You Are the Creator of Your Emotions: Lessons from an Ex-Victim-of-the-Universe

by Melanie Boudreau

My college advisor called me into his office for another long chat.

“If you had some ambition, you could really go places,” he said, almost pleadingly.

I put on a stoic expression, my first line of defense, but I was panicking. I desperately hoped he wasn’t seeing through the veil of my academic success and into the black void of my purposelessness, self-loathing, and despair.

Ever-patient, he sighed. “I have to ask. What is your dream?”

I didn’t have to put any thought into my answer. By then, I had it memorized. It was the only reply I ever gave when people asked me this particularly painful question:

“I want to move to some faraway, isolated mountaintop and live as a recluse.”

I chuckled to play my confession off as a cynical joke, but I meant every word. For over a decade, I had dreamed of shutting myself away from the world.

If my advisor had asked why, I might have told him how, since I was twelve years old, my life had been a series of miserable school years, toxic friendships, family deaths, fruitless people-pleasing, and unbearable loneliness.

In retrospect, I understand that these events, however painful they were for me, were not my real problem. I dreamed of becoming a recluse for one reason and one reason alone: because I had convinced myself that I was a victim of the universe.

The world was big and bad, and I was too fragile for it. There were times when I believed some higher power was punishing me, so I accepted the negative aspects of my life like I deserved them. I had one mantra, and it was, “Why is this happening to me?” I was the star of my own Shakespearean tragedy. I monologued daily about the unfairness of the situations I found myself in, but never made any real effort to change them. Instead, I was an inactive participant in my own life. I had no boundaries, no self-regard, and worst of all no intention for my present or future.

Rather than look at myself honestly, I blamed others for my problems. To me, my friends were harbingers of self-loathing and disappointment. When other people’s posts on Instagram made me feel terribly about myself, I deleted the app altogether. In my efforts to avoid feeling insecure, I eventually deleted all my social media accounts. Though, when I was socially isolated and alone, I complained about that, too.

My only strategy for dealing with misery was to wait it out. If I felt helpless in my situation, I would tell myself the next phase of my life would be better.

“Junior high was hell, but high school will be better,” I’d say.

It wasn’t.

“Well, high school was awful, but college will definitely be the turning point.”

I was a miserable college senior when I took to the internet, for what felt like the millionth time, in search of something, some guru, a bit of wisdom, or a life hack that would finally lead me to contentment.

This time, I stumbled upon Wu Wei Wisdom, a YouTube channel belonging to “Taoist monk and multi-disciplinary therapist, David James Lees, and wellness coach and feng shui designer, Alexandra Lees.” Their practical, no-nonsense spirituality was unlike anything I’d heard before, and it spoke to me.

“You are the creator of your emotions, NOT the victim of them,” David insisted.

This statement, which seems so intuitive now, cleared my vision. It blew my mind. In that moment, I could see the patterns of my life as if from above, and I realized that the monster I’d been running from my whole life was me – my self-neglecting choices, my damaging self-talk, my passivity, my people-pleasing. It was the first time I’d had a genuine epiphany, and the first time I recognized myself as the creator of my life, not the victim of it.

Here was the problem at last, but what was the solution?

A little self-responsibility.

I went back to therapy. I ended toxic relationships I had maintained for years. I stopped blaming others for my low self-esteem, began to pay attention to my overwhelmingly negative self-talk, and devoted myself to changing it. I created emotional boundaries where I’d had none before. I made it my duty to care for myself and put myself first, even if it meant disappointing others.

It was all so hard at first, but as the months passed, these healthy initiatives became habit, and soon I was doing good things for myself without thinking. I started to value myself.

Learning to love myself has been a messy and painful process, one that will be lifelong, but by letting go of beliefs, behaviors, and relationships that didn’t serve me, I’ve delivered myself to a much better place, mentally, emotionally, and physically.

Truthfully, though, this transformation has also left me a little lost; I no longer have an answer when people ask me, “What’s your dream?”

The only thing I know now is that, whatever life I envision for myself, I must actively strive to create it.

Dear Gabrielle,

I am you in 7 years time. I hope you are well. I know you are hungry to dress in a label, eager to find understanding, and anxious to redefine sex with your own two hands. I know you are confused by the sudden way urges take your body and sexuality pulses at your fingertips (whispering). I know how you yearn to push pin yourself to the bulletin board with a label that will grasp you from all sides, soothing.

Child, you are only teenaged now, just earning your first kiss against the cool of the bleachers at sixteen, as the smoke of the woman you longed of bed years after the single kiss soaked the flannel you’d bought just for the occasion. Child, you’ll be happy to know I haven’t forgotten that fateful moment when the metal pressed to your thighs as she leaned into the electric desire that sparked between you both. Nor have I forgotten your second kiss, last kiss, with the same woman against the lockers of the girls high school hockey room, how the  full-sense experience of sweat, piss, and cliche took hold of you as you escaped third period and headed to lunch wet-drenched and wanting, unable to put words to the way her lips unraveled you.  And yes, I remember the way your best friend took one look at you and knew.

I remember your story, how you came into your sexuality to the tune of puberty and your body raced to the pulse of desire and came for the urgency of speed. How full of arrogance, shame, anxiety, need, and joy you were, but mostly of love and the chase of it. Thinking of it now, I drench the keyboard and take a step back to remember the bad poetry you wrote to the teenage love and think nostalgically about the innocent obsession in Sixteen year old self, wine-drunk and desperate, how I wish the happier me I am to you, then. How I wish to go back and impart the lessons you are (I am) still learning:  You do not know that knowing how to feel is more important than what you feel. Sixteen year old self, goober, sexless flower blossoming into a wanting being, sugarplum, the fact of your sexuality is not the culprit of your hurt, nor is the name you give to is. The culprit, the little drama queen is love and the lack thereof.

Child you don’t know how lucky you are to be feeling the world change around you, swelling fat, and bursting. You became adult in the age of The L Word, South of Nowhere, and Degrassi. Before the divorce, family TV nights were spent watching Modern Family or The Secret Life of the American Teenager. When you’d watch 7^th Heaven you knew better than to idealize the perfect family, but instead appreciated the ethic of young love, the moralistic quality of the pixilated show. You witnessed queer teens bullied to the point of suicide, saw politics live-wrestle over same-sex marriage laws, saw the fight split the LGBT community that had grown united through the devastation of AIDS.

