Tag Archives: writing

What Charlie Has Taught Me About People

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Charlie is universally unpopular with most dogs.

He is feisty, sometimes aggressive, and never polite or restrained when he meets another dog. Especially if he’s on a leash. The growl that erupts from his little body is epic—deep, dramatic, and completely disproportionate to all of his thirty-five pounds. It’s the kind of sound that makes other dog owners stop and stare while I hurriedly pull him down the path, apologizing and wondering how something so ferocious could come from such a sweet-looking doodle.

My sweet-looking COVID puppy who came home with us on June 15, 2020.

At home, though, Charlie is all mush.

He is, without question, the most affectionate dog I’ve ever owned. More affectionate than his uncle Rocky, who is two years older and from the same breeder. Rocky is wonderful—friendly, social, easygoing—but a little more cat-like in his affection. He loves us, but on his terms. Charlie, on the other hand, wants to be touching someone at all times. If there is a lap, he will find it. If there is a face, he will kiss it. If there is an opportunity to cuddle, he is already there.

If you met the two of them only at home, you would never guess that Charlie is the difficult one around other dogs.

The difference, I suspect, happened early.

Rocky had the benefit of being properly socialized. He went to dog parks. He spent time at dog daycare while his mom worked. He learned, as puppies should, that most other dogs are just…dogs.

Charlie was a COVID puppy.

He had plenty of love. Endless love, really. He wanted for nothing except one thing: regular time with other dogs and people outside our family.

So now, when he meets another dog, he doesn’t lead with curiosity. He leads with fear.

The fear sounds like aggression. It looks like aggression. But in six years he has never hurt another dog. He simply doesn’t know how to make friends. His instinct is to create distance before anyone has the chance to reject him.

Yet we know he knows how to love.

He adores his people. He wrestles and plays constantly with Rocky. He is gentle, joyful, and endlessly affectionate at home.

That contradiction has made me wonder about people.

I wonder how often the person who is quick to honk, flip someone off in traffic, snap at a cashier, or start a fight over a parking space is acting from something that looks like anger but is really fear.

Maybe they never learned that most people are safe.

Maybe they never got enough practice believing that strangers usually aren’t enemies.

Maybe, like Charlie, they walk into every encounter expecting conflict instead of connection.

Not everyone, of course. Some people are simply mean.

But Charlie has made me a little slower to judge.

Because every time he embarrasses me on a walk with that ridiculous, prehistoric growl, I remember that twenty minutes later he’ll be asleep with his head on my lap, convinced that being as close as physically possible is still not close enough.

My dog is a instigator, troublemaker, agitator, and overall menance with other dogs.

But he is also the biggest love in this house.

Sometimes the loudest bark isn’t confidence.

Sometimes it’s fear.

178

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For the longest time—what felt like forever, but was really about ten years—I was stuck at the same weight. More or less. It was frustrating to watch the pounds slowly add up despite regular exercise and what I thought was a reasonably healthy diet.

Perimenopause. Then menopause. A career that became more desk-centric and more sedentary. There were plenty of reasons why—and plenty of excuses to explain it—but I still wasn’t at peace with my body, especially my belly.

I tried so many different approaches. Whole30. The Clean Program. Giving up gluten. Giving up dairy. Clearing the pantry of snacks. Even eliminating ice cream for long stretches. Still…178 pounds, more or less.

I even stopped drinking alcohol, convinced the weight would simply fall off. It didn’t.

And there I was.

Then something shifted.

I realized I needed to stop. Stop with the excuses. Stop telling myself that a little ice cream here or chips there didn’t matter. Stop pretending I was really trying to lose weight when, if I was honest, I wasn’t fully committed.

It also bothered me that, according to every ridiculous BMI calculator on Google, I was considered obese. I know BMI isn’t the whole story, but seeing that word attached to my height and weight stung.

With two of my sons getting married this year—and growing more frustrated every time I tried on a dress—I decided it was time to get serious.

I walked every day.

Forget running. Forget cycling. Forget trying to squeeze in yoga or a fitness class at the Y. I downloaded an app that held me accountable, gave me a walking plan, and assigned different distances each day. I walked for 28 consecutive days and simply made the time.

At the same time, I stopped eating gluten, sugar, dairy, and red meat. I ate a lot of fruit. A lot of chicken. Every morning I had a smoothie for breakfast. If I needed a snack, it was a handful of almonds or cashews. I meal-planned instead of grabbing whatever was easiest.

Perhaps the biggest change was keeping a twelve-hour window between dinner and breakfast the next morning. I learned about something called “digestive rest”—giving your body enough time to process what you’d eaten before asking it to do it all over again. I really liked that break. If I wanted something after dinner, I’d make hot water with lemon or a cup of chamomile tea.

