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Happy New Month is a free virtual workshop to debrief the past month and prioritize the upcoming month.

In a tight 60 mins, Cory guides the group to

1. extract gems from the pas…

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To work with other cool humans on this topic, click below:

I am in a situation I never thought I’d find myself in. I’m standing up to my boss who is a family member. While my actions are breaking a cycle of caving in to people with power over me (yay), there is a lot at stake. This is bringing up tons of anxiety (my brain is like a washing machine in spin) and –much harder to deal with – shame.

I have strategies for anxiety, including the ones you shared last time.

But shame is like being held at gunpoint. It takes me hostage. It says “how dare you!” I’m eleven again. Help.

Love,

Shame is a bitch

Dear Bestie:

I love you.

You’re doing your best and I’m proud of you. And I love this story arc for you.

Now, let’s get down to business.

I wrote you a poem. Poetry, as you know, is for the deepest, purest, and hardest moments. Like shame.

We’ll talk more later. From this poem, I want you to know:

1. You are not alone. We all have shame monsters.

2. There’s only one (counterintuitive) cure for shame, as far as I know. You try it for yourself and let me know what happens.

Shame Is A Bitch

Let’s talk about shame,
that little bitch, that lil’ motherfucker.

Shame lives in your chest 
under your ribs
like a giant white worm, squashing your heart.

But when you shine a light, you see 
it is actually an arthropod, white and disgusting, with lots of limbs and a thin exoskeleton; 
something between a cranky crab and 
a fleshy worm and a skittish spider and a slinking dog
 and a wily scorpion and a sea pig. 

It is most like a sea pig, except it moves
 like lightning:
              quick, singeing.
A revolting creature, the most hideous beast 
you could ever imagine, a throbbing milky snake that grew legs                                    so you could never extract it. 
It lives behind the armour of your ribs 
evading 
your attempts to yank it out.

It torments your mind, face, heart, arms.
Blooms pink quick 
when another human or your own memory suggests you are 
a bit ick.

They say “room for improvement” –
 Shame hears “failure.”

Slow down, you beg, you rev so fast and you’re wrong. 

“Wrong” it hears, 
and revs again, 
turns pink, then red, 
sends poison, then: 
quick heart, 
tight throat,
heavy arms, 
numb legs, 
hot face, 
static mind. 

Clear thoughts flee. 
Only white-noise remains, 
a scrum of rats 
scratching to get in. 

And the only thing 
that has ever ever worked
 is to look directly at its grotesque body 
(you never see its face, it always skitters away)
and say,
I love you.

Yes,
you.

And it melts into a blob 
calm
for a sec.

And you see it is a mâché
of all the hates you hate about yourself,
mashed together with spit for glue.

At some point the mâché took on a life of its own 
(it was either that or take your life), 
maybe on the day of your thousandth shaming,
or the first time you believed them, believed mistake meant loser.

It formed, it breathed -- how?
It sucked air from your lungs to animate itself, 
for it was getting too big to hide.
 Like a tumor it would be found, so it had to slither, 
and then it grew legs 
and got more nimble 
as time passed. 

And you – miracle – healed some parts of yourself 
by bringing a gross story into the light
 and your friend loved you anyway,
             loved you,
 but Shame lived on, 
just a limb fell off in the healing. 
With millepede limbs,  
what’s one or two lost?

So many limbs, just one heel:
an Achilles, 
and it is 
acceptance. 

To thrive, Shame must be told 
it’s unlovable, unlikeable, the opposite of adorable.
There are so many ways to say that, 
so many tones.
         
         get real

          give your head a shake

            I can’t even look at you right now

             you’re ridiculous

               nobody cares what you think         

               do you see yourself

             do you hear yourself

            you idiot

          what’s wrong with you 
          
This energy gloms onto its globby body 
and it grows longer, stronger, faster, fatter,
white flesh glowing.

That fucking bitch is so sneaky
and 

I accept you, Shame.
You are not 
too disgusting
for me.

Maybe you will 
always be inside my chest.
Maybe we could

make peace.

Love,
M. Power

P.S. For those curious about sea-pigs.

I am being evicted from my home of six years. Me, my cat, books, pothos. Wah.

Where will I live? With whom? Rent prices hint of housemates. After eight years of living solo, part of me wants this (communal life) and part of me worries – about noise, working from home, and not being able to pee naked at 3 am.

Will I find a good nest in my budget? What if I can’t? Will the pets get along?

I don’t know how to cope with this uncertainty. I’m destabilized. I’m anxious, afraid. I can’t stop thinking about it. So that’s a problem. But also, I’m braver than I used to be, and I don’t want to cringe my way through this. I want to be bolder. But how?

Write back, coach! I need a boost, a reframe, something.

Love,

Uncertain

Woof. That’s not easy.

I relate hard to fearing the unknown. I think most folks do. So let’s get into it.

It is clear you have fear.

Tell me. Is this specifically housing-fear, 100% solved once you find a home? Or is this your fear that skulks under the surface of your life, waiting for the next earthquake?

If fear pops up in other unstable moments, it’s your fear. Great. Now you can figure out how to work with your fear in all uncertainties, delays, obstacles, unknowns, clusterfucks, and circumstances.

Here are a few tactics.

First, put some space between not-knowing and fear. Uncertainty is not the same as fear. We encounter an unknown, and fear rises swiftly, seemingly simultaneously.

But take a beat. Think of unknowns that are neutral, or even nice.

How ‘bout a hockey game1? If you knew the outcome, would you even watch? The game doesn’t exist without unknowns.

Birthday gifts. Why do we wrap them? Isn’t it about the gift inside? Ah, but we tantalize with suspense.

A novel. If you knew exactly how the plot would unfold, would you read it? Curiosity leads you on.

