Nine Days and Counting

I am finally getting my implants removed. This is something that I have been considering, researching and wishing about for several years now. I got my surgery date three months ago, and I have been thinking about it at least once a day ever since.

I thought I did all the right research, but honestly, I spent more time choosing a surgeon than considering the impacts of the surgery. It turns out that choosing saline vs. silicone and under the muscle vs. over the muscle would be the least of my concerns. The reality is that implanting something foreign into my body out of vanity was bound to have repercussions, and keeping them in for 18 years was most definitely a bad idea.

I have a host of mystery pains, aches and symptoms that have nothing to do with my age, but do they have something to do with these implants? I do not know, but I do know that while there is no official recognition of Breast Implant Illness, the fact that mine are so old means that there is a good chance that I will notice a higher percentage of improvement than someone who has only had them for a few years.

Will I look down after all this and miss seeing my breasts in their current enlarged state? The short answer is no. It took me years to get used to them being larger, so on some level, I can’t wait to look down and be like, “oh there you are! I have missed you so.”

Before my surgery, I was a 32A, and today, I am several inches and alphabet letters higher. I have no idea what size they will be when they are out and the swelling has abated, but I am ready to have my health back and to experience life from a place of gratitude, self-love, and acceptance instead of insecurity and unexplained pain. If you would like to follow my journey through this process, you can find my story and updates through my linktr.ee, TikTok or Instagram: linktr.ee/logynnascher.

The Good Daughter

I haven’t talked to my mother in over three months. The events that led to this choice became the tipping point to a decision that had been in the works for years. If you met and talked to my mom in public, you would most likely think that she is the sweetest person you ever met. She is very animated and talkative. She overshares with strangers about her grandson and on the surface, she appears like any other benign grandmother in the world.

On my son’s 26th birthday, my relationship with my mother came to a halt. Birthdays in our family always begin with an early morning call followed by both of my parents singing happy birthday to us. This year, my son let that call go to voicemail, and he let every call from his grandparents go to voicemail all day long. Naturally, my mom started calling me asking why and would he talk to them, did he open all of his presents, what did he think and on and on.

As noted previously, my son is 26, and is in full charge of himself and his actions. We do live together, but I stopped being that mom that “makes” him do things because it’s the polite thing to do. He knows how to be polite and he knows how to set boundaries with his grandparents. He actually does it better than I do!

On the day in question, I had a full agenda of open houses in Boulder, but I did my best to placate my mother’s fever-pitched anxiety with a call or text throughout the day. My son was not in the mood to celebrate this year and definitely didn’t want to hang out with me, so I stayed out of his way and let him do his own thing. It was early evening before he sat still long enough for me to light some candles on his cake and offer my own sappy rendition of happy birthday. I filmed it with the hope that sending it to his grandmother would appease her. It did not. She was bitter that I wasn’t micromanaging my son by “making” him return all of her birthday calls, and showing the gratitude she expected for the gifts she had sent.

Even after I sent the short video, the passive aggressive texts started flying. She let me know what a relief it was to “finally” hear from us and proceeded to tell me that she had been about to call the local police and have them do a wellness check. I was like, “are you kidding me right now?!” A wellness check is something that people request when they haven’t heard from loved ones for days or weeks, not hours. My parents live in Texas, so in my mother’s warped brain, this must have seemed like the logical next step.

I don’t even remember exactly what she said next, but it became personal and abusive so I told her I wasn’t going to talk to her anymore that night, and I put my phone in Do Not Disturb mode. I was seething at her unjustified attack and threat to send police to my house. That’s when something shifted within me.

I knew that she would be stalking my social media pages and making private snarky comments about what I was doing, who I was spending time with, complete with judgements about having a life of my own, so I decided to block her access to my accounts. I have a lot of different IG and Facebook accounts and I had to go into each one and revoke access.

Over the next few days, I started getting calls from my brother asking what had happened and begging me to reconcile. It turns out that my mother turned her wrath onto him after losing her ability to lash out at me. The universe responded to this action by presenting me with multiple little love letters that I had done the right thing. The one that truly hit home is listed below:

“The peace I feel without your presence in my life is worth being the villain in your story.”

I have always felt like the villain in my family, primarily because I have boundaries and they do not. It is ironic that setting boundaries is considered more selfish than the people who regularly ignore them.

The power of words once spoken cannot be softened by a contrite apology. One minute my mother is telling me how creative and amazing I am, and the next, she is cutting me to the core with her judgements, criticisms and accusations. My entire life has been about managing her emotions and setting mine aside while trying to interpret the meaning behind the meaning of her words.

How many women have been in physically abusive relationships with men who hit and then apologize and then hit again? Allowing someone to continually abuse us, knowing that they will do it again as soon as we accept their apology is the very definition of insane. And yet we do it and then hate ourselves for it.

In my marriage, my husband told me how much he loved me and then proceeded to repeatedly cheat on me. I’ve attracted bosses who are well-respected by the world, but are literal bullies to their employees. This type of treatment between parents or lovers or employers leaves invisible bruises and broken self-esteem.

It has taken me a long time to acknowledge that my mom is a narcissist who has been subtly abusing me verbally, mentally and emotionally for a very long time. I do not say this lightly, and I can already hear her critical voice in my head denying it and telling me what a selfish and ungrateful daughter I am for exposing her. I don’t know if this was a learned behavior or a defense mechanism or maybe both. The only thing that really matters is that I am no longer allowing it.

