Chapter 12: The Tampa Bridge

Somewhere in my past I had learned that when others were happy, I was safe—until walking out my life across egg shells had exhausted my soul.

Taking one last look around the bayside apartment, I slid the keys off my keychain and left them on the counter.

The mattress and box springs leaned against the wall, but everything else had been sold, shipped, or packed into the car the night before.

The plan was to drive straight through from Florida to Ohio, return to my apartment in Cincinnati for a few days, and then head to The Bridge for a two-week stay.

My friends knew nothing—about me returning home, much less heading to a recovery center in Kentucky. The facility didn’t allow for phones, laptops, or communication, so I told my parents the bare minimum and avoided a conversation I wasn’t ready to have.

As I locked the door behind me, the silence whispered that I was deserting a life I could never have. There were no sounds, no life, no laughter, just echoes of passing cars, bicycles, and neighbors walking their dogs from the day before.

Instead, a street light flickered in the darkness as I got into my car. Heading for the highway, I weaved through the cobblestoned streets, and away from my long morning runs, early commutes, and the most beautiful pink daybreaks I had ever seen.

There was a time when crossing over the mile-long Tampa Bay bridge promised a life I’d always wanted, but now the empty highway heading north held back my tears, much like the bay held back the light.

The fairy tale had ended. It wasn’t what I had bargained for—and as much as I thought I wanted it, I wasn’t willing to pay his price.

How long had I been running, chasing a carat and everything it professed to me?

As I drove forward, I looked down at the ring, still on my finger, unable to take it off. What was I still holding onto?

It was clear that I couldn’t leave him, even as the miles between us got further and further apart.

As the night came to an end, I shook off the snares of the darkness, determined to face whatever it was, really stealing my life—blind to what was waiting for me on the other side of that bridge.

The End.

---

Although there was no way to know what I was about to face— I had crossed over. From someone I no longer wanted to be, to someone I hadn’t yet faced.

The stakes weren’t just high. They were mine to bet on.

And as I crossed that bridge, I was taking something back that had once been stolen.

Weeks of retracing my life gave me a vantage point I’d never had— one that lifted me above regret, fueling a fierceness that drove me forward.

How did I let myself get here? The cost. The lost time. A life I could have had all along.

So when that highway opened up, holding back the day, it felt more like the calm before the storm. A storm that ensured I wouldn’t be, who I had once been.

No more proving. No more overextending. No more saying yes when I meant no.

Not for him. Not for anyone.

Call it codependency. Call it love addiction. Or simply call it a blind spot.

Whatever the name, it had revealed itself: And it was no longer about needing someone—or something—to feel safe.

Looking down, seeing the ring on my finger held so much irony. Yes—I was still in. But no longer on his terms.

This fight, it wasn’t just for me. It was for my daughter. For everything she deserved as well.

So although I was driving away, we were still together. I had been advised, not just by my therapist, but by the recovery center itself:

Wait. See if you can work through this together.

What I’ve learned since then is this, when your nervous system is in survival mode, you don’t make decisions from wholeness.

You make them from fear. Or from hope, dressed up as clarity.

That’s why recovery matters.

It interrupts the magnet, the one that pulls you back toward what’s familiar, even when it hurts.

Ross Rosenberg calls it the Human Magnet Syndrome: the unconscious pull between the codependent and the narcissist. Two puzzle pieces that lock into each other— one overly responsible, the other avoidant or controlling.

Over time, that magnet becomes a loop. The more the relationship hurts, the harder you try to fix it. And the harder you try, the more it confirms the lie that you’re the problem.

But you’re not.

And neither was I.

I had simply been cast in a role I no longer agreed to play.

That morning, crossing the Tampa Bridge, I wasn’t running. I wasn’t unraveling. I was returning.

Not just to a new life— but to the woman I was always meant to be.

Twelve chapters later, here we are. And hundreds of women have shown up to cross this bridge together.

Thank you.

I didn’t write this to entertain. I wrote it to share my story. To heal something in me and maybe, in you, too.

Some of you have told me that certain chapters met you right where you were. Some loved Chapter 5. Others said Chapter 8. Just yesterday, someone emailed to say that Chapter 11 was their favorite

Others told me this story provided the words for something they hadn’t yet named.

That’s why this matters.

Because when we feel seen, we remember. We feel safe. We know what’s true.

So yes, this might be the end of Chasing the Carat: Part One— but before I move forward, I wanted to pause.

I wanted to check in with you.

What parts of this story met you in yours? What pulled you in? What landed unexpectedly?

I’d love to hear from you. Your thoughts. Your story.

And as for me— I'm ready to cross that Tampa Bridge again. My sights set on Cincinnati. Preparing to return home. Trusting for something bigger, again.

That’s why I needed to finish Chapter 12 before I decided what’s next.

Do I write about Camp—what happened when I really let go? Or maybe it’s enough to let this story breathe for a bit—just as it is.

If you want more, I’d love to know what more means to you: More story? More insight? More tools for healing?

