Atoosa Unedited

Hey,

On this Mother’s Day, I want to talk about a child I chose not to have.

I was pregnant in the picture above.

I was married. My lover, too, was married and had a family.

I terminated this pregnancy.

I was filled with shame. I was ashamed in front of my gynecologist, so I just sped through the conversation making it clear I didn’t want answer any questions. I mean, here I was this person seemingly at the top of my game…but so clearly at the bottom. But mostly, I was ashamed that the stain that I thought I had escaped, the stain of the sexual abuse of my childhood had caught up with me despite my best efforts. I was not really the successful media “It Girl” that the New York Times portrayed me as. I was still that little dirty girl with an embarrassing sexual secret. A liar who left work early one day for a “routine procedure.” I didn’t have to feign tiredness when I got home to my husband that evening. I was exhausted: Physically, emotionally and spiritually. I didn’t tell my therapist. Only my best friend and the baby’s father knew, and even then, it was just the facts. We never spoke of it again after the procedure…including the procedure. I never spoke about it to anyone. My heart aches for this younger version of me, all alone and terrified in her suffering.

I left my job as Editor-in-Chief of Seventeen within months.

That fetus or child…however you prefer to define it according to your beliefs – gave up its life for me.

The Pope would say that I should have had this child. That at the height of my Atoosa-ness which coincided with the height of my being an emotionally unprocessed adult - when Gawker was writing about me daily…I should’ve really give them something to write about. That I should’ve destroyed my husband…my lover’s wife and family. Certainly, I’d have needed to be replaced at Seventeen because what kind of a role model was I, really? I didn’t think that far ahead at the time, but for sure, by terminating the pregnancy, I took the easy way out. But was it really easy? Getting an abortion wasn’t like getting a pedicure. It was one of the most awful experiences of my life. At the time, like all the trauma I’d experienced earlier in my life, I tried to bury it and move on. To be totally honest, I tried to bury it until today…until this week’s Roe v. Wade news.

Ironically, one of my colleagues unknowingly used the picture above in a Reel she made to promote my TEDx talk, so I was haunted by this covert reminder of my pregnancy for the whole week preceding the Supreme Court leak. So when the news hit, it touched me in a very personal place. A place I didn’t even feel comfortable sharing with my closest friends. This week has been spent privately grieving. I grieved for the budding life that was lost. I grieved for my own life that led me to that point. I grieved for my husband who didn’t deserve such a broken person. I grieved for my then-best friend who had to hold the enormity of my secret all those years ago.

I didn’t realize until just today the impact this pregnancy and subsequent abortion had on my disappearance from public life. This secret that I thought I would take to the grave with me. This experience that drew a line in the sand, showing me I could no longer dodge the trauma of my childhood without continuing to replicate it in one way or another. That I needed to stop my life as I knew it, to let my heart break wide open because, as my teacher – the great Frances Weller says, it’s the broken open heart that is the medicine for the circumstances we are facing. Until today, I had still armored myself against this last unsavory detail was that the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back all those years ago.

I am speaking about it today because I wonder if we are contributing to the precariousness of our right to choose by making it a scientific debate and holding these terrible losses in secrecy. Does it hurt all of us that we do not mourn the loss of these souls in community? Is that why pro-lifers feel these losses must be stopped because they are gratuitous…in vain. Perhaps if we share our stories, it can be clear that these beautiful martyred souls were grieved. That they, too, had an impact. That they, in some instances, saved lives or like mine, directed others toward a better future. That these ephemeral souls touched us. Their arrival and loss changed us.

For sure, it changed me. Each one of the children I ultimately did not give birth to changed and impacted me as much as the ones I did feel prepared to give birth to. There was nothing throwaway or disposable about these angels. But we have, understandably, because these are not easy conversations to have, hidden their significance in our lives and hidden the work of grief after their losses.

So, I for one, want to make transparent that on this Mother’s Day, I carried three babies to term and three others that I chose not to. I continue to have so much gratitude for the three I never met…and gratitude for my ability to make the choice. I realize 3 probably sounds like a lot. Maybe you’ve had one…if that at all. I don’t judge myself. It took a long time for me to build sound judgement. I had to learn from scratch. And in the same way that I do not judge myself, I don’t judge the people who want to take this right away from me…from us. Because their personal journey, too, brought them to this place. We all value life. I think I valued life too much to bring a baby into the fucking mess I was living in when I got pregnant. Everyone has their own story. But I know for sure we all value life. And we all grieve every pregnancy that is terminated, whatever the reason. I just wonder if with more open grieving, we can all see that no one is taking this lightly and we can also provide loving support for each other as we walk difficult paths like this particular one. Perhaps it’s not such a black and white debate and the answer is somewhere in the shades of grey. I believe it’s in those spaces that Choice lives.

Today I’m somber. I can’t lie. I’m really sitting with the ways in which my childhood trauma has impacted my life and the lives of those I love so I can’t tie this letter up in a bright pink bow. But I will invite my grief in for tea and work with it. We often feel discomfort when grief comes knocking and we armor up with any variety of easier-to- feel emotions like righteous anger or denial. But the only way out of grief is through it in conversation, writing, ritual and even dance (ahem, not dance for me! At least you got one joke out of me this week!). As Denise Levertov wrote in her poem, To Speak: “To speak of sorrow works upon it, moves it from it’s crouched place barring the way to and from the soul’s hall.” Thank you for helping me work through my personal and collective grief here. I’m always ready to return the favor at [email protected].

PS - Oh and hey, comments are open below. Would love to hear where your heart is at.

xo, atoosa

Soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️:

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Hey,

One of my favorite dances seems to be back: The tango cosmetics companies do with magazine Beauty Directors. Maybe due to Covid restrictions opening up, maybe money is flowing again for cosmetics companies, I honestly have no idea because I’m not a magazine insider anymore, but I’m taking in the view (and effusive product recommendations) on IG.

The very first beauty junket I went on as an intern was for Unilever my senior year in college. It was across the Hudson River in New Jersey, but they had a swanky boat taking us there and they gave every attendee a tote bag stuffed with more product than I had ever owned in my 21 years alive. The tote itself was a designer bag worth hundreds of dollars. I could have died. It didn’t take much to impress me then, but my goodness, to this day, I get starry-eyed remembering that trip to…Jersey, of all places! I also remember the camaraderie between the many different editors. They all knew and liked each other. Like a sorority of girls with great energy and beautiful hair.

We Fashion Editors were also treated to lots of great junkets. One of the most memorable for me was when Joe Boxer took us all to Iceland for a long weekend. Somewhere in my storage unit there exists a really funny picture of me, Rachel Zoe and Finola Hughes, of General Hospital fame at The Blue Lagoon in Reykjavik. At the time, Rachel was still known as Rachel Rosenzweig and she was one of my closest friends in NY before she moved to LA and became the phenom she is today. My funniest memory of this press trip was being so annoyed with Rachel that, she was (in my eloquent words), crawling up the ass of a C-list actress. Rachel was enchanted by Finola. I was mortified. (Yes, I was a total bitch – welcome to pre-teen-magazine Atoosa – I can own it.) Rachel’s inclination to sidle up to the only celebrity on the trip was certainly a foreshadowing to her huge career as a celebrity stylist. And my horror at the sight speaks to my own waning interest in the industry as celebrities replaced models. But I digress.

