jennnylane

[jennnylane]

😆😄😁🥰

[jennnylane]

It is past midnight, and my brain just will not quit. I wish I could blame it on something practical like a looming deadline or a late-night coffee, but the truth is a little more nerdy. I have been completely hooked on this podcast called The Telepathy Tapes, and it has taken over my thoughts in the best possible way.

As a school psychologist, I already spend my days diving deep into how humans think, feel, and behave. But this podcast goes beyond the typical lens of psychology and neuroscience. It explores the deeper questions of human consciousness, especially in people who experience the world differently. It asks what it really means to be connected to our physical selves, and what happens when that connection feels out of sync.

One episode that completely pulled me in featured the work of Dr. Dianne Powell, a brilliant psychiatrist and researcher who is exploring consciousness and cognition in neurodivergent individuals. Her work looks at people, particularly those on the autism spectrum, who report a unique disconnect between their inner awareness and their physical body. These individuals often describe experiences of observing life as if from a distance, or not feeling entirely rooted in their physical form.

Dr. Powell has conducted studies involving nonverbal individuals with autism who appear to exhibit telepathic communication abilities. Her findings are challenging long-held assumptions about how information is processed and shared in the brain. What fascinated me most is how she frames these abilities not as anomalies, but as alternative ways the mind might operate, especially when traditional communication is not an option.

It raises huge questions. How much of what we call “normal” cognition is simply the most common, not the most complete? What if some neurodivergent minds are tuned into something we have not yet fully understood?

These ideas keep me up at night. Not in an anxious way, but in that deep, humming curiosity that makes you want to learn more, ask better questions, and keep listening.

Truthfully, I’ve always had this quiet belief that there’s more to our neurodivergent friends than what we experience on the surface. Their inner worlds often seem richer, more layered, more in tune with something we can’t quite grasp yet. The way they experience the world? It’s different in a way that almost feels… advanced. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if we found out one day that they’ve been rocking low-key X-Men powers this whole time and just haven’t told us yet. Telepathy, anyone?

So yeah, I’m a full-blown nerd, lying awake at 1 AM thinking about brains and podcasts. But if you’re even a little curious about how the mind works (or possibly whether mutants are among us) give The Telepathy Tapes a listen. Just don’t blame me when you’re still awake at 3 AM thinking about it too.

[jennnylane]

[jennnylane]

If you would’ve told me six months ago that I’d be feeling this good, this free, this unbothered — I probably would’ve laughed and immediately gone back to overthinking everything.

But guess what? Growth is real, baby.

I didn’t just close that chapter — I slammed it shut, gift-wrapped it, and sent it back to the past with no return address.

And the best part? I didn’t just find closure with what happened.

I found closure inside myself — and that’s the kind that actually sticks.

If I had to describe how I feel now?

It’s like finally realizing you’ve been carrying around a purse full of bricks, and then one day you just… drop it.

Lighter, freer, and honestly wondering why I didn’t do it sooner.

I’ve also been putting myself out there again. Because hey — I’m still human.

I love connection.

I love getting to know people.

And yes, I still lowkey want to be liked — but like, in a “love me or lose me” kind of way.

It’s been so fun learning about people’s random Sunday habits, their favorite TV shows, their guilty pleasures (hello, late-night snacking), and whether they like the same ice cream flavor as me.

School psychologist meets future lawyer?

Yeah, we’ll find some common ground — probably somewhere between analyzing each other’s life choices and arguing over who gets aux cord rights.

But here’s the real glow-up:

I’m way more aware now. Of the red flags I’m avoiding and the green flags I’m chasing.

Because best believe, I’m not just out here accepting any kind of nonsense anymore.

• You voted for Trump? Hard pass. Fucking nope.

• Lovebombing me after two days of talking? Bless your heart — thank you, next.

• Sending me 57 photos of what you’re doing every 20 minutes? Cute… maybe? Or suffocating? Jury’s still out.

• Thoughtful, deep, honest conversations?

YES PLEASE. MORE OF THAT. Feed me that emotional depth like it’s a 5-star meal.

I’m here for the real, the steady, the kind of connection that doesn’t need convincing.

And honestly, the world feels so much bigger and brighter when you realize you don’t have to settle for crumbs anymore.

Here’s to closing chapters that never deserved sequels, trusting the green flags, and always saying yes to double scoops of ice cream (and deep conversations)🤍

[jennnylane]

There’s something strangely beautiful—liberating, even—about realizing that the end of the relationship wasn’t your fault.