You watched Madonna make out with Brittany and Brittany shave her head in what would become an iconic queer hairstyle ten years later. You watched the first black president get elected only to watch him struggle to pass universal health care, while my friends threw punk shows and pot-locks to afford hormones and top surgery. You saw Trump refuse to acknowledge pride month while cities held well-attended Dyke Marches and Trans* Prades. You grew up at a time of contradictions, where behind the story told is the one that’s not. You grew up at a time of selective silence, but the world will change around you, change slowly and profoundly at once.

You grew up touching yourself to the question, Is sexuality something I do or something I am? Darling, it does not matter in the slightest if your love is for someone of the same gender or sex as you. Gay issues are important, queer history deserves to be undiscovered, and dyke marches may always make your heart smile, but that all shrivels like a worm in heat against the quest of love. Within the next seven years you will learn that you cannot not blame any terror, hurt, or growing pains with the fact of who you bed. The fact is, more of your problems pulse with the reality of love: the lack of reciprocity, the inequality of it, the communication of it, the heartaches of it.

The joke of sexuality is that these problems are not limited to the gays, and yes, seven years later the straights will still ponder this very sameness. The percentage of LGBT-specific suffering cannot be overlooked with universality, the complexity of queer love is not incidental, but the issue of love comes first. Child, I hope you learn this sooner rather than later. And when you do, I hope you crawl out from under the blanket of your own suppression and love and let love.

I know what you’re doing now, young Gabrielle. It’s early 2010. You are hiding beneath your bed tuning into South of Nowhere with only the subtitles on or skimming through the only lesbian erotica text available in your small-town bookstore (as I recall, vampire erotica- you’ll be happy to learn people are much more interested in Wonder Women in the last months than Twilight). You are looking for a desire that looks like yours in pieces of your culture. Somehow, as you age, bravery and miracle will take hold of you and the world will become more accepting of your love than it is now. Seven years later you will take the headphones out and write a letter to yourself who kisses girls while sitting in the middle seat of the airplane. You will run your fingers through your lover’s hair at Starbucks. You will redefine sex with your own two hands. And you will learn to see the sex you have as love making as opposed to gaysex.

Within the next seven years, you will crawl out from beneath the bed and dance when two beautiful and gracious drag queens when they pull you into the streets at your first pride parade. You will learn then that pride month may be ruled by money, but you will still dapple in it fondly because it is a designation that hopes to articulate the closeness with which you, and those you love, hold these categories: LGBTQ+. Categories that in 2017 still hold an evocative power. Categories and labels that despite the rainbow emojis and fluttering of “out” instagram celebs, and queer-focused Netflix shows, hold power as they monopolize and beauty the alphabet. Categories that while they will feel less necessary to you after you graduate into the real world, will still feel like home from time to time.

Gabby, not yet Gabrielle, my message from the future is two-fold. Fear not, child, your life will unfold in richer, more painful ways than your mind can fathom. You will fall in love with thin lips and the shape of a woman’s mouth curving over a beer bottle. You will have your heart broken by weathered hands and bad sex but  you will always always always reconnect through and with your body.

But be wary, the most basic comforts of freedom may not always hold you steady. You will have to continue to fight for your rights against mad and menacing minds. But that will never be any less reason to love your life; never let the fight make you bitter, let it only make you stronger. Let it help you love harder.

Walking over the Williamsburg bridge I stare down the city and feel triumphant. The pink paint peels in uneven patterns along her mammoth structure. A year into living here, and the paint continues to peel. Steady like this. She’s not unbeautiful. But I’m disinterested in her failings, in the history of her arches and harsh lines. This bridge is all woman. Tall, Type A, has bangs, holds dinner parties at twilight, knows the name of every cyclist in the city. I invent an ego for her and then walk all over it. This is what we do: identify as way to to understand. And I do, identify that is.

Writing an author bio is much like this: out of body, a way of seeing, a way of pinning down.

Identity coats everything we do. I think of labels, gay, woman, writer, like the pink paint, peeling, unnoticed. What do the blurbs about myself on websites scattered in the electro-world miss? What do they get only in parts?

There is a further out than outside of the closet, though I cannot say I am even that in every instance. Is gay something I do or something I am? I ask this with nobody kissing me. I want the possibility of being drenched, surprised by my own desire. Does this matter to my writing?

Gabrielle Kassel: A New York City based-writer who waits to be drenched by desire at twilight. When she is not writing, you can find her lifting weights, adding in unnecessary semicolons, and drinking vegan iced-coffee. Follow her on Instagram for some mild fitspiration.

As a writer, is language how I live or how I keep up with the way I live? Can language keep up with the way in which I am?

Fingers tapping black keys in off-alley coffee shops. Fingers producing content valued monetarily. Hardly. Or extremely. It depends on the topic, the receiver.

A twenty-something-year-old living paycheck to paycheck in Williamsburg, writing is literally how I live. And it’s working. It being both me and this freelancing. I love writing. But expressing how much I love writing is one of the instances where words fail me.

Gabrielle Kassel: A Brooklyn based-romanticist who waits for language to find her. She is love with the em-dash and listens to Banks on repeat.

I am not ashamed to say I’m gay. I am not ashamed to put label to author. But the language flutters. The language is uncertain. Say I add in queer, the gaze immediately diverts. Like there’s a fishhook through their cheek pulling them through the water. The reader catches on. Like to a secret. That’s when the rush comes.

The shock is not the safety, but it’s not water-level. I like looking through, not down. I look. No, I stare. I stare down and smile and smile. I avoid the author bio as long as I can.

Gabrielle Kassel: An avid sexter who wants to be known only for her first instant messenger name. “Laughalways394”.

I really know, sometimes. The labels. But they’re not stable. Think about waves. No, think about pink paint peeling and try to guess how many bikes the bridge sees each day. Remember that there are parts of yourself that will never fall away. Remember that not even the labels will keep their meanings. Definitions evolve, they are not stagnant.

In The Argonauts (a must-read), Nelson describes what language gives us: “Once we name something, we can never see it the same way again. All that is unnameable falls away, gets lost, murdered.”With every article I write, I owe a bio. With each bio I name and then fall away. What if I treated an author bio like a tinder bio?

Gabrielle Kassel: A writer who is bad at writing bios.

No.

Gabriele Kassel: A writer who refuses to write bios.

After writing a bio I twirl to look at myself in the mirror. I look back at it. Is this what I look like or is it the lighting in here? I ask noone. I button. I unbutton. I don’t want to leave until I find something. Identity much like “is it the lighting in here?” I subway home. I sit in my new room in Williamsburg. The light panels the walls with pink. The pink does not peel. It sets.