There were so many of these over-the-top trips. Wolford hosiery took a group of us to tour their factory in Breganz, Austria and showed us their beautiful country in unforgettably high style. I remember literally running across these perfectly green hills singing, “The hills are alive, with the sound of muuuuuuuusic.” It was a scene out of a movie. One night we had dinner at a stunning restaurant with a view of Luxembourg, Switzerland and maybe Italy?? Germany?? I don’t remember. I just remember me and my $35K a year salary would have never otherwise had that experience. Nor would I have met the super-hot blonde, English guy who was also at that dinner and kept calling me from all over the world (I’m at St. Andrews; I’m in Ibiza!) to figure out where in the world we could meet up for our next and first date…which never happened…because I got engaged. Wah-wah!

My point in sharing all this is to say, I have participated in this culture. I loved my fellow editors from the other magazines and we didn’t make enough money to stay at or have the incredible experiences these deep-pocketed companies would lavish us with so it truly felt like a dream come true. This emoji - 🤩🤩 - really covers how I felt start to finish on each of these wonderful trips. Now, the rebel in me went on the trips but never really made good on the quid pro quo part of the transaction. Probably because before I went on my first-ever trip, my Editor in Chief at the time, Bonnie Fuller, looked me square in the eye and said I could go, but I was not to promise any editorial coverage so I had that boundary intact from the get-go. I thoroughly enjoyed the trips, loved my travel companions, but usually didn’t run anything editorially.

Beauty editors have it harder because cosmetic advertisers have much deeper pockets than most fashion folks. So not only are they getting sent to the best hotel and lifestyle experiences in the world to grease them up, but those same companies are also big advertisers for the magazines they work for. Back then, the unsaid rule was that editorial would always give special consideration to advertisers. Add to it, cosmetics companies hire the loveliest, most fun PR people so the Editors also become close with them. You can see how tricky this is getting, right? No one is trying to be duplicitous but it’s easy to promote your friends’ products, especially when they show you such generosity and you’re getting pressure from the advertising department. When I was an Editor in Chief, I felt really threatened by all these pressures. I remember having aggro conversations with my Beauty Editors like, “Don’t pitch me any nonsense because they sent you on a trip.” Because every other week, there would be some spectacular press event to promote some new “groundbreaking” technology and the beauty companies would roll out scientists and experts to explain the innovation, yada, yada, yada. Meanwhile there are basically a couple of products that are truly the best – the same dumb-ass products then, as now. And most everything else is just marketing, hype and bullshit. (Except, I do think there have been great innovations in Clean Beauty which I’ve loved discovering for myself).

So as I see the beauty junkets flashing on my IG, I was feeling a little triggered tbh. I wanted to understand what it was rubbing up against inside of me. Like, first and most obvious, I wondered: Am I jealous? No…in all transparency, I can afford to go to these super luxe places on the reg (thanks to my beloved husband-legally-but-he-just-had-a-baby-with-someone-else so…is he my husband? Wheeeee!). So no – it’s not jealousy over the trips. I go on awesome trips. Am I feeling left out because I’m not at a magazine? No, I don’t think so. Although the idea of having a big ass budget and open reign like old times does sound like a lot of fun (but I realize that’s like wishing for unicorns and leprechauns). So, no. I would not want to be at a magazine in 2022.

But after marinating, this is where I landed: I felt like a corporate call girl when I was working, and I still have some shame around that.

Although I didn’t fuck advertisers (well – I didn’t figuratively fuck them by giving them editorial in exchange for advertising dollars – I did literally fuck one – but we were in a relationship!), I did prostitute myself for my employer. I was there as a good corporate employee - no matter what. Like once, I was called to star in a diversity and inclusivity ad. (I appeared alongside BIPOC employees – the very, very few there were – and I don’t really self-identify as a woman of color, but clearly to my very-white employer, I was.) Inside I thought, what are we doing here? Let’s make change…not an ad campaign trying to give the illusion of diversity! But I didn’t say that. Instead, I smiled for the camera playing the role of their most successful BIPOC employee. I feel ashamed of being a powerful person professionally, and yet feeling unempowered to speak what I was seeing and experiencing. Big missed opportunity on my part.

And as a young, attractive Editor, I knew which advertisers I needed to smile extra big for…and maybe show extra leg for. No one told me to it. I did that all on my own. It was just one of the tools in my kit. I didn’t feel dirty at the time. But I was also an unprocessed survivor of incest. I’d known the power of sex from a young age and I used it to benefit my magazine. To be clear, I never slept with anyone strategically…but honestly, I didn’t need to. I got what I wanted without that. And yeah. It’s cringey, but true.

There are a lot of shady industry practices that I’ve thought about over the years. Perhaps you already know that the makeup you see inside and on the cover of most magazines is usually never the makeup they’re crediting. Like you may see the perfect lipstick shade on so-and-so celebrity on the cover of such-and-such magazine – but whatever it says in the credits is not the actual lipstick. Often the best shades and formulations are made by non-advertiser brands and cover credits are something publishers like to bring back to their big cosmetics clients as a gift: A sign of how much the editorial team values their products. A big part of a Beauty Editor’s job is trying to find the closest match for whatever makeup the artists use on the shoots. This is industry standard. Or if a celebrity with an ad campaign is shot for a magazine cover, no matter what makeup is used on them, the credit will go to the company they are contracted to. And I assure you, no top makeup artist is using Cover Girl or Neutrogena makeup. Their goal is to get the absolute best look. So the Beauty Editors have to hustle to make everyone happy.

I wonder what style content would look like, if there wasn’t so much muddying the waters. I wonder how much more helpful it would be?

We won’t find out from most influencers. They seem even more beholden to their freebies and sponsors and yet they’re lacking the great training of the Beauty and Fashion Directors of the past. And, of course, the wealthiest influencers have gotten out of shilling for other people and instead are making their own brands to pout and purr and promote. Are they any good? Do we even care? Are we even looking for quality? Who do we trust? If Editors and Influencers are themselves influenced by deep pocketed benefactors: Who. Do. We. Trust? What is pure? Is pure even important? Do we care who truly makes the best mascara? Or are we all okay with going with whomever has the biggest promotional budget. Does it matter if the prostitute is a prostitute as long as the couple looks beautiful and in love like Julia Roberts and Richard Gear?

I have no answers, but very much care about yours. Please comment below. Always here, 24/7, as always, at [email protected]. (Oh, and I’m wearing Lancome Hypnose mascara – and uh…no one paid me to say that!)

xo, atoosa

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Hey,

A lot of people have been asking me about ambition lately.

I totally understand why. In the aughts, I was the poster girl for ambition, right? On the surface this young, overachieving Editor-in-Chief. Killing it at work and seemingly living the high life with the requisite house in the Hamptons, fancy car, NY Times headlines, seat at the Met Ball. I had two assistants: One was a full-time assistant just to answer reader letters most often asking, “How can I get to where you are?” To which I had crafted a detailed game plan to do EXACTLY what I did to get where I was in my career, nothing left out. And perhaps you got one of those letters and followed the game plan and if so, hi again. (And I’m sorry I steeped you in hustle culture so early. Really. I’m sorry. 🥺)

Well, we know where that level of ambition got me, right? Burnt the fuck out.

But I must give my younger self a little credit. I did subconsciously recognize what was happening in real time. There were a few weeks at CosmoGIRL! that I had my (other) assistant block out from 2-4pm on my schedule every afternoon. My intention was that I would use that time to nap on my couch, look at international magazines, or just do whatever the hell I needed to shake myself out like a blanket. It was a great concept, in theory, and I’m sure I did try to nap once or twice. But I was just too activated in my cheetah print carpeted office to get the rest I was needing. So it just morphed into a time when I can do additional work uninterrupted.

