Vented Uplift Community Blog

My first thought was, I want to live. At age 23, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I was fresh out of college and ready to tackle life. Growing up an athlete, I led a healthy lifestyle and was completely sidelined. Going through this life hurdle at such a young age helped me to put life in perspective and changed the trajectory of my entire life. I fell in love with mindful movement after my treatments. About one year after my stem cell transplant, a friend introduced me to Barre classes. My teachers helped me discover strength I didn’t know I had. My mantra is Yes. You. Can. I believe that everyone has the ability to lead his or her best lives. We must be relentless in the pursuit. Cancer taught me that. I start all of my classes by saying “it’s a beautiful day to be alive.” Because, it simply is. The research speaks to all the benefits of exercise. Through research, we know regular exercise strengthens muscles and bones, reduces the risk of cancer recurrence and improves slee

"You are in control of your suffering and happiness!" What do you feel about this statement? There was a time in my life when I experienced a great deal of pain and suffering, and I would have laughed with disbelief at such a statement. I had no idea where to begin to experience joy in the face of my own pain. For many people who suffer from pain in the body or mind, feelings of despair and anguish are commonplace. Joy and contentment feel so hard to hold on to for very long. After years of traveling in this life, with pain as my co-pilot, I reached a point that I knew something had to change. I guess you could call this my rock bottom. I became very willing to find other options out of my suffering. The idea of less pain was very intriguing, but the idea that I could have joy more often and even possibly inner peace beyond my meditation times was too good to pass up.   You are not the victim but the champion!   Begin with the change in perception that you are not the victim

I hate this picture. And it’s not the fact that my hair is a mess and that I hadn’t learned about the magic of mascara. It’s that it reminds me of the night I said no to my Father. I said no to another dance at the Father-Daughter Dance. I hadn’t thought about this picture in about 18 years. And it’s been 18 years since my Dad passed away from cancer. It used to sit in his home. The photo got packed up in the move when my stepmom sold the house and then moved into storage and then given to my sister with a bunch of items, and then it sat in my sister’s closet for I don’t know how long….you get it...it’s been in hiding. During my sister’s Covid cleanup, this photo came back into my life. I unpacked the bag from my sister, unwrapped the photo, and found myself overcome with emotion and tears and sobbed and sobbed. Now as I said, Norman died 18 years ago, 18 years ago today to be exact. It’s amazing how in just one second, the emotion of losing a parent can come flooding back like it was

I am falling, my arms and legs are flailing and I realize that I am about to die. The air rushes around my body, and I am gripped by the horrifying realization that the ground grows closer beneath me every second. I tell myself that it will all be over soon. A startling jolt rocks my body, and I hit my mattress. I am awake, gasping. I run my hands over my sheets and blanket, grateful for their reassuring softness and warmth. I console myself by saying, “it was only a nightmare.” This recurring nightmare began to make me dread sleep. Why was I constantly dreaming about falling/dying? After some deep reflection, I began to truly understand why and where this nightmare originated. The nightmare was a wake-up call from my subconscious. It was time for me to take a long hard look at myself. I had given up on myself and my happiness nearly 20 years earlier. My soul and spirit had been taking a beating, and I had stopped fighting back. I found myself working up to my second divorce in my late

I was recently invited along with another author to Manasquan, NJ, to promote my book, Press Pause. If you aren't familiar with Manasquan, it's a charming and quaint beach town: beautiful homes, families with beach chairs on their backs riding their bikes to the beach, and a main street dotted with local shops, restaurants, and even a community theatre. Two nights a week in the summer, main street is shut down for families to come out and dine outdoors, local musicians play as adults and children dance and mingle in the street, and kids ride bikes, scooters and play ball without the worry of traffic. It's a little slice of heaven. On one of those nights, we were in front of the shop that extended the invite, hoping to get some foot traffic and the opportunity to invite people in for a conversation. However, we quickly learned that it's pretty hard to compete with food, drinks, music, and family time, so we decided to pack up a little early. As we were taking a moment to