A Letter to November

To the month that broke me open.

Disclaimer:
This piece is personal. Like… actually personal. If you read this, you might learn some things about your therapist you didn’t ask for. Nothing inappropriate, nothing boundary-crossing — just the human parts most therapists don’t say out loud. If that feels like too much, feel free to skip this one. This is a personal exploration of my own healing and growth.

—

This is the most personal thing I’ve ever written.
A love letter to a month that took me to my knees and somehow handed me back a whole new version of myself.

November didn’t arrive gently. She came in like a storm with a key to every room still locked inside me. It pushed open the doors I had been leaning against for years—doors held shut with fear, shame, and pain.

November was a reckless, wild teacher.

She taught me to do it for the plot. Do it brave. Do it messy.

That’s the thing about transformation—you don’t get to control the timing. You just feel the ground shift beneath you and you decide whether to cling or let go.

November dared me to dive headfirst into the moments that push you; that require vulnerability. To surrender fully to the moments where you have no idea how you’re going to handle—or how you’ll handle what comes after it's gone.

November asked me to stop living in fear.

To tell people how I feel, even if you aren’t sure what they’ll say back.

To laugh hard, cry harder—sometimes (often) at the exact same time.

To let life touch me deeply, even if it meant I’d bruise.

When it’s my time to go, I don’t want a reel of what-ifs.

I want the moments I leapt. The moments I felt everything. The moments that rewrote me.

—

So thank you, November.

For breaking me wide open.

For reminding me that life is too short to stay guarded, too precious to play it safe, too sacred to stay small.

Thank you to the love that came in quickly and deeply.

To the love that tore down the last of my walls.

The walls of shame. Of fear. Of insecurity.

The walls that were still keeping me caged in.

Thank you for helping me set myself free.

To the friends who were there when that love was gone.

Who have weathered all my storms.

Who feed me. Watch me cry. Hold me accountable;

Who refuse to let me forget my worth.

So, here’s the vow I’m making to myself moving forward:

Take the risks.

Let your heart break open again and again.

Because what a privilege it is to feel this much.

To love this deeply.

To grow this wildly.

To heal this intensely.

To get one life—one precious, chaotic, exhausting life—and show up for it with everything you are.

This is your story. Your movie. Your plotline.

So live it boldly.
To do it bravely.
Do it for the plot.

Be messy. Be wild. Go for the tear soaked run. Get it on with the windows open.  

Sing in a way that feels good, not necessarily sounds good. 

—

As a therapist, here’s what I know with my whole soul:

Sometimes the healing is the breaking.

Sometimes the nervous system grows in the rupture.

Sometimes the bravest thing you’ll ever do is allow yourself to feel something fully, knowing it might not last.

Bravery is not a trait—it’s a practice.

A regulated risk.

A choice you return to again and again—to stay open rather than collapse, to expand rather than shrink, to choose aliveness over predictability.

So if you’re reading this and you’re in your own November…
If you’re breaking open, falling apart, falling in love, losing something, finding yourself, or all of the above— I want you to know this:

Your mess is not a failure.
You’re not too much.
Your heart is not a liability.
You’re not behind.

You’re human.

And what a privilege it is to live inside a body that feels.
What a privilege it is to heal.
And what a privilege it is to walk beside people—clients, friends, myself—through the wild, unpredictable terrain of being human.

You can handle this.

You’ve got this.

And I’ve got you too.

So do it for the plot. To whatever end.

xoxo