I tried again at Seventeen. This time, I would work from home in the morning until after lunch. I think my first meeting at the office would be at like 2pm. I wasn’t necessarily sleeping in or anything, but I was giving myself a sensory rest. I appreciated reading and editing without the constant dinging and ringing of my computer and phone lines and the frequent “Hey, just a quick question…” pop-ins. I’m sure many of you are enjoying this aspect of WFH life.

Sensory rest is a real thing.

I thought this was my own little private struggle. It was certainly nothing I said out loud. But at one point when my top team and I first arrived at Seventeen, NY Post’s Page Six reported that my assistant sent out a breezy memo (this was unbeknownst to me, btw) to Seventeen’s existing staffers with a list of how-to-best-work-with-Atoosa rules. Honestly, I never read the memo but I sort of remember cringey tidbits like they shouldn’t look me in the eye if they were passing me in the hallway. I had never said that to anyone. Ever. Had she felt that from me? My total and complete overwhelm? She wasn’t wrong about my unspoken comfort zone, but for sure it was jarring reading it in black and white. Welcome to my Burn Out, friend. Even a friendly or hopeful glance felt too much.

Here’s what ambition looks like for me these days. I had a big deadline to hit by 230pm yesterday. It required a lot of heavy lifting – but the delicate kind. My words had to be on point. It wasn’t grunt work, it was artistry, and it required the very best of me….by 230pm. So after I dropped off my children at school, I did my daily meditation and then….I took a nap: A 75-minute deep and delicious nap with a 25-pound weighted blanket pulled up to my neck.

Sounds like procrastination, right?

No. I’m going to reframe it for you. This is precisely what I was trying to do while I was working but it was just so far out in left field deep in the heart of Hustle culture that I kept giving up. What I did yesterday was I resourced myself. My work required a lot of precision, focus and connection with my highest self. The only way I would get my best and most concentrated Output would be by giving myself some really yummy Input. It’s the in-breath to the out-breath.

That’s something I was craving when I was working, but I just didn’t have the language to describe it. All I did was expect myself to perform. Output, output, output. Those attempts at resourcing were well intended. I knew I was hungry for some kind of input…some kind of rest or respite. But I didn’t quite understand that Output needs Input. Well, let me rephrase that because it’s not actually required. I mean, you can give and give and give, right? I mean, raise your hand if you give and give and give in relationships? At work? Even sexually? We are so programmed to give. But it’s just not sustainable long-term and it certainly doesn’t result in our best work. Today I truly recognize the importance of receiving…on all fronts. 😉

So the invitation is to notice how we set up our days. And many of you now work from home so you’re avoiding many of my old traps. But I am talking to you when I say taking a social media break is not rest or Input. It’s as much Output as work, if not more, because it’s so loaded. I may think I’m doing something resourcing for me personally because I see my friend’s faces, but actually it’s just another stage to perform on. It’s exhausting and total energetic junk food we feed on in the face of work burn out.

For me, resourcing is doing whatever my body needs in the moment. It could be an ill-timed nap. (And yes, I said ill-timed. Because when I need it, I need it and I may need to cancel a meeting to get it.) It could be 30 minutes with my foam roller. For sure it’s meditation every day no matter what because it’s as important as brushing my teeth. I don’t kiss anyone in the morning until I brush my teeth. I no longer do life without meditating. Also for me, time connecting with my two best friends either in nature or just a phone chat is really important. Real talk. And the key is these are not the things I do “when I have time.”  These are the things I do before I have time for anything else. It's the morning pee, shower and toothbrushing for my inner life.

I have friends who say they just “can’t” because of work or family obligations. My response: If you got hit by a car today, you would be out of work for weeks. Your office and family would figure it out. With this orientation, you may not be able to do as much, it’s true. You may not be a Captain of the Universe. Correct. But is that what success looks like today? We all know that if you work around the clock you will be successful professionally. That’s a very simple equation. But is that really success? Having everything on the outside, but dead on the inside? We are the creators of our own realities. If we allow other people to dictate when we get fed, we often subsist on scraps. Decide what you need…and take it. It might be a nap, a walk or a workout. It might be an 830am phone date with your best friend before you start your day (that’s what I do with mine – hi K!). Decide what nourishes you and insist on it. That’s what the “Big Life looks like to me today – correction – it’s what it feels like. Make your life feel jucy and delicious. After all that striving and achieving, my big take away is that if it doesn’t feel good, it ain’t good.

What do you do to resource yourself to make every day feel good? Our chats here continue to be a place that feels good to me. It was back then, too. Some things never change. Always so grateful to walk this path with you. Here for you, 24/7, as always at [email protected].

xo, atoosa

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Hey,

We never talk about sex. I mean, sure, we’ve danced around it. But usually, it’s through the lens of trauma or with a least a little regret – like all the errors of judgement I made when I was younger. But today, let’s talk about…gasp…pleasure. 🤫

It took me a long time to feel comfortable talking about sex through this lens. But who am I kidding? I’m tensing up just typing this out. I’m getting more comfortable talking to my friends about it. We can only go as deep – bad pun, sorry – as our friends are comfortable with. Luckily one of my friends just luuuuuuurves talking about sex and I’ve been stretching myself in those conversations.

Being an incest survivor didn’t keep from me from having sex. I know some survivors/victims (different people prefer different terms) totally shut down sexually. It kinda pushed me the opposite way for awhile, actually. As a college student, I definitely sampled my fair share of the Columbia Football players. (Or unfair, truthfully, I was gluttonous and I have a type, what can I say? 🤷🏻‍♀️) But pleasure wasn’t what I was going for. As a reflex to the incest, I was seeking safety in their arms…in their beds. And it wasn’t until I started going out with J., my college boyfriend, that I was introduced to pleasure. I was so lucky. J. knew what he was doing.

But still, because of my complicated history with sex…and an innate estrangement from my own body, I didn’t explicitly understand what gave me pleasure. I just kind of thought J. was a magician. The lack of familiarity with my own body felt like a distinctly female issue, not unique to those with sexual trauma. In fact, when I was Editor of Seventeen, I was hell-bent on including clear pictures of vulvas in a piece called Vagina 101. I didn’t realize what I’d been considering my vagina was my vulva until I was working on this piece. (I was in my early 30s and married!) We got pulled off the newsstand at Walmart and Albertson’s for running these medical pictures (Pornography, they thought!), but it was totally worth it to give girls a clear idea of this somewhat hidden and mysterious part of their bodies. Side note, the article got us a Planned Parenthood award and I got to sing on stage with one of my heroes, Natalie Merchant, at the awards ceremony! I use the term “sing” loosely but my point is, that felt like a pat on the back from the universe, for sure.

Back to my own vulva. 💅🏼

After J., I spent so many years going through the motions of sex. I acted the part, looked the part, made all the right sounds and knew how to make a guy feel good. But me? I just assumed it was all downhill after J. and continued to use it to gain male attention and protection. I knew how to provide pleasure, but I really didn’t stay long enough to receive it. Sex was just a tool for me to get the emotional thing I needed and wanted.