Drop a comment. Send a message. Let me know what this opened in you— and if you’d like to keep walking together.

Thank you. For being here. For staying with me. For crossing this bridge.

I couldn’t have done it without you.

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Chapter 11: The Lucky One

Never in a million years could I have imagined sitting in the office of a recovery center, choosing a date to start rehab for love addiction.

Ironically, I had worked my entire life—thinking I’d finally made it—only to realize I’d never been further from the truth.

And here I was, with another trained professional telling me that daily 12-step meetings weren’t optional—they were mandatory. A prerequisite, she said, for taking back my life. And I believed her.

With only a couple weeks left to pack up my life in Florida and return to Cincinnati, my days were filled with selling belongings, shipping boxes home, and attending 12-step meetings—no matter how far away they were.

Walking into those rooms was never easy. Between meeting strangers and the initial awkwardness—a gravitational force always seemed to pull me back to my car, hoping to win the battle.

But determination would prevail—carrying me across a threshold and to a seat, where the meeting would start—connecting every stranger in the room who’d just walked through the same invisible warfare.

Most meetings had me driving to churches, schools, or rec centers—until one night, I traveled beyond Clearwater, and beyond the safety of my own comfort zone.

The sun started setting on the way to the meeting, and the closer I got, the more I noticed the sidewalks fading away and neon signs closing in. The streets told me to turn around and cut my losses, until the GPS took me right, and then right again.

The deserted parking lot sat behind the old church. An overgrown chain-link fence sagged back and forth, separating the lot from a row of houses behind it. The blacktop was worn, the yellow lines faded—waiting for me to choose a space.

I pulled in slowly, wondering how I could turn back without being seen. But I had just driven 35 minutes, and it was too late to find another meeting. I sat in the car, idling—then finally turned off the engine.

I knew what waited for me: others willing to brave the deep and weather the storms of their own lives to tell the truth—which often left me in awe, witnessing something more profound than anything I ever found in my perfectly curated life.

In some absurd way, I recognized the fact that I had driven across town—from one of the richest to one of the poorest neighborhoods—and away from a life missing the very essence of what waited for me in a 12-step room: truth and connection.

That’s when fear dissipated, and I got out of the car.

Maybe, in fact, I was the lucky one.

Next week: Chapter 12 The Tampa Bridge 

---

Most of my life, I was the rebel. The one who colored outside the lines and found my own way. The one who didn’t follow the rules—because deep down, I never felt like I belonged in the same world that created them.

But when it came to recovery, something shifted. I treated it like a life-or-death situation—because in some ways, it was. I realized I was modeling a life I no longer wanted my daughter to see. And for the first time, I followed every suggestion. No shortcuts. No skipping steps. Just full surrender.

When daily 12-step meetings were prescribed, I didn’t hesitate. I went every single day—for eight straight months. And I loved sitting in those rooms.

Ironically, most people would rather be caught dead than be seen walking into a recovery meeting. Not because the rooms are scary, but because of the shame society has attached to them. We don’t talk about recovery as empowering—we talk about it like defeat.

But here’s the truth most people won’t say out loud: I’ve sat in rooms with people who looked like they had it all—and people who had almost nothing left. And none of that mattered. What did matter was their honesty—a willingness to accept defeat for something greater.

In those circles of plastic chairs, I saw more courage than I’d ever seen in boardrooms or brunches. And somehow, in all that unpolished truth-telling, it felt like family.

That’s what helped me realize I’d been doing life alone—in a relationship that was supposed to be my safe place.

Somewhere along the line, I’d learned to wear resilience like a badge—powering through, pulling myself back up, starting over in silence. But something changed when I stopped making myself wrong for needing help. That’s when I stopped spiraling in isolation. I let myself be seen—and supported. Not fixed. Not rescued. Just witnessed.

That’s what 12-step rooms gave me. A place to practice being human. A place where I saw God—not in a sermon, but in another person’s story.

And as I write this, I realize that’s one of the reasons I host workshops—inviting women into rooms where truth gets to breathe. 

Because most of the time, we don’t need advice. We need presence. We need each other. We need to witness—and be witnessed, because we already hold the answers.

That’s when the magic happens—when we remember who we already are.

Eleven years ago this month, she was the one I was fighting for. Because once I saw what was mine to own, I no longer needed someone else to provide for her.

If this speaks to you, reach out—or schedule a clarity call.

And if you’re interested in being part of the fall workshop in Cincinnati, let me know. I’d love to add you to the list.

You can email me directly here, or drop a note through the CONNECT page.

In the meantime, thank you for continuing to walk this journey with me. It means more than you may know.

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Chapter 10: Camp

For years, I let other people’s crisis hijack my own needs—and didn’t even question it.

What had looked like a family emergency revealed what I’d later recognize as the codependency triangle—a dynamic that let me avoid my own pain by rescuing someone else from theirs.

