I’m a compassionate, fierce, protective (sometimes funny) Recovery Road-Warrior, with 15 years of Twelve-Step Recovery experience and training.
I help women and men like you define and envision exactly the love relationship you want in your life so you can manifest it.
In visualizing your best possible relationship you will rediscover your heartfelt values and begin living in them.
I will help you understand why you attract and are attracted to emotionally chaotic people. Self-awareness is always the beginning of positive change, but it’s just a beginning.
If you’re currently single, I’ll give you a Dating Map which will clarify what is and what isn’t emotionally abusive behavior. It will help you spot toxic behavior right up front so you can avoid these people.
I’ll empower you to take responsibility for your own life by identifying the self-defeating character traits that are keeping you stuck in toxic situations. Traits like:
- An Overabundance of Empathy
- Misplaced Responsibility
- Abandoning Yourself Because of Love and/or Sex Addiction
Next I’ll give you concrete tools and actionable tasks to help you shed these self-defeating traits so you can build or re-build your self-esteem.
When your self-esteem grows you’ll find the man in your life will either treat you better or leave. (Or you might give him the boot!)
I’ll work with you on building a Mental Health Village that will support you long after our work is done, so you will always have a recovery infrastructure.
This will include members of my private Recovery Road-Warrior Facebook group, the right Twelve-Step group and a thriving relationship with a Higher Power of your own understanding even if you are an agnostic or an atheist.
I’d love show off one of my tools right now.
My book, She Dated the Asshats, But Married the Good Guy is garnering rave reviews and is already helping a slew of women and men walk the path to emotional serenity and freedom. I’m really proud of this book.
I’ve spent a year running trials with lovely clients on a new coaching program that’s launching this spring!
What I Believe:
- You don’t have to be ashamed that you fall in love with narcissists or toxic men. You have a case of codependency that you caught in childhood, just like you might catch the flu. It’s not your fault and there is a cure!
- Isolation keeps us ashamed and suffering. There is a wonderful group of ashamed, suffering folks out there just waiting to embrace you. Shared suffering can bring great healing and reignite purpose.
- If we were as invested in our recovery as we are in our justifications for not starting recovery, we’d be living our life to maximum potential.
- It doesn’t matter whether or not you believe a Higher Power exists, HP believes you exist and is standing at the ready to help. Call yours whatever you like. Mine is the ocean.
- The greatest impediment to recovery and reclaiming our true selves is Pride. Humility is the launch pad to recovery.
- You. Are. Enough. Right now, just as you are. To be loved.
My Own Path to Arriving Here:
There was THAT night. I was in year three of what turned out to be a five year relationship with a man I was insane over. And not good insane. Really sucky insane.
I didn’t think about anything but (we’ll call him) Jeffrey. Would he come over when he said he would? And what kind of mood would he be in? Sometimes he’d be mopey, or critical, or cancel plans, or flirt with other women in front of me.
If I got fed up and threatened to leave then he’d be Prince Charming. Saying and doing all the right things until he had me back and obsessed all over again.
It was exhausting.
THAT night he was supposed to come over at 10 p.m. and spend the night at my apartment because his truck needed to go to the mechanic.
The plan was I’d follow him there in my car, he’d drop his truck to the repairs department and I’d drive him to work.
10 p.m. came and went. No Jeffrey. 11 p.m. 12 p.m. You might know exactly what I’m talking about. I texted, called, no answer, no nada.
At 1 p.m. I couldn’t take it anymore.
Bounding out of bed in pajamas and slippers, it took me approximately five minutes and seven seconds to squeal to the curb of Jeffrey’s apartment building.
I slammed the car door shut, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the driver’s side window. I was startled to see a heart-palpitating, nostrils-flaring madwoman.
I gave her no mind as I compulsively speed-walked to Jeffrey’s apartment. I was unsettled to see his truck in its parking space; like a cockroach on a scoop of vanilla ice cream or some other David Lynche-ian harbinger of doom.
Next I detected a gentle flickering from Apt. 122. I detected this because I was hunched in a Crouching Tiger, squinting through the infinitesimal cracks of his lavaliere blinds.
I discerned the melodious stylings of KWAVE wafting through the door crack against which I had my ear pressed. A little Teddy Pendergrass circa 1987 played.
I had a key to Jeffrey’s apartment and could have let myself in. But I wasn’t really sure I wanted to know what was behind that door.
Murmurs emanated from within. I heard the ominous shuffling of feet. The door cracked open just wide enough for Jeffrey’s face to fit. He was more stoned than usual, his obsidian eyes opaque, with no affect.
“Jeffrey?” I squawked.
“Yes?” he responded, as if I was an anonymous court clerk delivering a summons.
“I thought you were supposed to come over to my house when I got off work?” I shrilled.
Instantly I became a woman in open sea surrounded by sharks, clutching a deflated life preserver because in Jeffrey’s flat gaze I spied nascent rebellion, a hint of cruel pleasure.
And that’s when I saw Her.
I knew, but didn’t know she’d be there, the centerpiece of this philandering scenario lit by Pottery Barn candles and scored by James Taylor’s “Mexico.”
She was sitting where I’d often slept, on Jeffrey’s futon. She was chicly-thin and wore a turquoise mid-riff top exposing a silver belly ring above skinny jeans. She had close-shorn, spiky platinum hair and exquisite eye-art that rescued her from barfly, white trash.
I wondered, peripherally, if she’d show me how to do that to my eyes? … probably I’d have to pluck my Frieda Kahlo brows more effectively …
“Who’s she?” I asked Jeffrey, whose dolorous eyes hadn’t left my face.
He opened the door slightly and gestured formally between us. “Maureen, Shannon. Shannon, Maureen.”
“Glad to meet you,” seemed the appropriate greeting, but instead I heard my tremulous voice ask from an intergalactic distance, “Are you … dating her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I think you better go.” It took me much longer than it should have to realize Jeffrey was talking to me. So I left.
But guess what? I dated Jeffrey for two more years! Even moving in with him. But THAT night was my rock bottom and the moment I got myself into recovery and didn’t stop until I was finally able to let that toxic love go and miraculously invite the real love of a good man who I’ve been married to for 16 years!
Let me tell you. If I could do it, anyone can do it! Especially you. xo