Once I really committed to my marriage, and stopped using physical intimacy as a way of filling this hole inside of me (WTF is up with these puns), I was just bored senseless by sex. Other than procreation, I didn’t see the point. For the last five years of my marriage, I didn’t have sex at all. I was done. After having done years of therapeutic work around the incest, I was no longer interested in having sex with someone I didn’t want to have sex with. I saw my husband as a wonderful friend, a best friend. But that’s not who I wanted to be physically intimate with. At the same time, I was totally committed to him and our family, so I assumed I was just going to live out the rest of my life like a monk or a nun. I could think of worse things. I had a great life in so many important ways. It seemed selfish to want more.

But then I got separated.

I grieved the end of my marriage for a long time. No dating and certainly no sex for me. In fact, if you would have asked me in the aftermath of my separation if I’d ever have sex again, I would have said probably not. I couldn’t imagine it.  We all know those relatives (many of our mothers, frankly) who after divorce or the death of their spouse just close-up shop relationally. I was ready to join that club. But that was not to be. And I have had a big epiphany.

Honestly? I’m not sure how this is going to land with you, but it’s my truth and I always share my truth with you.

Having sex after doing a ton of work around sexual trauma was so different. Instead of using sex as a tool to get what I want (after all, I was taught at too-young an age the kind of power my body and sexuality gave me over grown men), I got curious about pleasure. Let me backtrack for a moment. If you were to ask me who my first sexual experience was with, I would tell you R. – the classmate I lost my virginity to, senior year in high school. Totally uneventful and a let-down, like many first-time experiences. (My apologies to R.) And I was already in using-sex-as-a tool mode. There’s no pleasure in that zone. But my first real sexual experience? My first real sexual experience was being molested. I wish that weren’t the case, but it’s true. And here’s what turns me on: Power dynamics. My partner overpowering me? I like it. We’re talking about consensual sex play, of course. Role play. Fantasies. My partners who have either shared this turn-on (for their own reasons) or just are confident and open enough about sex to enter these realms with me? A+ sex. In fact…A++. 💯💯💯

And in realizing this about myself, it made me curious about other people and here’s what I’ve found. Pretty much anyone I’ve asked, sees a direct correlation to pleasure/their turns-ons and their very first sexual experience...their real first sexual experience…whether it was positive, negative, or even intentional – for instance unintentionally being turned on by their first babysitter. I won’t share their stories here, but worth an exploration with your own closest friends.

So, here’s my public service announcement. I want you to think long and hard (I know, I will stop with the sexual innuendos, I’m sorry it’s just too easy) about what your REAL first sexual experience was. Can you accept it? Can you truly accept what it was without judgement? You may need the help of a therapist to get there. But when you do, there is a whole world of pleasure (and yes it includes fantasy, consenual role play and maybe even porn) waiting for you, solo or partnered. Accepting, instead of shaming, myself for my predilections has opened a world of pleasure for me. But perhaps more importantly, it’s a new level of self-love that I previously denied myself. So many of us are taught at a young age that sex is a sin or “bad” or even something that should be hidden, so it doesn’t require sexual trauma to fill us with shame. (Although sexual trauma, even if it’s unintentional boundary crossing, can certainly do the trick.) I guess my suggestion is that whatever your first sexual experience was, is not going to be completely erased. These experiences are kind of written in Sharpie. Of course, there is PLENTY of healing that can be done. But healing doesn’t mean erasure..these experiences are part of the architecture of our sexual being. We can keep hanging metaphorical pictures over them to distract and deny or we can have curiosity about what our fantasies might look like if we didn’t judge ourselves. The beauty of self-exploration is always an option and then…if you’re ready…with the right partner. Sex can be mind-blowing. And it can be consistently mind-blowing. We all hold the key inside of us…if we dare use it.

Did this feel like that horrible scene in 16 Candles where the aunt grabs Molly Ringwald’s “little boobies”? Not sure if picturing what “Atoosa from Seventeen” likes in bed is comfortable for you. But perhaps if we can normalize these types of conversations, we can all have more fun. Plus, I think if we bring into the conscious what already exists in the subconscious, we can avoid awkward situations of all sorts sexually and romantically.

Oh, and hey, I’m taking a few weeks off because…I’m doing a TEDx talk next month! I gotta prepare. I’ll be doing updates for the paid suscribers on the talk as I progress because I’ll be looking for some feedback. I’ll be back to weekly letters in May, if not sooner. But I’m reachable to you, 24/7, as always, at [email protected].

xo, atoosa

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Hey,

You may have read the Q&A Yasmin Gagnè did with me in The Cut this past week. I made a funny reel about how when Yaz first walked into my apartment, minutes after greeting her, I dropped a huge glass bottle full of water and it shattered all over the place. It was an awkward nice-to-meet-you, for sure. But what really freaked me out was right as I was trying to clean up the crazy mess, Yaz, herself likely flustered because the whole thing was kind of jarring said, “Are you nervous? Don’t be nervous!” Something about that little interaction activated me so much. I wasn’t sure why, but I really wanted to figure it out. I felt drawn to talk to my former therapist from back when I was working. Since I usually just kind of go with my instincts and had plenty to catch up with him about….

This week, I had a Zoom with Joseph, my therapist of 10 years.

I wanted to tell him I was getting divorced (“I’m sorry to say I’m not surprised,” he said) and that I was dipping my toe back into the world-at-large again (He was pleased about that). I felt inclined to do a post-game of the old days with him. If his walls could talk…it would read like this Substack. But of course, it’s not that simple. See, I’m the girl whose kitchen cabinets are perfectly lined up with OXO containers marked “cereal” and “flour” courtesy of my trusty label maker. You know my type, right? After talking to him, I realized I had done some of that with my emotional life, too. Sure, the labels are more confrontational: “Incest” “Infidelity” “Blind Ambition” but still fairly neat and digestible in these 1200-word Sunday snacks for you, my beloved reader.

But after said post-game, I was as dismantled as the water bottle I mentioned earlier.

“What was your impression about why I left my job, Joseph,” I asked him. His eyes got very big. “Don’t you remember?” 👀 No, Joseph. I’ve spent 14 years trying to forget. 14 years trying to stabilize my nervous system. Joseph started using words like depression, agoraphobia. Agoraphobia?? Oh, yes. That. How I literally papered up the glass wall of my first CosmoGIRL! office so no one could see me. How I would ask my Creative Director to please email me, not call me even though she was in the office right next door. I block out the note I gave everyone on the first day we were all working on CosmoGIRL! that said something to the effect of I’d prefer they not drop in on me. I wanted as little live interaction as possible. Or the way every time I walked outside on a beautiful day, I would feel so edgy. “It’s a beautiful day!” is what most people would think. To me, it meant it’s sunny, I can be seen. It’s not safe to be seen. By then, I wasn’t thinking those words specifically, it was just a state of anxiety I would automatically click into…that I was always clicked into.

This was messaging I got from my mother at a very young age. Joseph reminded me of how little Atoosa would occupy herself by people-watching in the cars we passed. “Don’t do that!” Mom would scold. “Someone might follow us…” The implication was that they would follow us and kill us. You see, shortly after we moved to America from Iran, a serial killer nicknamed David Berkowitz aka The Son of Sam went on a year-long murder spree near where we lived. It was one of the biggest police manhunts in the history of New York City. Our family didn’t speak much English yet and the culture was totally new to us so this was particularly terrifying. I was about 4 and knew all about it and in retrospect, of course, I probably shouldn’t have. To me, it felt like we were living in a horror movie. On top of it, there was a gang of kids in our neighborhood in Queens that would chase people (including us) with sticks. We probably had two or three run ins with them. But all of this stuff combined, I imagine put my mom’s already fragile nervous system into overdrive which led to her feeling that we weren’t safe. In some way, she was right. We weren’t safe. But these feelings lasted long after the real threats were gone.