No matter how much they tried to convince you otherwise. No matter how many times you replayed conversations in your head, wondering if you were the problem.

You weren’t. And deep down, you probably always knew that.

But toxic people are skilled performers. They make you question yourself, twist your words, flip the script, and somehow always end up the victim—even when they’re the one tearing you apart.

There’s freedom in finally seeing the mask slip.

When the monster beneath the charm is fully revealed.

When the lies, the guilt trips, the gaslighting—all of it—become so obvious, you wonder how you ever missed it.

But that’s how manipulation works: quiet, slow, and insidious.

What’s even more wild is that even after they’re exposed… even when their behavior is undeniable, when the truth is out in the open—they still find a way to make it your fault.

Their misery, their broken life, their consequences? Somehow, still tied to you.

They want you to carry their shame. Again.

But here’s the plot twist they didn’t expect:

You don’t believe them anymore.

The rose-colored glasses shattered. The guilt stopped sticking.

You stopped explaining yourself. You stopped apologizing for things you didn’t do.

And you started breathing again.

It’s fucking freeing.

To no longer be at the mercy of someone else’s chaos.

To know the truth.

To own your peace.

To walk away without looking back.

They can stay where they are—drowning in their delusions, blaming the world.

But you?

You’ve risen.

And they never saw that coming.

[jennnylane]

I know it’s my birthday, and by most social standards, today should be all about me. But truthfully, I’ve never been that type of person. I’m not a fan of the spotlight, and I go out of my way to avoid being the center of attention. I don’t like feeling like a burden or causing a fuss.

Don’t get me wrong—I love when people remember it’s my birthday. A surprise, a message, a thoughtful gesture—it warms my heart. But I don’t expect it. And if it doesn’t happen? Life moves on. The sun still rises. My worth isn’t tied to a cake or candles.

But today, on my birthday, something hit me a little deeper.

Today reminded me of how important it is to live selflessly. Because when you look past the confetti and candles, the hard truth is this: not everyone was born into the same circumstances. Not everyone starts at the same place. Life is not a level playing field. Some of us are born with privilege—whether it’s wealth, health, opportunity, or even just a stable home. Others are born into storms they didn’t ask for.

Even though I felt love from the people around me—and I really did—I also felt this deep, aching sadness. I couldn’t stop thinking about the kids I serve in my job. The vulnerable ones. The ones who have to fight a little harder just to exist in a world that wasn’t built for them.

The best part of my job is being able to help children who need it most. That’s where I find purpose. That’s where I know I’m doing what I’m meant to do. But the hardest part? The most soul-crushing part? Realizing that I’m just one person. That I don’t have all the answers. That sometimes my hands are tied. That even when my heart is in the right place, the system is not.

And let me be honest for a second—because this has been weighing heavily on me lately: I am sick and tired of watching school districts prioritize budgets over kids. I’m tired of watching decisions be made by people who sit in offices and crunch numbers but have never looked into the eyes of a child who depends on us. I’m tired of the meetings, the red tape, the constant battles where the well-being of a child becomes secondary to financial convenience.

There’s one particular family I’ve been thinking about nonstop. We’ve worked with them since their daughter was in kindergarten. She’s growing up with us. She can’t walk, can’t talk, and can’t express herself in the ways most of us do—but she feels. She smiles. She connects. She has a light in her that’s impossible to miss.

And her mom? A warrior. That woman shows up every single time. She doesn’t stop advocating. She doesn’t stop pushing for her daughter to get the care she deserves. And honestly, she shouldn’t have to fight this hard. No parent should.

But the system? The system doesn’t care. It cares about money. Not the kid. Not her future. Not her health or happiness. Just numbers on a spreadsheet.

That’s what breaks my heart.

So yes, it’s my birthday. But more than anything, today just made me reflect on what really matters. And here it is: we need to care more. We need to live with more empathy. We need to fight for the ones who can’t fight for themselves.

So no, this birthday isn’t about me.

It’s about her.

It’s about every child like her.

And it’s about every parent screaming into a void, just asking for what their child deserves.

I don’t want gifts. I want change

[jennnylane]

There’s a quiet voice inside us that often gets drowned out by hope, attraction, or the sheer desire for something—or someone—to be good. That voice is intuition. It’s the whisper that says, “Something’s not right,” even when everything looks perfect on the surface.