We are in the middle of “eclipse season” and I was recently led to look back in time at how the various eclipses have impacted my adult life. In order to review this eclipse history, I had to dig out my old journals. One that I read from cover to cover was from 2003, when my son was about four years old. There were so many references to my Mom and how she constantly found ways to judge, criticize and berate me and my parenting skills.

Reading my own words about these experiences with my mother was so validating. I often talk myself out of my resolve because of my daughterly obligations, and then the cycle repeats itself. As anyone who has been in an abusive relationship knows, the gaslighting breeds self-doubt, insecurity and a mistrust of the narratives that we know to be true.

The chronic trauma of verbal abuse is like a slow and steady death by a thousand tiny cuts. The cure starts with boundaries and an unflinching desire for autonomy. It is enhanced by eliminating people who weaponize emotions, feelings and the past in order to regain control over those who dare to resist.

This eclipse and the rest that are destined to follow, is an amazing opportunity to shatter the distorted versions that we have of ourselves, to set the boundaries that need to be honored and to be willing to be the “bad guy” in someone else’s story in exchange for a new level of personal peace and acceptance.

By cutting off all communication with my mother and blocking her access to my energy, I am starting to feel a shift in my nervous system that I’ve never had. I am not going to defend my decision to others who will try to guilt me for standing my ground. It’s not that guilt doesn’t work, it’s just that now I recognize when guilt is being used to manipulate and control me, and I refuse to allow it. My boundaries are in place to prevent that and I don’t need anyone’s approval but my own.

I am sharing my story because I know that I am not the only one who is in this situation. I know that words are much less damaging than a fist, but the intention behind each is what matters. If my story inspires someone else to stand up for themselves, to set boundaries or leave an unhealthy relationship, then I will know that the power of words has been used to make a difference in the world, and that is my greatest desire.

Before I hit the publish button, I do feel the need to say that there have been times in my life when my mom seemed like my biggest fan, and I wanted so much to believe that her motives were pure. The biggest struggle that I face is knowing that her love does not provide a safe space for me, and I cannot trust it. I am letting go of this relationship for as long as it takes, and it may take more than this lifetime. I’m sorry mom. I love you, but I love my own mental health more.

A Victim’s Impact Statement

My immediate feelings after this event happened involved two things: shock and pride. The pride came from my own ability to immediately set a verbal boundary of telling my co-worker that his actions were not acceptable, and the shock came from the fact that he had touched me so brazenly in that way. While it took me a few hours after the incident to report it via text to my boss, I knew there was no way I could return to work unless this man was held accountable for his actions. My dismay came the next morning when I clocked into work and learned that although my boss had spoken to X about the incident, he did little to assure me that I would not be accosted again. In fact, the way he explained it to me sounded as if he felt that X was the victim. He said that X was “very sorry”, was “almost in tears” and that he would “probably be apologizing to me the next time he saw me.” He also said that X told him he had been “feeling frisky” when he decided to slap me on the bottom with both hands, grunting with innuendo. 

I excused myself and walked to another part of the store so that I could process the emotions that were bubbling up within me. The shock that I had experienced the night before quickly grew to disbelief. Not only had my boss not fired this man with a history of being “handsy”, but he also seemed to be expecting a pat on the back for doing the bare minimum of his job. I called a friend that had been giving me emotional support during this time, and I broke down. She reminded me that it wasn’t unreasonable for me to expect a different outcome, including not accepting an insincere apology from this man as well as ever having to work with him again. 

With this in mind, I went back to my boss’s office and told him that I did not want an apology, nor did I want to ever have to work with X again. He assured me that he would make sure that our shifts never overlapped. When I mentioned that X has a habit of clocking in several hours before his weekend shifts when my boss is not present, I was told that I could just leave work early if that happened. Again, it felt like I was being punished for speaking up about this, because essentially, my hours would be cut in order to accommodate X’s actions. 

During my next few days off, I did a lot of soul searching and realized that the very idea of ever seeing X again, much less working with him, was more than I could handle. I messaged my boss and told him that I was quitting, effective immediately. That night, we had our monthly zoom call with my parents in Texas. When I told my mom that I had quit my job and why, she insisted that I file a police report the following day. 

My Mom knows all too well about such things because she was raped in our home when I was five years old. I was in the very next room dutifully trying to take my required afternoon nap, along with my little brother who was asleep in his room. Her rape changed her, and its impact has been simmering under the surface of my memories of that day for the past 50 years. Nothing was ever the same. My mom has lived in near debilitating fear since that moment. Her fear bled into the way she raised us to never let our guard down, to always walk to the car with keys in hand and eyes searching for anyone looking suspicious or out of place. 

After I gave my statement to the police officer, I left there not knowing what to expect. A few hours later, the officer called and told me that he had seen and secured the video footage of the incident and that it happened exactly as I had described. He said that he went to X’s home and served him with a court summons. I was overcome with emotion and as soon as we ended the call, I burst into sobs. My son came in and gave me a reassuring hug and let me cry it out.  I was filled with a mixture of relief and overwhelm. I guess I had half expected that the video evidence would be erased to protect X. 

A few minutes after the call, I got a text message from my now former boss which I can only assume was an accident. It appeared to be a group text message to the staff saying that I had quit and that I had filed a sexual harassment charge against X that day. So much for privacy.

