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Many years ago, I was watching a segment on a TV talk show about breast cancer that made me sit up and listen a little closer. One of the doctors on the show said that a surprising number of women put off having a mammogram even when they suspected that they may have a lump on their breast. The reason? They’re afraid, afraid that their worst fears may be realized if they have a mammogram, the doctor said. In other words, maybe that lump isn’t a figment of their imagination. Maybe it’s real and even cancerous. Then what? Maybe, these women thought, it’s just better not to know …

The segment struck a nerve in me. Though the “reasoning” the doctor described seemed less than logical, I had to admit that I’d felt that way before. You see, I have fibrocystic breasts, a fancy term for breasts that are lumpy and bumpy and well, fibrous. As a result, it can be difficult to determine whether I should worry about any of those lumps or bumps. So doing self-exams can be a tricky and frig

As a survivor of child sexual abuse, I’ve never been one to preach forgiveness. I remember running into some of those proverbial “preachers” early on in my recovery who told me “if you want to heal, you have to forgive.” And I remember thinking “who are YOU to tell me what to do?” Or “why SHOULD I forgive my mother and the other people who betrayed me when I was young? They don’t deserve my forgiveness. Besides, some things are unforgiveable.” Or so I thought …

Today, I have an entirely different take on forgiveness. Though I still believe forgiveness, like anything else, is a personal choice, I’m a big believer in the power of forgiveness. Not only does it allow us to release anger and resentment, which is good for our emotional and physical well being, but it also helps set us free, making us less burdened and bound by our past. As a result, we have more energy to use in our lives today.

When my husband was diagnosed with an inner ear condition called secondary endolymphatic hydrops (hydrops) and told he needed to be on a low sodium diet last year, you would have thought that, given the way I reacted, I was the one with the disease.

It was like I was grieving some great loss. Whether it was the loss of dining out with my husband (temporarily) or the freedom to rely on tastily prepared foods from my favorite market, I wasn’t quite sure. But one thing was for certain. I was NOT a happy camper. First, I was angry. Then, I was sad. Then, I was bargaining with God. As in please, ‘God if you cure my husband of this chronic condition I will be a better person.’ Eventually, I accepted his condition, but it sure did seem to take awhile.

I’m not sure why I reacted so strongly to my husband’s diagnosis. Maybe it was because my mom and father-in-law had recent

When I was growing up, there were endless snipes – on TV and in real life – leveled against women going through “the Big M.” Little zingers like “she MUST be going through the Change of Life because she’s acting SO nutzoid.” Or “watch out, trouble ahead! That broad’s going through The Change.”

A large part of the trash talk revolved around the frightful hot flash. Sometimes it seemed as though my Mom’s entire life was lived out in one long hot flash. And since I was always freezing, and my Mom was always hot, that was quite a nightmare as far as I was concerned. In the wintertime, my Mom insisted on keeping the

Lately, I’ve been wondering whether it’s just my imagination, or whether men in our culture have more freedom than women to pursue a hobby or special interest. My hunch is that yes, they do. Or maybe they just feel more entitled to spend time on themselves in general.

Or who knows, maybe my “working theory” is an excuse for nursing my jealousy and staying stuck, because here’s what I DO know: pursuing a hobby or special interest would be healthy for me, physically and mentally. Not only would a hobby be relaxing and fun, it would help me expand my mind, relieve stress and offer me a creative outlet.

Years ago, I worked with a successful young businesswoman named Terri* who wanted to carve out some room in her life for her long lost love: fine arts photography, a creative pursuit she had given up decades ago for some unknown reason. When I asked her what she believed was holding her back, she said, “time, time is my worst enemy.”

I can’t tell you how often I hear some variety on that theme from clients. And while I know that many of us lead busy lives and believe time is our worst enemy, when it comes to doing that special something – whether it’s spending time with loved ones, writing poetry or exercising on a regular basis – the truth is that time isn’t our worst enemy. We are.

Yes, we are our own worst enemies.  Instead of living our lives according to our priorities, we allow life to happen.

As a coach, I am often reminding my clients to celebrate their successes.  If they don’t take time to consider how far they’ve come, they will constantly be grasping for something bigger and better and will never feel happy or content.

But sometimes, I admittedly forget to follow my own advice. I reach a goal, or I experience an internal shift in attitude, and I don’t notice. Or I think “ho-hum, whatever, time to move onto the next thing.

Case in point. About a month ago, I received an email from a staff member at the Cleveland Rape Crisis Center (http://www.clevelandrapecrisis.org/), who was looking for survivors of rape and sexual abuse willing to be interviewed by a TV station. The station wanted to interview them  about how they were being “triggered” by the g

A couple years ago, I was a part of a weekly meditation group that arguably made me feel more irritable than Zen. Though on some evenings I’d return home feeling a bit more peaceful than when I’d left, more often than not, I was the Queen of Grouse. Once home, I’d rattle off an endless stream of gripes about this man or that woman or some facet of the group that was driving me crazy. And even when I didn’t go public with my complaints, they were still there, swirling around in my mind.

For example, there was one man in the group who always fell asleep during the meditations. And snored. Like he was taking down an ancient oak. And I thought if he’s so damn tired, if he needs a nap so badly, why doesn’t he just stay home?

Then there was a woman who seemed holier than thou, speaking to a few old-timers whom she seemingly respected, but never

Saying goodbye has never come easily for me. I can be ridiculously sentimental and teary-eyed when it comes to goodbyes, even when there’s an occasion for a happy parting of the ways.

Sometimes, to spare myself and others the embarrassment of the tearful adieus, I forego the farewells, which I almost did a few weeks ago when we were invited to a little goodbye party for the owner and staff of Seitz-Agin Hardware, a wonderful little neighborhood store I have been frequenting since I was five years old.

Now you may be wondering why a woman who doesn’t know the difference between a brad and a nail would be getting all misty-eyed about the final curtain for a local hardware store. And I’ll tell you why: Seitz-Agin is so much more than a hardware store. It is a symbol of love and kindness in our community, a place where people truly care.

Years ago, when I asked a librarian to assist me in finding a book that would help me pitch my essays to magazine editors, a smile slid across her face until she was positively beaming. 

“You’re a writer!” she exclaimed. “I’ve always wanted to write. I always tell my friend, Bob, how I’m going to be a writer someday. But Bob, he just rolls his eyes. He says ‘Laura, writers write. They don’t talk about writing. They don’t dream about it. They do it.’ I suppose he’s right. But who has the time? Maybe when I retire …”

She delivered her last line with such resignation, and I remember standing there beside her among the stacks of books, wondering about this woman who had gone from bubbly to flat so suddenly.  I wanted to encourage her, but I wasn’t about to lie. Her friend, Bob was right, I told her. Writers do, in fact, w