I’m in Brooklyn and yes there is a rooftop, so yes, as I contemplate 60 characters of author bio, I cry. Or I smile. Or I laugh. The window of the sky is open. No one hears me. The city is too loud for hearing over. Is this just something I am doing? What I fear: the rush of exposure after I over-explain myself.

Did you always know? It’s the question that comes with any out-of-the-closetness. But really, the question is would I know, if I were. I pretend the question is: Did you always know you were writer? Those times, I report that yes, I always knew. In a casual way.

Gabrielle Kassel: A writer who has always been a writer. A writer who writes the identity “writer” and feels more than 50% sure.

After listening to myself about myself, I twirl away from the mirror. There is a flicker of light. Am I refusing pride by no referencing of who I kiss? Have I decided not to conform? And does it matter? The realities split and split and split. The words fail. Or they don’t.

The duality of being a writer and having to name my other selves feels at times, nightmarish.

Becoming is what I hunger for. Becoming is how I justify an author bio that shifts with each blog entry. The paint peels, we ask no justification. The identity morphs, we demand an archive of self. But we all have it: the shifting.

My name is Gabrielle, my writer-last-name is Kassel. I write about health and fitness and sometimes sex. I walk over the Williamsburg Bridge and create an alter-ego of her beams and rust. I write and contemplate. I shift.

Writing about fitness and health for companies based out of the city of go-go-go has its perks. Think: occasional free workout classes, sweat-gear, and a chance to talk to the latest and greatest trainers, athletes, and obstacle course racers. While it’d be untrue to say it’s my favorite part of my job, because TBH the writing itself is my favorite part of my job, I do love sliding into a pair of not-yet-launched-leggings, saddling up for a new-to-me HIIT-class, and finding my power one burpee, pushup, and wall-ball at a time.

So when I got an email-invite for the launch of Second Skin (Dick Sporting Goods new fitness brand) which was set to take place at one of New York’s hottest fitness studios, I responded with an enthusiastic “yes” before doing much research. (Like I said, free leggings).

But then I did some googling… I figured, I’m not googling some physical ailment or weird rash, what’s the harm? Ha! Turns out that what the email bragged is the hottest fitness studio in the city, is also well-known as the hardest workout studio in the city. Created by former college football star and current Wilhelmina fitness model Alonzo Wilson, Tone House functions with the believe that everyone has within them, the capacity to be and train like the athletes they admire. Basically, the goal of the sports-based studio is to unleash everyone’s inner athlete.

I know my way around a track, I’ve spent 2+ hours on a turf field for rugby practice every day for 3 years, I do CrossFit workouts (or WODs) 3-4 times a week, and I actively use my gym membership. Some might even refer to me as “in shape”, “athletic”, or even occasionally, “ripped”. But my preliminary research still had me (and my ego) a little nervous. Was I about to step into a studio that would put into questions my identity as an athlete? Would I be able to walk the next day? How well have my last few months of CrossFit and weightlifting prepared me for training like a pro?

While I had a number of questions, all rooted in fear, I took comfort in the fact that the class was only an hour (as opposed to the 2) and that the event would likely be packed with a bunch of TH-newbies. I assumed that the workout would mirror their TH 101, an introductory class for turf-babies. And boy oh boy am I glad I was right.

The morning of I set my alarm early enough to chow down an A Game breakfast (or at least, my version of one): a glass of iced coffee, a bottle of water, and a slice of whole grain toast with a smear of almond butter. I showered and painted my eyelashes with mascara (there would likely be cameras, after all) and headed out the door listening to Lil Wayne on repeat, because what could be more motivating than “Lollipop” blasting through my headphones at 7:45am? I practiced breathing exercises to calm my nerves on subway ride, and as I grabbed the handle of the studio door, I plastered a smile to my face and prepared to get my ass handed to me one burpee at a time.

After we all tried on our new Second Skin gear and surveyed the studio, Alonzo took center stage (or center turf) to announce to the group, “Welcome to the hardest workout in New York City”. He then laughed before proceeding to tell us not to worry because this class would look like an intro-workout or “Tone House Light”. (Wahoo! My prediction was right!).

The workout began with a warm-up that had me reminiscing hard about my rugby days. We ran, hopped, skipped, hopped and skipped, burpee-ed, and sprinted our way through and around triangular foam wedges, as if we were in a large-scale ladder drill. I was breathing heavy and had already soaked my light grey shirt to a completely different color by the end of the 15 minute drill, but I felt warmed-up (as was the intention) and ready to tackle the “real” workout.

With the warm up complete we moved onto a series of bear crawls; and while I was glowing during the sprints, the bear crawls proved just how tight my hamstrings are and how limited my mobility is. But the familiar feeling of turf against my fingertips and underneath my feet made the slight ego-blow worth it. Being on the “field” felt like coming home. The only thing missing was a rugby ball.

The next segment involved a series of velocity battle ropes, a sled, and a whole bunch of sandbags. When the Coaches (of which there were two) weren’t counting down the seconds very slowly or correcting form, they shouted encouraging phrases and cultivated a team-energy reminiscent of Friday Night Lights. Seriously, I felt like the real deal sweating my ass off and trying to make eye contact with the coaches as if to say “Put me in, Coach!”.

Truth be told, I sweat and huffed my way through the 60 minutes and at times struggled (shoutout to the bear crawls), but I loved that the sweat-session necessitated digging deep. I had to mentally be okay with being slow when I moved laterally, or clumsy when I did animal-inspired moves. The energy in the room and between the athletes made it is; the room was pulsing with team-spirit and nonstop high-fives. No great athlete survives, prospers, or succeeds without some kind of team, and Tone House knows that and cultivates the team-feel quickly.

At the end of the workout we brought it in for a cheer, peeled off our newly soaked gear, and meandered to the front of the studio for some power-focused post-workout snacks, courtesy of Celebrity Chef Michael Chernow, The Meatball Shop, Seamore’s, owner. As we stuffed our faces with egg burrito and cherry-flavored smoothies, I couldn’t help but think how damn good it felt to chow down with my new, one-day-only team after trying New York’s’ hardest workout.

Trying new workouts isn’t easy – it requires putting your ego to the side, giving into the experience of new sorts of movement, and challenging your mind and body. But saying “YES” to new workouts (and new experiences) is always worth the initial feeling of fear or case of nerves. Maybe you’ll find your new go-to HIIT class. Maybe you’ll make friends with the woman who’s mat is next to yours in pilates. Maybe you’ll just get a great sweat on and feel rejuvenated for the day. Or maybe you’ll be like me: get a great sweat on, hang out with a chill group of people, and leave well-exercised, well-fed, and smiling.

