Advanced Wellness Specialist

11/17/2025

Pity the nation whose people are sheep, and whose shepherds mislead them.
Pity the nation whose leaders are liars, whose sages are silenced,
and whose bigots haunt the airwaves.
Pity the nation that raises not its voice,
except to praise conquerors and acclaim the bully as hero and aims to rule the world with force and by torture.
Pity the nation that knows no other language but its own and no other culture but its own.
Pity the nation whose breath is money and sleeps the sleep of the too well fed.
Pity the nation — oh, pity the people who allow their rights to erode
and their freedoms to be washed away.
My country, tears of thee, sweet land of liberty.

By Lawrence Ferlinghetti, "Pity the nation"

(Ferlinghetti's Greatest Poems https://amzn.to/47I4piF)

11/17/2025

BREAKING: The Supreme Court DECLINED to hear Kim Davis’ challenge to the constitutional protections for marriage equality. Thanks to the hard work of HRC and our partners, marriage equality remains the law of the land through Obergefell v. Hodges and the Respect for Marriage Act.

We won’t let up. We will keep fighting until all of us are free.

11/13/2025

I hope you will read Dave Ramsey’s comments about going cashless. It’s a two minute read and he does a nice job of explaining this.

Dave Ramsey repost:

HERE'S WHAT NO CASH ACTUALLY MEANS:

A cashless society means no cash. Zero. It doesn’t mean mostly cashless and you can still use a ‘wee bit of cash here & there’. Cashless means fully digital, fully traceable, fully controlled. I think those who support a cashless society aren’t fully aware of what they are asking for. A cashless society means:

* If you are struggling with your mortgage on a particular month, you can’t do an odd job to get you through.

* Your child can’t go & help the local farmer to earn a bit of summer cash.

* No more cash slipped into the hands of a child as a good luck charm or from their grandparent when going on holidays.

* No more money in birthday cards.

* No more piggy banks for your child to collect pocket money & to learn about the value of earning.

* No more cash for a rainy day fund or for that something special you have been putting $20 a week away for.

* No more little jobs on the side because your wages barely cover the bills or put food on the table.

* No more charity collections.

* No more selling bits & pieces from your home that you no longer want/need for a bit of cash in return.

* No more cash gifts from relatives or loved ones.

What a cashless society does guarantee:

* Banks have full control of every single penny you own.

* Every transaction you make is recorded.

* All your movements & actions are traceable.

* Access to your money can be blocked at the click of a button when/if banks need ‘clarification’ from you which will take about 3 weeks, a thousand questions answered & five thousand passwords.

* You will have no choice but to declare & be taxed on every dollar in your possession.

* The government WILL decide what you can & cannot purchase.

* If your transactions are deemed in any way questionable, by those who create the questions, your money will be frozen, ‘for your own good’.

Forget about cash being dirty. Stop being so easily led. Cash has been around for a very, very, very long time & it gives you control over how you trade with the world. It gives you independence. I heard a story where a man supposedly contracted Covid because of a $20 bill he had handled. There is the same chance of Covid being on a card as being on cash. If you cannot see how utterly ridiculous this assumption is then there is little hope.

If you are a customer, pay with cash. If you are a shop owner, remove those ridiculous signs that ask people to pay by card. Cash is a legal tender, it is our right to pay with cash. Banks are making it increasingly difficult to lodge cash & that has nothing to do with a virus, nor has this ‘dirty money’ trend.

Please open your eyes. Please stop believing everything you are being told. Almost every single topic in today’s world is tainted with corruption & hidden agendas. Please stop telling me & others like me that we are what’s wrong with the world when you hail the most corrupt members of society as your heroes. Politics & greed is what is wrong with the world; not those who are trying to alert you to the reality in which you are blindly floating along whilst being immobilised by irrational fear. Fear created to keep you doing & believing in exactly what you are complacently doing.

Pay with cash & please say no to a cashless society while you still have the choice.

Copy and paste to your page if you like!