But this time, in trying to do so, I stumbled into a conversation that named the pattern with two words: love addiction—and my body confirmed it before my mind could catch up. It was a form of codependency—a blind spot I could finally see. And instead of fear, I felt relief. Naming it gave me a way forward—and moved me from researching to making appointments, knowing it would cost me comfort and control.

As I drove along the interstate, my thoughts traveled back and forth.

Ironically, a complete stranger had diagnosed a pattern that had wreaked havoc across my personal and professional life, and I was desperate to undo whatever needed to be undone.

Rolling hills pulled me forward, across pastures scattered with hay bales and grazing cows. And, in the middle of nowhere, I was grateful to be with myself.

After a long conversation with a program director in California, I realized flying out west wasn’t the right move. It felt too far, too much, too soon.

Instead, I found three recovery centers in the Midwest, each offering a different level of support—one required a five-day stay, another two weeks, and the third, a full thirty days. It felt like a stretch. Not just in length, but in cost. Still, I wasn’t ruling anything out. I booked a flight to Cincinnati, rented a car, and set out to visit them one by one.

There were so many unanswered questions—answers I couldn’t find from the man I was engaged to, much less my family and lifelong friends.

No one I knew had ever checked themselves into a recovery center—much less battled an invisible addiction. Which left me feeling ill-equipped to enroll the people I needed most.

How could I explain a relationship that had taken me from the heights of Paris—only to turn around and bring me to my knees? I felt ashamed. I felt embarrassed. But more than anything, I felt powerless to walk away on my own—no matter how many times I’d tried.

My thoughts escaped me as I turned off a country road and onto a gravel drive. I followed the path down and through the trees, passing a weathered gate before arriving at a small clearing.

To the left, a wooden lodge waited patiently. The sound of stones shifted beneath the tires.

Across the lot, voices played across the distance, as the sun streamed down through the tall trees.

The morning buzzed with the song of cicadas and further down the winding hill, a bridge crossed over a small creek to the other side.

The smell in the air reminded me of a place from long ago, where I heard the laughter of my ten-year-old self, as I chased a horse across a summer field.

Taking a deep breath in, she told me what I needed to know.

I stepped out of the car and closed the door behind me.

Next week Chapter 11: The Lucky One.

---

While most women approached 50 celebrating what they’d built,
I was questioning the foundation of my life—and wondering if I had the courage to rebuild it.

Not because I wanted to.
But because I finally saw the cost of not knowing who I was or what I wanted.

Choosing a 6 a.m. flight from Tampa to Cincinnati gave me the full day to evaluate three recovery centers, and move forward with a clear plan.

And the five-hour drive to the first recovery center was part of the groundwork—starting with the one most highly recommended, with a price tag that forced me to stop thinking in terms of cost—and start thinking like a woman investing in her future.

My expectations were high, so I arrived early—anticipating professionalism, structure, and a high level of care. Instead, I was handed off to someone who’d gone through the program for a casual tour— before ever sitting down with the person I’d scheduled the appointment with. It all felt disorganized, impersonal, and far from what I expected—especially from a place that promised expert care.

The second recovery center was beautiful—big trees, immaculate grounds, everything in its place. It felt more like a corporate retreat: structured, safe, polished. But beneath the surface, the message was clear—we don’t do messy here. And I wasn’t looking for that. I needed something honest enough to hold what I was really carrying.

The third recovery center was different. Driving from Tennessee into Kentucky, I exited the main interstate and followed back roads that took me to a gravel drive and into the heart of a hundred acres stretching toward the sky. I felt the distance I’d been searching for before I even stepped out of the car.

The cicadas hummed overhead. A creek ran beneath a small wooden bridge. And in the clearing beyond, I could almost hear myself exhale.

I didn’t fully understand it yet—but something in me did.

Some of my best memories still take me back to summertime at a horseback camp just outside Cincinnati.

Waking up in the mornings that still don’t feel that far away: bunk beds, cinder block walls, trunks used as makeshift dressers. A buzzing fluorescent light spilling across the room and outlining the beds, keeping us from getting lost in the night.

When the alarm sounded, no one moved—hoping sleep would win out over the rising sun.
But I loved that moment. I loved that no one wanted to get outside as much as I did.

I’d pull on my old boots—no socks—not wanting anything to slow me down.
All I knew was that the pasture outside the door opened up to me like an invitation and I couldn’t wait to run into it.

We were told to go through the old gate to get to the pasture.
But I couldn’t see a reason to wait—so I jumped the fence and headed straight into the fog-covered field.

“Hoooooor-sees!” I’d yell into the vastness of the pasture, still holding the fog, the dew, the rising clouds still clinging to the earth like it wasn’t ready to let go.

And although I couldn’t see them, I could hear them—the soft thump of hooves, the breath of something gentle and majestic, moving toward me.

I didn’t need to see to know which one was mine.

Quietly, we’d come together.

I’d wrap an old rope halter around its head and lead it gently back to the barn—past the rain barrels and the tall daisies—while the others still slept.

It was the best part of my summer. I loved every second of it.

What I didn’t know then was that she was still there—within me.
And she recognized something as I pulled in.
And I recognized her.
And that alone was enough for me.