Unknowns aren’t always bad or scary; humans are entranced with not-knowing. They are yet-to-be-revealed plot points. And we can, in fact, choose how we approach.

I’m not saying subdue fear that rises up — I’m saying look at the unknown (your future housing) as a destination you’re moving toward.

Fear rises up? Okay, fear can come along for the ride. But what else is here? What else do you want to call up? Curiosity? A sense of quest? Fellow travelers’ support? Old maps?

Bestie, try reframe this uncertainty as adventure.

If that sounds cheesy, let me remind you that life is, in fact, a wild, absurd adventure. We are on a rock spinning around a blazing star at 107,000 kilometers an hour. What the actual eff.

Humans worry and do all sorts of things to feel in control — but control is an illusion.

Everything we have

can and will be lost

in time.

Health. Home. Appetite. Favourite socks. Loved ones. Our own breath.

How comforting I am, I know! “Dear bestie, it’s worse than you think!” Haha.

You know me. I like to dive straight into the fear-thing. I believe we can disarm it. Your other friends can pat your ruffled feathers; I say learn to fly in the storm. Storms are not so rare.

This is my suggestion: develop the skill of comfort with uncertainty. Honestly, it’s smart to build that capacity because life is full of flux.

Folks construct lives to establish certainty: that’s one way to deal with it. But nobody can escape a death in the family, a pandemic, a missing pet, a broken limb.

To be clear, it’s not nonsensical to seek stability. Humans need homeostasis. I do too. It’s hard to write a sonata without walls or a piano.

The problem is holding life tightly, and believing it stable because of the tight hold. Things only appear stable.

Far wiser, I think, to embrace uncertainty. Or learn how to accept it. Uncertainty is as ubiquitous as air.

Embracing uncertainty can feel exhilarating, like a hockey game, like throwing your hands in the air on a roller coaster — you’re here anyway, why not give in to the full experience?

Remember, lovey, I’m writing as someone with an officially diagnosed anxiety disorder! Meds and therapy and all the supports are recommended. *And* there are vital skills (like mindfulness) and worldviews that change the game.

Let me pull an example from kayaking. If you’re paddling along and the wind picks up, and you find yourself in a bit of current, you can try get to shore ASAP. Escape. But if you have some paddling skills and your nerve, you can paddle in chop. The chop becomes swell, the swells rise. If you tighten up and panic, you fall in. If you are present and engaged, you may surf some waves.

Surfing is a peak experience that we experience as flow state — it involves risk, skill, and a dynamic environment, which is to say, constant change.

What would surfing this eviction look like for you? How does a person boldly move through instead of cringing?

You’ll have your own ideas. Here’s a few of mine:

• Sit with your uncertainty. Watch the fear come up. Hi fear. If you don’t add any extra fuel (more thoughts), it will recede. Bye fear. Emotions are energy in motion.

• When the fear returns, talk to it like it’s your own kid. “Buddy, this IS freaky! But I’ll take care of it.” Soothe yourself.

• Come up with a mantra and repeat often, like

  • I’ve been through harder things than this.

  • I’m brave as fuck.

  • I’m curious how this is gonna turn out!

  • Life is full of uncertainty.

• Pull up your past adventures. Think of things you’ve learned, strengths you’ve earned.

• Take a step toward finding housing but pretend you’re helping a friend, that it’s not for you. (This can remove procrastination and fear.)

• Worst-case-scenario it. Worst case is what? You can’t find an apartment before you have to leave? So make a backup plan. Where can you store your things, where can you couch surf? Take away the terror.

• Call someone who cares about you and ask them to brainstorm with you. Stay connected to the people cheering you on and booing bad luck. It’s wonderfully heartening.

• Wear yourself out physically. Lift weights. Climb up a big hill carrying a heavy pack. Clean out your basement. Whatever. Get yourself to the point that when you lie down for sleep, you let out a dad-groan. You know the one.

Bestie, being present isn’t just about soothing yourself; it’s also about staying with a hard moment, which develops long-term resilience. And if you stay long enough with the hard, you can pop into a flow state where it doesn’t feel nasty, it feels . . . exhilarating. Energetic. Super alive.

And accepting uncertainty doesn’t mean doing nothing. Far from. It’s moving toward what scares you with arms wide open. I am confident this will disarm the anxiety.

The path to your future is actually a river. Grab your paddle.

Love,

M. Powers

Get too many email newsletters from Substack? Prefer to go to Substack to read content, and get no emails?

Do it wrong, and you’ll unsubscribe entirely — and may not be able to access the content anymore.

Here’s the how-to:

1. go to settings

2. go to Notifications

3. click on Newsletter delivery

4. choose app/push only (not email)

5. that’s it! note: this will impact all of your substack subscriptions

Here’s a video showing how to do it from your computer:

Here’s a video showing how to do it from your mobile phone:

Note that some Substacks send out multiple email newsletters for different categories. At this time, Mindful Adulting is mindful of not cluttering your email inbox, and sends out maximum of one email per week, which includes all the latest posts. (See more details on the Computer Video above if you subscribe to a Substack that sends out emails on multiple categories and want to adjust those settings.)

Please comment if anything is confusing, and I will rectify! I am still getting to know Substack myself.

Warmly,

Cory

Dear M,

I look at my siblings, my peers – their finances, their romantic relationships, their success. I feel so inadequate.

I’ve been focused on healing my messed-up self. Now I am finally stable on the inside, which is great, and I’ve realized what I want to do with my life and have started doing it, but it’s early days and there’s little to show for all this effort.

Success doesn’t define me . . . but I feel sad I can’t bring more to the table, and to my own table.

Love,

Inadequate

First of all, thank you for being honest about something many of us feel but can’t admit. I’ve certainly been there, looking around and feeling less-than. For what it’s worth, I believe every minute of healing work is worthwhile and will have a shocking ROI . . . if you’re willing to wait.