11/11/2025

She was dying slowly in her father's house, forbidden to leave—until a poet's letter changed everything and she risked it all for a love that would become immortal.
Elizabeth Barrett was born in 1806 into wealth built on Jamaican sugar plantations. She was brilliant from the start—reading Homer in Greek at eight, writing epic poetry at twelve. Her father privately published her first work, "The Battle of Marathon," when most girls her age were learning needlepoint.
Then her body began to fail.
A spinal injury. Lung disease. Pain so severe she could barely move. Doctors prescribed o***m—laudanum—and she became dependent on it just to function. For years, she lived as a semi-invalid in her father's London townhouse, confined to darkened rooms, watching life happen outside her window.
But her mind never stopped burning.
She wrote. Obsessively. Furiously. By the 1840s, Elizabeth Barrett was one of the most celebrated poets in England. Her 1844 collection "Poems" was a sensation. Critics compared her to Shakespeare. She was considered for Poet Laureate when Wordsworth died.
And then, in January 1845, she received a letter that would change everything.
"I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett..."
Robert Browning. A younger poet, six years her junior, writing to tell her that her words had moved him beyond measure. She wrote back. He replied. And suddenly, these two people who'd never met were pouring their souls onto paper.
For months, they only knew each other through letters. When they finally met in person in May 1845, something extraordinary happened. Robert saw past the invalid. Past the o***m. Past the woman everyone had written off as too sick, too fragile, too ruined for real life.
He saw her.
And he wanted to marry her.
There was one massive problem: her father.
Edward Barrett was a tyrant wrapped in Victorian propriety. He'd forbidden any of his twelve children from marrying. Not for religious reasons. Not for financial ones. Simply because he wanted total control. Any child who married would be disowned completely.
Elizabeth was 40 years old. Sick. Dependent on o***m. Living under her father's roof and his rules. Most women in her position would have accepted their fate.
Elizabeth Barrett was not most women.
On September 12, 1846, she walked out of her father's house, married Robert Browning in secret, and fled to Italy. She was 40. He was 34. Her father never spoke to her again.
And then? She came alive.
The sunshine of Florence. The freedom of her own life. The love of a man who saw her as an equal. Elizabeth flourished. Her health improved. She even had a son at 43—something doctors had said was impossible.
And she wrote the most famous love poems in the English language.
"Sonnets from the Portuguese"—Robert's pet name for her—captured what it felt like to be truly seen, truly loved, truly free. Sonnet 43 opens with words that still make hearts stop:
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."
But Elizabeth wasn't just writing love poems.
She was furious about the world. And she used her poetry as a weapon.
"The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point" confronted the horror of slavery with brutal honesty—shocking for a white Victorian woman. "The Cry of the Children" exposed child labor conditions so graphically that it helped change British law. "Aurora Leigh," her novel in verse, argued that women deserved independence, education, and creative lives of their own.
She wrote about Italian independence. About corrupt power. About women trapped by society's expectations. She didn't just observe injustice—she attacked it.
Critics were scandalized. Proper Victorian ladies weren't supposed to write about slavery, politics, or—God forbid—women's desire for autonomy. Elizabeth didn't care. She'd already defied the biggest authority in her life. She wasn't about to be silenced now.
For fifteen years, she lived in Florence with Robert, writing, loving, raising their son, championing causes that mattered. She was happy. Free. Fully alive in ways she'd never been in England.
On June 29, 1861, Elizabeth died in Robert's arms. She was 55. Her last word was "Beautiful."
Robert never remarried. He kept her room exactly as she left it. He published her final poems and spent the rest of his life protecting her legacy.
Here's what makes Elizabeth Barrett Browning's story extraordinary:
She was told her life was over. That she was too sick, too old, too ruined to have love or adventure or freedom. Society had written her off. Her father had locked her away. Her body was failing.
And she said no.
She chose love over security. Freedom over approval. Life over slow death in a gilded cage.
She transformed personal pain into universal poetry. She used her privilege and platform to fight for people who had no voice. She refused to let illness, age, or society's expectations define what was possible for her.
Every woman who's been told she's too sick, too old, too damaged, too much, or not enough—Elizabeth's story is yours.
Every person who's chosen authenticity over approval, love over fear, freedom over safety—you're living her legacy.
She didn't just write "How do I love thee?" She showed us: with courage, with defiance, with absolute refusal to accept a diminished life.
Your body might be fragile. Your circumstances might be limiting. The people who should support you might try to cage you instead.
But your voice? Your spirit? Your right to love and create and fight for what matters?
Those are yours. And nobody can take them unless you let them.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning was dying in a darkened room until she chose to live in the full light. She wrote herself free. She loved herself whole. She made her life matter.
That's not just history. That's a blueprint.
Be brave enough to walk away from what's killing you, even if it looks like safety. Love fiercely, even if it seems impossible. Use your voice, even if it makes people uncomfortable.
Because the world will always have opinions about what you should be, what you can do, who you're allowed to love.
But you get to decide who you actually are.
Elizabeth did. And her words still echo across centuries: "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."
All of them. Every single one. Without apology.
That's not just poetry. That's freedom.