How long had she been hidden?
Buried beneath the shoulds and striving, the people-pleasing and proving, the learned belief that what I wanted was either too much—or not welcome.

In that moment, I couldn’t have known how something so delicate could hold so much power.
But she did.

The girl who rose early.
Who called out to horses.
Who felt God in the quiet.

She hadn’t disappeared.
She had simply gone quiet—waiting for me to remember.

And as I reconnected with her, I began to understand:

I didn’t need to become more.
I needed to spend time with her.

The part of me that only knew wonder, ease, and belonging.
Who ran barefoot through fields. Who skipped rocks.
Who danced before anyone told her to sit still.

She wasn’t asking me to fix anything.
She just needed space to breathe.

Because what I really longed for wasn’t help.
It was freedom—to want what I wanted, and finally say it out loud.

There’s nothing glamorous about getting help.
No fanfare. No spotlight.
Just a quiet decision that enough is enough.

For me, the real threshold wasn’t walking into the center.
It was letting go of the version of me who always figured it out on her own.

The woman who made life work.
Who led with her accomplishments.
Who could rally at any moment—to fix, to build, to solve.

Until trying so hard took a toll.
And I lost the part of me I loved most.

I no longer wanted the kind of power that comes from hustle or charm.
I wanted the kind that comes from standing in truth, even if your knees shake while you do it.

That weekend, I didn’t just evaluate recovery centers.
I evaluated my future.

And I made a promise:

If there was even a chance I could find her again—
I’d do whatever it took to fight for her.

And maybe that’s why you’re still here, too.

Because there’s a part of you—the one who used to run barefoot through fields, skip rocks, or dance freely—

And maybe you’re wondering if she’s still in there.

Is she worth fighting for?

Thank you for continuing to walk this journey with me.

It means more than you may know.

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Chapter 9: Divine Intervention

If this story has stirred something in you—there’s a reason.
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Chapter 9: Divine Intervention

From this vantage point, I saw what the climb had cost me.

Eight years of striving—chasing the summit at all costs—
only to realize his betrayal had left me standing at the edge of a mountain that was no longer mine.

Suspended in stillness, I steadied myself. And as I did, a vastness opened before me—so clear, so pure, it lifted the sting. And in that single moment, I knew everything I needed to know.

I didn’t have a plan. But I had a center.

And just as quickly as that knowing came—and flickered—it passed. In its place, a new kind of urgency took over—an urgency that mattered more than any summit.

For years, I’d suspected my goddaughter was battling an addiction. But when I confronted her, she met me with stone-cold denial, and I promised to let it go.

Until a weekend visit revealed that things had gotten worse—and this time, I was different. The center I’d found rose up—stronger than my silence, stronger than my fear.

For the first time, I could be the woman she needed.

Within a week, I was deep in research—learning that interventions required meticulous planning—which led me to endless calls to recovery centers, counselors, therapists, and interventionists across the country.

Until one call with a director in California started like the others—listing the addictions her facility treated—then shifted suddenly when two words triggered a visceral reaction I didn’t expect.

“Wait,” I said, interrupting her mid-sentence. “What did you just say? What does that mean?” “Love addiction?”

That’s all it took.

And as she spoke, something in me unlocked. The floodgates opened.

I had made myself wrong on so many different levels—

For divorcing my daughter’s father,

for choosing the wrong partners,

for calling off a wedding, and now, for staying in an eight-year relationship with someone who wasn’t who he said he was.

Those two words gave me back what I’d been searching for all along:

A gift.

The truth that finally made sense of it all.

Love addiction, she explained, was a form of codependency—a term I thought I understood, without realizing it was an addiction of its own. Just as destructive. Just as cunning. But possibly quieter.

The family emergency wasn’t what I thought it was.

My instinct to help my goddaughter had led me straight to the answer I didn’t even know I was looking for:

She didn’t need another woman willing to sacrifice herself.

She needed to witness a woman finally standing in her God-given worth—without flinching.

---

Looking back on that day now—and everything that’s unfolded since—I’m in awe.

At the time, I wasn’t just trying to help.
I was trying to right so many wrongs—without even realizing it.

Proving my worth had become my modus operandi—never realizing pride was an unquenchable fix that kept me from valuing my own.

That’s why addictions are so cunning—we feel like we’re doing everything right, without realizing we’ve rewired our brains to chase relief instead of truth.

It took a day like that—standing on the edge.
Where the air got thin.
Where silence outweighed everything I’d built.
For the truth to meet me—and block the path behind.

Codependency doesn’t always look like dysfunction.
Sometimes, it disguises itself as strength.
As capability.
As the one who holds it all together—at the cost of herself.

The world talks about narcissists, addicts, and abusers—
but not the ones who lead with charm and appear generous.
The ones who make promises they can’t keep.
Who take while appearing to give.

And there’s almost no language for the woman trying to survive them—
the one who gives her best, doubts her gut, and rationalizes someone else’s needs or behavior at the expense of her own becoming.