Now, what you’ve shared is heavy business so I’m gonna start by telling you a story (fun!) and making some cheering jokes (so fun!) before we deep-dive. The story involves my favourite Christmas carol. What? It’s early January; carols are still ringing in my head.

It’s The Little Drummer Boy.

First off, it’s a hilarious premise: picture a young lad playing drums for a newborn in a barn. Drums and newborns, mm, great combo.

There’s your album cover. Cows. Wooden beams. Dim light.

Second, when I was in my devout christian era, I undervalued this song. Fundamentalists like theology-heavy tunes, not fictional ditties. But toward the end of my long religion stint, I got it.

In this story, everybody’s trekking off to see the new baby, lil’ king Jesus. Everybody’s bringing dope gifts, like myrrh. (What is myrrh, you ask? Obviously I know what myrrh is, but we don’t have time to talk about that right now).

Trouble arises: one of the guests is poor. The little drummer boy. He says, “I have no gift to bring.” (A modern boy might say, “I have no GIF to bring.”)

Pa rum pa pum pum.

Does our lil drummer boi go into a shame spiral, comparing himself to the others clustering around the manger? No, he does not!

He thinks, what do I have?

Aha! The ability to play drums. The gift of music.

So he offers. “Shall I play for you?”

“K,” says Mary, still high on myrrh.

And he plays:

rum pa pum pum

rum pa pum pum

on his drum.

You see where I’m going. Our boy had skills. He had this spirit of generosity. He wanted to contribute, to show love and respect, and he used something of himself, a skill he had developed, his talent, his effort. Actually, we don’t even know if he was good on drums; maybe he sucked. But the little drummer boy showed up and he offered what he had. Offered himself.

You, my friend, contain a thousand gifts. Your presence is a gift. Your effort. Your determination to grow. Even your desire to bring things to the table is a gift; it demonstrates your care. You bring all this to “the table.”

It’s hard to not sound trite here, but tell me this: do you love your siblings and your peers because of their accomplishments? I suspect not. Maybe you respect them for it. And that’s okay, although it’s worth considering whether you respect effort or outcome. Outcomes depend on factors in and outside of our control, like privilege and luck.

Our North American culture has dipped away from fundamental respect. Human lives deserve dignity and respect, not for what they produce, but inherently. Innately. For existing.

Henri Nouwen, a prof who ended up working with disabled folks, gets at this in his writings.1 What does a chap with severe disabilities, who needs help to eat and use the toilet, “bring to the table”? He can give and receive love, which, Nouwen says, is the point of life.

Your lil letter, bestie, touches at the nerve center of existence. The big questions. Who am I? What is this all about? What should I do with my life?

You said you feel inadequate.

Inadequacy is a kind of emptiness. Empty is good. It’s spacious. Open. It gives you a chance to thoughtfully lay a radical new foundation, a base of beliefs like

• nobody’s value depends on their occupation, possessions,2 or reputation

• it is enough to be who you are

• we exist to give and receive love

You can strive to excel at everything to feel adequate (an endless pursuit), or you can change how you view adequacy. If you do the latter, it will impact your self-acceptance and your acceptance of others and of life itself. Your loved ones will feel it. You will be kinder to yourself. The undercurrent of envy and competitiveness will drop from your relationships, leaving you free to get after whatever it is you’re here to do, the unique way that you contribute to the world, aka express your love.

You get to choose what you believe.

Be like the little drummer boy: just show up and offer yourself. Offer what you are and what you have, ignoring others’ gifts. You don’t need myrrh — you have the drumbeat of your own loving heart, rum pa pum

pum

pa pum

pa pum

puming.

Love,

M. Powers

P. S. Listen, let me know if you find out what myrrh is. It sounds so great. Myrrh.

Oh, and bestie? Why not delete socials for a few weeks. Get a breather from the comparison machines.

Coach Cory

Cory has been coaching folks for over 20 years, in various settings, and is known for their intuition, attunement, hilarity, allegories, and insight. If you’ve participated in a workshop and sparkled under Cory’s witty, caring wisdom, and want all of that energy directed at your own life, 1-1 sessions will be perfect.

Cory will help you untangle, focus, prioritize, and accept yourself wholeheartedly. The transformative session will be both gentle and rigorous. You will leave with fresh eyes, a clear new perspective, and a wee plan.

Cory is open to working with clients of all backgrounds, and is a neurodivergent ex-fundamentalist queer/genderqueer white settler of Dutch descent.

To Book

Here is the link to Cory’s booking calendar.

These sessions are on Zoom. Contact for in-person slots.

Note: other times (including evening and weekend slots) are available upon request; please email or message Cory directly.

Cost

Sliding scale $75-100.

Contact Cory for barters/bursaries.

What to Expect

• a 55 minute session

• a focus on you and whatever is important to you

• guided nervous system regulation

• clear take-aways

• increased resilience, self-trust, and connection to your body

Cancellation Policy

Minimum 24 hours notice is required.

Cancelled appointments are rescheduled, not refunded.

‘Pay What You Can’ Model during Capitalism

Cory works other jobs and is attempting to turn Mindful Adulting into a business as their main source of income in a way that respects Cory’s needs, uplifts others, and engages in a sustainable financial ecosystem of giving and receiving. Cory offers both free and accessible/sliding scale workshops, free resources (articles, audio) here on Substack, paid subscriptions on Substack, and more.

If 1-1 sessions are currently inaccessible for your budget, please check out the multi-person workshops. If your finances are secure and you want to support this work, please consider upgrading to Gold Membership, and/or contacting Cory to partner through sponsoring other folks and more. There is enough for everyone in this world.