11/07/2025

Her high school voted her "Ugliest Man on Campus."
Ten years later, she was the greatest rock singer alive.
She still died feeling unwanted.
Port Arthur, Texas, 1957. Janis Joplin was 14 years old and miserable.
She didn't fit in. Not in Port Arthur—a conservative oil refinery town where girls were supposed to be pretty, quiet, and conventional.
Janis was none of those things.
She had acne. Bad acne that covered her face and left scars. She was overweight. She wore unconventional clothes. She had opinions—loud, passionate opinions about music, art, civil rights.
In 1950s Texas, that made her a target.
The bullying was relentless.
Boys called her "pig" and "freak." Girls excluded her from social groups. When she walked down the hallway at Thomas Jefferson High School, students would mock her, laugh at her appearance, make oinking sounds.
In her senior year, male students held a cruel vote: "Ugliest Man on Campus."
Janis Joplin won.
Not as a joke she was in on. As a deliberate, public humiliation. They wanted her to know she was unwanted. Undesirable. Worthless.
She never forgot it.
Years later, famous and successful, Janis would still cry talking about high school. The rejection carved itself into her soul so deeply that all the fame in the world couldn't fill it.
"I was a misfit," she said in a 1970 interview, months before her death. "I read, I painted, I didn't hate n*****s. There was nobody like me in Port Arthur."
So in 1963, at age 20, she left.
Hitchhiked to San Francisco—the city where outcasts became artists, where weirdness was celebrated, where she could finally be herself.
She sang in coffee houses. Bluesy, raw, full of pain. She sounded like nobody else—a white girl singing like Bessie Smith, like Big Mama Thornton, like her heart was tearing apart with every note.
She was good. Really good. But drugs were everywhere in the San Francisco scene. Speed, mostly. Janis started using heavily.
By 1965, her health was so bad she fled back to Texas. Tried to get clean. Enrolled in college. Attempted to be "normal."
It didn't work. She wasn't normal. She was Janis Joplin.
In 1966, a band in San Francisco called Big Brother and the Holding Company needed a singer. Someone remembered the girl with the incredible voice who'd disappeared.
They called her in Texas. Asked if she'd come back and join them.
Janis said yes. She was 23 years old and getting one more chance.
June 1967. Monterey Pop Festival.
Big Brother and the Holding Company were nobodies. Scheduled for a daytime slot, not even on the official program. Most of the crowd had never heard of them.
Then Janis walked onstage.
She wore feathers, fur, and attitude. She grabbed the microphone like she was drowning and it was oxygen.
And she sang "Ball and Chain."
The performance was volcanic.
Janis didn't just sing—she screamed, wailed, growled, sobbed. Her whole body convulsed with emotion. Sweat poured down her face. She looked possessed.
The crowd went silent. Then exploded.
In the audience, Mama Cass Elliot (of The Mamas and the Papas) turned to the person next to her, tears streaming down her face, and mouthed: "Wow. That's really heavy."
The footage of Cass's reaction became almost as famous as Janis's performance.
Overnight, Janis Joplin became a star.
By 1968, she was on the cover of magazines. Newsweek called her "the most powerful voice in rock." She was selling out arenas. Making more money than she'd ever imagined.
But fame didn't fix what was broken.
Because Janis was still the girl from Port Arthur who'd been voted "Ugliest Man on Campus."
She threw herself into excess—alcohol, he**in, Southern Comfort (she drank a bottle a day). She had affairs with dozens of people—men and women—desperately seeking connection, love, validation.
"I just want someone to love me," she'd tell friends, drunk and crying after shows. "I want someone to need me."