Here’s what I hadn’t seen until that day:

I wasn’t just deceived. I let it happen. I let someone else take charge of my life—because, for a while, it felt easier.

Codependency is a dance—and I kept showing up for the music. I thought I was being loyal. Patient. Devoted.

But really, I was avoiding the one thing I hadn’t yet dared to become:
The woman who valued herself the way she was designed to.

I always knew she was in there—
but it took losing myself to finally fight for her.

Maybe that’s why I started therapy at 25 after divorcing my daughter’s father.
And never stopped.

My siblings were overseas. My parents divorced.
There wasn’t a built-in support system that could see what I sensed—
so I built one that could.

Therapists. Coaches. Bible Studies.
Flying across the country for retreats and Tony Robbins events.
I sat in rooms with the biggest names in the business—
and deep down, I knew I had power.
But then I’d come home, and the old patterns would take over.

Because if you don’t consciously choose your spirit first,
your survival strategies will always win.

Eventually, I became a certified coach—three years of school—
because I believed in this work and the brilliance of the human spirit.
But I couldn’t fight what I couldn’t name.

So when the truth finally landed—after decades of devotion—my body knew.
And I was all in.

I was 49—and this milestone told me I had no time to waste.

This wasn’t about fixing my relationship with my fiancé.
Or anyone else, for that matter.
It was about fixing the relationship with myself.

That’s how codependency worked for me—
it was a blind spot, hardwired to protect the part of me that never felt safe being myself.

What happened next wasn’t just a plot twist.
It was a spiritual awakening.

And as the Twelfth Step of recovery teaches:

“Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps,
we tried to carry this message to others,
and to practice these principles in all our affairs.”

That’s what this story has become:
A practice.
A message.
A hand reaching back—so no one has to wait as long as I did.

Thank you for walking this road with me. It means more than you may know.

---

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A two-hour experience where I’ll share the rest of the story—live and in person.

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Chapter 8: Vantage Point

Hear the story behind the story—the parts that never made it to the page, but matter most.

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Chapter 8: Vantage Point

I stood there alone, devastated, just staring out the window—unable to comprehend what had just happened.

First came the explosion.
Then the endless denial and cutting words—until all I could do was slam down the phone and try to catch my breath again.

In my own silence, I saw my life pass before me.

Time was no longer on my side. The path ahead had narrowed.

And suddenly, I began to regret the risks I’d taken to get here—risks that now left me aching for home.

My mind raced, grasping for anything to hold onto—until one thought kept me from falling any further.

This was no longer about him.
Not the prenup.
Not the homes.
Not the money.
Not even the ring.

What mattered now was why I let myself get here—and more importantly, how to untangle myself from his web of deceit.

There would be no white flag. I refused to let my life become collateral for his insecurities.

And that’s when I saw them:

a pile of red flags in the corner of my mind—warnings I had ignored, too busy to slow down, too afraid to trust my own knowing.

My need to scale a mountain had brought me to new heights—but now I saw the cost.

Looking out over the landscape, I suddenly realized my vantage point. I could see further than I’d ever seen before, and in that moment, I knew what I needed to do.

 Next week Chapter 9: Divine Intervention

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THE MOMENT YOU WAKE UP

At the time, I thought I was seeing clearly.

But what I didn’t know then was that trauma often warps our view—until we get still enough to recalibrate.

When you’ve been gaslit or emotionally manipulated, your internal compass spins.

You question what’s true. You replay conversations.

You doubt yourself more than the person who harmed you.

This is called cognitive dissonance—one of the most disorienting effects of emotional abuse.

It’s what happens when the version of reality someone gives you contradicts the truth your body already knows.

So you start overriding your intuition, just to survive the confusion.

Eventually, the body keeps the score—and the mind catches up.

That moment at the window? It was my nervous system finally catching up.

The collapse wasn’t weakness.

It was clarity.

Some experts might call it a trauma awakening—the turning point where your pain becomes proof.

Proof that your body knew something your mind hadn’t yet named.

Proof that you weren’t crazy—just committed to something that was never safe.

If you’ve ever found yourself in that place—staring out at your life, feeling like it’s crumbling—know this:

It’s not the end.

It’s the edge.

And from the right vantage point, it becomes the beginning of everything new.

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Chapter 7: The Betrayal

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Chapter 7: The Betrayal

Although I could feel my heart pounding, I opened the email—which felt sterile and cold.

Clicking on the attachment, my eyes raced across and down each line—stopping at the very end just long enough to start all over again—feeling the sand shift beneath me.

Line by line, I scrambled, searching for everything that wasn’t there. Everything that he had promised for almost a decade, without intending any of it.

What was happening? Had I really believed someone that simply told me what I wanted to hear? Had I believed him over my own instincts? And if so, had I even valued his life more than my own?

And then I finally let my eyes rest on the last two sentences—the very ones he hoped I’d overlook, like everything else I never questioned. And just below, a signature line. Waiting for me to fall in place.