Coach Cory

Cory has been coaching folks for over 20 years, in various settings, and is known for their intuition, attunement, hilarity, allegories, and insight. If you’ve participated in a workshop and sparkled under Cory’s witty, caring wisdom, and want all of that energy directed at your own life, 1-1 sessions will be perfect.

Cory will help you untangle, focus, prioritize, and accept yourself wholeheartedly. The transformative session will be both gentle and rigorous. You will leave with fresh eyes, a clear new perspective, and a wee plan.

Cory is open to working with clients of all backgrounds, and is a neurodivergent ex-fundamentalist queer/genderqueer white settler of Dutch descent.

To Book

Here is the link to Cory’s booking calendar.

These sessions are on Zoom. Contact for in-person slots.

Note: other times (including evening and weekend slots) are available upon request; please email or message Cory directly.

Cost

Sliding scale $75-100.

Contact Cory for barters/bursaries.

What to Expect

• a 55 minute session

• a focus on you and whatever is important to you

• guided nervous system regulation

• clear take-aways

• increased resilience, self-trust, and connection to your body

Cancellation Policy

Minimum 24 hours notice is required.

Cancelled appointments are rescheduled, not refunded.

‘Pay What You Can’ Model in a Time of Capitalism

Cory works other jobs and is attempting to turn Mindful Adulting into a business as their main source of income in a way that respects Cory’s needs, uplifts others, and engages in a sustainable financial ecosystem of giving and receiving. Cory offers both free and accessible/sliding scale workshops, free resources (articles, audio) here on Substack, paid subscriptions on Substack, and more.

If 1-1 sessions are currently inaccessible for your budget, please check out the multi-person workshops. If your finances are secure and you want to support this work, please consider upgrading to Gold Membership, and/or contacting Cory to partner through sponsoring other folks and more. There is enough for everyone in this world.

Hullo!

I am launching a new series called Dear Bestie.

Dear Bestie is, I suppose, love letters in the form of an advice column to the people I imagine are interested in Mindful Adulting: ex-fundamentalists, neurodivergents, queers, folks raised in dysfunctional homes, gen pop who want to live meaningful and mindful lives without subscribing to a rigid religion and who are still figuring out how to be a healthy adult (at any age).

What is Dear Bestie?

First off, it’s more inspo than advice, and it’s testable. I follow Eckhart Tolle’s teaching model. When Tolle offers insight, he says, “don’t take my word for it — try it for yourself!”

Yes. Good advice is practical, not theoretical, and implementable. The results are self-evident, not taken on faith.

This is especially important for ex-fundies, ex-culties, and those who despise manipulation and coercion. Let’s call this approach TIY, like do-it-yourself or DIY: try-it-yourself.

Second, this inspo/advice is for adults grappling with the tricksy business of adulting and want an outside, mindful perspective. It’s mindfulness applied to everyday struggles.

Third, the tone. It’s not just about the advice — it’s how the advice is delivered.

Learning to speak kindly to myself was crucial in changing my brain and my life. In Dear Bestie, I write to my readers the way I’ve learned to talk to my self, the way my bestie spoke to me, and the way you can learn to speak to yourself.

Some of us find it easier to embody acceptance and love if we address ourselves as we would a best friend. Dear Bestie models this. Exposure to this will, I hope, rewire your mind to be more kind. And silly. I use humour as liberally as salt on potatoes, and I’m Dutch.1

Fourth, this is not “tough love,” a term that often indicates mean but truthful. Hurtful isn’t helpful.

Mindful Adulting, my little coach/writing business, and Dear Bestie, are about clear wisdom and total acceptance. A punitive, judgmental approach only changes surface behaviour. It drives shadows deeper underground.

Here, your ugliest truth is welcome. We are all freaks. We are all radiant souls. Both/and.

Subscribe now

Why An Advice Column, Cory?

1. It allows readers to write me with their direct questions. Interaction!

2. I like helping folks (esp. with reframing and analogies).

3. Reading other people’s issues can feel deliciously snoopy while still being consensual/private.

4. It’s a reminder that everybody struggles. A good antidote to social media!

5. While not everyone will relate to each precise quandary, I trust my readers to artfully apply any helpful advice to their own lives.

6. I’m bored of conventional articles. I wanna play! Play is an unbelievably effective learning strategy. And it’s fun for me.

   1. For example, the letters are signed by M. Powers. You get it. Mpowers. Empowers.

      My name is actually Cory Lobbezoo. But in my 25 years of teaching, coaching, and facilitating, my greatest delight has been empowering others through deep wisdom and playful humor. Writing as M (and other characters who shall appear, such as Mira Cole) is one way to release the spirit of creative play. And it reminds me to write about serious things as unseriously as possible.

Okay, thanks for reading; I’m excited to share this with you.

Paid subscribers, you can write in with a quandary, and M. Powers will write you a Dear Bestie.

If you are a free subscriber and want to participate, subscriptions start at $6/month, and ensure my cat and I eat more than dry spiders while we (I) create cool material for ya.

Love,

Cory

For me, boundaries used to mean a scary way forward in a nearly impossible situation. Like the video game minesweeper: any square could be hiding a bomb. Click, click, boom. In a conversation, any wrong phrase or tone could blow up the relationship. Risky.

I wish I’d had a safe place to practice, a place to practice telling people I cared about that I couldn’t do X, or telling a colleague to stop doing Y. I didn’t. So, for the longest time, I did nothing, glowered, laughed things off, or bitched about people after the fact. I didn’t know how to state my limits articulately or politely, because I had zero examples.

I grew up with passive aggression, people-pleasing, sarcasm, “mind reading” (the expectation of knowing what others are thinking), scorn, and, sometimes, huge blowups. My nervous system was afraid of any whiff of conflict.

