Me & My Shadow

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A space for those seeking clarity, connection, and the courage to live life authentically. I’m Chelsea, a psychotherapist, mother, spouse, and caregiver, sharing my lived experiences through the many roles I carry. Together, we’ll dive into the beautiful, messy, and deeply human stories that shape our lives – making meaning out of the chaos and finding connection in our shared humanity. We all deserve time to reflect, grow, and embrace the wonder of just being. Let’s journey together. chelseawalsh.substack.com

Episodes

  1. FEB 14

    Saying Yes While My Heart Was Shattered

    Hello Reader, It has been a while. The thing about grief is that the foundation of your life no longer feels steady. The illusion that it ever was has now been exposed, and that giant spotlight shining on the rubble feels overwhelming — uncertain, unsafe. In fact, nothing feels safe anymore because we now know the truth: that this whole life is only an illusion of safety. At any minute of any day, we could be the one taking our last inhalation with no exhale left. Jaw dropped, perhaps eyes still open, heart still beating for those last few minutes — and then it is over. There is only a body left. And in my case, it was his body.My now late husband’s beautiful body. Filled with fluid retention, swollen, unable to move. The light no longer in his eyes as I gently pushed down each lid to close them. Rest my love. Rest. The living no longer know what rest means. Rest is counterintuitive when you are the one left. Eating is foreign. Drinking, walking — anything normal feels abnormal. There isn’t one second, not even one, where you are not keenly aware that your foundation has been bombed and you’re bleeding out with no insight into how to make the bleeding stop. In fact, there isn’t even a desire to stop bleeding — because stopping bleeding feels like stopping grieving. And one never wants to forget, not a single second, what it was like to have that person here on earth. So attempting to stop the bleed isn’t even a desire. The bleeding is rapid at first. Blood flowing everywhere. You talk about it. Dream about it. Wake up choking as if being strangled. Blood falling out of your mouth. Tears down your face. Covered in agony. “My husband is dead,” said to random strangers. Aversion to eye contact because it risks more blood. But I could not help myself. Eye contact felt different now. It was as though the blood was contagious. Like a shark smelling blood, I too could see another’s wounds. I saw it in their eyes — that depth of pain rooted in my inner knowing: You’ve been through something too. And then there are the tears. Tears of such intensity that I would beg out loud for his return. “Baby, how can this be? How are you not here? How will I ever be able to do this without you?” Hysteria that would result in me sitting on the floor rocking back and forth until I could catch my breath. The brain is like scrambled eggs. Not yummy, fluffy eggs — but eggs with shells that don’t smell right, that keep falling out of the pan or are overcooked with such grit that it feels as though the pan will be ruined. My brain didn’t work. Hard because everything. Getting the mail, groceries, taking care of any household responsibility, bills — all the easy things felt like being disabled and having to figure out how to do simple tasks in a completely new way. Two weeks after his death, I began to shut down. In therapy, we call this agoraphobic — when the world outside your home feels intolerable, unsafe, impossible to enter. But clinical language feels sterile compared to the lived experience of it. It wasn’t just fear. It was collapse. I remember the first time I tried to go pick up cheesecake mix at Walmart. Of all places — fluorescent lights, beeping registers, vacationers everywhere — the ordinary chaos of the living. I wanteda tub of cheesecake. Something simple. Something normal. I didn’t even think twice. But the moment I walked through those sliding glass doors, panic overtook me. My chest tightened. Vision blurred. Sound distorted like I was underwater. My body knew before my brain could process it — this is not safe. I abandoned the two girlfriends I was with and raced back to the car. Hyperventilating.Sobbing.Gripping the car door like it was the only solid thing left in the world. How is the world still moving……when my world just ended? But here’s the truth I would learn slowly: My world did not end. My chapter ended.Cancer ended.My husband’s life ended.Our life as we knew it ended.Our hopes and dreams ended. So much of grief is grieving what was……and what could have been. It was a phone call that changed everything. My sister invited me and the kids to meet her family in Paris, France. Paris. It sounded absurd. Impossible. How could I get on a plane?Be around humans?Go to France… when my life had exploded?When even the idea of flossing my teeth felt hard? “I’ll talk to the kids,” I told her. We only had a few hours to commit. The trip was in three days. I sat down with our babies — our teenagers who will always be little to me and to their father. The grief exposed them in a childlike way, and the helplessness I felt to shield them and protect them made the bleeding out even more. They, too, were bleeding, and I could not make it better. Teenagers who had seen too much.Been through too much.Who held their dad’s hand.Who slept in the recliner next to his hospital bed.Who learned to say goodbye far too early. Kids who bravely showed up and leaned in — with open hearts and broken hearts. Their first answer was no. “We don’t think so.” And I understood. But then I heard your voice, baby. My husband’s voice — laughing. “YES, of course!” And I remembered how we had just renewed all of our passports the year prior in hopes of traveling abroad. I thought about the many trips he had taken to France and all over the world. I thought about his fight for life — his willingness to keep saying yes to living despite his illness. Chemo bag at volleyball games.Active infection but still going to a Dead and Company concert.Visiting his roadie buddies whenever he felt remotely decent.Spending his first disability check on an electric bike because we loved riding together — even though his body was no longer able to. The way he still tried to care for us.Still said yes to every ask of our children…Even while his body was in the fight of his life. “Yes,” I said out loud. That will be our duty — to honor your father’s life. We will say yes to every invite.Yes to living. Our bodies and brains will protest. So we created a boundary: Yes only needs to be ten minutes of immersion.After that, we can leave.We can change our minds.We can go back to the hotel and cry if we need to. But we will say yes. I made up my mind and, in that moment, I could see him smiling down. It has been almost nine months now. My brain has finally turned back on. My grief is integrating. My life has been lived amidst the day-to-day chaos. So many miracles.So many stories. My yeses to continuing to live big while I grieved big. The gifts are starting to come back. This was the beginning. The beginning of grieving big.Living big.And keeping my wounded heart wide open. Thank you for your love.Your support.For being a reader. All my love,Chelsea Me & My Shadow is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe

    7 min

  2. 11/11/2025

    Ocean Eyes

    I’m here with our daughter. At a concert in the same venue where you and she went to your last concert together — the final one you’d ever attend with her, and the last one she’d share with you. Because you, my love, have left in physical form. Death has robbed us all of the comfort of your presence. My eyes fill with tears when Billie Eilish starts singing Ocean Eyes. My breath catches. Baby, I see you. I see the deep blue depth of your eyes meeting mine. The quiet knowing that used to live between our eyes. It was your superpower, my love— the way you looked so deeply into my eyes when you spoke that I felt seen. It was as though you were looking straight through my soul. And in turn, I could see yours too. Tethered in the locking of our eyes, there was a knowing — that beautiful, wordless understanding that happens when eyes speak loudly because words can never cover the truth of eyes. Now, it makes me think of my new world — the one I’m navigating through grief, agony, and pain. How my eyes now find new delights, small glimmers of hope. Grief has slowed my mind and made me notice the beauty in every natural detail. I’ve always had the gift of sensing things, of reading eyes. And now, the eyes of others in pain shine like a spotlight, saying, “Here I am, too. I’ve been through some s**t.” Isn’t it strange how pain becomes a shortcut to recognizing pain in others? The eyes don’t lie. Show me your eyes, and I’ll know your soul. There are layers and depths within them—the shine of eyes not yet dulled by the agony of being human. I love shiny eyes — that sparkle, that flicker of magic. The way it stirs curiosity and excitement. The way it speaks. Sparkly eyes are contagious; they offer a flash of wonder to anyone lucky enough to catch a glimpse, even now, as I type these words, a small smile forms on my lips. I’ve always been attuned to seeing — to reading — to noticing depth. I remember when our son was in kindergarten, seeing a boy with hollow eyes. Eyes that were stripped of innocence, robbed by neglect or some sort of cruelty. Reminding me of a kid I used to do therapy with, if you can call it therapy, since I would leave the office door open and only play cards with him during our sessions. He had eyes that warned of danger — the kind that makes your body tighten before your mind catches up. And yet, I’d like to believe that eyes can change — that we can add new layers, making them more complex, more beautiful eyes. That pain can soften through gratitude, love, and presence — through truly seeing the human in front of us. Because connection, even in the briefest glance, can make this world feel a little less isolating. The truth is, once we’ve seen, we cannot unsee. So I trust that faith and God are holding me as I keep looking. My eyes wide open. Because that’s what human connection really is — you see me, and I see you. The real you. The mirror of my eyes reflecting your own eyes right back at you. And let’s be honest — who doesn’t want to be seen for all of their layers? Our children have your eyes — the depth of a beautiful ocean, still glimmering with light. But now, that ocean holds new layers too. The kind that comes from the vicarious trauma of simply being human… and from losing you, sweet baby. I see it in them — the tenderness, the ache, the wonder—the knowing. And maybe that’s the legacy of love: when the eyes of those we leave behind still carry the shimmer of our own. Me & My Shadow is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe

    5 min

  3. 04/29/2025

    The Things We Swallow

    I once knew a man who ate glass.I don’t remember his name, but I remember him vividly. The memory no longer distant. Me, in my twenties. Tall, long blonde hair, youthful wearing black cigarette pants and likey some cute tight top with black platform heels fully immersed in this party.Our house decorated for a Singles Valentine’s Day gathering— paper hearts cut from construction paper covering the walls each saying some inappropriate innuendo for the day of love. Party strings. A DJ spinning music that felt too loud for the size of the room and was likely even louder the condo owner next door shared living room wall. Every inch of the kitchen counters cluttered with bottles of cheap alcohol. Then: the crash of a bottle breaking. And him — a young man, mid-twenties, sturdy in frame and height, brown shaggy hair, dressed in all black, like he belonged to some forgotten 90s band — walking calmly over, picking up a shard of broken glass, and without hesitation, putting it in his mouth. Chewing it. Swallowing it. Eating glass. I remember being stunned — my face frozen in disbelief. The thoughts that raced through my mind: What is wrong with this human? The image of his insides being cut. The fear that caused my heart to drop right into the pit of my belly when I had the fleeting thought, what if this gets stuck in his throat? And then I come back to the present moment. This memory, a movie trailer clip, has come to an abrupt end. In this moment, I'm not eating glass, but can’t stop thinking that the exact feeling that resides within me mirrors what it would be like to eat glass. My throat is raw and dry.My chest feels like it’s being sliced from the inside.Each breath cuts a little deeper down through my diaphragm, into my stomach.The blood — invisible but real — a reminder of my current pain. The clinical term pops into my head: vicarious trauma. Vividly aware that attuned, empathic hearts will feel another human's suffering, whether from physical injury or emotional agony, as though it is happening to them. Because the pain is. No barrier. No distance. Just pain — shared, absorbed. A new movie trailer clip. I am rewatching yesterday—the pain in his grey-blue eyes. “Keep your eyes on me,” I say. Watching anguish, panic, and physical pain. “Breathe with me. In through your nose, baby. Keep your mouth closed. Eyes on me.” Breathe. The alarm alerts scream, beep, and flash red on the machines. His blood pressure is too high. His oxygen levels are rapidly dropping. Heartbeat now 165. Eyes on me. “I’m going to have to put this in your artery,” Jason says. I know this man. He is on the MET team (Medical Emergency Team). I met him and the others just 5 days earlier during my husband’s internal bleed that spilled out of him externally. The needle is big. “Baby, keep looking at me. Breathe.” IV meds are administered in the other arm. They work around me. Never asking me to leave his bed or let go of his hand. Machines continue to scream. Constant chatter of communication—directives, information, speculation. “Sepsis.” “Keep looking at me.” He is scared. I am afraid, too. He is confused. Me too. We stare into each other's eyes, but much deeper because I can see his soul. I wonder if he can see mine. The intensity between us is palpable. His eyes convey wordless trust, fragile and sacred. Death by a thousand cuts—I think of the psychological description of watching someone you love suffer slowly, helplessly. It feels like eating broken glass. And just like that, my mind flashes back 20 years ago, to that young man chewing glass at a party, surrounded by music and laughter that covered up so much unseen pain. I wonder where he is now.What his insides look like.I wonder if he ever healed. I wonder if his eating glass was his way of proving a pain he didn’t know how else to show — and I wonder, too, how many of us are walking around looking fine, looking normal, while inside we are shredded and bleeding, carrying wounds no one else can see. And then, my thoughts turn inward.I wonder if I will ever be the same.I wonder what my husband’s insides look like now — if he will ever truly heal from so many physical cuts.If he escapes death this time, will it be enough to heal my invisible cuts? I decide that in this moment, survival means we both will bleed — but bleeding means we are still alive.So I hold fiercely to the truth I know in my bones: cuts heal.And it will be my work, not to willingly eat broken glass, but to trust that healing is possible. Me & My Shadow is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe

    5 min

  4. 12/30/2024

    Congratulations & Welcome to 21 Days of New

    Mental Health Disclaimer I am a licensed therapist and mental health coach, but the content provided in this course is for informational and educational purposes only. It is not intended to serve as medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Participation in this course does not establish a therapeutic relationship. If you are experiencing a mental health crisis or need immediate support, please contact call 988 or call your local emergency services. Blessings, Luck & Miracles Blessings, luck and miracles are part of this journey. We all have experience unexpected goodness throughout our lives and when we know that this is the natural course of living, we will start to pay attention. 21 Days of New is a course for paid subscribers. If you’d like to subscribe for this course only, sign up for the month of January $8 and cancel after the course. For annual subscribers get 20% off if you subscriber by 1/1/25 * Create a blessings, luck, miracle space: This can be a separate journal, notebook, box, jar, document, or place in our phone. Be as creative as you like. * Throughout this 21 Days of New Course, you will record any blessing, luck or miracles that have come your way. * Note, this does not replace your gratitude practice but acts as an added bonus. The point in separating the space is to rewire your brain that blessings are the bonus of life. Pay attention and make note! Most importantly, enjoy the feeling because feeling the goodness is how we attract more of what we want in life. Examples of Blessings, Luck, Miracles: Today I got 25 new substack subscribers! A car almost hit me but swerved out of the way. My girlfriend gave me 2 beautiful new handbags! Today I got a random check for $11.42 from the electric company! My husband who is battling cancer had a great day where he felt great! My job gave me a raise! I got an unexpected discount on a course I have been wanting to take. Our podcast was just asked to be on another show! I was asked to do a public speaking event! My daughter forgot her lunch at school and a friend shared with her. My water bill went down by $25 dollars. I asked for a sign that I am on the right track and I saw it! I was triggered and stayed calm. An old friend I was thinking about reached out to me and sent me a sweet text message. Tomorrows the BIG DAY!!! Can’t wait! Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe

    2 min

  5. 12/09/2024

    Part 3- Conclusion: Circle of Wounds

    Monday’s Mindful Moments are an invitation to contemplate the human journey of life with me. My wish is that these writings ignite a spark of thoughtful intention as you welcome this new week. With all my love & gratitude, Chelsea I think back to this memory now. The car incident almost 30 years later. I think of cancel culture and what a behavior like this would mean today. I don't dare run through the what-ifs. Instead, I move towards the impulsivity of an underdeveloped brain. The prefrontal cortex is the part of the brain that assists with the pros and cons of decision-making. I think about how this part of the brain does not reach full maturity until the age of 25 years old. I think of young, dumb kids navigating this world with the underdeveloped part of brain that helps with things like planning, prioritizing, and making intelligent choices. I think about parents and how we spend our lives trying to protect our children, running the tape through, accessing this part of the brain repeatedly. I appreciate how beautiful it is witness a child’s developmental growth. I send my gratitude to every adult who helps strengthen this part of the brain through their patience, mentoring and connection. I think of the kids less lucky. The ones who don’t have supportive adults assisting them with running the tape through and how painful it is to see the lifelong consequences of a lack of awareness, impulsivity and the double risk of untreated developmental wounds and trauma that compounds these already vulnerable developing brains. It reminds me of my time working with severely emotionally gang kids in a lockdown facility where the culture and dynamics of the environment reinforced what was okay and what was not okay. I remember my job as a Therapeutic Behavioral Specialist in my 20s. Fresh out of college, thin, cute with platinum blonde hair and straight Betty Paige bangs. Young, often wearing Creeper shoes, a studded belt, black pants and a nice shirt tucked in. 5’8 and all of 123 lbs. Cute and professional enough given my job in a locked down facility working directly with severely emotionally disturbed, abused, gang kids recently let out of juvenile hall. This facility was split. Half the ward had girls and the other half had boys. In the middle between all the locked doors was a cafeteria where the boys and girls ate at different times. Each ward had a few padded rooms designated for kids who had been restrained for being dangerous to themselves or others and each had hall had a designated as a classroom. Outside was a basketball court contained by a chain linked fence with barb wire. This was the court where I would learn to play sports often getting pelted in the face with a ball. It hurt but I didn’t care. Sports was a shortcut to connection and being tough was necessary if I had a chance at making any difference in my new role. I recall my first day at this job. I introduced myself to the kid who I’d hardly describe as a kid since he was over 6 feet tall and looked more like a man. “Hello, I’m Chelsea and I will be helping you.” He replied instantly with a smile and these words. “Great! You can start helping me by getting on your knees and sucking my dick.” The group of boys that surrounded him burst out laughing. And though I was terrified on the inside, I too was quick witted. “Well,” I said, “That isn’t the type of help they pay me for but it’s a pleasure to meet you.” My brain was flooded with fear that I’d be attacked or raped. But the fear was outweighed with determination and that is what kept me showing up day after day. I had no idea how to be a Therapeutic Behavioral Specialist but I knew what it was like to be a pissed off kid. I witnessed the raw behaviors of these teens I directly worked day after day. One kid I worked with would smear his own feces on the classroom door to avoid going to school. A girl who I worked with would piss off the other kids with her obnoxious off handed comments and was once stabbed with a pencil by another kid. I was sitting next her trying to get her to knock off the s**t talking when that happened. Needless to say the pencil stab put an end to that. I can recall fights randomly breaking out and kids being carried off by staff into padded rooms where they would yell and scream and throw themselves into the walls. I remember the cafeteria where the choice was some sort of awful hot entree or 2 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. One of the boys I worked with ate 6 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches everyday, two for each meal. He was too paranoid to eat any other food and I can’t say I could blame him. I recall the countless files I read specific to each kid I was assigned to. The worst kids where the ones who got someone like me to work one-on-one with them. These were the kids that risked going back to juvenile hall if they failed placement here. I eventually stopped reading