By speaking up about this experience, reporting it to the authorities and quitting my job, I feel like I am doing what so many women can’t or won’t do. It was very hard to go into that police station and share this experience, but it was also something that I needed to do in order to stop the cycle of this type of assault. I worked with several younger women in their early 20’s and I am certain that not only am I helping to break this cycle for them, I am standing up to the patriarchal latitude that is given to men who are deemed harmless by society because of their age.

Financially, quitting that job has severally cut my income. Even when I was working 35 hours a week, I still had to do pet sitting jobs, showings and open houses concurrently in order to make ends meet. I took the job to help me out financially while I am growing my real estate business, but it was a large part of my income and quitting has had an unprecedented financial impact. I filled for unemployment, and even though I was eligible, I spent four months trying to follow all their rules and regulations only to discover that the timing of my request had negated any support.

The state of Colorado and specifically, the city of Longmont, offer some amazing programs to help women who have experienced this and far worse instances of unwanted sexual touch, sexual harassment and sexual assault. One such group is called MESA (Moving to End Sexual Assault) and the other is called Moving Beyond Trauma (MBT) which offers therapy to heal beyond these type of experiences. Another organization here in Boulder County is called the Victim’s Compensation Group. I just started therapy and it feels like there is light at the end of the tunnel. It feels like this label of being a victim is temporary and won’t define me or my future.

When I met with the DA’s office and learned that they were moving forward with a criminal charge, I was asked what I would like to see happen to the defendant as a result of this case. My response is that I would like him to experience the consequences of his actions. I think that his brazen attitude and actions did not happen overnight and are likely part of a larger pattern.

The legal system is notoriously methodical and slow, but X’s court date will be here soon, and it is occurring at a time when our own President is refusing to release The Epstein Files that he promised his supporters when he was campaigning for their support. We have since seen his colleagues try in vain to sway the American people who voted for him from a lingering interest in these files, going so far as to verbally denigrate them for demanding that he keep his word, attempting to keep him accountable to the promises he made. These files detail prominent people doing unspeakable things to children, and it speaks to a pattern that is often swept under the rug.

Shakespeare’s infamous phrase from Hamlet, . . . “me thinks thou dost protest too much” is just as fitting now as it was then. I mention this because as I said earlier, X’s tendency to be “handsy” with the female employees was known to the manager who allowed him to continue working with them. Not once did I ever hear of him being “handsy” with his fellow male co-workers. It is this type of discrimination that is all too common. Any person who is allowed by colleagues, family members or acquaintances to bypass accountability for inappropriate actions is part of a universal moral compass that is perpetually broken. My boss wouldn’t hold X accountable, but I hope that the law will.

The Challenge of Living with ADHD

One day recently, I sat at my desk with papers spread on every surface, my computer lit up with five different websites open and all I could hear was this buzzing in my brain. I was mentally paralyzed into inaction. That is when I started to wonder (at 56 years of age) if this was more than just a carryover from my overwhelmed single momma days and a lifetime of crippling procrastination or if there was perhaps something more obvious happening under the surface.

When I was growing up in the 80’s, a diagnosis of Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) or Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) as it is now called, was uncommon. Even when I heard this new name, it didn’t land for me because I don’t tend to be physically hyperactive. However, when a friend who was diagnosed a year ago mentioned that in women, the “hyperactivity is not physical as much as mental”, that resonated with me.

When I look back now, I can easily see the signs. I distinctly remember sitting in class at a young age, staring out the window wishing I could be part of all the activity that was driving by. Even though I didn’t consider myself hyperactive as a child, I do have this thing where I have to be moving either my toes, fingers or feet into some sort of 3-part tapping series even when no music is playing. The movement soothes me and once I get started, I don’t want to stop.

I also tend to have an explosive temper that shows up unannounced but is often a result of being interrupted from a focused task. My computer takes the brunt of my anger when it refuses to open a file in a timely manner! The temper, I have learned, has more to do with fear than anything else. When I do finally get in my lane and start to accelerate, I can’t tolerate any distractions or interruptions because I know how hard it will be to get back to that focused state.

Nowadays, writing comes very easily to me, but when I was in school, it was endlessly overwhelming and confusing, especially the tenses. It wasn’t until college that I met a wizened instructor whose unconventional teaching style finally cracked this confusion. Her guidance wasn’t fancy but somehow it made sense and that is the moment that changed my life. Since then, I have taught myself a way to write that is more about feeling the flow of the words, their cadence and the feelings that I am trying to convey. It has become a yoga of words that has to find expression in order to feel some sort of relief and release.

Learning new things, even those things that excite me, is challenging. This was as true with learning Feng Shui and yoga as it was with writing. The concepts of yin and yang confused me for years, and I struggled to understand the breath-led movements of prana vinyasa yoga, which if you are unfamiliar with yoga, it is one of the most active types involving an almost constant flow of movement. In order to survive the training, I memorized the verbiage and mimicked the patterns from Shiva Rea’s cd’s before I flew to Venice Beach California for her 10-day immersion. Eventually, I was able to take that rhythm and create my own sequences, but it was a very slow process.

When my son was in pre-K, his teachers noticed that he got the same distant look in his eyes when he was bored that I used to get when watching life drive by in class. He was too young to get an official ADHD diagnosis, but he was diagnosed by first grade, and it has been a lifelong challenge for him. What I didn’t know then, but have since learned is that those with ADHD will always present with it in childhood, but it isn’t always diagnosed at that time. It is also frequently genetic.

