I Went Full Woo So You Don’t Have To

What Happens When You Cancel Mother’s Day and Say Yes to the Weird Stuff Featuring: Spirit guides, brie smuggling, and a Skittles-colored psychic funhouse

This was supposed to be a light post, a little vibe check. A soft reminder to go easy on yourself if Mother’s Day hit weird.

Then Mother’s Day came… and went. And this post turned into a full-blown mental tug-of-war between “it’s still relevant, post it” and “old news, scrap it,” each one louder than the last and as dramatic as a Housewives reunion, minus the champagne flutes.

Meanwhile? Life kept life-ing. (Scroll to the end for LIFE: a Pride panel, a voice note that cracked me open, and a spicy Pink Paloma worth stealing.)

But if your Mother’s Day did get weird (again), I see you. Big hugs and welcome.

Here’s what I did differently this year and PS: it worked like a charm.
(Well… technically, it worked like a cord-cut.)

Let’s rewind.

This year for Mother’s Day, I gave myself the greatest gift of all:
I cut the cords.
Energetically and metaphorically.

No breakfast in bed (crumbs in the sheets, no thanks).
No pretending “whatever you want to do today” isn’t code for you’re still in charge.
No family day that somehow still revolves around you making all the decisions.

Just: no.

What I didn’t expect?
To end up in a cord-cutting ceremony, meet a spirit guide in my subconscious, Skittles-colored hallway, and realize I’ve been hauling around the emotional equivalent of a busted IKEA bag labeled BURDEN for decades.

Then again, maybe it tracks, if you know my Mother’s Day history.

Let’s review:
• One spent in the ER (details incoming)
• One spent crying on the bathroom floor
• One spent alone all day while they shopped for my gift
• And one especially cinematic picnic at a grand LA estate… where we weren’t technically allowed to picnic.

Picture me: champagne in one hand, brie in the other, wearing my best dress and dodging security guards under a topiary like it was Mission: Improbable, Charcuterie Edition.

And that’s just the highlight reel.

There was the year I ended up in the ER with a bloody nose after my son accidentally headbutted me while I wrangled him into pants for his recital—ironically, to celebrate Moms. The year I was given a gorgeous picture-perfect English hamper picnic complete with The Berry Cake (IYKYK) from Joan’s on Third, with zero space to actually enjoy it - just a whispered, "eat quick, we're not supposed to be here."
And the ones where I had to make every decision, reassure everyone I was having a great time, and quietly wish I could hide behind a padlocked door for 24 uninterrupted hours.

We’ve all had some version of it, spending the day planning… while feeling slightly resentful in the process.

And if you have no idea what I’m talking about? I love that for you.

So this year, I opted out.
No forced obligations.
No “I’m having a great time, really” reassurance.
No “what do you want to do today?” pressure. I’ve lived that movie. It’s called Mother’s Day, and the plot twist is: I’m still the one producing the whole thing.

And in that space, I met with an intuitive and cut the cords.

Before I go into the dirty details, I should probably set the scene by telling you where I fall on the woo-scale. (You know the one. Right between “crystal-curious” and “don’t talk to me until Mercury’s out of retrograde.”)

I’m woo enough to be first in line for an aura reading (read it here). Goop-curious (but still not buying the $75 egg), and fully stocked with rose quartz which I’ve definitely worn in my bra. I’ve saged my space, Feng Shui’d my house (thanks,

Abby Lane

), sat through a sound bath, danced my chakras awake, meditated with mixed results,
and manifested a silk pillowcase more than once.

I’m open. Especially if it means healing a feeling that’s been living in my body since wee-Lisa-hood like a barnacle with boundary issues.

And yes, because I’m that kind of open, I once tried a Goop-approved DIY cord-cutting ritual. Here’s the link, if you like your spiritual advice with a side of $300 loungewear.

The method? Buy a crystal (kyanite, specifically). Light a candle. Visualize your energetic entanglements as cords stretching from you to people, places, old beliefs.
Thoughtfully identify the one that needs releasing. Select it with care.
Then use your kyanite to slice through, sending the energy back to its source.

Listen, I did it. Except instead of thoughtfully selecting anything, I grabbed the whole damn lot and went full chainsaw massacre, energetically speaking.

I marched into my local crystal shop, grabbed a fistful of kyanite like I was prepping for emotional surgery, and proceeded to air-hack through decades of entanglements with the grace of an exorcist on a deadline.

Did it help?
It was… weird.
I felt strangely empty. Unplugged.
Like “less codependent” but also “naked mole rat in a windstorm” levels of vulnerable.

Not to worry, after a quick “we cool?” text to my son and a thumbs-up emoji in return,
I adjusted to my new digs grandly.

But this time?
This time it got shadow-self personal.