No conversation, no discussion, no explanation, just the confidence in his overtures, that I would concede.

Why would he ask me to waive all my rights as a wife?

Regardless of the answer, all I knew was that any man wanting less for his wife then she legally deserved, told me everything I needed to know.

How long had I waited for a legal document to tell me something that I’d sensed for years? And why now after a trip of a lifetime?

My blood went cold, refusing to follow his rules any longer.

Rules that kept me from wearing my engagement ring in his office.

Rules that kept my picture hidden away in his desk drawer.

Rules that kept us from announcing our engagement at the last family gathering.

Rules asking me to sign off on a million-dollar life insurance policy—a year before we were even married— making him my benefactor.

And rules that kept his financials off limits, even to my lawyer.

For years I followed his rules—tactics, it seemed he’d learned from the book, The Art of War.

“Timing is everything Warrior. In order to get them before they get you, you will need to be very patient. Let the enemy get very close.”

I could feel black ink moving through my veins, stealing something from deep within. Something I didn’t realize would hurt me more than it would ever hurt him.

 Next week Chapter 8: Vantage Point.

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I didn’t know it at the time, but what I was experiencing had a name: betrayal trauma.

It happens when someone you trust—someone you’ve emotionally tethered yourself to—violates that trust in a way that collapses your internal compass.

It’s not just the betrayal of what was done. It’s the betrayal of your own instincts.

Because the deeper truth was—I had seen the signs. I had felt the feelings. But I didn’t trust them.

When you’re conditioned to be accommodating, agreeable, “understanding,” you learn to override what you know.

We rationalize red flags.

We excuse power plays as personality quirks.

We trade our intuition for the hope that love will win.

And the truth is—I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Not then. These were patterns I’d learned. Ways of surviving that felt familiar, automatic—like something passed down, not chosen.

But there was one part I hate to admit I admired:

The way he broke rules.

The way he didn’t wait for permission.

The way he ignored expectations and did what he wanted.

It touched something in me I hadn’t yet claimed: agency.

I thought I was admiring confidence—without realizing it was control.

But truth doesn’t negotiate. And once it shows up, it doesn’t leave.

It waits—until you’re ready to stop agreeing with the lie and finally become who you were designed to be.

For years, I’d backed away from the question: What do I really want?

Not because I didn’t care, but because I honestly couldn’t answer that question.

It wasn’t denial—it was a blind spot. One that was protecting me from something I wasn’t ready to see.

For a long time, I envied the people who could name their desires out loud. I saw the clarity. The freedom. The power that came from knowing what they wanted and planning what came next

By this time, I didn’t just feel the weight of lacking clarity. I felt the weight of what it had already cost me.

Eight years with the wrong person.Decades in the wrong careers. And a lifetime passed to my daughter—watching me betray myself so quietly that she started doing the same.

That was the moment something in me hardened and rose. Not in bitterness. But in conviction.

No more.

If I couldn’t change the past, I would do whatever it took to change the future—starting by finally answering the question that had evaded me my entire life: What do I really want?

Everything I’d done up to that point hadn’t been enough.

The therapists. The coaches. The self-help books. The weekend retreats and personal growth seminars. Living on a budget, but still prioritizing the search—trying to uncover what didn’t want to be seen.

There was something deeper at play. And in the wake of betrayal, the fear that had once stopped me lost its power.

Whatever I needed to face, fight, or conquer—I was ready. Determined to do whatever it took to break free from the lie that had held me back until now.

When the truth finally lands, it changes everything.

Join us as the story continues—live and in person—at CARAT LIVE on July 19. Reserve your seat HERE.

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Chapter 6: The Love Affair

The door closed behind us as we stepped into the quiet of the night, his offer to drive still hanging in the air.

The old SUV looked more like a contractor’s truck than a family car, and my expectations lowered. I waited for him to clear off the passenger seat—trying to reconcile this man with the one I’d heard about earlier that day.

With only a few miles to go to pick up the pizza, the conversation flowed easily—starting with how he knew my cousin, then his Cincinnati roots, and finally, to our daughters—the closest things to our hearts.

The unexpected familiarity between us was undeniable, and in that moment, something began.

Not so much a love affair with him—but with the idea of everything he represented: freedom, ambition, a life built on his own terms, giving me the quiet permission to do the same.

The fact that we lived in different cities made it even easier. It gave us the time and space we needed to manage our own busy lives without intruding on each other’s worlds.

Before I knew it, I had resigned from the agency, launched my own consulting business, and purchased a second—then a third—multi-unit property, all in the same small town where I’d raised my daughter. A place known for its top-ranked schools, tree-lined streets, and trains that echoed through the night, whispering stories from another era.

Getting my daughter off to one of the top universities unlocked an enormous sense of possibility. She was free to explore her music in a city made for her, and I was free to explore my entrepreneurial spirit—something that had been trumped by responsibility decades earlier.

And just like that, the gates flew open to a life I’d put on hold for twenty years.