So why did it take so long for me to be diagnosed? Good question. I’ve always been mentally BUSY and physically active, typically starting five projects at once and then leaving at least one if not all of them incomplete. I can’t read just one book at a time. Instead I pick up multiple books, read a few pages and then get distracted by another juicier topic and title. In order to combat that, I have recently created a habit of setting a timer and reading for at least 20 minutes from one book. The next day, I can choose a different one or keep reading the one from the previous day, but I have to set that timer and then turn off all other distractions until the timer alarm rings.

Since moving away from my childhood home, I have moved (checks notes🧐) a total of 18 times. I’m most happy when I have multiple careers and multiple streams of income. Even though I was a “good girl” and got my Bachelor of Arts degree in exactly four years (including summers) I’ve spent more time learning about alternative healing topics that interest me like Feng Shui, Yoga, Hiking and Writing while trying to make the world a better place using any and all of my interests. I moved from Houston to Austin on a whim, and then nine years later, sold my house and followed my dream of moving back to the unlikely place that I was born, Boulder, Colorado.

When I have had a full-time job, I look longingly at part-time jobs for the flexibility they seem to offer, but when I have multiple part-time jobs, I look longingly at the bigger paycheck, vacation and health insurance of a full-time job. After I quit yet another wretched full-time job a year ago, I thought long and hard about what type of work would make me happiest. My love for Feng Shui has never diminished, and its apptitude for change makes it an ideal choice.

As much as I love individual consultations, my real goal is to help people on a larger scale. The idea of combining my love for houses and Feng Shui led me to choose real estate. While Feng Shui and real estate seem so compatible to me, I feel like the world is a bit slow to join me in this obsession with energy, healing and life balance, and I hope to change that.

I recently met with a psychiatrist who confirmed that my test scores indicate a strong leaning toward ADHD and together we discussed my options. The plan is that I will start on the lowest dose possible of Ritalin in a short release form so that if I hate it, it will be out of my system in four hours. After a week of prescription limbo, I started taking it last Saturday, May 24. The first few days were filled with headaches and short bursts of clarity. If I had to describe it I would say that it is as if my brain finally has train tracks. I can see where I need to go and I can consistently move in that direction. I am happy to say that eating breakfast early and then taking my meds has eliminated the headaches too.

What is it like to be diagnosed with ADHD at the age of 56? It is a blessed relief for one thing. To finally understand why I have always had such a hard time being me feels like a gift. It wasn’t until I started to write this blog that I was able to admit many of the things I am writing today. Being in my head is like being in a room with the lights turned off, while someone turns an old radio dial looking for a tune, with static in between each selection, while simultaneously flipping channels on a television.

Prior to any sort of diagnosis, I found ways to adapt without knowing why it was necessary. I learned to cope through a multitude of cheat codes to help me make it through my day. For example, if I wash clothes, I leave the light on in the laundry room because I know that will remind me that I need to move them to the dryer. If I read an email and can’t respond in the moment, I mark it as unread so that it doesn’t disappear in one of my six different email inboxes. Another trick I use is screenshots. How did I ever survive before cell phones with cameras??

I have so much to share with the world and so many big ideas and they keep getting lost in the mental chaos that is constantly surrounding me. There’s an episode of SpongeBob that is a funny representation of my brain without medicine. In that SpongeBob episode he is running around his brain going mental because he can’t remember his own name. That pretty much sums it up.

Inspiration comes in bursts, and needs to be captured before it disappears again. I make notes and then lose the notes. I am constantly writing and re-writing several books that I want to share with the world, only to lose momentum. More than one person has told me that taking these types of medications have a down side, particularly in regard to creativity. Maybe that is the benefit of being diagnosed this late in life. I’ve mastered the creativity part, and it is my hope that this medicine will keep giving me the mental discipline that has made everything else more difficult.

Ayla’s Road to Recovery

Being born with terrible doggy genes has never been more evident than in my rescued, almost two-year-old Pyrenees mix puppy named Ayla. I named her after my favorite heroine from the Clan of the Cavebear books I read as a teen. In the books, Ayla was an orphaned toddler taken in by strangers and then cast out by them years later. I think all abandoned and rescued pets can relate to this storyline, but for my Ayla, the road has been extra tough.

I rescued her through an organization called Pyr Paws N Fluffy Tails in Oklahoma. At first, she seemed like a normal rambunctious puppy, standing on her hind legs, chasing the cat, chewing everything she could get her teeth on. Within five months though, she was visibly straining to sit and stand.

During a routine puppy wellness checkup last September, the vet made a note that Ayla’s hips were making a popping noise that might be the early stages of hip dysplasia. That observation happened during the one month that we were in between pet insurance carriers, and it was the reason that my friend Georgette created a GoFundMe for Ayla’s two required surgeries. With the help of so many friends and strangers, we were able to raise $4,220! In addition, I qualified for a last minute grant for $3,000 from an organization called Rowdy Relief Fund and she had her first total hip replacement surgery on April 19th. The cost for the first surgery was over $9,000 and even with all the fundraising, several thousand went onto my credit cards.

