Lather, Rinse, Ruminate.

 

I had just stepped out of the shower and felt compelled to sit down and write. Something about the shower always helps me regroup. It’s like dropping puzzle pieces on the floor and seeing where they land. It’s where my best podcast ideas were born, where full paragraphs and quotable lines pour into my mind. 

I’ve been reading KaraSwisher’s book , BURN BOOK lately, and it’s sparked something in me. I’ve always been inspired by strong women who’ve walked hard roads and come out on top, by whatever metric you choose: success, visibility, power, money. Kara’s world--tech bros and Silicon Valley--might seem unrelated to mine on the surface, but the way she writes, unapologetically and with sharp humor, about her encounters with powerful men at different points in her life is what inspired me to share  my interactions with those not-so-powerful men whom I’ve encountered.

As I read the first chapters of Swisher’s book, where she describes the questionable behavior of some of her professional peers, I can’t help but hope young men--and maybe even some older ones who are open to change--read her words and don’t just dismiss her as an “angry lesbian.” I hope they see that this is how many women experience their interactions with men.

My intention isn’t to shame or blame. I’m not here to teach men “a lesson.” I know how that can make some uncomfortable, especially when expressing honest, authentic emotions can be misinterpreted as criticism. What I do hope is that both men and women reflect and reevaluate moments in their lives when they may have caused (or experienced pain), intentional or not.

Me included.

As I search for the right words, I can’t help but think about how my approach could be different, how I’ve come off in conversations and  relationships, and what kind of energy I’ve brought into those moments.

I gravitate toward stories about resilience, how people built companies, challenged systems, shaped legacies. And I realize now, that’s the kind of story I want to tell.

In the shower this morning, I had a moment of clarity: I want to explore the connection between the dynamic I witnessed growing up--my parents, the era I was born into (1965), the societal norms of the time--and how those experiences shaped me, both personally and professionally.

For most of my life, when people hear my story, they say, “This should be a book. Or a movie.” And I don’t necessarily disagree. But it’s never been the more sensational moments, the violence, the trauma, that felt like the heart of the story to me.

About 15 years ago, I had a long conversation with Dolores Robinson, Holly Robinson Peete’s mother. She was a powerhouse in the entertainment industry. I’ll never forget what she told me. She said, “This is not your father’s story. It’s not your mother’s story. It’s yours. I’m more interested in why you haven’t had children or a lasting relationship. That’s the story.”

That stuck with me.

Now that I’ve just turned 60, I find myself constantly rewinding the tape, like film on a reel, trying to connect the dots. Where did things shift? What choices led me here? And more importantly, how do I move forward to finally build the life I’ve always longed for?

I read these memoirs of women navigating male-dominated systems, of people rising from nothing, and I dissect them like chess matches. Move by move. What worked? What backfired? How can I adapt their strategies while staying true to who I am?

So maybe the best place to start is with my last relationship. I’ll work backward from there. I want to show how I approached that experience with the intention of doing things differently, of breaking cycles that had defined so much of my past.

This isn’t going to be a neat, linear memoir. But I do want it to feel intentional. I want to reflect on the past in a way that makes sense, and hopefully, you as the reader will not only relate, but maybe see yourself in it too.

Someone recently asked if I believe in regression or past lives. My mother did, fervently, but I never really asked her why. I suspect she saw it as a second chance, a redo for a life that hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped. And I get that. There are times I wish the same.

Do I believe we get another shot? I’m not sure. But I do believe everything happens for a reason, even though I question that sometimes too.

One thing I know for sure: My constant need to reflect and rewind has shaped how I live now. It can feel like torture, this endless replaying, but it also forces change. Slowly, sometimes painfully, but still: Change.

The way I’ve allowed people into my life, how I’ve let them treat me both personally and professionally, has often followed the same script. And I think that’s a direct result of what I learned early on, what I witnessed, what I thought I needed to feel whole.

We don’t often celebrate people who’ve survived trauma without turning to addiction. I want to be clear: I deeply respect those fighting that battle. I’ve supported loved ones through it and seen its grip firsthand. But someone once said to me, “If you told a stranger in a mall your story, the environment you grew up in, they’d probably assume you didn’t make it, or that you ended up addicted or dead.”

That hit me.

So maybe this is the start. A way to process. A way to help others navigate their own hard stories. A way to say: it’s okay to question things.

To change your mind.

To break the pattern.