But the relationships never lasted. The men (and women) she fell for would leave. Or use her for her fame. Or couldn't handle her intensity.
She was the biggest female rock star in the world—and she felt utterly alone.
Onstage, she was fearless. A goddess. The embodiment of sexual liberation and female power.
Offstage, she was vulnerable, insecure, terrified of being unloved.
"Onstage, I make love to 25,000 people," she said. "Then I go home alone."
By 1970, Janis knew she was in trouble.
The drinking and drug use were out of control. She'd overdosed before, been revived, kept using. Friends begged her to get help.
In August 1970, she checked into rehab. Got clean. Stayed clean for weeks—the longest she'd been sober in years.
She was recording a new album: Pearl. Her best work yet. She sounded mature, powerful, in control. The song "Me and Bobby McGee" was going to be huge—everyone knew it.
She was on the verge of everything she'd ever wanted.
Then on October 3, 1970, after a recording session, Janis went back to her room at the Landmark Motor Hotel in Hollywood.
She was alone. She'd been clean for weeks, but her tolerance was down. She shot up he**in—probably the same amount she used to do when she was using daily.
But her body couldn't handle it anymore.
Janis Joplin died on October 4, 1970. She was 27 years old.
Her body was found 18 hours later by her road manager, who came to check why she hadn't shown up for the recording session.
She was lying on the floor between the bed and nightstand. Ci******es and money in her hand—she'd been heading out to buy ci******es when the he**in hit her. She collapsed. And died alone.
The album Pearl was released posthumously in January 1971.
"Me and Bobby McGee" went to #1. Janis's only #1 hit—and she never got to see it.
The album sold millions. Critics called it her masterpiece. It made her estate a fortune.
But Janis wasn't there to experience any of it.
Here's the heartbreaking part: Janis left money in her will for a party.
$2,500 to throw a wake at her favorite bar in San Francisco. The invitation read:
"Drinks are on Pearl" (Pearl was her nickname).
Even in death, she was trying to buy love. Trying to make sure people showed up. Afraid of dying and having nobody care.
250 people came to that party.
Friends, musicians, fans who'd never met her. They drank, played music, cried, told Janis stories.
She would have loved it—all those people celebrating her, missing her, remembering her.
But she had to die to get them all in one room.
Janis Joplin: Born January 19, 1943. Died October 4, 1970.
Bullied in high school for being "ugly."
Became the greatest female rock singer of her generation.
Made love to 25,000 people onstage.
Went home alone.
Died alone.
With $2,500 in her will for a party, terrified nobody would come.
They came. 250 people.
But she wasn't there to see it.
"Onstage, I make love to 25,000 people. Then I go home alone."
That was Janis Joplin's tragedy.
Not that she died young.
But that she spent her whole life desperate for the one thing fame couldn't give her:
To be loved. Not for her voice. Not for her performances. Not for being Janis Joplin.
Just loved. As herself. The weird girl from Port Arthur who never quite believed she was enough.
The high school bullies were wrong. She wasn't ugly.
But they made her believe it so deeply that even when the whole world worshipped her—
She still died feeling unloved.
"Me and Bobby McGee" went to #1 three months after her death.
"Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose..."
Janis had everything. And nothing.
She gave us her voice. Her pain. Her soul.
And died with $2,500 in her will, hoping someone would show up to remember her.
They did.
We still do.
Still listening. Still remembering.
Still wishing someone had told that girl in Port Arthur:
You're not ugly. You're extraordinary.
And you're loved.