Ayla’s recovery has been chronicled on her very own Instagram page over the past 9 months, and the difference this surgery has made is clear in every step she takes. Those first few weeks of watching her heal and test out her new hip have been such a gift. And speaking of gifts, we just scheduled her second surgery for March 14 which just happens to be her 2nd birthday! I know we are all tapped out with expenses, but even a few dollars can make a difference. If you are a pet lover and can donate something toward her upcoming surgery, we would be so grateful. If you can’t donate, would you share her link and story? Thank you for reading and supporting Ayla’s journey to healing. https://gofund.me/f043352e

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If you want to follow Ayla’s recovery in real time, she has her own Instagram account at @Aylas_Mountain_Adventures

At Ayla’s post-surgery followup visit

I love them, I love them not

The idea of them came from an older man that I had been casually dating for several months. He was 14 years older than me and very worldly. I like to think that I was at an age where an off-hand comment about my body or my looks didn’t have the potential to derail my confidence so quickly, but looking back, that clearly wasn’t the case. To be honest, that was never the case. I’ve always felt the narrow-eyed scrutiny of judgement or appraisal as men, family or so-called friends decided if I was being appropriate or inappropriate by the way I looked, dressed or spoke. This sentiment was beautifully expressed by America Ferrera in the Barbie movie last year, so I know that I am not alone in this. The question is, why did I let this man’s comment spur me into taking an action that I swore I would never do?

My entire life, I felt this self-imposed shame over my small, uneven breasts and much larger hips. I always felt that God put me together with all the leftover parts that were lying around and none of them matched. So when this man commented that as good as I looked, I would look even better with larger breasts, I took the bait. I immediately called my step-sister and got her opinion about it because at the time, she was one of the only people I knew who also had implants. She assured me that it would boost my confidence like nothing else.

Unbeknownst to me, my sister-in-law was concurrently exploring this option as well. When I saw her at Thanksgiving, she raved about her experience and gave me the list of three doctors that came highly recommended. I did some research and booked my introductory appointment with Dr. Christopher Patronella, who it turns out is still getting awards for his skill 15 years later. I told him that the thing that mattered the most to me was that they look natural. I wasn’t a fan of flaunting my girls in low-cut blouses (though I certainly did afterward). I convinced myself that my overriding desire was to be more physically balanced. Since God gave me a big booty and a disproportionately small chest, I decided that I needed to correct this apparent oversight.

A few years earlier, my Mom had won a joint lawsuit with a large group of women from Dow Chemical due to the silicone implants that were initially rolled out in the 1970’s, so I knew that if I went through with this decision, I would not be telling my Mom about it until it was already done. I was in the beginning of what I call my first mid-life crisis when I scheduled my surgery on January 31, 2008. It was four days before my 39th birthday, and I hid it from my Mom for over two months afterward.

At this time in my life, I was also involved in the practice of BodyTalk therapy and I decided to employ this practice before and after my surgery in order to warn and encourage my body to accept the foreign objects that would taking up residence in my chest. My recovery went smoothly and while predictably painful, it was nowhere near as difficult as childbirth without drugs, which has forever become my benchmark for pain.

So when did my love affair with this new version of myself begin to wane? It didn’t happen overnight, but happen it did. I recall vividly during my initial consultation when Dr. Patronella told me that running would need to be a very limited part of my future life. A lifelong short distance runner, I turned on my hobby like Norman Bates in Psycho, insisting that I would not be doing ANY running in the future. I can almost see my future self smirking in the corner, arms crossed knowing full well this was a bold faced lie. At the time, I actually believed the words coming out of my mouth.

As it turned out, my body dictated my future relationship with running. A few months later, when I decided to try running again, I started having issues with my feet and ankles and running became very painful, so I had to give it up until they healed. It has been 16 years since my surgery and my feet have had one issue after another since my surgery, including plantar fasciitis, frequent severe ankle sprains, and severe Achilles tendonitis to name a few. I have never been able to have a consistent running practice like I did pre-surgery. I’ve also developed an intolerance and sensitivity to gluten, a symptom that did not exist for me prior to this surgery. Is it contributory or is it coincidence? All I can say is that I don’t believe in coincidence.

A lot of things were happening at this time in my life. I was an exhausted single Mom and I hated the traffic, heat, and humidity of Houston. While my heart wished for Colorado, I knew my son needed to be near his Dad, so I set my sights on making a move to Austin which was far enough away from the heat, but would allow for regular visits every other weekend with his Dad. You might say that this was further evidence of the mid-life crisis that I was experiencing. Needless to say, I lost touch with my handsome older man and it was years before I thought twice about how deeply his “observation” took me down a new interpretation of my body and my body dysmorphia.

It wasn’t until I moved to Colorado and shifted to a life enjoying the great outdoors that my augmented body started to become a nuisance. My breasts started to feel heavier and heavier and I started fantasizing about having them removed. I even went to a plastic surgeon in Boulder for a quote. Since I knew from experience that the most expensive part of surgery was the anesthesia, I asked for a quote for an explant, breast lift and just for good measure, a tummy tuck. The total for all three was over $20,000, and completely out of reach. I had no choice but to learn to accept my body, implants and all.

One of the things that people may not realize is that it is recommended that breast implants be replaced every 10 – 15 years. Since I got mine at the beginning of 2008, I have now been playing host for 16+ years. Some days, I am resigned to accepting them, while other days, I am desperate to have them removed. I have to get special 3D annual mammograms, so I am currently safe from leakage and no issues have been found, but this doesn’t eliminate the desire to eventually have them removed and not replaced.