Travel had always been part of my life. At six months old, I was swept into my parents’ dreams of traveling the world when my father’s job took our family abroad—crossing some of the most beautiful landscapes I would ever see. It was a time when we were the happiest, and the magic of that season left a mark I’d never forget. For years, I longed to give my daughter those same experiences—the beauty, the wonder, the family—without knowing how. I couldn’t recreate the past, but I never stopped yearning for what my parents once gave me.

So when someone bigger than life knocked on the door—and made me feel like the center of his world—I remembered the life I once lived and ignored my friends’ warnings that things were moving too fast.

His love for travel, his ambition—and the confidence with which he moved through life—captivated me. Without meaning to, I put him on a pedestal and, in the process, began to neglect the life I had worked so hard to build: the deep roots, the lasting friendships, the quiet rhythm I’d created over decades.

I thought I was chasing something new.

But what I was really doing was drifting from who I already was.

By the end of three years, we had circled the globe together, and he had completely swept me off my feet.

But deep down, I still didn’t know if it was real.

Next week Chapter 7: The Betrayal. Reading Between the Lines.

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Looking back now, I can see how the stage had been perfectly set.

But what I didn’t know then was that as glamorous and exciting as travel appeared, it wasn’t who I really was. Yes, I’d been fortunate to experience foreign soil and the beauty of that way of life—but deep down, I loved home. And everything it represented.

Even back then, that made me different from my family. I remember asking if I could stay home when travel plans were being made. I never quite fit in. At some point, I began seeing myself as the black sheep.

Years later, at “camp” (the recovery center), I learned the clinical term for black sheep. And it didn’t happen in a classroom. It happened in a corral. Camp was located in the middle of Kentucky and offered equine therapy—using horses in therapeutic settings to promote physical, emotional, and mental health.

On one particular day, during a group horse exercise, that old ache rose again. There were five of us. Four quickly grouped together, led by someone whose energy felt controlling and familiar. I hesitated. Something in me refused to follow. Instead, I stood my ground, choosing the horse no one else wanted.

At first, it stung. It mirrored a scene from my childhood—my parents and siblings walking ahead of me to a neighborhood gathering I didn’t want to attend. I trailed behind, asking if I had to go. Following, without wanting to.

And here I was again—on the outside of something that never really included me. Wanting the safety of my own truth more than the comfort of belonging. So I stood my ground. I stayed back—and dug in.

The goal of the exercise was for me to cross a line that the group of four was guarding. Their faces beamed with pride, bonded in strategy—expecting an easy win. But what felt like rejection became determination, as the sting became the footing I needed to advance confidently.

The horse mirrored my intentions, and without hesitation, I charged forward—crossing the line and winning the challenge—taking back what had always been mine—despite their disdain.

Later that night, during group reflection, the same four stayed bonded together—downplaying the win—until the therapist interjected and named what I’d witnessed without having the words for all these years. The control. The manipulation. The group dynamic playing out in real time.

She affirmed my choice to step away. To trust myself. To lead differently. And in that moment, I first heard the clinical word for black sheep: scapegoat. The one who carries what no one else will name. The one who takes the hit so the system can stay intact. And in that moment, something clicked.

She didn’t just validate the exercise—she validated my life. I hadn’t been difficult, as my family or teachers once claimed. I had been discerning. I hadn’t failed to fit in—I had refused to betray myself. And suddenly, the rebellion I’d always been blamed for made sense.

I wasn’t the problem. I was a truth-teller. And others didn’t like it.

That day with the horse, I didn’t just win the challenge. I broke the pattern.

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As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not a therapist—I’m a certified coach who has not only walked out my own recovery journey, but studied codependency, addiction, and emotional healing for over a decade. I now help others recognize and break the patterns that block them from creating the results they really want.

In family systems, the scapegoat is often the one who questions, disrupts, or refuses to conform—and is punished for it. While the golden child may receive praise and protection, the scapegoat becomes the outlet for the family’s unspoken tension, stress, or shame. Not because they’re broken—but because they’re honest.

Over time, this dynamic wires the nervous system for rejection sensitivity, hypervigilance, and a deep internal conflict: the need to belong versus the need to stay true to yourself.

That’s what made this experience at camp so healing.

In trauma recovery—especially from codependency or emotional abuse—being mirrored back accurately by a safe, attuned authority figure is a turning point. When someone acknowledges what you’ve always known but never had affirmed, it begins to rewrite the story.

It tells your body: You were right to pull away. You weren’t crazy. You weren’t the problem.

This is called a corrective emotional experience—when a present-moment interaction gives your nervous system a new, reality-based memory to replace an old, painful one.

What you once saw as rebellion may have always been wisdom in disguise.

So why am I telling you this?

Because I’ve learned that fitting in is often the enemy of truth—and the death of creativity, clarity, and self-trust.

When you spend your life trying to belong in systems that doesn’t align with who you are, you lose access to your voice. And to the life you were uniquely designed to live.

That’s why it’s so important to get clear on who you are and what you truly want. Our desires are rooted in our design—meant to guide us out of survival and into sovereignty—​our divine inheritance: peace, joy, acceptance, abundance, and freedom.