When I started to grow some boundaries, thanks to books and therapy, it was gruesome. I’d wait too long to speak up and, fuming, couldn’t keep my cool. Whoops. I’d begin, but not be able to look someone in the eye and tell them something they didn’t want to hear. Ugh. I’d think mine was the only perspective that mattered, because I’d been wronged. Blech.

My heart pounds now, thinking of those times. It was like being on stage in a play with no lines. You have to do it, but you don’t know how.

I ended up avoiding people, places, situations. Since I couldn’t say no, I had to steer clear of people who were always trying to extract a yes from me. (Were they? Or was it my perception?) Or people who simply asked a question, and I could not “disappoint” them (that’s mind-reader business!).

These days, I feel like I’m living a 360 degree life. And that’s partly thanks to boundaries. I can walk into any situation with confidence, because I know I can handle myself. I’ll take care of me, and I’ll be respectful to others. Do no harm, take no shit. Boundaries no longer mean minesweeper; they mean expansiveness. An open field. Possibility. Because once you can say no, your yes means more.

There are still parts of my life where I’m working on boundaries. That’s okay. Boundaries are a skill set. They take negotiation, EQ, conflict skills. Totally learnable.

Annnd there’s a deeper level. The body. Our nervous systems are unsettled. Trauma lives on long after the moment has passed. So we need to be able to self-regulate, in real time. That’s ninja-level skill. But it is also learnable.

I credit my fabulous one-on-one therapists and a few great books (I’ll tell you about my fave later) for helping me figure out boundaries. I also love support groups, group therapy, and 12 step programs. But what I couldn’t find back in the day, and needed, was low-stakes situations where I could play-act scenarios to prepare for real-life situations.

So guess what?

Yup! I’m putting on workshops to do this. They’re called Say ‘No’ More: The Boundaries Workshop That Works. (Click to register. They’re in person so far. If you don’t live on Vancouver Island and want to partake, please let me know: I’ll set up online sessions if I have ~6 folks interested.)

The workshops are packed with practice. We can read books at home; this is safe, facilitated practice scenarios with real live humans in real time.

The workshops go like this: set up safety and limits, then do partner practices. We run scenarios, observe our bodies reacting, regulate ourselves, get comfortable with the discomfort of challenge (but not overwhelm), and practice stating our limits, wants and needs. We reflect on what is happening and what we’re learning. We get to be weird, silly, dramatic, low-key, say strong NO, say soft no, experiment – this is a place to wiggle around and try things.

Importantly, you are in charge of your experience. At any moment, you can pull back or say ‘nope’ – in fact, we practice this. My job is to facilitate your empowerment and embodiment.The stakes are low. The results are . . . powerful.

What qualifies me to run this? Great q. I’m not a therapist. I’m a scrappy educator. Think basketball coach for emotional intelligence.

We use language and tools of psychology that’s blessedly available to the public these days. But I stay in my lane. A therapist can dig deep into past trauma, where the roots of our dysfunction lie. Healing is a slow process. An educator/coach is forward-looking, action-oriented. In therapy, we can uncover our wounds and do our weeping; in coaching, we go “what do I want, and how do I get it?”1 We focus on skills, action, and reflection. Someone full of open wounds should start with therapy: there’s a time for gauze and ointment, and there’s a time for physio. This is physio.

Talk soon,

Cory

P. S. Register here for the in-person Boundaries workshops.

Some epic glittering event, and my mind is “what about—” and “am I too—” and “what if—” and “did I—” and “can you believe—” "and why did she—?” All these thoughts cover, like saran wrap on leftovers, the true experience, the pulsing music, twinkling lights, fizzing skinny-glassed cava, humans laughing, talking, dancing.

I’m skating on the surface of the pond, while the party is below the ice; I can’t get to it. I feel I am playing a role. I exclaim “isn’t this gorgeous” and hope an expression of celebration will pull me to the inside. But I’m describing how it looks, not feeling how it feels. Eyes dart, body fidgets, mind assesses and narrates.

In my intro article on this series, Is Mindfulness Bullshit: A Skeptic’s Guide, I wrote that if mindfulness is legit, it should not only alleviate the worst experiences, it should enhance the best ones. But after wrassling this topic for four weeks, I will go further and say

there are no peak experiences without mindfulness.

Here’s the girl math:

peak experience + distracted mind = pleasant/OK/terrible experience

We can have a decent time doing a peak experience while not present, but it’s not the full fruit — it’s juice at best. Being distracted (aka not mindful) puts something between us and reality. This is invisible, so — horribly— we may not even notice. So let’s use photography to physically represent distraction, the unseen screen between us and the present moment. Our scenario is wildlife viewing.

As a sea kayak guide, I get to see whales in the wild sometimes. If we’re not breaking marine law, we’re a few hundred meters away (unless the whale came to us). There it is: the “hkkkkkkhhh” exhale, the fountain of mist hanging in the air, the great beast’s back flowing past, a flip of anvil tail, and it’s gone, water pulling in after it. An encounter of majesty.

The guests, bristling with cameras and cellphones, now have dozens of photos and videos of a distant dark sliver in the dark water. They are so keen to record the event that they miss the event. They weren’t watching the whale, they were watching a six-inch screen watch a 16-metre humpback.

Photography can bring us closer, help us savour, be a mindfulness portal. It can also be a trophy-hunting device. In this case, the camera represents observing rather than experiencing.

And peak experiences must actually be experienced, otherwise they’re just . . . peak adjacent. It’s like going to Jasper with brand new ski gear and standing at the lift all day.

On the flip side, everyday experiences that we do not code “amazing” or peak can be peak, if experienced mindfully. Let’s do the zen-girl math:

basic experience + mindfulness = bliss/fun/pleasure

Whenever I cut a tomato with my santoku knife and I’m even partly present, the sensuality floods me. The thin steel slicing the gleaming red flesh, seeds revealed, glistening, waiting. Unrushed cooking is highly pleasureful. Life all around invites us in.