After my freshman year of college at a fratty, rapey liberal arts college with a drinking problem, attending a Women’s College felt like the solution to what can at it’s worst be described as a fear of college-aged boys, and at it’s best a distrust of men between the ages of 18-24.

All-women spaces and female friendships were the solution to the exhaustion of that school year. There is a certain level of emotional labor involved in friendships with people who will never get your experiences as a women, just as there is a type of self-explanation necessary for people who identify solely as straight, when you yourself do not.

That’s not to say you shouldn’t have male friends, or that all men are unable to feel empathy and love for (queer) women. Of course not. But there’s a missing piece. I thought I was expected to do that labor – education, explanation, frustration – all the time. But Smith offered me opportunity to take a step away from that role into something far less exhausting (or at least, far less ridden with fear). The point of this story only this: female friendships offered an astounding amount of relief, safety, and understanding at a point of my life when surviving 50% of the population felt like an exhausting (and congratulatory) feat.

Since graduating I’ve reopened my mind and heart to the possibility of male friendships which has been empowering, enjoyable, and essential to my day-to-day in a way I could not have imagined four years ago. But I am still wildly here for female friendships and what they can offer. So in the style of Roxane Gay’s, “How To Be Friends with Another Woman”, I offer you The Ultimate Girl Tribe Instruction Manual.

1. First things first. Let’s define “Tribe”. Noun. A social community linked with social, economic, religious, or blog tires. A distinct close-knit group, typically with a recognized leader. A group of persons with a common interest. A badass crew who get’s shit done together. A group of ride-or-dies. A girl gang. A squad. Got it? Good.

2. What does this really mean? Our tribe is the crew we text after an amazing (or terrible) date with the cute barista from Tinder who just moved to the city from the Midwest. The team we sign up for that race, mud run, or intro-level CrossFit class with. The ones who devour the conversation-screenshots we send them and respond with the appropriate emojis. The squad we share our sacred soul desires with. The crew who reads our horoscopes and let’s us know when the stars are aligned or when mercury is in retrograde. The authentic, juicy, effortless, fun, social circle that knows the ins and out of our day-to-day, our relationships, our workouts, our work drama, relationship woes, and family dis-ease.

3. Call yourself whatever the F you want. Whether it’s BFF’s, girl tribe, girl gang, crew, or bad bitch embassy, how (and if) you and your buddies name yourself is your business. Girl Tribes are the new language “ish”, the trendiest hashtag on Instagram, the sought-out go-to group for adult women. But concept of a “bestie”, “BFF”, “sprawling college crew”, “close knit circle of girls”, are not new, nor are they uncomplicated. The in’s and out’s of female friendships can be tricky to understand: we spill secrets and sometimes gossip, we are the on the giving and receiving end of the silent treatment, we judge and are judged, we go and grow through periods of distance and weeks of uninhibited closeness, we post photos and celebrate birthdays, and we meet each other’s loves, family’s, coworkers, and roommates.

4. What’s up with the girl-tribe and squad lingo popping up? In short, not much. The new language we have for female friendships doesn’t change the closeness of the BFF’s or what those friendships actually look like. There’s a power to the word “squad” or “tribe” a level of don’t-fuck-with-us-ness, but there also a aura of exclusiveness and you-just-can’t-sit-with-us-ness in the word.

5. Don’t by buy into the nonsense that all women are bitchy and competitive. If you find that all your female friendships are toxic, take a look inward, reevaluate those friendships, and make the necessary changes.

6. Having more male friends than female friends is not something to be proud of. Pride is not the right emotion. It’s okay if you have more male friends than female friends but not if this if you use this as a ticker to “better than you”

7. Your tribe is who you talk and listen to. According to socio-linguist Deborah Tannen, author of You’re The Only One I Can Tell: Inside the Language of Women’s Friendships, female friendships are solidified through talking, secret sharing, and in the age of technology, non-stop communication. This communication makes gossiping easier than ever. So if you’re going to gossip, which you are because everybody does, at least make it fun. And never claim that you don’t gossip, because we know you’re lying.

8. Women are competitive about who knows what and who knows it first, because that is a marker of closeness among women: How was that Bumble date and did you do it? Yes it it. How was the chemistry? Did you confront your boss about the paycheck? And how did your interview go? Have you tried this workout spot? And do you think I could handle it? How was it seeing your Dad? And how’s your Mom doing? Your friends want to know what’s going on in your life. If something major is happening, and your friend doesn’t know about it, either she finds out she isn’t as good a friend as she thought she was, or she’s just going to feel hurt that you didn’t tell her.

9. Technology has heightened this dynamic of knowing and wanting to know, happening and knowing what is happening. With Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, iMessage, and Twitter, our phones and messages are just an extension of the friendship: a way of continuing to keep in touch. We can no longer disappear for 10 years, or 10 months, 10 days or even 10 hours and come back. In some ways our relationships are allowed to be and able to be more constant communication. But that has its downsides: if you ignore a text, but post on your Instagram story, your friend can see that. If you haven’t seen one friend in over a month, but have gone to dinner with another 3 times over the last 3 weeks, chances are your social media presence will give you away. Social media increases the chance that we will know about an event that we were not invited to, enhances the likelihood of FOMO, or hurt. Save your friend from hurt, invite her to the damn party.

10. On the other hand, maybe the technology holds us accountable to our friends: if we want to post that IG, we respond to our friends text first. If we are going to host a dinner party, we air on the side of caution. If we want to snapchat our new bae, we make sure our girl-pals know about them first. In friendships where knowledge is power and inclusive is mandated by impulse to document, technology facilities an in-touchness that is indisputable. Let me reiterate, save your friend from hurt, invite her to the damn party.

11. And if you can’t invite her to the party (or whatever it is that she is being excluded from) a little tact goes a long.

12. Generally speaking, a little tact goes a long way when it comes to telling the truth to your friends.

13. Things you shouldn’t have any truth about. Or have to lie about. Or deal with tact about: flirting with, having sex with, getting all emotionally involved with, or otherwise crossing boundaries with your friends baes. It doesn’t matter who the significant other is. Or how glamourous, well-built, or “nice” they are. If you want to poke around with an asshole, download Tinder and let your intentions be known.

14. Befriending other women will save your life. Fear is born of isolation and everything in the world is working to pit women against each other and keep us apart, especially (especially!) minority women of any kind. We’re told we’re the only ones at our work who feel the project is sexist. We’re told to smile on the streets. We’re told to “calm down” about street harassment and sexual assault. We don’t talk about the injustices of existing in a world built for men because then then we have to deal with the consequences of whining. The world is exhausting. Friendships, a girl tribe if you will, are essential for survival. In Trump’s America, it’s a war out there, afterall.

