Sex-Ed: a foundation for healthy relationships

Often the couples I work with tell me no one ever talked to them about puberty sex and sexual education in general. If they were lucky the school nurse gave a lecture. That’s sad. No wonder by the time I see them in mid life they are fraught with questions about what’s normal and plagued with anxieties.

Sex Ed is foundational in building healthy relationships. In being able to navigate ones own changing body and sexual health. It’s too important to be left to wandering the expansive interwebs for information. If no one talked to you, how did you learn? What were your informational sources? And also, how do you know where to begin as a parent or educator?


That’s where this book series comes in: there are 3 books (one for 4+, one for 7+ and one for 10+) they’ll make a great addition to your family library. Read them together and then go back to for reference as needed. 

Sex Education matters.

p.s. Yes, you’re normal. And if you want to discuss further reach out.


It’s not my job to make you feel better

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I turned to my husband, looked him dead in the eye, and said, “It’s not my job to make you feel better.”

The silence stretched out for just a minute. And then our eyes crinkled as we smiled at each other and high fived.

Anyone who’s been in a relationship knows that’s not a common response to someone telling you to take care of your own happiness.

On that particular night the stakes were even higher, we were sitting on the couch late night visioning into our future together. He asked me to find a way to accomplish something based on a shared dream and the answer I gave him wasn’t the outcome he wanted to hear.

He was understanding…and disappointed.  

And that’s when I told him it wasn’t my job to make him feel better. Not smugly or with any snarkiness, but rather with total regard for him, and total confidence in knowing that he wasn’t defensive.

I’m blowing up this moment in celebration of how we’ve grown. How we humans learn. And how when we learn and grow together, our dreams grow together.

You see, what’s significant in this story is how both he and I sat in the moment. Neither of us were uncomfortable. In fact, moments later we reviewed what had just transpired between us. It was awesome to see how much more in alignment our lens are then they use to be.

And it’s not because we’re trying harder either. In fact, it’s because we’re letting go more. And in the process, we’re letting in more too.

I believe that you can attain this alignment in your relationships too. Reach out if I can help.



When we show up for one another, we wake up for ourselves.

It takes much grit to do the intimate work of being seen. Of seeing our own stories and patterns. Of accepting our selves and also our loved ones.

Relationships are hard work. Deep work. They open our souls to the old wounds that need tending and care and expose our most vulnerable parts in a tender, sacred, surrender.

The Somehow Theory

The Somehow Theory is a story that holds me. I hope it offers you some holding and hope too....

The first time I remember asking, I'm five years old and we're sitting in a flower print swivel club chair in the mirrored living room. It's the early 80s.

I sit on grandpa’s lap, cuddle into him and trace the green tattooed numbers on his left forearm with my index finger, over and over just the same as I locate each freckle on his arm. These are his markings. I know them by heart. Perhaps what I know even more than anything is the love I feel sitting on his lap as I trace. This is my safe space. “Grandpa, what do these numbers mean?”

The Somehow Theory

“These numbers,” he tells me, this time and countless times to come, “are my story. And you, are my reason for living.” These are big words to land on the shoulders and in the heart of a child still small and innocent enough to nestle into grandpa’s lap for a journey into the stories that follow all the “why’s” I so naturally provoke him with.

He tells me he has so many stories in him but he’s promised himself not to share most of them with me. “You don’t need to know it all,” he says gently. He can’t bear for me to. After all, I'm his reason for living.

Over the years he tells me his stories in small bursts; about how the family was separated immediately after getting off the cattle cars at Aushwitz. One of my grandfather's brothers was carrying their invalid father, a WW1 hero, followed by his mother and two sisters. When they arrived, they were all sent to the left. My grandfather, on his own, was sent to the right. He survived. Later that day, he asked another prisoner when he'd see his family again. The prisoner responded by shouting to him, “Look up, you see that smoke," he said. "There they are." And so he knew. Not even twenty fours hours after entering the camp, he knew what was in store for them all.

He also shared so many stories about liberation. My grandfather and his two buddies, whom he’d bonded together and survived with in camp, went looking for a sister who they had heard survived at Bergen Belsen. They didn’t find her. Instead they met three women, among them my grandmother. The women were still living in the camp when they met. The men told them they’d be back when they had a place for them to live, then they'd marry them. The women laughed. Who were these men? These three newly liberated men used their moxie and somehow managed to obtain new suits from a local shopkeeper and then came back to woo the women. Again and again. Each time in new suits. And in no time the three couples married.

Girls my age had princesses but I had liberation as my love story.

I hold onto this love story, passed down from my grandparents, two holocaust survivors who rebuilt their lives on The Somehow Theory.

That somehow, if you believe enough, if you hope enough, it will work out.

No matter how hard it is.

As we watched the results of our presidential election roll in, my husband looked me in the eye and said, "We have to live each day. That's it. Don't succumb to fear. Live. Love." And that's what I'm planning on. Living and loving as much as I can every damn day. It's exactly the medicine my grandparents would have recommended. I invite you to join me.