Then something happened that I wasn’t expecting.

It felt like my body finally switched gears and started burning fat.

In the past, whenever I tried to lose weight, I never seemed to get to that point. Looking back, I wonder if my body was always filled with stress and cortisol, hanging on to every ounce because it thought it was living through another period of deprivation.

This time felt different.

Yes, I was hungry sometimes—especially between my morning smoothie and lunch—but the hunger changed. It softened. I wasn’t constantly thinking about food anymore.

It’s been two months.

I’ve lost thirteen pounds.

I’ve relaxed some of my rules. I still love a really good sandwich now and then, and I certainly enjoy a piece of cheese. But I’ve kept my morning smoothies. I’ve continued avoiding nighttime snacking. And I’ve kept walking.

Most importantly, I feel good.

I feel strong.

I feel healthy.

My dresses fit better. I like the way I look in a bathing suit again. One of my sons got married recently, and instead of dreading every photograph, I found myself looking at the pictures and thinking, “These are actually pretty good.”

No—not pretty good.

They’re more than okay.

Of course, it’s not perfect. Parts of my legs still jiggle, and there is definitely something suspicious happening to the underside of my upper arms. Menopause has a sense of humor, apparently.

But overall, I feel relieved.

I’m sharing this partly for accountability, but mostly because I remember how discouraged I felt. Helpless, in some ways. Like nothing would ever change.

What I’ve learned is that sometimes the biggest change isn’t a new diet or a new workout.

It’s a different mindset.

For me, it wasn’t about punishing myself. It was about finally making a promise to myself—and keeping it.

And once I did, everything else became possible.

High and soft

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Through middle school and high school, there was so much my coach did for me. He taught me trigometry and how to serve in tennis. He taught me how to shoot a basketball and run a perfect in-bounds play from under your own basket (tip, keep your eye on the in-bounds-er). The wins and losses are a blur to me now, but I know we won more than we lost. He and I would play one-on-one after practice, him indulging me long enough before he would pull out his famous hook shot, from ‘downtown’ and there was no, absolutely no way of stopping that shot. More times than not, he would drive me home, making sure I got home safely.

My parents were home, of course, just busy with their live at five news program competing for their attention with the scotch on the rocks that they had just poured. Mystifies me now, but at the time I didn’t blink an eye. Thought it was totally normal to walk home in the dark, through some woods, in the dead cold dark of winter, still sweaty from practice – in the years before cell phones or portal flashlights…that just was what was expected. That was a different time I suppose – except I know that I was the only one on my team without a ride home.

By my junior year in high school I had gotten into a terrible situation. I didn’t realize it at the time. At the time I thought I was in love, at the time I thought it was normal. Normal for my summer beach boss to feign love and interest for blow jobs and back rubs and sex in the back of his toyota four runner. He gave me the attention I didn’t get at home, and took me surfing and gave me gold earrings and cash and beer to drink. He took me to physical therapy appointments which made all that time in the car with our clothes off much more easy to schedule. This went on in front of everyone. My parents, co-workers at the beach club. People in the community. I know he bragged about it to his work friends. I know we once borrowed one of his friends houses while they were out of town. With a wink wink nod nod to it all. I know one time when my parents were away we were almost caught – and instead of my dad being concerned for me, my wellbeing, he called me a c***. Angry and upset. And then once he calmed down – that was when he was so worried about how it might all look in our small communitiy if I were to quit my job. Not worried about what was happening to my body, or to my soul, but what would it look like? How would we explain it?

The denial was easy for everyone it seemed, except when it came to my coach. He didn’t like it one bit. He sniffed it out and asked me over and again, “hey, you ok with that guy?” I was young. and so utterly confused. “That guy” was a respected teacher and active in the community. He was married with kids just younger than me. His wife worked in the high school as a librarian. Sure, I was smart and mature, had to grow up fast in my house where my parents were drunk most of the time. But still, I was so so young and easy. All that guy had to do was show me some attention and affection and it got so very confusing so very fast.

This morning I read how Megan Kelly thinks the victims of Jeffrey Epstein weren’t young enough for him to be wrong or a pedofile. And I am sick to my stomach. Nauseous. That isn’t consent. I didn’t consent. He was my boss, he was 29 years older, he did know things – like how my parents were checked out (after all, he went to college with my father) – and that I was pretty much on my own. A minor child is too young to understand – and vulnerable. Full stop.

My bad situation went on for years. He would follow me to my college and take me to an awful cheap motel where he paid in cash. I would have burn marks on my lower back and sore where it really hurts the most for days after.