11/07/2025

Struggling with sleep can feel like a never-ending battle. I've tried countless remedies, only to wake up more tired!
Thankfully, Silent Nights helps me unwind and rise feeling refreshed. Remember, a great day starts the night before! 😴💤😌🌃💫

10/19/2025

Action remains part of the flow; the difference is where that action comes from. When you’re aligned, your energy feels clean, clear, and purposeful. But when you’re fighting, everything feels like a strain — and it’s exhausting.

We don’t need to push the river; the current is already flowing. And that same force that shaped the river — that spins galaxies and pulls the tides — moves through all of us.

We’re not separate from the flow. We’re made of it. 🌊✨

Sometimes we forget that life has its own rhythm. We push, plan, and overthink — trying to force outcomes into place, as if things will only move if we make them.

But there’s another kind of movement that arises when we act from alignment instead of fear, and in this state, life begins to move with us.

It's not about surrendering or sitting back. You still show up, you still do the work — but without the tension of control.

Action remains part of the flow; the difference is where that action comes from. When you’re aligned, your energy feels clean, clear, and purposeful. But when you’re fighting, everything feels like a strain — and it’s exhausting.

We don’t need to push the river; the current is already flowing. And that same force that shaped the river — that spins galaxies and pulls the tides — moves through all of us.

We’re not separate from the flow. We’re made of it. 🌊✨

10/15/2025

🌿 The strongest are gentle.
Because real strength has nothing to prove. It’s not about how loud you can shout or how hard you can hit, it’s about staying calm when chaos rises, staying kind when others turn cold, and choosing peace when pride wants to fight. True strength is restraint. It’s grace under pressure. It’s the ability to lift others up even when you’re tired yourself.

🧠 The smartest are quiet.
They don’t argue to win; they observe to understand. Their silence is not emptiness, it’s wisdom at work. They know that loud minds often miss the details, and that understanding grows in moments of stillness. The smartest people are never desperate to be right; they’re curious enough to keep learning.

💰 The wealthiest are simple.
They’ve discovered that real wealth isn’t in what you own, but in what you can live without. Peace, time, freedom, and health, those are the currencies that matter most. The wealthiest souls are content with little and grateful for much.

😊 The happiest are private.
They don’t need to broadcast their joy to prove it’s real. They protect their space, their energy, and their peace. They’ve learned that not everything needs to be shared, some things are meant to be felt deeply, quietly, and fully.

✨ Real power doesn’t need to prove itself.
It doesn’t shout, it doesn’t boast, and it doesn’t seek validation. It’s in how you carry yourself when no one’s watching. It’s in the quiet confidence that comes from knowing who you are and not needing anyone’s permission to be it.

10/15/2025

The Quiet Triumphs

Be proud of the steps you took that no one ever saw,
the ones made in silence,
without recognition or reassurance.
Be proud of the nights you lay awake,
talking yourself out of giving up,
of the mornings you rose
when it would have been easier to curl up and disappear
beneath the weight of your own exhaustion.

No one saw you steady yourself
against the quiet ache,
or how you learned to carry it
with a fierce, fragile kind of grace.

Be proud of the small, unremarkable moments
that shaped you,
the promise you made to yourself to keep going,
the choice to forgive someone who never asked,
the courage to show up
to a life that didn’t look the way you thought it would.

Growth doesn’t always announce itself
in loud or obvious ways,
sometimes it’s just a soft exhale,
a single brave breath.

So hold your head high,
not because the world applauds you,
but because you know what it took to stand here.
Every unseen battle,
every invisible step forward,
every time you chose to heal instead of harden,
those are your quiet triumphs,
and they matter
more than anyone will ever know.

~ 'The Quiet Triumphs' by Spirit of a Hippie

✍️ Mary Anne Byrne

~ Art by Annacosysoul

10/13/2025