More about the blessed mundane in the next article. Let’s stay with peaks. Why do humans often miss out on our best moments, physically present but actually absent?

The ‘screen’ or saran wrap that keeps us from directly engaging is none other than our thinker, our thought-generator, the ole mind. Minds are grand for thinking, but thinking is using your mind to consider or reason. Such as, how do I build this catio? What’s the plan for smashing the patriarchy? Math. Etc.

Mostly we are not thinking. Our minds are spitting thoughts without our volition. Repetitive thoughts, useless thoughts, scary thoughts, negative thoughts. This is what minds do. (If you don’t agree, sit quietly for 30 minutes and try to have zero thoughts.) The freaky part is, if we don’t know it’s happening, we attend to this thought-stream instead of to reality.

Some women have been camping in the park beside my home. One is cruel to the other. She shouts, “you’re worthless! You never get anything right, you dumb sack of shit.” I cringe in my garden. When I take my cat for a walk, they’re arguing again. Then one woman emerges from the tent and dismantles it. I watch, and, with a shock, I realize nobody else is there. The fighting people were both her.

Crazy, I think. Or, actually, the only difference between this woman and most people is volume; most of us do this silently.

We have a stream of thoughts (and feelings, judgements, interpretations and urges). My meditation teacher Sam Harris says it’s like having a maniac follow you around your house and refuse to stop talking. It’s not crazy, although it can be crazy-making. It’s normal. The crazy part is not recognizing it. If we don’t notice the voice in the head (as Eckhart Tolle puts it), it runs — and ruins— our lives.

If you do know thoughts (or anything that arises in you) are just a stream of distraction, you can ignore them! Not suppress — that won’t work, and it’s not necessary. You can let the stream flow. But you choose to not drink the water or wade in it. You know that the stream of thoughts is not reality. It is a thing happening inside of reality, and it is not important. It is not you.

One way to switch out of stream-trance mode and into presence is to repeat the thought and add a narrator, like this:

Thought: “I never get anything right.”

Remix: “Some voice in my head is saying that I never get anything right.”

Boom. You’re back in the driver’s seat, baby. You can even notice the voice was kinda rude. Also not true. If you never get anything right, why are you reading about mindfulness right now, queen? I call BS on the voice in the head.

Here’s the happy truth:

You are right — right here. You’re never missing out. And presence is only ever one degree away.

You can learn to pop into presence. And popping into presence can become a habit. If you want that habit, stick around. It’s what I write and coach about.

Here’s a final bit of math.

You + mindfulness = distraction has no traction

May your peaks be peaky.

Talk soon,

Cory

January 1st is when we say “happy new year” and, in some countries, make resolutions. But a year is too long. A month is more doable; we get 12 of those. A chance to notice things, re-evaluate, shift gears.

I run a free virtual workshop each month called Happy New Month, to reflect on the past month and to get clear on the upcoming. You’re welcome to attend.

Why bother reflecting on the past month?

1. Learning. It’s proven that reflection is where learning takes root. Without reflecting, we can say “I’ll never do that again” but likely we will keep repeating the same lessons.

2. Celebration. Small Victory is the name of my favourite cafe in Vancouver; they have a decaf chai and a gluten-free chocolate cookie that I adore. Small victories are worth celebrating in our lives. Looking back at what you’ve accomplished in a month can feel great, and generate momentum for what you must tackle next.

3. Remember. I forget almost everything! When I pull out my journal and dayplanner (and sometimes scroll through the photos on my phone), I’m like “oh my gosh, this was an eventful month!” Reflecting leads to gratitude, clarity, and putting a reminder on your phone to call your Aunt Helen because you definitely forgot again.

4. Pain. Sometimes we’re so relieved to get past a pain point that we move on asap. Fair. But also, if it’s a recurring theme, it could be worth noting it. Then you can decide if you need support or comfort or strategies or perhaps a friend to egg someone’s car with.

5. Consistency. If you do this monthly, you’ll track your year in a meaningful way. And you’re much more likely to accomplish your goals.

6. This is your actual life. It’s worth thinking about.

7. Do you think it’s worthwhile? If so, why? Tell us in the comments.

Okay, but how to do this? It sounds laborious.

Do it in a way that is as fun as possible. It doesn’t matter if you spend 20 minutes or 2 hours. You can do it solo or with a partner. Here are some suggestions:

1. Take a walk with a friend and say “let’s ask each other questions about the past month”.

   1. sample questions:

      1. what was your favourite day in July, and why?

      2. what person or situation surprised you?

      3. do you remember what weather you enjoyed most? least?

      4. tell me about an adversity you experienced.

      5. what encounter with a stranger stands out to you?

      6. what would you do differently, given the chance? is it something you could do differently next month?

         Notice that reflecting on the past month easily seeps into living your upcoming month more strategically and wisely.

2. Wash dishes or do some menial chore that you just gotta get done, and do a voice note to yourself. Pretend you’re doing it for the benefit of the you one year from now. Tell that person about your month. Ramble! Savour the delicious moments again. Vent. Gossip. It’s just you!

3. Come to my event and I’ll guide you through a reflection on the past month, and some prioritizing for the upcoming month. You will build momentum and motivation, and deepen the wisdom in your own life. The next event is today — Thursday, July 31 at 5 -6 pm Pacific time. Join through this link.

See you soon,

Cory

INTRO

In my last post, I wrote about shattering my ankle and having an okay time by staying present. This post is a worksheet for those who want to try out this technique for themselves.

THE IDEA

The present moment IS reality. Turning toward reality with an “okay, this is what’s happening: let’s work with it and not against it” is strong medicine.

Our instinctive response is to withdraw from pain. Counterintuitively, turning away amplifies pain.

