Some days it flows.
Other days it all just feels like too much.

A few weeks ago, I shared that my birth mother, Charlie, had re-entered my life after 15 years of no contact.
Not because there was some big healing moment.
Not because the past got repaired.
But because she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s—and there was no one else to pick up the phone.

Now the calls are daily.
And still—no acknowledgment.
No apology.
And to be honest, I don’t need one.

For a long time, I thought I did.
I thought I needed her to own it, to say the words, to meet me in the truth of what happened.
But I’ve come to understand that I don’t need anyone else's validation to know what’s real.
Healing has happened.
But relationship repair has not—and may never.
And I’ve made peace with that.

I’m not seeking closure.
I’m not circling some invisible finish line, waiting for a resolution that may never come.
I’ve already claimed my freedom.
Not by rewriting the past, but by refusing to let it write my future.

What’s happening now isn’t about fixing what was.
It’s about choosing how I show up in this moment—as the person I’ve become, not the version of me that was shaped by survival.

Some days I feel like I’ve got it handled.
Other days I want to vanish.
Sometimes she says something that sounds maternal and every fiber of me resists it.
Other times, I hear the voice of a scared, confused, lonely woman—and I just want to make sure she’s safe.
Not because she’s my “next of kin,” but because she’s a human being.
And while I don’t know what it’s like to lose your memory, I do know what it’s like to be terrified and alone, desperate for safety and help.

That part of me—that soft part—is real.
But so is the part that’s showing up here to prove something.

This isn’t a selfless act.
Some of this is about me.
About proving to myself that I am not the monster I was raised to believe I was.
About standing in direct defiance of the pain that tried to shape me.
About walking into this fire and coming out the other side more myself than I’ve ever been.

That’s the through line of my life.
Defiance.
Not rebellion for its own sake—but the holy refusal to let the people who broke me define who I get to be.
Not now. Not ever.

I’m not doing this out of obligation.
I’m doing this for peace.
For freedom.
For the full reclamation of my own story.
I’m not conceding any more ground to the pain of the past.
Not in my relationships, not in my work, not in my body, not in my mind.

And I know—deeply—that the only way through is through.
So I’m walking this road with my eyes open and my feet on the ground.

And when it gets hard (which it does), I come back to the body.

When things get hard (and let’s be honest—they do), I come back to the body.
These practices help keep me grounded when life gets loud.
They’re fast, cheap, and easy.

1. Walk the dog.
They call them man’s best friend for a reason.
Maverick has been my steadfast companion through all of life’s ups and downs for five years now, and he’s the perfect accountability partner. In the past, even though I wouldn’t dream of breaking my word to anybody else (aka: a classic obliger) I’ve struggled to keep promises to myself. So, accountability partners are great for me and Mav is the best.
He doesn’t just like going for walks—he lives for being outside. Long walks by the waterfront, river excursions and shady hikes in the hills, we keep things interesting.
Showing up for him, making sure he gets fresh air, freedom, and joy every day, is non-negotiable.
Even on the days when I struggle to show up for myself—I show up for him.

2. Run.
It’s summertime in the Bay, and the combo of salt air, sunshine, throwback EDM beats, and sweat is—chef’s kiss.
I’m not running from my problems.
I’m running about them.
It moves the static. It clears the fog. It reminds me I’m still in motion, even when everything feels stuck.

3. Yoga.
This isn’t just about stretching—it’s a daily commitment to myself.
It’s how I tend to the relationship I’m rebuilding between me, myself, and I after years of less-than-loving choices that damaged the trust.
It’s how I heal the most important relationship of all—the one with myself—and remind my body and spirit that I’m committed now to making choices that honor my highest good.
It’s slow, steady repair work. One practice at a time.

4. Breath Work.
I went to a class in Berkeley last week and got high on my own supply with a group of strangers—and let me tell you, it was as close to a psychedelic experience as you can get without taking anything.
And I would definitely know.
All around me I heard people cracking open. There were tears, visions, shaking, clarity. For me, the experience was all about my body. I felt currents of energy moving through me. A sense of release, relaxation, acceptance and surrender that came in waves. At the end of the session I was wiped out and renewed at the same time.
Sometimes I forget how powerful breath alone can be.
Even just five minutes a day helps me regulate my nervous system and come back into my body when the edges start to blur.

5. Fast.
This one’s personal.
When things get stressful, I know I have a pattern of reaching for food as a form of comfort or escape.
Fasting—when done intentionally—helps me reset. It keeps me out of the cycle of numbing with food and gives me space to actually feel what’s coming up.
It’s not about restriction. It’s about reclaiming choice in moments where I’ve historically felt powerless.

✨ The G.O.A.T.- Dance.
Scientifically proven to boost mood, reduce stress, and regulate emotions—dancing is one of my go-to ways to reconnect with what’s actually happening in my body.
It helps me shake of what’s stuck, move energy through, and tap into joy or release or whatever is waiting underneath.
Whether it’s one song or a whole sweaty playlist, this is nervous system medicine in motion.

Breathwork

1. Box Breathing (used by Navy SEALs, athletes, and anxious humans everywhere)
For calming the nervous system and regaining focus when you’re overwhelmed.

It's called box breathing because it's four equal sides. Square it up, breathe it out.

2. 4-7-8 Breathing (popularized by Dr. Andrew Weil—aka a nervous system lullaby)
For winding down, falling asleep, or stopping a stress spiral before it starts.

This one works like a charm if you actually let yourself do it all the way through.

These are my anchors.
They keep me steady when things get wild.
They help me show up from love instead of fear, from alignment instead of survival.
They remind me that my body is not the battleground—it’s home.
And home is where the heart is.
So I return to it, again and again.

-Sunny

If you’re in your own version of this fire—or just navigating something tender and real—I’d be honored to witness your story.
Reply to this email and tell me what’s helping you stay grounded lately.
Let’s keep choosing one loving decision at a time.