Fast forward to the Seventeen days…

In 2006, when we all moved onto the 17th floor of the gorgeous, completely transparent glass Hearst Tower designed by Lord Norman Foster, I barely lasted 5 months before I abruptly quit. There wasn’t enough paper to cover the glass box I sat in. Who could help looking into my office as they walked by? Hint: No one. And that massive Hearst cafeteria that was like a runway…everyone at the company knew who I was and would stare as I walked by…as I ate. I’m sure they stared at all the Editors in Chief. But not all the Editors in Chief were agoraphobic. I had to get the fuck out of there.

The year after I stopped working, I went to see the renowned integrative medicine doctor, Frank Lipman. He did a shit load of bloodwork on me. But then he called me concerned. Apparently, my cortisol levels looked like someone who had been hijacked. He wanted us to consult with a colleague. I didn’t go back.

I didn’t want this narrative of being a fucked-up person. That’s also why I stopped going to Joseph a few years after I stopped working. I didn’t want any labels. I just wanted to find peace. But now I see how I crafted the next chapter of my life around not touching any of my live wire trigger points. So that included not working, being creative or in the public eye. I basically removed anything that could trigger my fear response. In this “safe” zone, I slowly unpacked most of the baggage that was contributing to my feelings of overwhelm.

Like how I had this push/pull relationship with attention for my whole life. There was an element of neglect in my childhood, so I was always gunning to be seen, hence how public I was in my career. But then when I was seen, my nervous system would just short circuit. I’m not safe. I’m not safe. I’m not safe. This still happens to this day. Though I don’t think I’m quite as attention seeking, when I do get publicity, it’s still deeply uncomfortable. Like this week when The Cut piece came out, for a few hours that morning, I was in fetal position. To be clear, I loved the piece and felt so honored to be included. I saw the benefits of it happening and felt good about the things I said. It was a very thoughtful conversation led by a very smart reporter. Everything on the surface was check ✅, check ✅, check ✅.

But then I felt the energy of the attention…

And I was right back to being the scared little girl. I was terrified. There’s no narrative attached to the feeling. Like I don’t think a serial killer is going to read about me and come hunt me down. (Well, goodness, I hope not!) But as Joseph put it, I was programmed to fear. Another word for that is anxiety.

I have anxiety.

Fuck. I have anxiety.

I’m not sure I’ve ever said that. It’s not that I attach any shame to it. At least, I don’t think so. My anxiety has driven so much of my success that I never wanted to pathologize it and, by the way, I don’t want to pathologize it now. But I do want to name it.

I’ve put my life experiences into so many neat packages. And those unboxing sessions are pretty authentic. But Joseph reminded me of the abject terror, I was feeling at the height of my career. There was absolutely nothing neat about that. It was totally fucking messy. Sister, I left my job so I can finally create a feeling of safety. I stayed with a partner for waaaay too long because of his steadfastness which added to my feeling of safety. I didn’t work because I wanted to stay out of the public eye to maintain the feeling of safety. Fuck, I won’t hit the “paid” button on this Substack and create a paywall because somehow it feels like it will hamper this feeling of safety. This oasis I’ve created in every part of my life. This oasis that is getting a little…stagnant. Has catering to my anxiety made me complacent? Am I putting my I-was-a-big-shot-editor trophy on my proverbial shelf to get away with never putting myself out there again? Never taking a risk again?

Back then, I didn’t have the skills to manage my anxiety. But today, I know what to do. I don’t have to be afraid to soar. But I can. I can be afraid to soar. And it’s okay to be afraid. And that’s the space where the work is done, right? Pushing ourselves forward while acknowledging when we are afraid and slowing down when we need to. When I was working, I overrode every sign of my anxiety. Like if it was too hard to go to work, I took a psychopharmaceutical. I’m not saying there is anything wrong with doing that. But my body was sending me a signal and my ambition didn’t want to listen, so in my case, I took a pill to override it. After all, I had a career to tend to.

So now as I viscerally remember how deeply anxious I was at the end of my career. Revisit how, as Joseph reminded me, leaving all that success was a small price for not having to suffer anymore. Today, I can’t help but notice how carefully I have crafted my current life. This life where nothing is left to chance. I have dedicated the same amount of years tending to my anxiety as I did to my career. Making everything around her easy. Peaceful. But anytime something good happens for me, there she is again. Sweet Anxiety. Anytime, I’m out in the world again, she rears her head to keep me in check. It has just dawned on me for the first time. I’m not in charge. She is.

So now it makes sense that I couldn’t get that that smashed bottle scene with the New York reporter out of my head. So yes, Yaz. Yes, I was nervous. I’m fucking nervous all the time. I’m so scared of being seen. And yet, I feel compelled to be seen. I want to be heard. I have things to say. It’s amazing how this young woman’s simple show of care and concern, helped put me in touch with yet another lifelong programming that was subconsciously running me.

The invitation is to go back to doing what I love, little by little. I promise myself I will do it differently this time. This go around, I’ve got skills. Listen, it’s training wheels for now. But I got to ride. I’ve got to ride. I think I’m going to add some paid subscriber content soon. Momma’s ready to work again. Thanks for holding my hand to this point. Somehow YOU don’t give me anxiety. Never have and that’s why I know I’m in the right spot. Here for you 24/7, as always at [email protected].

Atoosa EDITED

Here’s what I was into this week:

1-Jeen-Yuhs

This 3-part Netflix documentary about Kanye West by Coodie Simmons and Chike Ozah premiered it’s 3rd and final installment this past week…which honestly totally sucked. But the first two episodes were riveting. I know many people have a lot of feelings about Kanye particularly considering what’s been going on with him and Kim. Listen, I’m not saying he is perfect. But he is certainly complex, incredibly talented, super inspirational creatively, and driven like no one else I’ve seen and I will show up for pretty much anything he does including this documentary. I don’t think battling in public the way he has been doing is the way to go, but I also think the Kardashians tend to treat the men and friends in their lives as disposable and fuel for ratings, so it’s been kind of interesting to see the tables turned on them in a way that only Kanye has the balls to do. I am of the belief that nothing is good and nothing is bad. So I hold everything with curiosity and that includes Kanye West. Oh, his mother Donda? I’m obsessed. If you see the doc, you will understand what I mean. Loved Ep 1 and 2. You can skip 3 and feel fine.

2-Miso Ramen

I made this recipe for my kids this week and it was so A+, I had to share it with you. First of all, it was the easiest thing in the world. Second, these Ramen monsters destroyed it. Everything in life should be this easy. This must be in your arsenal, sis. Thank you, Gwyneth Paltrow. It’s from her It’s All Easy cookbook. And yeah…it’s so fucking easy it’s ridiculous. (My crew prefers their veggies diced, not sliced.)

3-Reflexology

This will either seem duh or extravagant to you. I go to the nail salon 2-3 times a week and get a 60-minute foot massage. I have my guy, “Charlie” who destroys my feet in the best way. When I first became an Editor-in-Chief, my dear friend, the renowned psychic Terry Iacuzzo told me that I needed to stop thinking of body work as a luxury. It was a necessity because of the demands I put on myself. Never has that been truer for me. The reason I focus on the feet is that I find it grounds me. It gets me out of my head. And I like that I can just go to the nail salon and not to a fussy spa. Don’t get me wrong, a spa visit can be lovely. But me and Charlie mean business, it’s no fluff and buff. Try adding this at least once a week to your life as a non-negotiable. Find your Charlie.