I was talking to my hairdresser recently about this dilemma and she confessed that she often considers getting her breasts augmented. A part of me wants to warn her of the unexplained inflammation and foot pain that I have experienced over the years, not to mention the unavoidable reality that starting down that road will not end the body dysmorphia. Why do we find fault with our bodies? Is it society, advertisers and off-hand comments from former lovers? Or is it something from our childhood, a desire for control and perfection. Maybe it is a little bit of all of it.

I talked to another friend this week about my desire to remove them. She admitted that the only reason that she got her implants was because her then husband was pressuring her to get them. She confessed that now she also wished she hadn’t done it. Unlike me, she had normal, symmetrical breasts before her surgery. Now, she said they are so big and heavy that she lives in a sports bra 24/7.

If my future self could go back to that moment when I made the decision to move forward with this choice, I would beg myself to get a lift instead. I would tell myself that the casual words from that lover had no value and not to give my power away by giving in to his judgements.

While researching this blog, I came across a collection of symptoms that women with implants are reporting and they include: joint and muscle pain, chronic fatigue, memory and concentration problems, breathing problems, sleep disturbance, rashes and other skin problems, dry mouth and dry eyes, anxiety, depression, headaches, hair loss, and gastrointestinal problems. I can check at least eight of those symptoms. The name being given for this cluster of symptoms is Breast Implant Illness, or BII. Now here is the really ironic thing. Dr. Robert Whitfield, the leading expert in treating this issue is in Austin, TX and he started his practice there in 2017, the same year that I left.

I’ve been wanting to share my story about this for a long time, but it is so personal and I feel so vulnerable sharing it so publicly, but I want to be a source of caution and support for other women who may find themselves in a similar position or better yet, considering breast implant surgery. I’m not saying don’t do it. I am just saying that I wish someone had pulled me aside and forced me to do the inner work before changing my body on the whim of a single man’s inside thoughts.

The Toughest Little Angel

If you’ve been following my blog over the past year, you know that I adopted a rescue puppy from Oklahoma last May. Within a few months, we could tell that something was going on with Ayla’s hips, but it wasn’t until January of this year that the worst news was confirmed. We learned that she was born with malformed hip sockets leading to a severe case of juvenile hip dysplasia. We also learned that our pet insurance would not cover any of the $18,000 needed to pay for the double hip replacement surgery necessary for her to have a life worth living and free of pain.

Because of this, my long time friend and fellow pet lover, put together a gofundme to help me pay for the surgeries. In the past 6 weeks, we have raised over $3,000 thanks to the generous gifts of friends and strangers alike. When I got Ayla, I had dreams of her being my steady hiking companion as I continue my passion for exploring the Colorado mountains. Ever since this diagnosis, I have shifted from strenuous, high elevation hikes to the flat and easy walks that are less painful to Ayla’s hips. I frequently share photos of my hikes through social media in hopes of inspiring people to follow their dreams and take more outdoor adventures with their pets.

Ever since we discovered the severity of Ayla’s hip condition, I assumed that people would be able to recognize the now obvious-to-me signs of extreme hip dysplasia, but how could they unless they too have or had a pet with this condition? Photos don’t show the shaking legs and muscle atrophy that is occurring throughout her entire lower body. They can’t show how difficult it is for her to gain purchase when she is trying to stand up on a slick surface. They don’t see what she looks like when she tries to eat her meals, her hips folded uselessly to the side or lying on her belly, front legs outstretched for support.

The most amazing thing about Ayla is that she doesn’t seem to know that her hips aren’t 100%. This may change the more time we spend around other dogs that have strong, healthy hips. Even though she doesn’t realize it, I do and I want to be able to give her hips that work! She has never known the ease of running up the stairs to our apartment. She just naturally taught herself to keep her back legs together like a peg leg and bunny hop up them. And even then, she bounces up the stairs with a smile on her face. When I adopted Ayla, I made a commitment to care for her for her entire life, not just when it’s easy and convenient. This beautiful, loving and light-filled puppy has the face, eyes and heart of an angel.

Before all of this happened, I never gave much thought to dogs with healthy hips. If they jumped up on their hind legs to greet me, or did a downward doggy stretch, I didn’t think twice about it. Now though, I am instantly aware that Ayla cannot do either of these things. During our walks each day, Ayla can barely go 1/2 mile before collapsing onto the grass, refusing to move. The slightest romp with a friend leaves her exhausted and in pain. She sees fresh snow and just wants to run and play in it. If I give in and let her, it isn’t until we get home that I can hear how much she paid for that momentary joy as she whines from the pain that her medication can’t reach.

The one thing that makes me feel better is knowing that very soon, she is going to finally know a life without all of this pain. If I thought her smile was amazing before, I can only imagine it once she wakes up from her surgery and can walk pain-free with a new hip. Her first surgery is scheduled for early Friday morning on April 19th. If you can help me pay for her surgery today, you will be making a difference for this sweet puppy that will change her life and mine, forever. If you can’t help financially, please consider sharing her story and link. Thank you. 🐾 https://gofund.me/a0994c8c

I Love That Bar

When I first moved to Austin, I only had a few friends, but by the time I left, that had changed completely because of one place. For the first year that I lived in Austin, I didn’t go out and I couldn’t figure out how to meet anyone outside of my yoga classes. I knew I wanted to get back into the country dancing that I enjoyed in college at Texas State University, but the place we always went back then (The Broken Spoke) was on the south side and I lived on the north side. When you live in a city as spread out as Austin, this type of location disparity is a big deal.