Ironically, traveling the world is still my family’s passion. But for me, being in one place gives me something the world never could: community, connection, a slower pace, time to write, cook, teach water aerobics, and take long walks with Lamby.

register today for July 19: Chasing the Carat Live / REAL TALK. Find details on the REAL TALK tab of This website.

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Chapter 5: The Castle

Eight years earlier—before the ring, before the prenup, before he was ever my fiancé—we met in St. Petersburg, Florida.

My daughter was in her second year at NYU, and we had both flown down to Tampa to celebrate the Christmas holiday with my family. Climbing into my cousin’s big SUV reminded us of years past, and as we pulled away from the Tampa airport, we picked up right where we left off.

My cousin’s house sat on an inlet off Tampa Bay and had become the go-to for the holidays. Not only did it host family gatherings, but the warm weather, beautiful setting, and the fact that we could step out onto the patio—and a small beach—made it the ideal escape from the cold winter.

As the kids caught up inside, the adults headed out to the dock—cocktail in hand—to finally sit down and start enjoying the holiday.

Behind us, the music played, the kids laughed, and below us the waves lapped quietly under our conversation, reminding us that all was well.

While we were talking, my cousin picked up a pair of binoculars that had been sitting on the table and handed them to me. “That’s where he lives,” she said, pointing across the water and motioning beyond what I could see.

They’d mentioned him before—a single dad who also grew up in Cincinnati. He was an entrepreneur they’d met at their kids’ baseball game, someone who went to church and had been building a home across the bay.

 Aside from the few details they’d shared, I hadn’t formed a clear image of him. But my curiosity accepted the binoculars, and as I began zooming in on the stretch of shoreline my cousin had pointed to, a house came into view—larger than the rest, distinct in shape: a three-story home with a bell tower.

“He refers to it as the Castle—and the neighbors behind him no longer have a view of the bay,” someone said incredulously, laughing as if it were nothing more than neighborhood gossip—while completely missing the implications.

And as my eyes rested on the home, I noticed an old, deserted ladder leaning silently against the turret, but no other sign of life. For some reason, the silence I felt made the house feel abandoned.

I handed back the binoculars. “That’s the guy you want me to meet?”

Although I’d been dating, it wasn’t that important to me at this point in my life, and the idea of another long-distance relationship made no sense. Besides, I’d flown down to Tampa to spend time with my daughter and my family—not meet someone new.

So that’s where the conversation ended.

That same evening, as my daughter and I sat on the floor playing cards at a wide Chinese coffee table in the middle of the family room, I could hear my family behind me—gathered around the kitchen island, laughing and celebrating over champagne and appetizers. I felt a quiet wave of gratitude—not just for time with my daughter, but for the rare moment of being surrounded by family in Florida—when the doorbell rang.

Without mentioning it, my cousin had invited a neighbor to stop by and join us for pizza and holiday festivities.

When I answered the door, he wasn’t what I expected. But before I knew it, it was time to pick up the pizza—and when I offered to go, he offered to drive.

And I agreed—without realizing what I was saying yes to.

Next Week: Chapter 6 – The Love Affair: Swept Away

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What I didn’t see back then was how perfectly timed this introduction was.

A year earlier, I had sold my home, bought a four-unit property, moved in, and mapped out my finances. I knew that once my daughter graduated, I would pivot—whether that meant advancing at the agency or stepping out on my own. I was preparing for change, methodically.

By November, that clarity had crystallized. I closed out the quarter by presenting a bold, strategic business idea—first to my boss, then to the CEO—designed to position the firm for long-term success. When they passed, I felt proud of my work and clear about my next step: I had more to offer.

Although I hadn’t resigned yet, my letter was written. I was ready to leave a stable, ten-year career at one of Cincinnati’s top brand agencies—a role I had earned despite holding a degree in corporate fitness.

From the outside, it looked like a woman stepping confidently into her next chapter. And in many ways, I was.

But the truth is, I was also exhausted from carrying it all on my own.

For two decades, I carried the responsibilities of both parents in many ways. I put in the hours, made the sacrifices, saved what I could, and stayed steady enough to help my daughter get into her dream school in New York City. When she left, I finally had room to exhale. Room to dream again.

But in that space, a new kind of vulnerability emerged.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t responsible for anyone but myself.

I had freedom—but no witness.

Ambition—but no anchor.

And as powerful as that was, it also left me wide open to someone who seemed to offer both.

He showed up right as I was rewriting everything—and without realizing it, I let him write himself in.

And that’s why I’m telling this story.

Because I know what it’s like to finally feel free, only to find yourself reaching for something—or someone—to steady the ground beneath you.

But what if that ground isn’t outside of you?

What if the security you’re chasing is actually a signal pointing you back to who and what you were created for?

What if your castle isn’t the dream—it’s the distraction?

And what would happen if you stopped looking for shelter… and started building from within?

That’s what I hadn’t learned yet.

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