Emotional Sobriety

You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?
Emotional sobriety.
I know what you’re thinking.
“What is that?”
Okay, hear me out for a moment.
One day, while reflecting on some changes I’d noticed in myself, two words popped into my head.
Emotional sobriety.
I remember thinking, “Wow. Did I just come up with that? I don’t think I’ve ever heard that phrase before.”
For a little while, I was feeling pretty clever.
Then I looked it up.
As it turns out, I was about seventy years late to the party.
Apparently, Bill W., one of the founders of Alcoholics Anonymous, had already been talking about emotional sobriety long before I came along.
I had a pretty good chuckle over that.
So no, I can’t take credit for the phrase.
But I can tell you why it resonates with me.
A couple of years ago, I noticed something shifting within me.
Nothing overnight.
And certainly nothing worthy of fireworks.
Just a quiet shift.
I found myself pausing before I acted.
Listening more.
Reacting a whole lot less.
Now, I don’t want you to misunderstand me.
That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped having emotions.
Trust me, I still get excited.
I still get frustrated.
I still have moments when I want to fix things, rescue people, explain myself, or solve a problem nobody asked me to solve.
I’m still very much human.
Thank God.
But somewhere along the way, I noticed I wasn’t getting swept up by every emotion that came knocking at my door.
Years ago, I had a phrase for my behavior.
I called it “itchy trigger finger.”
Something would upset me and bam! I was on the phone.
I had something to say.
An opinion to share.
A frustration to express.
A point to make.
Looking back, I cringe.
Okay, who am I kidding?
I cringe a lot.
At the time, I thought I was being direct.
What I was really being was reactive.
I hadn’t yet learned the power of the pause.
More than once, I wished I could take words back.
Unfortunately, words don’t work that way.
Once they’re out, they’re out.
Over the years, I’ve learned to slow down and ask myself different questions.
Why did that affect me so deeply?
What was I feeling?
What story was I telling myself?
Sometimes I was telling stories that hadn’t been written.
That realization alone has saved me a lot of heartache.
These days, I think emotional sobriety is noticing what I’m feeling without immediately handing it the steering wheel.
Because fear can be a terrible driver.
So can anger.
So can disappointment.
And if I’m being completely honest, the cockeyed optimist in me has gotten me into trouble a few times too.
I’ve learned they all get to come along for the ride.
They just don’t get to drive.
I certainly haven’t mastered any of this.
But I do seem to find my footing a little faster.
I don’t stay stuck as long.
I don’t abandon myself as quickly.
I can feel what I’m feeling without letting it run the whole show.
And honestly, that feels like freedom.
Not perfection.
And certainly not enlightenment.
Good Lord, no.
Just a little more peace.
A little more clarity.
And a little more space between what I feel and what I choose to do with it.
Maybe that’s why the phrase has stayed with me.
Not because I’ve mastered it.
But because I’m still practicing it.
When an emotion comes knocking at my door, I try not to hand it the keys.
I definitely don’t let it take the wheel.

—Teresa R Hower

I Thought It Was Jet Lag

The Wedding Tree

I woke up this morning feeling more like myself.

Thank God.

Not dramatically different. Just a little clearer.

For the last few days, I've been blaming jet lag.

Now before anyone tells me Wyoming is only two hours behind Pennsylvania, I know. Trust me, I've already had that conversation with myself.

The funny thing is, I don't think jet lag was ever the real issue.

My logical mind knew exactly what was happening.

We had traveled.

There were early flights and delays.

We crossed time zones, with an almost three- year- old in tow.

We spent a week celebrating our daughter's wedding and soaking up every minute of it.

Of course I was tired.

And yet...

I kept hearing this familiar chatter. Or perhaps “noise” is a better word.

"Come on, Teresa."

"You should be over this by now."

"You should be getting more done."

"You should have the floors mopped."

"You should be further along than this."

"You should be handling this better."

There it was.

That word.

Should.

Should.

Should.

I was should-ing all over myself.

And the irony wasn’t lost on me.

If my husband Chuck had said some of those things to me, I know exactly where I’d have told him to go.

But when those same words come from inside my own head, I don't always question them.

Sometimes I invite them in and ask them to stay awhile.

I started out trying to understand why I felt so exhausted.

Instead, I bumped into a very old, very familiar pattern.

And that's the thing about healing.

Growth isn’t measured by whether an old pattern ever shows up again.

It’s measured by how quickly I recognize it when it does.

The more I sat with it, the more I realized that underneath all of it was a familiar feeling.

A little guilt.

A little shame.

A little dissatisfaction.