these files. They were all the same with some sort of abuse but with unique nuances. Histories of neglect, sexual abuse, physical abuse, witness to violence. Some where born addicted to substances. Others had been sold for sex by their own parents. Awful human behavior inflicted by those who brought them into this world and were supposed to love and protect them. Innocent beings who would be robbed from innocence immediately upon their entrance into this world. Kids who didn’t deserve abuse, neglect, mentally ill parents, yet born to survive would learn to protect themselves in the only ways they knew how……. I reflect on those kids underdeveloped, traumatized brains and think of the risk of my own safety jeopardized 40 hours a week, 8 hours a day. I remember the feeling of being in danger in that lockdown facility, but I also remember understanding the natural consequences that occurred rooted in the animalistic part of the brain. I understood it and could identify with some of the reactions I would see. Though I hadn’t suffered the why they had, I understood basic feelings, reactivity and grew to understand the culture of their environment. I worked at that job for almost a year. During this time I had 8 kids who I was successful with. That meant that 8 kids didn’t fail placement and didn’t have to go back to juvenile hall. The social workers and staff would call me in often to ask what my magic was. For that I did not have an answer other than these kids learned to trust me and then developed a loyalty to me. When this happened they would follow the advise I gave rooted in 2 simple things. Behavior and consequences. For every behavior there is either a positive or negative consequence. It was as simple as that. I became the supportive adult even though I was only a few years older, helping them form their prefrontal cortex by running the tape through over and over again. I held firm to rewards and consequences. I advocated when their voice was not heard. I taught them how to communicate in a way that they would be heard. I collaborated with any individual on their team who would listen and more than anything, I loved each kid who I worked with. They mattered to me. I learned about their own context of being loyal. The gang kids I worked with and the things they would do to defend their neighborhood and turf. Behaviors they would go to any length to control or deter another’s behavior. I think of the disaster of untreated trauma that comes from being a human in this world and the disaster of hurt we inflict on others. I am still looking for a happy takeaway for this essay. I only have an opportunity to pause and utilize my own fully developed brain to conclude that being able to pause and run the tape through is now my most valuable gift. This is a gift I practice constantly. However, it is counterintuitive to the 17-year-old girl who still resides within me. I can still fantasize about revenge. My brain gets satisfaction from all the behaviors I can do to shut down others' unwanted behavior and mitigate the impact of emotional harm. Because a fantasy is just that, something we imagine. I know better now that to believe every thought I have. I educate others that we have an average of 40,000-60,000 thoughts per day and if we believed all of these thoughts we would all be locked up or just simply insane. I teach behavioral choice and how to respond rather than react to every individual I work with. I drill it into my children's brains that behavior is a choice. This is a challenge when another human hurts them. I have learned how to actively calm the fire inside of my brain and body that comes when I witness their human journey that includes pain from other kids, school, and walking wounded adults that don't think about the impact of what they say or do. I damper this fire by running that f*****g tape through. It is a process that is hard and takes time. There is no instant gratification. But I know the risk of a fire started in a dry environment, vulnerable to taking over and spreading. I do my personal best to put that fire out in a way that aligns with the highest, most wisest part of myself. God and I have so many heart-to-heart talks. I meditate and imagine wishing this person well. I vent to my closest girlfriends. Practice compassion because we know that we are all flawed human beings. When I get stuck, I hire a helper. Sometimes I crack and lose it, with my words. Though I elect not to say all of the words I am thinking and focus on being direct, articulate and firm. The intensity of this crack is often my last-ditch effort to put an end to the chaos, but I will go there if necessary. This confrontational behavior backfires internally with a mix of relief, satisfaction, anxiety, and inner incongruence because I am both grateful and loathe this part of myself. I will conclude these 3 essays with this last food for thought. We are not responsible for others' behaviors. We have one thing we can control, and that, my fri