It feels like just yesterday I moved my tassel to the right and thought, “Now What?”. To call graduation the most anticlimactic moment of my life would be a bold understatement. But for a time displayed cinematically as a beautiful experience ripe with appreciation, gratitude, nostalgia, and power, in reality is (also) deeply replete with anxiety, the unknown, and nervous anticipation.

At the moment I officially geared up in my cap and gown, I had been accepted to a program at NYU that wouldn’t begin until the beginning of June, so I packed up my bags and headed back into my life pre-college, which is to say I moved back in with my mom. Shortly after, I packed a second time to move into the home of my best friends parents. Living in the city, free of rent, ‘privileged’ doesn’t even come close to explaining the graciousness and luck of my living situation. When the six-week graduate course ended and I was still mooching off the generosity of my friends family, the helplessness set in.

I once again returned to the town that held me pre-college, now with a publishing certificate under my belt and a better idea of what I who I wanted to be: a writer. Or a social media editor. Or a copy editor.

Back in suburbia, my Connecticut, post-graduate routine was eerily similar to my post-drivers license but pre-bachelor’s degree shenanigans. Mornings spent at Starbucks working (this time on job applications instead of homework), afternoons in the gym, and evenings writing (this time cover letters instead of research papers). The routine was monotonous, but I was diligent in treating applying for jobs, like a job itself. Each day: a to-do list, 5 open positions, eager emails, and a slew of time proofreading my personality-less resume.

Between the hours spent typing at the computer, I’d see construction workers, bus drivers, gas station employees, mailmen and businessmen all waiting at the crosswalks downtown or in line at subway or Starbucks, and I couldn’t help but wonder, “How the F do ALL of these people have jobs and I don’t?!” I literally wanted to pull over and ask them, “Hey, man. Just wondering, but…how are you employed? How can I become employed, too? Got any tips for your girl?”.

For eight weeks I navigated unemployment as if it were a puzzle that needed to be solved, a game of Sudoku that simply needed to be worked through, completed before moving onto the next, harder, section of the activity book. For eight weeks I fell in love with more job descriptions than I could count, prepared for interviews (to which I wore the same damn thing every time), and sent flowery emails explaining, exploring why I should be hired for the position.  I even had a few informational interviews (which, by the way, are totally worth doing so you get practice and they get to know you) but zero job offers.

To explain those eight weeks of unemployment without calling myself out for my bad attitude and negative energy, would be unfair. Truthfully, I felt like a failure. But not only did I feel like a failure, I felt like “the system” had failed me. For four years I had worked diligently to maintain an A average, played rugby, worked internships, explored, become confident and independent, taught English, wrote articles. And I thought that meant I had earned the right to be employed. But the job market work like that. The job market doesn’t and didn’t care about your or my fragile egos. Or that we sweat our hearts out in the Maine Marathon or on the pitch. Or that we fell in love and learned heartbreak. When it comes to the job market, it’s not personal when they choose the other candidate.

The folks in human resources receive anywhere from ten to one-thousand plus resumes with every online job posting. Can you imagine, sorting through resumes of (mostly) equally qualified candidates to find the top ten (or five or three) to interview? I learned that even that language of “top candidate” doesn’t fully capture the reality of the situation. It’s not about being tops, most of the time it’s about luck and a little bit of graciousness on the half of the human resources manager (or intern).

Coming from a world of privilege (think: private high-school, no student loans), it’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking you’re too good for a position.

The truth is, you are not too good for any job or position. Out of college, there is no such thing as being too good for certain tasks, over-qualified for certain jobs, or better than the job in question. While I (we) may have proved my (our) intelligence and work-ethic in the classroom, I (we) now needed to prove my capabilities in the “real world”. That meant being gracious for opportunities like interviews, being kind in conversations with business leaders and college alumni, and emanating thankfulness for the chance to prove yourself. Being gracious in interviews looked like talking about making and responding to emails with enthusiasm. It looked like thank you notes and thank you emails and thank you handshakes and thank you phonecalls. Sometimes, it looked like being too eager for the opportunity to sit in on a meeting or make an excel spreadsheet. But after eight weeks of unemployment, it became clear to me (and maybe painfully so) that keeping an open mind was vital.

And it’s hard, truthfully. Because as a graduate of a liberal arts college (and holder of a degree in Women’s Studies) I know that dichotomies don’t work, that they are incomplete. But that doesn’t mean it’s not east to categorize a job as “good” or “bad”. Good/Bad. Straight/Gay. Hard/Easy. Dichotomies fail to encapsulate the full identity of a person or position. Dualities fail to explain the complexities of life or the day-to-day of an office setting. No jobs or internship is good or bad, worthy or worthless, valuable or invaluable. Rather, each job has the opportunity to enhance your life by either showing you a hidden talent you didn’t know you had or reminding you of your weaknesses and giving you a chance to work on them.Whether you have honed in on your Dream Job with laser-like focus or have no idea what career you want, know that just getting a job is better than flopping about trying to figure out the right path while burning through any savings left in your bank account. When you’re a total newbie, you have little more to offer than your ability to be on time, answer the phones professionally, and not screw up.

But keeping an open mind to jobs, positions, and responsibilities that were different than what I thought I wanted to do or be, wasn’t easy.

First, I had stop believing that my past predicted my future. As in… I needed to calm my ego the F down.  As a graduate of a well-known and highly regarded liberal arts college, it would have been easy to let my ego convince me that I deserved to emerge right from college and land a well-paying, middle-of-the-food-chain position, in whatever field I wanted (and for a while, I did believe that).

Second, I had stop thinking that a job offer would make me feel like there was a purpose to those 4 college years. Purpose. It’s is one of those inspirational buzzwords that pops up in many college graduation speeches. After all, if you didn’t pull all-nighters, sweat through exams, and pay tens of thousands of dollars in tuition fees with some larger purpose in mind (whether that’s making money, changing the world, or something in between) why did you bother?

Third, I had to trust the timing of my life. I’m not one to tout the saying, everything happens for a reason nor am I a believer that good things come to those who wait. But I had to trust that eventually, if I was my full and true self, that the right job for this moment would land.

And it did.

It was while perusing job boards while I was on what was supposed to be on vacation (and yes, vacation from “unemployed but looking” is valid) that I saw a listing for a 10-week editorial intern position with Women’s Health. I could have made an excuse and pushed off cranking out a cover letter until the beach vacation was officially over, but instead I plugged in my headphones, plugged in my laptop and got to work while my family went to Newport. Three days later I got an invitation for a phone interview, which turned into a second phone interview, which turned into an edit test… which turned an incredible opportunity to write, edit, research, and assist with online content at a company I love. What began as a 10-week internship evolved into a temp position, that kept me with the big-name magazine for six months.

