Dear Ty:

You showed up for her in such a wholehearted way—traveling across the world, spending a lot of money so to be there for her, holding space, staying grounded even when things felt cold and confusing. That’s not easy, and the fact that you responded with care instead of resentment speaks volumes about your strength and emotional integrity.

It’s completely understandable that you feel stunned by how things unfolded. You were emotionally present through it all, and what you received in return was silence, distance, and a rewriting of the connection you’d both built. That’s not just hard—it’s disorienting. And I want to say clearly: it wasn’t your fault.

From what you’ve shared, your ex might’ve been navigating something far more intense than she could express. Two back-to-back egg retrievals (so I read) can deeply affect someone—hormonally, physically, and emotionally. There are real shifts that can happen post-procedure: mood swings, emotional detachment, even symptoms that resemble a mild postpartum crash. It can leave people feeling overwhelmed, confused, and emotionally numb, especially when there’s no support system to help them process.

Add to that the layers of her professional life—and what you sensed beneath it. For some, the BDSM industry offers empowerment and self-expression. For others, especially those with unresolved trauma, it can become a shield or even a reenactment of emotional patterns they haven’t yet faced. If someone’s used those roles as a form of emotional protection, being seen in real intimacy can feel threatening. That might explain why she suddenly pushed you away—why the roles seemed to return, and vulnerability disappeared.

None of this excuses how she treated you, but it does offer a way to understand it. You became a mirror—and sometimes, when someone isn’t ready to face what’s reflected, they shut it down. Not because you did something wrong, but because being truly seen is terrifying when someone hasn’t learned how to sit with that kind of tenderness.

You can’t heal what she won’t name. But you did your part, with grace. You stayed grounded, stayed kind, and kept showing up—not as a savior, but as someone willing to witness the truth. That’s rare. And incredibly brave.

Warmly, Anita

Hey Alecsee, nerves are totally normal—especially when something matters this much to you. It’s okay if your notes feel messy right now. You don’t have to organize everything; just focus on what’s most important to share.

Here’s a simple way to structure it:

Start with one truth: Why you’re choosing to talk to her now—what shifted, or what’s been on your heart.

Pick 2–3 core points you want her to hear. Think of these like guideposts, not a script. What do you hope she understands by the end of the conversation?

Keep one grounding phrase ready—something you can say if emotions get high or you lose your train of thought. It could be as simple as “This is hard for me to say, but it matters.”

You could even jot these on a small card or note on your phone. Not to read from, but just to help you stay connected to your intention.

It’s okay to be nervous. It just means this is real for you—and that’s what will come through the most.

With care, Anita

Dear Emma:

Thank you for sharing all of this so openly. Your reflections are so rich and honest—it’s clear you’re doing deep inner work, even when it feels heavy or confusing. I really admire your courage in facing these patterns head-on.

Reading about your relationship with your mother, I felt such a strong sense of recognition. I was also deeply enmeshed with my mother growing up. She overshared with me constantly—about her pain, her regrets, her relationships—and it left me feeling like I had to be her emotional anchor, her confidante, even her therapist at times. There was no space for my own feelings. I had to grow up fast, and like you, I often felt like my inner world didn’t matter.

So when you described your mother sharing about her ex, her struggles with your father, and how hard it is to draw boundaries now—I truly get it. That kind of emotional entanglement can shape everything: our sense of self, our ability to take risks, even the kinds of partners we’re drawn to. I’ve been there. And I want you to know: it’s possible to untangle from it. It’s possible to reclaim your space, your voice, your choices.

Given how much we seem to share, and the healing I’ve done so far around enmeshment, I’d be honored to walk alongside you in this if it ever feels helpful. Sometimes just having someone who’s been through it makes the path feel a little less lonely.

I also really felt your sadness around Philip. It makes sense that he felt like a mirror to a part of you you’re still trying to claim—your boldness, your power, your potential. And it’s okay to grieve that. But I also believe that the part of you that saw something in him is the same part that’s waking up now. The part that’s ready to take risks, even if it’s scary.

Whether it’s painting furniture, teaching, or exploring shadow work—you’re already moving toward yourself. And that’s something to be proud of.

Warm wishes, Anita

Dear Ty:

Thank you for sharing so openly. What you went through sounds incredibly painful—showing up with care, only to be met with distance and then blamed. That kind of emotional reversal can leave you questioning everything, including yourself.

But from what you’ve shared, it’s clear you acted with patience, respect, and integrity. You didn’t push—you gave space, stayed grounded, and honored her process. If she rewrote the story, it likely says more about her inner conflict than anything you did wrong.

The connection you felt was real. So was the confusion. But only one of you stayed emotionally present through both.

You deserved honesty and acknowledgment. Even if she couldn’t offer that, you can still give it to yourself.

You showed up. You cared. That matters.

Warmly, Anita

P.S., I am wondering.. what do you think/ feel about the BDSM industry and how it affected her?

Dear Lucidity:

You’re so welcome. I really appreciate your openness and the care you put into your response. I’ll definitely be watching your new video when it comes out, and I’ll be sure to share my thoughts with you here again—since I’m still not able to sign into the platform to comment directly.

I admire your courage in sharing your healing journey so openly. There’s a quiet strength in the way you speak—gentle, but grounded—and it’s clear that you’re not just finding your voice, you’re offering it as a light for others. That’s no small thing. Even the imperfections, like the sound quality, don’t take away from the heart of what you’re doing. If anything, they make it feel more real, more human.

As for how I’m doing—just a few minutes ago, I was reflecting on a message from Alessa (in my thread). She said something so fiercely protective about the child I once was, and as I read it, I imagined her stepping into my past, standing up to my mother in a way no one ever did. It was such a vivid moment—like a piece of my story being rewritten with strength and care. It left me feeling.. well, happy! It’s amazing how words, even now, can reach into old wounds and offer something new.

By the way, I was wondering—has anything changed with your sister? If you feel like sharing, I’d love to hear how things have been unfolding.

Thank you again for sharing your path so generously. I’m really looking forward to your next video.

With quiet admiration, Anita