No crystal theatrics. No incense haze. Just a nervous group of women, a week before Mother’s Day, gathered in a room with nothing but three guided meditations, a journal, and a pen.

I get nervous with visualization work. I’m not someone who can easily “imagine a golden light filling the room.” I like evidence. Tangibility. Things I can pick up, place, paint, return. I’m the kind of person who has to buy the chair, bring it home, see it in the room, and then decide if it stays.

So you can imagine my surprise when I found myself fully dropped in, greeted warmly by our guide, the Metaphysical Maven, notebook in hand, and genuinely moved by how she framed the practice:

“We’re not here to sever ties with people,” she said.
“We’re here to release the outdated stories and agreements that are taking up space.”

Okay, I’m in. One meditation led to the next. Each more visual than the last (to my dismay). And then came the final one, the Skittles fever dream.

I’m walking down a hallway, long and dark doors in every color to my left and to my right. Rainbow-coded dream logic or Pinterest board by way of the subconscious.

We were to select a door noticing the color. Inside each door was a room and each room held fragments: words, feelings, phrases I’d carried over time. Like a CAPTCHA test for my emotional hard drive. Black background, floating fonts, of random sizes. a roomful of white words blinking in the dark.

And then one came into focus much clearer than the others, all thick and heavy in her Playbill typeface, the feeling I’d unknowingly overcompensated for my entire life.

I thought it would be something from the usual, known list. I did mention I’ve been at this a while, right? But this one shook me.

Burden.

It dropped into my chest like a sealed envelope finally opened. And I was caught off guard by a wave of grief so sharp it stole my breath. Grateful I’d learned how to stay present instead of leaving my body, I reminded myself,
Don’t shove it down.
You’re safe to feel this.
Feel it, so you can let it go.

Because it was there for a reason, a self protection spell wee-Lisa cast on herself, decades ago. And like most things, once you name it, let it in, feel it, and understand how it served you—it starts to lose its power.

So I cut the cord.
Not to a person.
To a story.

Now, about the actual holiday…

Lest you think I spent Mother’s Day alone, wrapped in a crystal-charged aura blanket, don’t be silly. I spent it exactly how I wanted to…not deciding a single thing.

No drama. No ER. No bathroom tears. Just me, my family, and an itinerary I didn’t touch. They took me to their favorite spots in Portland (bold move, honestly), surprised me with a winery visit, and we ended the day at dinner, full, happy, and weirdly peaceful. Oh, and did I mention the Nick Cave concert? Because yes, your girl pre-gamed Mother’s Day weekend with emotional release and Nick Cave.
If you know, you know.

Honestly? I couldn’t have planned it better myself.
Which, of course, was the point.

But Wait, There’s More.

The Rhododendron Festival came to town, our signature small-town flex, and we leaned all the way in. The boy came home from college, bringing the sweetest friend in tow (you know the kind: kind eyes, helpful in the kitchen, immediate fit). We took coast hikes and wildflower walks, popped into a few local shops. And yes, I caught a photo of my Ferris on the Ferris wheel at the carnival.

Some moments feel like they deserve a frame while others ask to be witnessed in real time. This week? Both.

My son and I were invited to speak on a Pride Month panel, a conversation on trans youth and the families who love them. Last year, NPR showed up. This year? So are we.

And then there was a voice note I sent to

UNFOLDING by Kate Waitzkin

that cracked something open. I was talking about another writer I admire, someone who shares openly about her family, her now-life, and the way she’s raising her children in a way that’s nothing like how she grew up.

And I realized: I’ve never really done that.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because it didn’t feel safe.
Because I wasn’t ready.
Or we weren’t ready.
Or maybe because the internet is a weird place.

But now? The foundation feels solid.
And I trust him to be okay.
I trust me to be seen.

So I’ll be sharing more of our story.
Because it’s time.

Spicy Pink Palomas

Because once you’ve cut the emotional cords, you deserve something zesty, chilled, and a little bit dangerous.

Spicy Paloma (aka Rhody Juice)

• 2 oz blanco tequila (the good kind—trust your gut)

• 1 oz fresh lime juice

• 2 oz fresh grapefruit juice

• 0.5 oz agave or simple syrup

• A few jalapeño slices (don’t skip this, it’s the whole mood)

• Top with sparkling water (Pellegrino preferred, but I don’t police bubbles)

Shake everything but the bubbles with ice.
Strain into a glass over fresh ice.
Top with fizz.
Take outside immediately to watch the flowers bloom and your nervous system exhale.

If you’re cutting cords, reclaiming weekends, dodging security with brie in hand, or just trying to be a little softer and more solid, I’m right there with you.

Thanks for reading I Would Never Gatekeep This From You.
If it stirred something, hit share. Forward it. Tell someone else it’s time.

This post is public, and just like that Candy-colored hallway in my subconscious, there’s always another door to open.

Come closer. 💋