A quiet sense that I should somehow be doing better.

A whisper that says:

"A better version of you would be handling this better."

Oof.

Now that's worth paying attention to.

Because who is this better version of me exactly?

The one who never gets tired?

The one whose house is always clean?

The one who never falls behind?

The one who comes home from a wedding, crosses time zones, helps care for a grandson, and bounces right back without missing a beat?

I'd like to meet her.

She sounds utterly exhausting.

I've spent most of my life trying to become her.

Looking closer, I realized that underneath the fatigue was an old belief system.

The belief that rest has to be earned.

The belief that productivity equals worth.

The belief that if I'm not accomplishing something, I should at least feel guilty about it.

A few years ago, I would have believed that noise.

I would have assumed something was wrong with me.

Today, I notice it for what it is.

I didn't automatically agree with it.

And that, my friends, feels like healing to me.

Not that the old patterns never show up.

I just recognize them sooner.

This morning the fog has lifted.

The headache is gone.

My energy feels better.

And the chatter has quieted.

The truth is, I rested.

I listened.

I gave my body a chance to catch up with my life.

I was tired.

And that is enough.

—Teresa R. Hower

A Gentle Place

Quiet Morning in Banff

Just peace.

There was a season leading up to this trip where I felt stretched in a lot of ways. Like most people, I was navigating life as best I could while trying to stay grounded through it all. What stayed with me most wasn’t the heaviness itself, but the realization that peace could still exist alongside uncertainty and imperfection.

My Heal Your Life® coaching experience taught me how to return to myself and gently let go of the pressure to have everything figured out. It reminded me that peace doesn’t come from perfection. Sometimes it comes from softening, trusting, and allowing ourselves to be human through every season.

That morning in Banff didn’t create peace for me.
It simply reflected back something I had been learning all along.

That a gentle place isn’t always somewhere outside of us.

Sometimes it’s the moment we finally soften enough to come home to ourselves again.

Maybe that’s why moments of peace can feel so emotional sometimes, because they remind us of who we were before life became so loud.

Perhaps you’ve felt that too.

Or maybe you need that reminder today.

Teresa

Where Hope Returns

Building the Sacred Strides Healing website has been a journey in itself. Believe me, there have been moments of excitement, frustration, second-guessing, and a whole lot of learning along the way.

What surprised me most, though, was realizing how much meaning was tucked inside the photos I chose for each section.

I thought it might be nice to share some of the stories behind them, beginning with the rainbow photo.

When I first looked at it, I remember thinking, “My goodness… this is life.”

Hope still shows up.

A muddy pasture after days of rain. Storm clouds still hanging in the sky. A horse quietly grazing in the distance. And somehow, right in the middle of it all, sunlight breaking through and a rainbow stretching across the horizon.

Truthfully, I think rainbows have always mesmerized me.

As a child, I used to run through the backyard trying to find the end of them and the pot of gold. And years later, as a teenager in a canoe with my best friend on a lake in Canada, I remember getting completely lost staring at a massive rainbow stretching across the stormy sky while the waves around us started rocking.

At one point she finally laughed and told me, “Quit staring at the rainbow and paddle.”

And honestly? That memory still makes me smile.

Maybe that’s why this photo speaks to me so deeply. It reminds me that even in stormy seasons, beauty still has a way of finding us.

Hope still shows up.

Maybe healing is simply learning to notice the light again, even while standing in the mud puddles of life.

One sacred stride at a time.

Teresa R. Hower

Sixty One

Tonight, at midnight, I officially turned 61.

Well… technically I wasn’t born until 5:22 PM.
But there’s something about midnight that feels symbolic… I imagine it as standing at the precipice of a new year of life, quietly looking out over everything behind me… and everything still waiting ahead.

This past year held grief, caregiving, healing, horses, hard conversations, sacred pauses, laughter, exhaustion, growth, and moments of unmistakable grace.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped trying so hard to become someone else and started walking myself home.

Tonight also happens to mark something else:
the quiet beginning of Sacred Strides Healing online.

And honestly… I’m a little surprised I’m still awake for it.

But this does feel momentous.

Not because of a website alone, but because of what it represents.

A lifelong longing.
A hard-won becoming.
A sacred space I’ve been walking toward for years, even when I didn’t fully realize it.

A website.
A journal.
A small sacred space built from real life, muddy boots, healing conversations, hope, and the belief that we do not have to walk alone.

At 61, I don’t feel anywhere near done.

I feel like I’m finally arriving to me.

Less proving.
More becoming.

Less rushing.
More walking alongside.

One sacred stride at a time.

~ Teresa