I don’t remember how I made it stop. How I got out. I just know that it did. Maybe I got too old. I was far enough away from home and maybe the distance did the trick.There is so much blurry around it for me now.

But my coach, he cared. He was brave enough to ask. I will never forget that. All the stuff he taught me, about math and basketball and hook shots, that was all really good stuff. But the most imporant lesson of all was how to speak up; to ask the hard question; to check in on someone when you see something that just doesn’t feel right. I was so close to telling him the truth, but I just never found the courage. But because he asked, I felt less alone and that, beyond all else, is the most important lesson he ever taught me.

Nerve Damage

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I was eleven years old. I had made some of my own money that summer babysitting, and had even gone shopping to buy my first day of school clothes. I still remember them – a pink button down oxford shirt, long sleeves, and cream colored thick cordoruys. I felt so cool wearing them – and despite it being late August, it was what I wore to my dentist appointment for a scheduled cleaning. Notably, it was the first time to the dentist without my mom and she was even letting me borrow her bicycle to ride to the appointment.

I remember feeling so grown up and happy – until I arrived at the dental office and accidentally got black bike grease on my new corduroys from the bike chain. I was crushed. I knew that there would be no getting that out of the new pants. I couldn’t believe it. I almost cried I was so upset.

Like any kid, I never really liked going to the dentist. Sure, the treasure chest box at the end was great and I loved picking out my prize; but the lecture on flossing (always hard for me because my teeth are so crowded) to the awful gooey flouride treatment – I couldn’t wait for the appointment to be over so that I could pick out my prize.

This particular appointment went like all the rest – until it didn’t. My dentist had done the typical annual x-rays of my teeth. Never a big deal – as I had yet to get even one cavity. But today, for whatever reason, the results were quite different. The x-rays showed eleven (11!) cavities. I had that sort of physical stomach sour body experience when your whole face then goes red and hot and you feel like you are on the ceiling looking down at yourself. I still remember the subtle ‘tsk, tsk’ echoed by the hygienist and the concerned look on my dentist’s face. He went out of the room to call my mother. I was devastated. Embarassed, but most of all, worried that I would get in trouble. With my dad.

Money was an issue in my house. It seemed like we never had enough. We never took a vacation and everything was analyzed for how much it cost. Our only trips were to visit my father’s parents who lived about an hour a way. Since we lived near the ocean, I think my parents wagered that we were on vacation most of the year being able to get to that beach on the regular.

Money, or the apparent lack thereof was a constant theme in our home. My mom cut coupons and pinched pennies. My parents never hired someone else to do a job they could do themsleves – and that list of DIY projects was expansive. I didn’t notice this at the time, but there was of course, always enough money for scotch. They never ran out of that.

My mom arrived at the dentist’s office, looking concerned and anxious. I showed her the grease stain on my pants and she looked right over me to the dentist. Eleven cavities, was he sure? He mentioned something about a payment plan….

I was eleven years old. This news was devastating and I knew my mom was already worried about the reaction of my father. She would be blamed for this problem and they would argue again about money. It would be as if she failed at mothering me – she was a stay-at-home mom to the core and this was one of those tests. My cavities would be a reflection that she wasn’t doing a good job.

But that conversation never happened. There was never any reveal. My mother made it our little secret. My father never knew. Nobody ever knew.

Life went on. I was thrilled. No more dentist, great by me. I went about my life, going to school, going to the beach, and continuing to eat copious amounts of sweets. Eventually, as I entered senior year in high school….yes, over seven years later….I noticed that sometimes my teeth would hurt when I bit into something sweet. I didn’t think much of it, and would shiver at the thought of going back to the dentist. So much time had passed, it seemed like I could never go back now.

But this dentist was a kind man. Our town was a small town. He somehow knew that I had never gotten treatment for those cavities. So late in the summer of 1986, as I was about to leave for college, he encouraged my mom to bring me in to the office. And she did. Once. He did some restorative care — but it was never completed and I left for college – happy to be leaving home and far away from the dentist. I even remember his office calling on the morning I was leaving for freshman year – pleading with us to finish the work on my teeth.

After college, the pain in my mouth got worse and a small molar broke ever so slightly, leaving a chipped tooth. Still, no dentist for me. The trauma and shame of that moment, so long ago now haunted me, stifled me, obstructed me from getting the care I so desperately needed.

It took a significant amount of pain and an infection – I was 25 when I had my first tooth pulled. It cost $75 and I felt like I had no other choice. When I had asked my dad for money to help with the cost of the dentist to get it properly fixed, he told me to call him when the loan shark was about to break my thumbs. Sweet guy, my dad.