4-Tara Brach Podcast

As my husband and I were separating, how I processed the end of this 26 year relationship was every single day (Every. Single. Day.), I would go to Higher Dose and do an hour-long infared sauna session and blast a Tara Brach podcast while I sweat and cried my eyes out. I started way back with the old ones. An important one for me was Awakening from the Trance of Fear from December 1, 2017. My point is, go way back. Add this woman’s voice and vision to your tool kit. She is important. It is important. Internalize her RAIN system (Recognize, Allow, Investigate, Nurture) and see what unfolds in your life. Her meditations are very accessible, and her Buddhist teachings will change you. They have changed me.

5-My Post-Divorce Bed Makeover

This week I (re) made my bed. I needed to change the energy in my bedroom. I realized I was sleeping on the same sheets and pillows I shared with my ex-husband and he hadn’t slept in them for two years! It may have all still be technically “good,” it was energetically bad, bad, bad.  I don’t really buy things just to buy them. I’m not that type of over-consumer. But sister, I splurge on my sheets. If you’re interested in literally the softest most magnificent sheets ever, I will recommend a brand you won’t see on Instagram or anything else that shills to millennials. This is the Rolls Royce of sheets and once you go there you will never go back so buyer beware. It killed me to get two new sets of these but knowing me, I will have these for the rest of my life. (Unless…ummm…I get married and divorced again??) D. Porthault. Oh and The Princess Alexis pillows from the Downtown Pillow company? If you like fluffy-ass perfect pillows, they are perfection. I regret ever meeting this combination 💸 but luckily I am steadfast and take care of my shit. If you are too, then it may be worth the investment. I will upload a reel on this topic, so follow me on IG!

Have a great week, sister.

xo, atoosa

The Soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️:

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Hey,

I’m in the process of renovating my fighting-with-boyfriend style. To be honest, it’s a gut renovation right down to the studs. And it’s kind of going amazing, so today I want to flex. I’m starting from such a low place that honestly, being normal is a flex for me, but hell, I can’t be the only one who is used to fighting dirty. Anyone? Anyone?

I used to have a signature fight move that I inherited from my mother. Let’s call it The You’re-Dead-To-Me. It was my go-to when I genuinely didn’t have the emotional musculature to deal with the situation at hand. Like a week into dating The Bear, he told me he had plans with his ex-girlfriend that pre-dated our togetherness. In all fairness, our getting together was kind of cosmic and out of the norm. We didn’t have a typical first week. It was a love-at-first-sight kind of craziness which also speaks to my emotional immaturity coming off my 26-year relationship. But the point is, when he told me he had this dinner plan with his ex- and and they were planning to go vote together, I shut down all conversation and just said, “That’s great. If that’s what you think is appropriate, I hope you will feel you made the right choice down the road” and I hung up. He kept calling me over and over. I wouldn’t answer. Of course, by the end of my maneuver, he had cancelled plans with his ex- and cut off communication which probably felt abrupt and confusing to her. But once that happened, I was back to my warm-I’m-gonna-love-you-forever self. (Cue the Jessica Simpson song please!)

Believe me. I take no pride or pleasure in sharing this with you. I may have “won” but we both know, there were no winners in this situation. I feel like vomiting as I type. Definitely feeling ashamed. Grief for how I treated him…and in turn, her. The power play. The manipulation. Easy to see why he and I are not together anymore. 🤮

The original Ice-Out Queen was my mother.

My mom would stop talking to me for the most minor infraction. I mean…what could a 6-year-old girl really do to legit deserve the silent treatment from a grown up, right? I honestly couldn’t name one thing. Whatever it was, it displeased my mother who would go days at a time not speaking to me. She wouldn’t even look at me. She’d make all my meals, sure, but then just kind of drop the plate in front of me. No eye contact, no communication. What complicated the situation is that most days, almost all days, and certainly to the world-at-large, my mom would be considered one of the kindest, most loving people you’d ever met: A Ph.D. level people-pleaser who left everyone feeling amazing in her wake. Including me. So those days when I was iced out, were some of the hardest of my life because when her sun shined on me…girl….it was so warm, bright and beautiful. And when it didn’t? It felt like I had nothing. My dad wasn’t really a player here. He was sick and not present for most of my childhood and died when I was 16. My siblings are a minimum of ten years older than me so I was really on my own with mom. In those moments, I would’ve done anything to get her warmth back. Absolutely anything. But I had no control over it. Eventually, she would just, almost shyly, little by little start looking at me and communicating with me directly. I just had to wait it out. I can still feel the lump that felt permanently parked in my throat during those stretches. At home. At school. It was tough to be present with anything else during those dark periods.

My relationship with her toxic coping mechanism shifted as I got older.

Once in college, I spent the second part of Christmas break in my unheated dorm room to escape it. Mom didn’t like my boyfriend. Her way was to say something judgmental about him/my choice and unless I acquiesced, the silent treatment commenced. By that age, I had more independance which kicked off my Fuck-This stage. I had about 20 dollars cash. So I bought a loaf of Wonder bread and a huge Cadbury chocolate bar, you know the kind you can only get at the grocery store. I ate microwaved chocolate sandwiches everyday until school (and the campus meal plan) started back up. I didn’t share my feelings with anyone, because honestly? I didn’t really have words for what I was experiencing. It was all I’d ever known. I just knew the situation with my mom didn’t feel good and instead of being a scared child at her mercy, I was a pissed-off young adult.

Today, I have so much compassion for my mother.

She just didn’t have the tools to communicate her harder, more complicated feelings so she just totally shut down when she felt she couldn’t control a situation. I understand this now because I’ve used the silent treatment to manipulate every man I’ve been in a relationship with – and plenty of friends, as well. It’s something I’ve had to sit with and accept in order to do things differently. Like if you’re in denial that you have mold in your house, how can you ever do a proper renovation?

I tucked this tactic away in my emotional attic. So when a situation would come up, I’d just stick to the narrative of how wrong the other person was and gloss over my toxic (and if i were to be honest, abusive) response. Like in the Bear example, I would just focus on what bad judgement he had keeping plans with an old girlfriend when he was in a new relationship. No awareness that I didn’t have the emotional muscle - the courage to be vulnerable - to say how I was feeling. That I was scared he still had feelings for her. That I felt ashamed all the closeness we shared meant less to him than to me. That I wasn’t enough. That I was afraid.

Then a few weeks ago when Sweet Yogini got scared during our first fight and responded with a out-of-character text saying, “Fuck off, Leave me Alone,” followed by two weeks of silence, for the first time, outside of my mother, I saw it from the other end and…it was definitely unnerving. But I was able to recognize what it was. He was scared and didn’t know how to voice it so he totally avoided all communication. It helped me see my own conflict resolution skills (or lack thereof) more clearly. Listen, I don’t give people the silent treatment anymore. But I DID do that to the Bear just a year and a half ago, so I’m in an active repatterning process with this.

I’ve asked Sweet Yogini for a few “fast” periods since we began dating in November. These are one or two week consensual communication breaks we have taken when I feel things are moving too fast and I sense my old defense mechanisms wanting to kick in. These fast periods have been really helpful to me, to us, to slow things down so we can remain mindful of how we feel, how we want to show up and not just rely on past patterning. I don’t think these types of changes happen overnight and I’m sharing the intentional fast with you, in case it resonates. For some of us, dysfunction just kind of naturally clicks in when relationships are moving quickly and this has been a gentle way of bringing awareness to those moments before we fall back into unconciousness.