While I was there, I learned the rules of working in online media. Why a phone call is a secret weapon when it comes to getting quotes. How to schedule appointments with the busiest people in the world. Which time-wasting desk-lurking or bathroom-gossiping people to avoid. How to send emails that are polite and to the point. The formula for a perfect article. How to add tone and voice to writing. And how to impress your boss (thank you notes, end-of-the-day summary emails, and always saying “yes”).

I knew the gig with Women’s Health would end mid-February, which is when they would be bringing on a more experienced social media editor to handle the tasks I had slowly added to my plate while there. Haunted by my weeks of unemployment the previous summer, I got started applying to jobs early (mid-December), this time with a clearer vision of what I wanted to be. Still a writer, but with an emphasis on health and fitness. Still a social media editor, but with the creative freedom to move a brand in the direction I saw fit. With that in mind, I took a position at a NYC CrossFit gym, having never done CrossFit before, as a Blog Coordinator/ Social Media Editor/ Membership Experience Manager.

Over the last few months I have continued my work at the CrossFit gym, written over 70 articles as a freelance writer, begun a part-time temp position at Tough Mudder, and as of recently, begun helping a woman edit her health-focused ebook.

Where I am now? I never thought I’d be last July.

Hustle is a living breathing thing. Ambition is palpable and growing. Together, they are more than my specific in-the-moment goals. They are what fuels my life. I will have so many careers and gigs before I retire. And in this economy at this age, so many jobs before I even turn thirty.

What I needed to give myself last July, and what I still work to give myself now is time. There were then, as there are now, many moments when I think, this job thing isn’t happening fast enough. I sometimes feel like I’m standing still when I should be in perpetual motion. But then I remember how much my life has changed in the year. How much I have evolved. Become. This becoming of self is a crucial phase of life. So I’ve decided to slow down, to take my time to get it right, because this is my life. This is the whole damn thing.

We may be hesitant to admit it, but our morning habits help define part (and reveal part) of our personalities. Whether we’re waking up at 5am to catch up on emailings, applying face masks with the sun rise, or hitting snooze one too many times and rushing to the subway, what we do in the morning is, for better or worse, quite telling.

Think about it… the person who meditates every morning is probably the same person who drinks Kombucha instead of coffee, has nailed the art of the matcha almond-milk latte, and loves gramming about the benefits of yoga for the digestive tract. Meanwhile, the serial snoozer (the one who ignores her alarm until she’s got less than 15 minutes to shower, pick out an outfit for the day, and brew coffee in a to-go cup, and find her keys before heading out the door in a frenzy) is likely the same person who just never seems to have enough time or energy for her hefty to-do list.

Regardless of which you are, or if you fall somewhere in the middle, there’s no questions that time is precious (let’s face it, there’s only 24 hours in the day). Moreover, studies have shown that not only are we are most productive in the morning, but that being a morning person may actually be good for our health, too. When UK researchers questioned adults about their sleep habits, they found people who stay under the covers on the weekdays until 9 AM are more likely to be stressed, overweight, and depressed than those who get up at 7 AM. Unfortunately, just knowing the science doesn’t make it suddenly easy to jump outta bed for a shower and a cup of java before starting the day full of sunshine and knock-knock jokes.

I’m not a morning person per say – I have been known to sleep until noon on the weekends, and hit my alarm several times before getting up (even after a 7+ hour night of sleep)– but, I really do love waking (to write) before the sun. With a job that crams 40+ hours a week into a 1:00pm-10:00pm Monday-Friday schedule, I’ve had plenty of time to test-drive different morning routines and habits… with a late clock-in, if a morning routine trial-run fails I have a few hours to shake the bad morning and recover before perching at work.

From beginning my day with charcoal cleanser and a milk-less cup of joe, to a morning run in my jammies followed up a shower and omelette, and even eating overnight oats in bed after a 10 minute meditation session or trying YouTube yoga-vids caffeine-less, it’s safe to say I’ve run the gambit when it comes to effective morning routine for productive day. After three months of trial and error I’ve settled into a lounge-filled morning complete with breakfast in bed (cold brew and overnight oats), two hours of writing at my window-facing desk, a sweat-sess, and shower all before I have to get on the 11am subway for work (I know, my work schedule is untraditional). Finding the morning routine that suits me best, helped me realize just how much of an impact a good morning has on my happy-levels the rest of the day.

If you’re looking for ways to start your day with happiness so that you’ll be feeling A+ the rest of the day, check out the following 7 morning rituals happy people swear by.

1. Reclaim Your Morning With A Ritual
There’s no reason your morning has to be filled with ONLY activities that kick-start your workday: showering, feeding the dog, flossing your teeth (okay, more like brushing your teeth…), and putting together a work outfit. It’s possible to actually enjoy our mornings. And no, that doesn’t mean turning every weekday into a Sunday-brunch type shindig complete with mimosas and muffins… But it does mean adding a meaningful routine to your morning. My personal favorite is routine consists of waking up at 7:00am and drinking a cup of cold-brew sweetened with vanilla cashew milk in bed while responding to my emails and making a to-do list for the day, but I have the luxury of time that most don’t have in the am. So for you, that could mean finding a cute coffee shop around the corner and stopping there every morning (and yes, learning the names of the baristas who serve you), or it could mean starting the day with oil pulling from your teeth and a coffee scrub facial. It doesn’t matter what the routine is, or if it’s an hour or 10 minutes. What matters is that you’re taking charge of your day and starting it your way (*insert muscle emoji here*).

2. Exercise
Exercising in the morning is a bit of a chicken or the egg situation… do people pre-dispositioned to mornings workout in the am? Or does one become a morning person by forcing themselves to workout in with (or before, eek) the sunrise? While no research has been done to figure out whether action or disposition comes first, research has shown that morning exercise gets the blood flowing and gives us more energy throughout the entire day. One study published in the Journal of Health Psychology discovered that working out in the morning also improves how people felt about their bodies. As part of a journalistic experiment, I switched my workouts to 6am for a month, and while it was true that I definitely felt glorious in my body after my month-long experiment, I was also getting way less sleep (a 9pm bedtime is hard for a workin’ girl!) and still craved that post-workday pump my body had become accustomed to. But for those of you who can make it to the gym to crank out a training program in the am, kickboxing class, or even yoga mat in your living room, I salute you.