When I moved to Austin from Houston, I committed myself to a bi-monthly trip to meet my ex-husband halfway for his weekend visits with our son. As I was driving back to Austin one Friday night, I had finally discovered the best country dancing near me and it was called Dallas Night Club, so I decided to check it out. I went home, got dressed and with a dose of courage born from a year of loneliness, I walked into that country bar by myself and ordered my favorite drink – a Jim Beam and Diet Coke. I tried to look like I belonged there, but my heart was pounding, and I was afraid to make eye contact with anyone. Instead, I leaned against dance floor railing casually sipping my drink.

I wanted to dance so badly, but it had been years since those freewheeling days in college when we would drive from San Marcos to Austin every Wednesday night to listen to The People’s Choice, our favorite local band. As this new to me place started to fill up and the music got louder and better, I saw a group of girls posing for photos. At some point, they waved me over and within a few minutes, we were chatting and laughing like longtime friends. The rest is history. Those girls saved me and to this day, I don’t think they will ever know how grateful I am. This was around 2009 and social media was just becoming popular. By the end of the night, I had connected with all of them and had plans to come back on my next kid-free weekend.

One of the best things about reconnecting to one of my favorite former pastimes was that I started to reconnect to myself. Getting married, becoming a mom followed by a devastating divorce, I felt like I had become lost in all the roles I was playing. Leaving the heat and congestion of Houston was the first step, but I needed to figure out who I was again. As I made friends at Dallas Night Club, I reconnected to the carefree, happy girl that had once been my calling card and dancing, specifically two-stepping, made me feel like myself again. Dancing became like a gateway drug for me, and I found myself living for my next fix. I didn’t even need to drink. In fact, drinking actually made it harder for me to dance!

Summer nights turned into a sweaty, smiling, happy mess of matching up with the best dancers and spinning around the dance floor. Every other weekend, I would meet up with my girls, many of them also single moms, and we would tear it up. I met so many new people through my new friends and their friends that people actually started to think that I grew up there! The ripple effect from that first night kept expanding. New friendships kept evolving as I met more and more people. It was hard to really get to know people when I would only see them on the dance floor, or be introduced through mutual friends, but I eventually found my full-time people. The one thing that kept us all connected was our love for the charm of a cowboy who could dance, walking by in his starched Wranglers, cowboy hat and boots. (Swoon).

Eventually, a few other clubs came onto the scene, and we would make the rounds, but the one that started it all was Dallas Night Club, and none of the others could compare in my opinion. It was the place to see and be seen on Halloween, Thanksgiving Eve and New Year’s not to mention every Wednesday, Friday and Saturday night. It was a jam-packed, wall to wall melee of people. The magnetic vibe of “doing a lap”, flirting with cowboys and hanging with friends in our favorite nook of the club was all part of the magic. 

I grew up in Pasadena, TX, home to Gilley’s, the “largest honkey tonk in the world” and the place where the movie Urban Cowboy was filmed. I was too young to go to Gilley’s when it was in its prime, but after all the good times and memories I have from my time at Dallas Night Club, I like to think that they were cut from the same cloth. They offered people a place to blow off steam after a long work week, meet up with friends, dance, have fun and maybe fall in love. 

As Austin started to grow, the real estate under the club became more valuable than the club itself. I don’t know why it actually closed, but close it did. After the doors of Dallas Night Club were finally shuttered, a few other places tried to absorb the locals that had loved it, but they could not compare with the huge dance floor, the neon signs, or the dj and bartenders that everyone loved. Dallas Night Club wasn’t just a bar; it was like an extended family. It was a place that gave you a reason to get dressed up whether it was in jeans, skirts, shorts or tank tops. The only prerequisite was a desire to let loose and have fun.

In September 2016, the club closed its doors, and I missed it. I was still living in Austin but had been in a relationship that took me away from the freedom of dancing with strangers. By then, most of the girls I used to meet up with had gotten into steady relationships as well and for whatever reason, we all just stopped going regularly. 

Soon after that, I moved out of Texas and into Colorado. I traded my dancing boots for hiking boots and shifted all my passion and attention to conquering mountains instead of dance floors, but every time I hear a good country song, and especially when I hear “I Love This Bar” by Toby Keith, I am reminded of all the times that a little place in Austin, Texas called Dallas Night Club lifted me up and changed my life.

Born Broken – My Rescue Pup’s Story

I fell in love with a Pyrennes/Anatolian Shepard mix puppy from Oklahoma City’s Pyr Paws N Fluffy Tails Rescue and once I saw that little face, I was done for. After being rejected by several Colorado rescue groups for living in an apartment, I started following non-local groups on Facebook and that’s when I saw her. She was part of a litter that they had named the American Revolution babies and was one of eight! Her original name was Abigail Adams, but as soon as I picked her up, I renamed her Ayla after my favorite heroine from the Clan of the Cavebear series by Jean M. Auel.