HOW IT WORKS

It works like this:

1. The pain (or hardship) happens.

2. The mental & emotional resistance to that pain/hardship is a separate thing, a second energy which causes its own pain.

VISUAL

In this image, we see that pain is still painful. It doesn’t disappear. But resisting the painful situation will at least double your pain, whereas staying present to it comforts it, and can even shrink it. You always have options.

FOR EXAMPLE

In the hours after I broke my ankle, I had many pleasant and beautiful moments, as well as painful ones. It would’ve been understandable to hate the situation and be grumpy constantly. I wasn’t. Due to that, I didn’t miss the lovely bits, like the setting sun, hearing the ambulance’s siren (a regular urban sound but never before in my honour!), the thoughtful nurses, the worried face of my bestie as she got me small cups of water, or the interesting dynamics in the emergency room. There were moments of fun and hilarity. I would have missed all of this. And this was one of the most vivid days of my life in 2024.

Also, the more present I was, the less pain I experienced. Presence soothes us.

TIME TO EXPERIMENT

Of course, don’t take my word for it. Try this for yourself. I mean, don’t break a leg just to try it out. (Unless you’re about to perform in a play, then – yay you, break a leg!).

Do it with something small. A small pain or hardship. Maybe you have an ongoing daily annoyance you could use.

Say yes to it. Stay close to it. And see what happens.

When you inevitably move into resistance, into no-no-no, notice what that does. Then try move back into mindful presence, and see what happens. Better? Worse? You tell me.

Seriously, tell me in the comments how it goes. Together we can decide if mindfulness is bullshit or not.

Talk soon,

Cory

“I’ll get you something,” she replies.

“I’ve already had the tiny paper cup of ibuprofen,” I say, gesturing at my foot, “this isn’t ibuprofen-style pain.”

She grimaces. “We’re prepping a room for you. Hang tight.”

If mindfulness is real, it has to be real in chaos and pain too.

It is outrageous to claim we should turn toward the present moment no matter what. Surely not while the November rain pours down the back of my neck. Surely not at my grandfather’s funeral. Surely not at 3 am when dark thoughts swirl. Surely not, surely not, surely not. Yet, I have experienced it as true.

It’s July 2024. I hike, bike, swim, lift, climb, dance, box, and even start eyeing basketball; this is big for someone who spent most of their life reading. I’m out in the world! I’m meeting people! I’m trying new things!

In this spirit, I decide to try a new sport with a posse of hot lesbians on a golden summer evening. (Are the lesbians the draw? Do I wonder if I can procure myself a new skill and a wife simultaneously? Who can say.)

Within ten minutes, I fall hard. My right ankle snaps like twigs.

“Fuuuuuucckk,” I scream. My right foot is facing a direction no human foot should face. The only thing more gruesome would’ve been bones poking through the skin; at least it’s not a compound fracture.

I think of my life, full of motion.

“No-no-no-no-no,” I moan.

I mean: my life does not allow for this situation, this does not work for me, I cannot do this.

But it is already done.

Six months prior, I had started turning my finances around and getting my life sorted. I worked three jobs, two as an outdoor guide. Days before my crash, I’d bikepacked for the first time, a solo camping trip to the Sooke Potholes. After years of limping through trauma’s wreckage, I was starting to thrive in a way I had never thought possible. It felt like things were finally coming together. Hardwon success and, dare I say, happiness? It’d only taken 41 years.

And now this.

Despair rushes in, stronger than the physical pain shooting from my ankle.

“No!” I say to myself, firmly, immediately. I know despair well. I know where it takes me. Instead, my three years of mindfulness practice kick in. With certainty, I know

this moment is hard enough. The pain, the horror. I know I can get through it if I go moment by raw moment. All the questions — what does this mean for my work, my workouts, my life, and for how long — must wait.

So I stop futuring. I get present.

The air is fresh, sun-hot, ocean-cool. People gather around me. A woman rubs my back, startling me, like another impact. Please no, I tell her. I feel like I am still falling, out of control. I must focus all my attention into my own body now. (Later, touch will soothe.)

“Pain is just a sensation,” I tell myself, “pain is just a sensation.” I breathe the way you breathe in hot yoga or perhaps childbirth, big loud breaths, and the pain is strangely manageable. Just a sensation, but what a strong sensation! Then I make myself as comfortable as I can, using my backpack as a pillow.

I am alert by the sea, alert enough to tell off the wretched bike paramedics who treat me like a body and ask others questions about me. “I’m right here,” I say, “I’m lucid and responsive. Talk to me.” (The fact that I uphold my boundaries in such a strange situation still blows my mind, but that’s a topic for another time).

The medics give me drugs in a vape. I smoke, lounge on the pavement, hand over my keys, enjoy my very first ambulance ride, ask the kind nurses what happens next, and crack jokes with them, the anesthesiologist and the attending doc who resets my dislocated heel.

There is no sailing through, for I am not numb; I am fully present. The moments are gritty. I cry. I laugh. I hold my bestie’s firm hand. I remind myself to stay here. I exhale loudly, tap acupressure points, and repeat aloud “pain is a sensation” or “you’re okay, buddy.” I send my attention to different parts of my body: my abdomen, my shoulders, my bandana-wrapped forehead, my left leg (which is doing great!).

I allow myself to dissociate from my foot while it faces sideways; there’s something wickedly wrong about seeing your own body like that, and it helps to see it as a thing. Once it is straight and wrapped, it is mine again, mine and – despite the big drugs – throbbing. So many bones broke and shifted that the orthopedic surgeon, looking at my x-rays just before my surgery one week later, said “shit, what do I do with this.”

It is an interesting day.

The worse days come later, brought on by weeks of endless pain, future fears and my old pal despair. But this day is surprisingly okay, thanks to the hero of the story: presence.