I’m seeing the fruits of that labor.

This week, I felt complicated feelings in a conversation with Sweet Yogini and I suddenly got quiet. Now in the past, like in my marriage, I would have turned it on him. I would have blamed him for “making me feel” a certain way and I would have withdrawn until he was able to, with a lot of effort, coax the cat out from under the bed. But this time because we are moving slow. Because I have the intention to be mindful and not just rely on my old “skills.” Because at age 50, I want to finally have the kind of deep and connected relationship I know I deserve. Because, because, because of…all of it. I told him, I’m feeling a lot of shame and I need some space to sit with it. And I did. I didn’t want him to “make it all better” and I didn’t want to project my shit on him. But I did need the space to process and I asked for it respectfully instead of imposing it as a punishment. And by the way, it wasn’t easy for him to hang back and let me have that space, either. His first instinct was to over-explain and reassure me. (Guys who are attracted to girls with toxic habits are there for a reason, right? He is also repeating some patterns from his childhood.) But, that’s not his job. I don’t want to date people who are controlled by my life-long toxic patterning. By always having partners that tip-toed around me, I never grew my own ability to sit with hard feelings, metabolize them and respond from a mature place.

So that’s it. That’s where I’m at. I’m building little muscles. I’m good at sitting with hard things alone. Less good in front of a beloved. Our love relationships are usually a laboratory to work out all the inherited shit we got from our most dysfunctional parent. We can either keep bopping from one relationship to another pointing our finger at the other person. Or we can take off our shoes, stay awhile and keep practicing as a good friend advised me to do almost 15 years ago. He told me love is a marathon. I finally get what he meant. Thanks for sticking with me for this marathon, I’m here for you, too, 24/7, as always, at [email protected].

xo, atoosa

Soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️:

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Hey,

Today, I keep trying to write about anything but this. I have so many good stories from the past! And this is so fresh…it feels so vulnerable. But alas there’s only one thing bubbling up, demanding to be exposed and explored. And so I begin…

I started seeing a new guy (let’s call him Sweet Yogini 🧘🏻‍♂️) last fall, literally three days after The Bear and I ended Season 2 of our relationship. I flipped the Hinge switch immediately when I got home the night of our breakup as a kind of fuck-you-dickhead signal. I know – it’s so funny when we go through these dramatic motions for…NO ONE AT ALL! 🤦🏻‍♀️ I mean, it’s not like he knew! Regardless, that was Saturday night. By Tuesday night I’d already had three dates. (I know…I can’t…whatever…it’s The Bear! I had to anesthetize, people. And yes, one of my dates was a morning walk. I like to be efficient.) ANYWAY 🙄….

Date 3 was Sweet Yogini. 🧘🏻‍♂️ I will tell you something funny about Sweet Yogini. He was the first guy (I’m pretty sure!) that I ever swiped first on Hinge. My MO on the app is mainly window shopping. I don’t “like” anyone but I’m definitely open when guy swipes on me. In fact, I often see guys and think Oh, I hope he “likes” me and it’s super exciting if he does (that happened with The Bear) but I don’t put myself out there. We can explore the why behind this behavior another time, but that’s my app vibe. But, for some fucking reason I swiped on Sweet Yogini!

In fact, I remember after I swiped, I was like WTF DID YOU JUST DO?? I mean, I know why I did it. He was very specific about what he was into in one of his blurbs (his type of music, poetry, meditation, etc.) and for once…FOR ONCE there was a guy who was specifically into the same shit I was into. The. Exact. Same. Shit. So I think it was truly a reflex. I must have blocked swiping though, because I was totally surprised when the next day or so, I got a nice message from him and we met for dinner a few days later. He and I actually went on three dates that week.

But the third date was not the charm.

Let me back up.

My husband always called me the Cat. This was based on the theory that people are either cats or dogs. Dogs are the kind of relationship people that are jumping all over you, always excited to play. My ex was a dog. And then there’s the cats. If you pet us the wrong way or even just give too enthusiastic a vibe, we are under the bed before you can even say Meow. And just for the record, I am not a particularly friendly cat. My husband knew exactly how to handle me so I didn’t withdraw or become avoidant. But heck, this was a skill honed over decades by a person who was truly committed to the craft.

Poor Sweet Yogini. He didn’t know he was dealing with a cat. I kinda present human. Plus, I was really grieving The Bear. So three dates in a week is a sign I was knee deep in the Pacifier mode you read about last week: Luring someone deep into false intimacy, almost like a sea siren, to create a sense of security for myself. Ugh. But pacifier or no pacifier, three dates in a week scared the cat under the bed. And then there’s Sweet Yogini himself. Hmmm…how to describe him. Earnest? Healthy? I mean…I guess Sweet Yogini kinda nails it. (Although perhaps Sweet Yogini 🔥 is more accurate. 😉) Who wants to lure a Sweet Yogini into a ship wreck? I’m not that evil. So on that third date (which, btw, followed a first date with yet another guy…if that’s not a sign I was anesthetizing myself, I don’t know what is), I acted pretty distant…cordial. And after, I sent the friend zone text. You know the one. “I really value my friends so I hope you understand what an important place that is in my life.” All true, but in retrospect, it’s kind of funny how binary I was thinking. Romantic relationship, not safe. Friendship, safe. Sweet Yogini: “Friendship is always a great place to start anything.” I know. He is the cutest.

And that was that. From that evening onward, I put him in the friend zone and my nervous system relaxed. Sweet Yogini stayed in touch. And I also kept him in the loop about everything. When a seemingly normal guy sent me an unsolicited dick pic, I laughed about it with Sweet Yogini. Divorce drama, Sweet Yogini. Songs, poems, lectures, podcasts, Sweet Yogini. He was very present, yet at a cat-safe distance.

But eventually I slid back to pacifier mode with him. I would give him hope…and then go out with someone else. I will spare you all of the details but Sweet Yogini is the guy who I mentioned in last week’s letter who totally hated me. He was done being a cat toy. His last words to me were, “Fuck you. Leave me alone.” Ooof. 🦵🏼🐈‍⬛ (Believe me, he made some mistakes too, but this isn’t about him, it’s about me.) Two weeks went by and he read last week’s letter. I got a text from him the next morning. Valentine’s Day, ironically. “I don’t hate you,” he said. But he had some things to say and asked if he could call me. What followed were a bunch of words and phrases like “narcissist” and “chew men up and spit them out.” Not the kind of stuff that’s usually being said to ones face. But I listened. I didn’t interrupt or get defensive. I could see how he would experience me that way. I can’t apologize for who I am but I can apologize for how I treated him. And I did. I did.

And here’s my big takeaway. I’m a scaredy cat. I had to learn how to be “Atoosa” when I was working. I remember that first time I was in a television studio for a live segment on a major morning show. In that moment, I went from how-the-fuck-am-I-going-to-do-this-I’m-going-to-die-this-isn’t-possible to “You’re on!” in a five-second countdown. Insert big smile, “We’re here with Atoosa….” I learned how to act “as if.” As if, I’m on top of the world. As if, I’m a super hero. As if, I can do anything. As if, I’m not scared.

But...

I’m scared.