This little girl was spicy and fiesty right from the beginning. She made a regular habit of sitting on the cat, picking up sticks that were twice as big as her and practicing a bark that will always make me feel safe. I live on the 3rd floor of an apartment building in Colorado, and she had to learn rather quickly to master the stairs. At first, we just thought she has really long legs. I mean, the term “baby giraffe” seemed appropriate! It wasn’t until she hit the 8-month mark that we started to notice her sassy hip sway and that she started front loading the stairs with a bunny hop, rather than using her back legs.

I’ve always loved big dogs, the bigger the better, and I’ve always known that they come with a warning label for hip dysplasia, but I didn’t know that it was possible for puppies to get this debilitating problem. I had always associated it with something that big dogs get as they age, so when our dog trainer started to notice that Ayla was struggling to stand up and participate in her Puppy classes, we made an appointment with a vet that specializes in hips. That vet confirmed what we were already suspecting, she has hip dysplasia and we needed sedated x-rays as quickly as possible. I had insurance on her so even though it was not the kind of news that I wanted to hear, I thought we were covered. Later the next night, after submitting the $1,000 worth of vet bills to Trupanion, I got an email back from them saying that one of our vets had “suspected” an issue a month earlier and therefore they were not going to cover any of the expenses.

It was like getting punched in the gut. I haven’t cried that hard since my Golden Retriever Aslan died, but I was on my knees and sobbing into Ayla’s fur. I didn’t remember that crying was so exhausting and could make me feel so sick. It isn’t fair that such a young sweet baby could come so far from the miserable start to life that she had on a farm in Oklahoma, to being surrendered to a rescue group, cared for by loving foster parents, and moving clear across the country to be slammed with this. I contacted the foster mom and she reached out to all the new owners of Ayla’s siblings. Not a single one has a problem with their hips. In Ayla’s hips, the socket just didn’t form so her femurs have nowhere to go. They are basically hanging in place.

Ayla’s hip x-rays from Blue Sky Animal Hospital in Loveland, CO

It has been a few months now and the shock has faded a little. We went ahead with the preliminary appointment with the best orthopedic canine surgeon in Colorado last week. If I have to submit my girl to this invasive surgery, I want to make sure it is by someone who is an absolute expert! He said it is just plain ol’ bad luck that she got the hips that she did, but the good news is that full hip replacement surgery has a very high success rate. I am glad that this type of surgery exists, but boy does it ever come with a hefty price tag.

A chance encounter a few months earlier led me to a couple with a super cute Corgi who had recently had a knee dysplasia surgery that was rejected by their dog insurance company. They mentioned that AKC Pet Insurance will cover things that are considered “pre-existing conditions” by other insurance carriers, with one catch. There is a one year waiting period. I have a new policy on Ayla that will cover her after January 12, 2025, but Ayla can’t wait that long for her first surgery. The x-rays are already showing signs of arthritis and that is not fixable with surgery.

This little girl loves to hike with me and we are able to go on short, low-elevation hikes for 1-2 miles a day, but she does get tired quickly and if it weren’t for the Carprofen that she takes every morning and night, I am sure that she would be in even more pain. That is the hardest part, right?! I didn’t realize that she was in pain until a month ago. I just thought she was bored and was whining because she wanted me to play with her all the time.

I was really reluctant to ask for help with my puppy’s surgery, but I know that I am not just asking strangers. I am asking for help from my fellow animal lovers. If you can’t help financially, maybe you know of a great group that wouldn’t mind sharing this link. Thank you for listening and letting me get Ayla’s story out there. With this surgery, she will be my Bionic Puppy (raise your hand if you watched The Bionic Woman and the Million-Dollar Man as a kid!) and we will be exploring all the mountains that she can tackle once she has hips that are healed. Ayla’s gofundme is here: https://gofund.me/a0994c8c

Allow Yourself to Unfurl . . .

I got a gorgeous new plant recently, a Monstera to be exact, and I know that she is happy to be here because within the first few weeks, I saw some new growth peeking out of the stem. As I checked on her daily, I was struck by the slowness of the new leaf’s growth. To my surprise, I started to get a little impatient because it was really taking it’s sweet time! The newest leaf was wound tight, but such a bright, light green that it stood out among all of its sibling leaves. Each day, the change was minimal, but steady. It was a lot like watching a caterpillar transforming into a butterfly.

Over the next two weeks, it slowly began to lengthen and strengthen and as I watched it progress, I considered how often we rush ourselves through our own new growth. When I quit my job two months ago, I barely allowed myself any time to decompress. I immediately started thinking of ways that I could create a source of income that would allow me to continue to work for myself. In doing so, I rushed the process without doing proper due diligence.

With all my years as a certified yoga instructor, I decided that I could teach yoga from home and record my classes. What a great idea! Not. I wasn’t teaching during the pandemic so I had completely lost touch with the fact that every other yoga teacher on the planet had been teaching their classes to online students who had been forced into that option. Now that the pandemic has released us from its grips, staying at home and doing yoga is the last thing anyone wants to do!

Last night, I pulled the plug on my yoga class offerings. I think I am paid through the month, but the end is near and I am not creating new content. Had enough people taken me up on the free classes or the heavy discounts I offered, I would have continued, but after two months and no interest, I am letting it go. I am also recognizing my role in this “failure” because I didn’t give myself time to unfurl. I didn’t allow the slow and steady building of myself into something fresh and new, but my plant did. It took its time, reached daily for the sun’s brilliant rays and today, after a month of becoming, it has opened fully. I never expected my plant to become my teacher, but she has and I am going to follow her lead.