1

A year ago, I wanted to fall in love; instead I fell to the ground and busted seven-ish bones. That experience legitimized mindfulness for me in a new way.

In my last post, where I started this series, Is Mindfulness Bullshit: A Skeptic’s Guide, I posited that any philosophy needs to work in the worst case; if it doesn’t work in worst-case, it doesn’t work.

For me, it worked.

The present moment IS reality. Turning toward reality with an “okay, this is what’s happening: let’s work with it and not against it” is strong medicine. It is the core of mindfulness. Working with what is.

Talk soon,

Cory

P. S. I created a worksheet for you to try this present-to-pain technique for yourself.

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I go to church just twice that autumn, instead of twice a Sunday. Nope. Fundamentalist Christianity I can no longer stomach. Can I perhaps stay in the fold as a lefty pride-flag-waving United Church member or something? Please, I think. My whole life is Christianity. How could I possibly explain this?

It’s November first. I’m biking to Sears, the beloved (?) Canadian department store holding its final liquidation sale, to buy my first lingerie. Jesus demanded celibacy, and Jesus is no longer my bestie.

And it’s time to make a new promise to myself. I had not only drunk the christian kool-aid, I’d sold it, as worship leader and missionary. Clearly I am a human with a capacity for devotion. Don’t you dare jump ship now and then climb on a different ship, I tell myself. No religion for at least three years.

Happily, I discover Eckhart Tolle in December.

If you know the guy, you know he doesn’t pitch faith. Or stoke emotion. Or threaten damnation. He offers clear, simple wisdom tested by our own experience.

Now here I am, in 2025, writing on mindful adulting.

Adulting: because I’m figuring out how to construct a life post-religion, a life that isn’t at constant odds with the actual world. Figuring out love, power, sexuality, gender, neurotype, trauma, relationships, and how to put a spider outside without screeching. I know I’m not the only one. There’s a lot of us.

Mindfulness: because it’s the air I breathe. And like air, it was there all along.

But.

Before I go off on mindfulness, let’s turn the flashlight on the concept itself. If you aren’t sold on it, and it sounds woo-woo or witchy or spiritual or religio-culty, I support your skepticism. In fact, I will write a series on it. Here are the topics I think we need to cover.

If mindfulness is legit, it will

• work in the worst circumstances

• enhance the best circumstances

• make the monotonous everyday nicer

• work for anyone, anywhere, anytime, not just holy leaders in a quiet place in the privileged world

• help with the thorniest of life’s issues, like poverty and procrastination and poo

• trump other vices, such as intoxicants and greed

• contain some real dumb bullshit that some people preach but we can easily see through

• perhaps require skill-building, but should be

  • accessible: easily learnable by anyone from a two-year-old child to a cranky teen to an elderly person

  • practical and experiential, not faith-based or requiring suspension of disbelief

  • immediate, not requiring a someday-someday-heaven promise

I will examine these items in the upcoming series of posts. Subscribe to stay in the loop.

If you have ideas to add, please comment to collaborate. I’d love that.

Talk soon,

Cory

ha ha.

But also, how painful is procrastination?

How often are you mad at yourself for not getting the important, urgent or important/urgent thing done? Do you have any to-do’s that you’ve put off for days, weeks, months, even years?

I get it. And I got you.

On Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday mornings from 8:30 - 9:30 AM Pacific time, I’m hosting a zoom workshop called Eat The Frog. I’m doing this because I know it works. And you’re invited. All subscribers are welcome, free and paid. At some point, I may add a paywall (ie becoming a paid subscriber) I don’t wanna eat frogs alone. Ew.

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What and Why and How

Have you heard the phrase “eat the frog”?

Eat the frog means do the most odious task immediately.

Last winter, I learned this time management concept, popularized by Brian Tracy and thoroughly explained here. I started waking up and eating the frog. (What can I say, disgusting analogies do it for me.) Dang, it felt good to get the shittiest chore out of the way!

Then, this spring, I started to attend Mason Currey’s Worm Zoom. Creative folks, mostly writers, gather at 6 AM (argh so early), say hi, turn off our audio/video, and work for two hours. So simple. So helpful. It’s a portal for me, like magic.

For those of us who struggle with adulting, often stuck wading the swamps of Procrasti Nation, what helps?

There’s a million productivity tools and tips and tricks. Some of them are great. Lots of them are stupid and don’t help people with ADHD like me.

Here’s what definitely helps:

• support

  • a guide (space-holder or coach to direct you so you can save your limited executive functioning for other things)

  • others doing the same type of thing at the same time (body doubling)

• simplicity

  • pick one SMALL task and do it to completion (monotasking)

• story: a nice arc

  • a time frame: to silence the “i’ll be doing this wretched task forever” gremlin (doability)

  • intention: a declaration at the start to the others (accountability)

  • momentum: knowing others are also busily eating their frog (synergy)

  • completion: coming back to say what you and everyone accomplished (celebrate!)

• repetition

  • doing this again and again

    • until the habit of diving headlong into one small task

      • for a certain amount of time, whether 2 mins or 2 hours,

        • gets lodged in your body

          • and you find yourself eating frogs often

            • even without support, without fanfare,

              • just a thing you do,

                • a blessed habit,

                  • momentum!

All of these helpful elements are found in our Eat the Frog workshop.

So, come to Eat the Frog. Bring a niggling task. Invite a pal, to feel more comfy. Whatever it takes. Git ‘er done.

See you tomorrow at Frog Zoom (unless tomorrow is the weekend).

Talk soon,

Cory

Note: My workshops, including Eat the Frog, are

• Free for paid subscribers.

• First-one-Free for free subscribers too, for August 2025

P.S. Does it actually work? Click here to find out what others are saying about Eat the Frog Zoom.

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