I’m scared of relationships. That’s why I objectify men. It’s not because I’m an asshole. It’s because I’m fucking scared. In the past, the only people I’ve felt safe in relationship with are men who were as scared and fucked up as I was…I won’t name any names or use any animal emojis 😳. I was safe with those people because they were also too jammed up to experience any real intimacy. But I do want real intimacy. I do. And healthy guys don’t play cat and mouse. At least they don’t once they realize that’s what is happening.

So here’s where I’m at.

For now, homebase is under the bed. In other words, I am going to try not strutting around the room like a glamorous Persian cat with my tail in the air. That is not a true indication of who I am or where I’m at. I will play with Sweet Yogini from under the bed. We will go slow. One paw out. Then maybe another. When it’s really slow like this, in the past week, I’ve been able to isolate when I’m scared so I don’t suddenly find myself in the middle of a room, terrified. No need for claws or hiding. I can explore and examine what is making me scared from a safe space. Listen, Sweet Yogini may ultimately want to go at a normal pace with a normal girl and you, beloved reader, will be the first to know, obv. But I am just being present with what is. We are just being present with what is. And what is it? For now it’s a relationship that’s safe and exhilarating at the same time. A first for this cat.

How about you? Are you a cat or a dog? Share below or if you want to discuss further you know where I am 24/7, as always, at [email protected].

xo, atoosa

The soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️:

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Hey!

I missed you…missed this. Sitting in my yellow office in my yellow Womb chair writing to you, my beloved reader and sister. But I really needed to take January off. I often say my life’s work is my life’s work. Meaning what I feel compelled to write and create is what I’m actually learning and experiencing personally. And this past month, I was like a cat lurching and heaving and gathering a monster hair ball that just wasn’t ready to dislodge. It wasn’t comfortable. I needed some extra processing time. This was a big hairball with very old roots.

But it’s out. I think it’s out.

I know I’ve spent many a Substack waxing on about my grand sweeping unconditional love for The Bear 🐻. But when I look back on my romantic history, there are a lot of guys who…well…kinda-fucking-hate-me to be totally honest. 🙈 I was always able to explain each one away because, of course, I’ve been through a lot in my life…it’s easy to believe (and it’s true!) that I never meant to hurt anyone. I was doing the best I could at the time and of course, when you know better you do better, thank-you-Maya-Angelou.

But.

But.

But.

My soon-to-be-ex-husband? 26 years together. Hates me. Oh, and the super sweet guy I dated for three months after Season 2 with The Bear? Yeah. We just broke up. Hates me. 👀 A few months ago, I had dinner with the very first man I had an affair with. I’ve written about him on here - the photographer. After The Bear and I had broken up, I was kind of interested in stiking it up with him again. You would think I had asked him to pet a Cobra. “You were toxic for me.” Fuck. I had to face this beast once and for all. Why is my path littered with the broken hearts of good men? I, too, am a good person. I know I am. Right?

Yes.

Cut to…4-year-old Atoosa sitting at her new nursery school. She is hysterically crying. All. Day. Every. Day. We had just moved to America and I didn’t know or understand the concept of school: That you show up, play, and go home at the end of the day. As a parent myself, before I sent my children to school for the first time, we read a million little books for months prior about the school experience. Back then? Not the case. At least not for me. Plus, I didn’t speak a lick of English and had never been around so many children at once. And American culture was totally new to me, so nothing had any context. When I was dropped off, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be picked up. My terror was real. It was intense. As my mother tells the story, they switched me from one nursery school to the next because they couldn’t handle my incessant sobbing until we landed at a school where the Head had a big dog. Instead of crying, I would go, sit next to the dog and just methodically pet him. All. Day. When I place myself back in that little body, I remember doing it like a meditation. Don’t cry, just pet. Don’t cry, just pet. Don’t cry, just pet. I wouldn’t lift my eyes off the dog fur. Don’t cry, just pet.

In the years to come, anytime my mother went out in the evening without me, I would wait at the window in the front of our house, no matter how late, and count cars until she came home. She will be home after 3 cars. She will be home after 4 cars. She will be home after 5 cars. We had a pretty quiet street. I can still smell the dust on the aluminum blinds. Do you have any smells like that emblazoned in your memory?

Fast forward to college: There are a group of girls at Barnard who will remember when they met me on that first day after my mom dropped me off. I was headed to my room carrying three Hefty bags filled with my belongings. The elevator door opened, a group of super cute and excited freshman girls were in there and boisterously greeted me. They were so excited to be there. Me? Well…I started bawling. Despite going to college less than an hour away from home, despite being a kind of cool, fast and social girl, despite, despite, despite all signs that going to college was an age-appropriate stretch…. I desperately missed my mother and felt completely unmoored. And to be clear, it’s not like I had a deep emotional connection to my mother.

I had intense separation anxiety.

Correction.

I have intense separation anxiety.

And my pacifier of choice? Boys…and now, men.

I just didn’t know it at the time. My pacifiers were self-selecting: They were boys who would be head-over-heels for me. I didn’t really assess whether or not I liked them. They had the quality I was looking for in a transitional object: They were steadfast. So I would feed their fantasy with my attention, usually in private moments, and keep my heart for myself. Their devotion was what I needed. It kept my anxiety at bay. They believed we had a special relationship and I made them believe we had a special relationship. I wasn’t doing it to be duplicitous. It was totally unconscious. I was totally unconscious of this until recently. But just like the child who drops the pacifier when something more interesting comes along, I would drop my pacifier guy as soon as another guy spoke to my heart.

The guys who hate me? I used them as pacifiers. I objectified them. I used them to soothe my very old and embedded feelings of separation anxiety that have been a soundtrack to my life since childhood…then dropped them the moment something more interesting came along. (Remember P & J from college?) Even The Bear started out as a binky for me. But he’s a smart and guarded guy, he sensed my schtick, didn’t feel safe and pulled himself out of my clutches. And man that REALLY set off my separation anxiety. The fucking pacifier isn’t supposed to walk away.

But thank God he did.

It’s the break up that just keeps on giving! I did the pacifier thing with two other guys after The Bear. But I did it with a lot more consciousness. I felt it happening. I didn’t quite understand the roots of it yet, but I explicitly told the guys in question my pattern. They thought they would be different. Unfortunately they weren’t. And yes, they hate me. But good lord, I think I finally got to the bottom of this pattern.

And now we move onto repatterning.

So that’s what I’ve been unraveling this past month. The abject fear and terror at the root of my separation anxiety and the human and emotional fall-out from the strategy I Mickey-Moused together to cope with it. My breakup(s) with The Bear really triggered this very early wounding…and so I had a human pacifier during each hiatus. I am sitting with the grief of what I’ve caused and simultaneously the grief of what I went through to create such unconciousness. And yet I continue to have so much gratitude for the challenging situations that life throws my way. Listen, we all have shit like my nursery school experience in our emotional backpacks. Many people try to bury it. Maybe tell it as a funny story the way our parents weirdly do. But then we have these dysfunctional patterns we keep running. It doesn’t have to be that way.

I’m done dating lovely guys I’m not that into but can carry around like a security blanket. I want a wild and free love. Someone who makes me weak in my knees. That I respect and want to honor. Who isn’t afraid to confront and push me. I am finally ready to fly. But first, I need to become that free bird. I guess that’s what I’m doing here. What we’re doing here together. I so love being in community with you. It’s like growing up together…as grownups. And you know where I am, 24/7, as always at [email protected].

xo, atoosa

The soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️:

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com