3. Eat a Healthy Breakfast
Hopping outta bed is a lot easier when there’s some chia-seed pudding or coconut banana overnight oats waiting in the fridge. What about perfectly sweetened not-disgusting two-ingredient pancakes? I’m in. Or a nalgene sized kale and apple smoothie? Heck yes. If you love eating breakfast on the weekend, but don’t prioritize it during the week, try eating breakfast on the weekdays and see how and if it improves your mood. While it would be nice for breakfast to become in a buffet of superfoods, that’s not always possible, so keep it simple. If you don’t eat breakfast, start with something small like a rice cake with peanut butter or a slice of toast with cashew spread. If your go-to is a KIND bar in the car on the way to work, mix it up with some oatmeal with honey and walnuts or Greek yogurt with some granola. The goal should be to have a breakfast that is full of fiber to helps provide much-needed energy, jump-starts our metabolisms, and will keep us satisfied til lunchtime.

4. Get Pretty With It
I’d be lying if I said my beauty routine was labor intensive or even strategically put together, while I always have some waterproof mascara in my bag and love a good swipe of green eyeliner when I didn’t just #wakeuplikethis, I’ve never been one to splurge at Sephora or try out a new line of organic skin-cream or face wash. When it comes to my beauty supplies, most of them were found at CVS and the rest were stolen from my Mom’s cabinet at home. While there is no one size fits all for beauty of beauty routines, starting the day off with something that makes you feel beautiful can help gear the day off just right. Whether that means giving yourself an extra 10 minutes so you can shave and moisturize your legs for work, trying out that new coffee face-mask you’ve been reading about on the ‘gram, or even just clipping your nails every other Monday… making time for and prioritizing what makes you feel beautiful, will not only help your skin shine, but you will actually glow.

5. Read Up
For some, it’s The New York Times. For others, it’s the latest Gillian Flynn novel. For me, it’s reading a chunk of my latest self-help book or skimming my favorite magazine on Texture (if you love magazines but are going green and don’t know which magazines to invest in, Texture is a great monthly subscription app which gives you access to (almost) ALL magazine brands for 15 bucks a month. Quite the savings and great for screenshots). Knowledge is power, amiright? So whether it’s the gossip column, an article about Trump and Spicer, or this weeks weather, the more you know, the more you know.

6. Get Started Early
Swap showing up to the office RIGHT on time (aka 5-10 minutes late, “Sorry, traffic!”) for an early arrival. If you don’t HAVE to be at work until 8:30, or 9:00, try getting there by 7:30am (or 8:00am, if that’s simply not doable for you). This extra chunk of alone time will give you the opportunity to check your to-do list, respond to emails, and update your calendar before the day gets under way and meetings and event swallow up the time you’d typically use for smaller tasks (that become monster tasks, if not taken care of each day… Ever had more than 100 emails to get through, say, after a vacation? Yep, it’s that feeling of dread we want to avoid.)

If you don’t work in an office, and instead work from home or freelance, start by starting early on Monday. Every Monday morning, force yourself to begin working by 8:00am. Yep, that means that by 8:00am the cat is fed, the coffee is poured, and the teeth are brushed. By forcing yourself to start early, you’ll be making the most out of your 24 hour day. Plus, you’ll be surprised how much you’ve missed the work after a weekend away.

7. Avoid Social Media
While we all know the social media savvy boss-girl who has turned her beauty and health routines into profit and uses her #wokeuplikethis look as a symbol of authenticity, and some of us may even long to follow her path, looking into someone else’s life can distract us from our personal goals that early in the am. It’s a tall order, but if you start the day taking inventory of your own life (i.e. make a list of things you need to get done while enjoying a cup of joe or scan over your planner while packing your work and gym bag for the day), your focus will begin on YOUR personal goals, not some strangers curated (and totally enviable) life.

I hit the gym in just a sports bra for the first time… and didn’t hate it. I know, I know. It’s ironic really, I’ll gladly post flex-pics in the ladies locker room post-sweat in just a sports bra and leggings, or will remove my shirt for an after-CrossFit photo-shoot. But there’s something about a 50+ year old man grunting in your direction in the weight-room while he hammers out some bicep curls with bad form that can feel a little, well, unnerving… if you’ve ever been the only girl in the weight room, you know what I’m talking about.

Occasionally, like after CrossFit Open Workout 17.1, I desperately wanted to strip down; I was drenched in sweat, all the women around me were in varying degrees of un-dress, and well, it’s CrossFit – it’s what they do. Another time, the air conditioning hadn’t yet been turned on at my “normal” gym and mid-way through leg-day I was practically slippin and sliding around on the wooden platform while trying to hit a PR, yet, my shirt stayed on even when the meathead next to me took his off to dry off his loaded barbell before tossing it to the side so that nipples were sparkling with sweat, and back muscles flexed in the gyms bright lights. A third time, I hit the gym after a 9 hour work day, opened my gym bag and found no shirt. Instead embracing the serendipity and hitting chest day in a sports bra, I put on the black turtleneck I had worked out in all day… and got to work (Stay tuned for a future article about “I Worked Out In A Turtleneck And Survived… Here’s What It Was Like).

Going top-less to the gym had been on my to-do list since the turtleneck incident of 2016, but I kept pushing it off (by remembering a workout shirt). That is, until last week when I had a unique opportunity: to workout in a huge (HUGE), disco-gym (a New York Sports Club on Astor Place in NYC) that had JUST opened within the week and wouldn’t have more than maybeee 5 other gym-goers. Since I had totally chickened out every other time I’d intended to bare belly to severe gym lights, goggling eyes, and trainers in black “Trainer” tee’s, this time I decided to head belly-button first to the gym floor.

Let me paint the scene: neon lights, a disco ball, a dj booth, mirrors EVERYWHERE, and lighting so on-point even a slice of white bread would look ripped. Seriously. If I was going to bare all and let mu freak fly, there couldn’t be a more, well, flattering or appropriate setting.

Here’s what happened (and what didn’t) when I finally committed to going topless in the gym.

1. Some Men Stared.
There were 15 gym-goers and 5 trainers spread into the 4,000 square-foot expanse of weights, machines, turf, and rigs. And of 20 people in the disco lights, half were dudes… and while I was peeved that one of the men stopped to offer me advice for my push-press technique, the rest kept the staring to a minimum.

