We remain emotionally uneven, driven by the vagaries of an electronically-fueled world tilted toward bad news.
The external glow messes with our internal wiring, where even the illusion of reprieve bears zero hope.
Yanked out of our public selves into private accountability, how do we cope with the torrent of life’s clutter?
Facing reality is a form of backtalk — an experience akin to visiting the psychologist for an open dialogue.
Embracing the suck is not a means of capitulation. Our task is to replace emotional capital with patient, big-picture thinking.
Going toward the fear releases oxytocin in our body like a friend’s hug.
We know what we want, even if the law of magnetism clashes with the dialectic. Slowly, the chords of inquiry blossom from caution into a badge of curiosity.
We’re steadfastly determined to evolve slowly by turning off the voices inside the house. The anxiety mutes — we’re finally naked, floating into discomfort.