    11 min

  6. 12/02/2024

    Circle of Wounds

    Read or Listen toCircle Of Wounds: Part 1 prior to listening to this podcast. Each week I will publish an essay and add a reflective Podcast episode to dive a bit deeper into the the story that I’ve shared. Thank you for listening! Being Me with Chelsea is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe

    10 min

  7. 12/02/2024

    Part 1: Circle of Wounds

    Monday’s Mindful Moments are an invitation to contemplate the human journey of life with me. My wish is that these writings ignite a spark of thoughtful intention as you welcome this new week. With all my love & gratitude, Chelsea I don't want to go. I shouldn't have said yes. But I am just a young girl; I haven't learned to say no. My exterior appears more confident than my internal truth. I look like a girl with the ability to say no. I am tall for my age. Eleven years old with a slender, muscular build. My light blonde hair is shiny from aqua net hairspray. My bangs are teased up high, accentuating my mid-length crunchy permed curls. I dress in the trend of fluorescent-colored clothing and black biker shorts. My favorite outfit is a long hot pink tank top with sides cut too low. I like to coordinate my outfit thoughtfully, so I pair the oversized tank with a smaller black fitted tank worn underneath; it matches my black biker shorts. To top it off, I have fat, thick slouch socks paired perfectly with my double-tongue high-top Reeboks.  NB has strawberry blonde hair and freckles and is one of the cool kids in our grade. He is good at sports, and most girls have a crush on him. But he has a crush on me. I have little interest in him, but he's always been kind, friendly, and sweet. Plus, he's good at kickball, which we have in common. NB is often picked first to be one of the two the captains of the kickball teams. The teacher always picks the best athletes and the rest of the kids are spread out in a line for each captain to chose one by one who they want on their team, kid by kid. Every kid hopes they will be picked sooner rather than later. I always feel terrible for the unskilled kids who get picked last. I am a better-than-average kickball player, so even though I fear being last, this has never happened to me, I like the safety of this kid liking me because it guarantees I'll be picked first.  It is Saturday morning. I live at my grandmother's house and know I cannot honor my words. I cannot go.  Every bone in my body is shouting no. I am in tears, angry with myself, frightened for no good reason, and need to say no. I am brave enough to pick up the rotary phone and dial his number. His mother answers cheerfully. I have no idea what I said. I only remember being flooded with emotions and her seeming caught off guard. The only message I could convey was that I would not meet her son at the movies.  I feel terrible when I imagined this young kid, this 11-year-old 5th grader, getting ready to have his mom drive him to the movies where we are supposed to have our date only for his date, me, to have called his mother to flake. I am embarrassed about being a flake. Even at this young age, I am the type of kid who follows through. I am sick over my avoidance, paralyzed in my body, and stuck. My response has nothing to do with him. It is my little girl brain, fearful of being alone in the dark with a boy.  The memories of my young body being violated have intruded my sleep. I've been waking up in tears. My heart racing, covered in disgust fighting to be anywhere that isn' my mind. The visual is as though I'm watching from above. A young girl, asleep on the living room floor with other kids. The visual that, that if witnessed by another, would be nostalgic, sweet, a common kids slumber party. The image that children all hope to have and one that adults feel warm when they remember. Camping out with friends home on the floor. But that image is quickly tainted when I watch from above what has happened to the 1st-grade child that is me. It wasn't violent or cruel. It wasn't something that left marks physically, though my body remembers it and has stored it in a way that now, in 5th grade, I cannot be alone in the movies in the dark with a boy.  Monday comes too quickly. I know I will have to face this boy. There is no avoiding it. I am already quite shy, and this, combined with my traumatic reactivity, causes me to shut down instinctively. He sees me before class starts and confronts me. I can see how angered and hurt he is. I don't have any words, so my voice says nothing. My eyes look like deer in the headlights, and my body feels everything. I have deep empathy for him. Sadness for hurting him. Embarrassment for myself. Shame. There is something wrong with me.  During recess, he gets revenge. He pulls the back of my shirt and drops a caterpillar down my back. It's so quick, and I am completely caught off guard as he starts slapping my back with the risk of smashing this caterpillar that is down my shirt and on my bare back. My legs work before my mind can do anything. I am running as fast as I can. The girl's restroom is my safe landing pad where I can save myself and hopefully, this caterpillar if it isn't too late. I rip off my tank top in the closest bathroom stall. The caterpillar isn't there. There is no smashed residual of its existence and the tears of relief flow into a sob that shakes my entire body to its bones. I am okay, but that little caterpillar likely fell out while I ran.  I don't know how long I stayed in that stall, what happened afterward, or what it was like when I returned to class. I only know that after this incident, I took the gift that NB had given to me, and I changed. My no’s became fierce. It was as though overnight, I stopped being a girl who could be easily pushed around and became fiercely protective of myself and those I was loyal to and loved.  Sometimes, this meant verbal conflicts, and other times, it meant physical altercations. I am reminded of this each time I put on earrings and one piercing is scarred with a line where my earring was ripped out of my ear, tearing my lobe. This is another core memory of 5th grade. It's the reason why I can only wear light stud earrings; the lobe is close to fully tearing. I wonder how my life would have been had I remained passive, shy and easily able to be taken advantage of. I reflect on that inner change that came with big outer behaviors rooted in big feelings that I didn’t express in a healthy way. I think of how many times the defensive part of brain has taken over and protected me. I think of the flip side of when my own behaviors have hurt someone else. I own those less-than-desirable moments. Moments that could be another humans core, traumatic memory. For that, I am so very sorry. The circle of untreated wounds between humans that hopefully resolves with maturity, insight and healing of our own hurts and losses..…. Stay Tuned for Part 2: Circle of Wounds Being Me with Chelsea is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Buy Me a Coffee Link Below Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe

    7 min

  8. 11/28/2024

    Dear Reader

    Dear Substack Reader, Being Me with Chelsea is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. When I woke up this morning, I thought of you. I thought of this writing being sent to your email and you taking time, which I believe is our most valuable asset, to read my essay. When I imagine a individual utilizing their most valuable asset to read what I wrote, my body fills with emotion. My chest gets a feeling of anticipation, comfort, and gratitude. A fullness that is fluid and moves to my stomach, where it is warm and calm. My leg is uncomfortable, restlessly shaking immediately followed by rapid thoughts of luck, questioning, and undeserving. I take a deep breath. In through my nose, pausing at the top and exhaling slowing. Breathing is my superpower. I brings me back to myself and when I am in my body intentionally in this way, my thoughts can slow done and connect with truth. This truth flows from my tattooed fingers to this black keyboard putting words on this page. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I am so very grateful. I am beyond grateful but don’t know another word to capture this. Being able to write and now do a mini podcast on Substack is beyond my wildest dreams. I never imagined revealing my journey through life in a public way. Though I live an authentic life and am quite open, putting it out there in cyber world can feel really scary. When self-judgment comes in, the voice often says don’t. You will be judged. People will think xzy. You might offend someone. Your grammar isn’t right. Often times I delete. Type it again. Sleep on it. Save it or write something else all together. On my more attuned days I pause, stop, validate and talk to my more tender pieces. I often ask for guidance from God, Spirit, Angels, the Universe, all things greater and bigger than me that I cannot possibly know or see. I ask what to share and what others might need. I believe that energy is contagious, and if just one person benefits from my vulnerability, then the amount of time, energy, and emotions that go into this process is worth it. I’d like to imagine a softer flow of energy connected in our shared humanity being gifted to each supporter. Perhaps something I say will resonate with you, the reader, and the listener, and maybe, just maybe, that energy will continue flow in a positive way. Maybe you will feel less alone, kinder, or be gentler to yourself as you navigate the highs and lows of your own human journey. Maybe your energy will be caught by another human and they too will pause and consider something new….. It is an honor to share parts of my brain and heart with you. Thank you for supporting my work. Sending all my thank you’s, hugs, gratitude, and love, Chelsea Being Me with Chelsea is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe

    3 min

  9. 11/25/2024

    Curiosity Neutralizes Judgment

    This essay is a reflection from my essay- Formative Years where I share the paradox of my upbringing. Todays episode is a reflection of the how we tend to judge individuals by the way their appearance because our brain is biased and likes to take shortcuts. Lets talk about the layers of lived experiences that make up each human and ways to honor our all of the delicate pieces that make us human. Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe

    10 min
  • 9 Episodes

About

A space for those seeking clarity, connection, and the courage to live life authentically. I’m Chelsea, a psychotherapist, mother, spouse, and caregiver, sharing my lived experiences through the many roles I carry. Together, we’ll dive into the beautiful, messy, and deeply human stories that shape our lives – making meaning out of the chaos and finding connection in our shared humanity. We all deserve time to reflect, grow, and embrace the wonder of just being. Let’s journey together. chelseawalsh.substack.com

Information

  • Creator
    cheleawalsh.substack.com
  • Years Active
    2024 - 2026
  • Episodes
    9
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    © Chelsea Walsh
  • Show Website
    Me & My Shadow

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