2. But More Women Stared.
I gotta say, if anyone was going to stop pedalling their stationary bike or pause awkwardly mid squat to look at my midsection, I’d thought it would be an older dude (see comments above). But it was actually one of the female trainers who started a little too long as I hoisted some dumbbells overhead and listened to a Beyonce-dubstep remix play through the speaker. I was a little weirded out at first, but towards the end of my sweat-sesh she came up to ask me if I did physique competitions or bodybuilding, which was super flatter (because in case you’re wondering, the answer is no). She and I ended up having a conversation about what time of day the most women are in the gym and made hesitant plans to workout together in the future. Sometimes, staring is caring?

3. I Appreciated My Body.
During the first fifteen minutes I was preoccupied by how my stomach bunched when I did seated shoulder presses and whether or not you could see my nipples through the sports bra fabric but after the initial discomfort faded, it felt really damn empowering to be there, muscling my way through shoulder and bicep day without a shirt on. I stopped fretting over folds and creases and starting focusing on how muscled my chest looked, how much stronger my stomach looked than it did a year ago, and even took time to smile at the wash of freckles that had accumulated from a Saturday spent rooftop. By the end of the workout I was feelin’ myself…

4. It Took My Instagram Game To The Next Level.
…which is why I whipped my phone out to document the perfect combo of rainbow lights, disco balls, and belly button. With hashtags like #freethebellyton and #sportsbrasquad, it’s hard not to want to join in on the fun when you’re already halfway there.

5. I Worked Out Harder.
Maybe it was the rush of adrenaline from feeling naked in public. Or maybe it was because my skin was sweat-wet and sticking to my stomach, but I powered through a 90 minute weight training day without ever wanting to quit or put my shirt back on. Plus, the full-frontal view of my midsection helped me remember to activate my core muscles and focus on my form. I felt pretty badass…

6. Seriously, It Was No Biggie.
Turns out, working out in your bra is only a big deal if you make it one. For months I had procrastinated trying something that had been on my Meathead To-Do List, but really my workout was business as usual, if not a little less sweaty. While I can’t promise I’ll do it again anytime soon, I’m no longer terrified of showing my belly while I heave heavy weights over heat and perspire like it’s nobodies business. I workout as celebration of what my body can do, so next time if I feel inclined to celebrate my body shirtless, I’ll do as I damn please.

I woke up Friday morning, turned towards my phone to shut off the Bon Jovi streaming through the speaker, quieted the early morning melody, and elongated my body – stretching first my toes, calves, quads, and consciously moving up way up my body. I raised my arms above my head, interlaced my fingers, straightened my arms, and pulled my head towards the headboard. A felt a light snap at the left side of my neck and then felt a wave of tension take hold of the entire left side of my neck.

The muscle had contracted hard, tensing the muscle in my trapezius, and pulling my shoulder high to my ear. Like a first unable to unclench, the muscles in my neck spasmed as they held contracted against each other. These spasms occurred every 10 minutes and lasted 2-5 minutes, for the next fours. And while it’s been two weeks since the Doc at the walk-in diagnosed my neck spasms as “torticollis” or a “sprained neck”, and I can hardly remember the pain I felt that morning before the pain medicine and muscle relaxants kicked in, I know that I have never experienced pain like that in my body.

The night before the injury I fell asleep reading Gabrielle Bernstein’s book, “The Universe Has Your Back” which explores the power of mantras. Perhaps that’s why as I laid there calling out to my roommate as the pain encapsulated my neck in spasms I repeated calming mantras to myself to help myself relax. Each time the spasms sprung into my body I said “Breathe. Breathe. Breathe” “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.” over and over again until the twinge passed. Not only did the mantra give me something to focus on as the pain came and passed, but it actually reminded me to focus on my breath.

The average human does not need a neck sprain to experience tension or stress in the neck and upper back region. Stress affects our bodies everywhere, most of us are familiar with emotional stress causing a headache (We even have a name for it — tension headache). When we undergo physical or emotional stress we have the tendency to tense up and tighten our neck muscles, which contributes to neck pain. When my neck was taken ahold of my a series of spasms and contractions, my innate response was one of stress: What if this feeling of pain never subsides? What if I am unable to regain control of my body? What if I can’t exercise for the next week or month? I added to the pain in my neck because my stress-questions and fear caused me to tense up, which added to the tightness in my already-tight neck muscles.

Neck pain caused by stress is often treated by helping patients learn relaxation techniques such as yoga breathing, meditation, and positive self-talk. The use of mantras incorporates all three which is why I used the mantra, “breathe” to get me through my neck pain and now continue to use mantras during times of stress in order to re-center.

The dictionary defines mantra as: A word or formula chanted or sung as an incantation or prayer. I define mantra as a kick in the butt, that push that lifts you up that hill when you’re at your last breath, the fight that gets you up out of bed on a cold morning, or phrase that helps you stay calm when stress or anxiety threaten to take hold.

So what makes a good mantra? One that’s short, positive, instructive, and full of action words (verbs). You can have multiple mantras in your “relaxation bank” and can even make up words if no phrase evokes the feeling you’re trying to acces. For example, “Relaxer”, “Mooba”, “Om” are all nonwords that are often used to enter a mindful state of being.

If you want to make your own mantra, keep it short and affirmative. For example, “Don’t forget to breathe” will be less effective than “breathe” and “Don’t be afraid” or “You HAVE to do this” are less effective than “I am brave” and “Yes you can”. If the problem you’re trying to counteract is negative, create a mantra that turns it around. If you feel weak, focus on strength. If you’re in pain, focus on calmness. Because mantras are meant to be repeated over and over as part of a meditative process, keeping it short is key. Aim for 5 seconds or less.

The phrase or word and its meaning is just as important as the way the phrase and word are said. As I reminded myself to “breathe” I enjoyed the sturdy lightness of the word on my tongue, felt single syllable dropping into the middle of my chest and oozing its way down to my heart’s center. When my mind wandered back to the feeling of pain I brought myself back to the sound of myself saying “Breathe”, which reminded me to inhale and exhale. The goal was to make the mantra my predominant thought, which is what the goal of any mantra should be.

A repeated and well-chosen mantra can keep us on track and keep derailing, belittling thoughts out of our minds and negative experiences or pains from capturing our bodies. Research shows that, positive self-talk can help reduce stress and the risk of depression, boost our immune system and overall health, and improve our confidence. And, what’s more, we don’t even have to say these catch phrases out loud like I did during m neck injury! Just repeating them in our head is enough to keep us feelin’ tough and ready to conquer whatever life throws at us.

Mantras can be incorporated into the different areas of our life. We can create a morning mantra to kick start our day, a mantra to get us through our workouts, a mantra to get us through tough conversations with friends or loved-ones, a mantra to keep us on-task at work. The only requirement of a solid mantra is that it revs you up, keeps you positive, and inspires you to recenter.