we come from, who we are, what we've accomplished, and what we’ve endured. These stories define not only how we see ourselves but also how we engage with the world around us. In counseling, engaging in "story work" means unpacking and understanding these narratives—our origin, accomplishments, love, bias, and culture—and making sense of how they shape our current experiences.

Navigating Communication in Relationships

The Power of Slowing Down

In our fast-paced world, the idea of slowing down might seem counterintuitive, especially when we're focused on achieving our professional goals. However, taking the time to slow down can be the key to unlocking personal and professional transformation.

Stories can help us make sense of our world, and they can also keep us stuck.