After that, married, and employed, four root canals followed in quick succession. They bankrupted my young family and the pain was excruiating. I had most of them while pregnant with my children, when the dentist couldn’t use the proper novacaine – and so I suffered. Think Dustin Hoffman in marathon man. Tears running down my face, quiet shame-filled tears.

As my children grew, their dental care was such a priority for me. I made sure they had kind dentists and that trips to the dentist were punctuated by fun excursions before or afterwards. I never wanted them to feel shame or embarassment if they got a cavity. I learned that the PH of one’s mouth has a lot to do with whether or not bacteria can grow fast or slow. My PH is perfect for tooth decay – and so it was for a couple of my kiddos; the others inherited their father’s PH and have yet to get a cavity.

Becoming a mother provided me with such clarity around my childhood experience. What I came to realize is that all the shame I carried around with me all of those years was misplaced. I was neglected. Simple as that. I was not the grown up, the adult, the parent – I was the child. And in that crazy childhood home that valued scotch over common health care and that liked to deny certain truths hoping that if we just don’t talk about it, it will just go away…well, that was not my fault. Of course I wasn’t asking to be taken back to the dentist. All I remembered from that day was the look on my mother’s face – the feeling that I had done something so very very wrong – the judgment on the hygienist’s face – but I was the child. Among the adults.

We were very middle class – and had insurance. My parents could have taken care of me, but they choose not to – the emotionally abusive alcohol drenched lifestyle prohibited it. My teeth are the physical embodiment of my childhood, the internal scarring was much worse.

I carried that shame around me like a big secret for years. Therapy and becoming a parent myself helped me out of it. I sought and received excellent care. I eventually got an implant for that extracted tooth – sweet success and triumph over my sadness and shame having lost that tooth years ago.

Fast foward to last Thursday, October 2025. I felt a twinge in a 30 year old gold crown that I got when I was pregnant with my eldest child. I didn’t think much of it until later on Friday when I knew that feeling – that nervy kind of pain. I called my dentist on Saturday morning and they suggested advil and tylenol together to relieve the pain – and that they would try to fit me in on Monday.

By Monday morning the pain and pressure was unbearable. The amount of advil consumed was testing the patience of my stomach lining and barely giving me any relief. If I was lucky I would get two hours reprieve before having to ingest more Advil and Tylenol. I tried THC/CBD just in case that would help and it did a little in making me sleepy.

The decision was made to remove the tooth – after twenty-four hours of anitbiotics. So this morning, bright and early and practially blinded with nerve pain that resonated and emanated all along my jaw, top molars and front teeth, I sat down in the dental chair. It took almost two hours – the trouble was how to make me numb as the PH of the bacteria (acidic) was neutralizing the numbing agent (base PH) – this all new knowledge to me and not all that helpful. At one point, my dentist almost gave up and suggested that we stop and that he would refer me to an oral surgeon. I told him no. That I had given birth to three babies without any drugs and that I could handle this too – and that I could not wait another moment to have that tooth removed.

And so he did – and yes, good god it hurt like hell.

And then I was in my car. Sobbing. The vestiges of that childhood shame wrapping all around me like a black cloak. I was that little girl again in her thick corduroys stained with grease – feeling bad about myself, scared and hurting, inside and out.

And then I wasn’t. I took a deep breath. And I felt the anger and indigation of a childhood filled with neglect. But I remembered that I was older now. That it wasn’t my fault. That I was doing the best I could with the tools I had. And as I worked through that pivot, I was filled with gratitude.

Gratitude that I have a dentist.Gratitude that since that time, I have gotten good dental treatment, regular cleanings and help.Gratitude that I have the money to pay the dentist. Gratitude that when the time is right, I can get an implant to replace the lost tooth. Gratitude that I have a supportive family that treats this recent problem the way it should be – with compassion and care, and not ridicule, avoidance or shame.

Nervy tooth pain has got to be the absolute worst kind of pain. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have the resources and privileges that I have. I have been thinking a lot about that these days – and I was also thinking about all the children, that grow up with the scars and baggage of their childhoods and how that creates adults with all sorts of hidden shame. Shame is just the worst. It is like a black cloak that shrouds the best of intentions, makes us vulnerable and avoidant.

Yesterday, I thought a lot as I took a quiet day to recover. I remembered that simple quote “Be Kind. For everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.”

We all have our stories, and many of us have nerve damage. Some of that damage is to an actual physical nerve and some of that damage is to our nervous systems – either can wreck havoc and cause a lot of pain and suffering. May we forgive ourselves and our parents, as we try to live and survive this big beautiful life. May we learn to heal and put down any of our dark cloaks of childhood.