If you think someone is too good to be true, maybe they are. Not always, but sometimes. Because charm can be a mask. Because love can be imitated. Because not everyone’s intentions are pure, even if their words are sweet and convincing. We want to believe the best in people. We want to be chosen, loved, and seen. And sometimes, that desire can cloud the warnings that our mind, heart, and body are desperately trying to give us.

If your gut tells you something is off, maybe there is something off. Our instincts exist for a reason. They’re not just emotional static—they’re survival signals, shaped by experiences and lessons we often don’t even realize we’ve learned. But when we ignore them—when we silence that gut feeling—we sometimes pay the price. And that price can be heavy.

If your body is rejecting someone, there’s likely a reason. That tension in your shoulders, that anxiety in your chest, that knot in your stomach—those aren’t just emotions. That’s your body trying to scream what your heart is too scared to admit: This person is not safe for me.

I’ve lived most of my life believing that every experience, good or bad, served a purpose. That even the heartbreaks were lessons. That I could carry everything with pride because I survived it. But now, I find myself swallowing a truth I never thought I’d say: I regret this one.

After learning the truth—after seeing who she really was behind the lies—something in me changed. My life isn’t the same. I’m not the same. And not in a poetic, transformational kind of way. In a way that aches. In a way that feels like betrayal lodged itself into my bones and made a home there.

I never imagined someone could do such cruel things to another human being, especially not someone they claimed to care about. And what makes it worse is that I told her. I told her a million times, “Please, don’t hurt me like that. If you can’t be real with me, walk away.” But she didn’t walk away. She stayed. And she lied. And she kept lying. She stayed not because she cared, but because it served her. Because my vulnerability made it easy. Because she knew exactly what she was doing—and did it anyway.

What kind of person listens to your deepest fears and then becomes the very thing you begged them not to be?

People always say, “Don’t regret it. You learned something.” But honestly? Some lessons come at too high a cost. I learned that my heart can be deceived. I learned that some people don’t feel guilt the way the rest of us do. And I learned that just because you give love with honesty and loyalty, doesn’t mean you’ll get the same in return.

So, yes. I take it back. I do regret this one. I regret ever meeting her. Because not all pain is worth it. Not all love is real. And not all stories need to have a moral. Some just need to end. And some memories need to die.

[jennnylane]

We grow up on the cliché that “the truth will set you free.” It’s etched into our movies, our books, our relationships, our moral code. We’re taught to believe that truth is the highest good—and that knowing everything is the bedrock of trust.

Sometimes, knowing the truth doesn’t liberate you. It crushes you. It complicates everything. It opens wounds you didn’t know were there. Truth isn’t always this shining light of clarity—it can be a floodlight that exposes more than you were ever ready to see.

It’s a double-edged sword—like holding a beautiful, gleaming blade that can either defend or destroy. One side can cut through illusion and bring clarity. The other side? It cuts into the comfort of not knowing, slicing away the blissful ignorance that sometimes protects us.

And when it comes to trust, maybe it’s not just about full transparency. Maybe trust is also built in the spaces we choose not to fill. The silences. The things we let stay a mystery. Not all truths need to be spoken to be felt. And not all knowledge leads to connection. In fact, some truths create distance, not closeness.

Of course, lies aren’t the answer—but maybe the real wisdom lies in discernment. In knowing when the truth serves, and when silence might be kinder.

Because sometimes, not knowing is its own kind of freedom.

[jennnylane]

For the past few months, I’ve been completely obsessed with SZA. And not just in a casual, “I like her music” way. I mean deeply, emotionally, spiritually connected. Every song she creates feels like a page out of my own journal. It’s as if she has direct access to my brain and heart, translating my most unspoken thoughts into lyrics that cut straight through me.

There’s something so raw and vulnerable about her songwriting—it’s like she’s not just telling a story, she’s telling MY story. The way she writes about love, self-doubt, healing, and identity… it’s uncanny. Our views on life and love seem to align in a way that makes me feel understood, seen, and not so alone in the mess of it all.

One song, though, has completely wrecked me—in the most beautiful way is "Saturn.” That song is me. Word for word. I listen to it and I just sit there like, how does she know? It’s like she took the exact script from my internal monologue and turned it into poetry.

“Sick of this head of mine, intrusive thoughts they paralyze. Nirvana’s not as advertised. There’s gotta be more. Been here before.”

That line. That line is me. It perfectly describes the mental loops, the exhaustion, the desperate yearning for something deeper, something more than just getting by. The constant back-and-forth between trying to be okay and feeling completely overwhelmed. It’s haunting, it’s honest—and it’s exactly how I talk to myself when no one’s around.

What a gift it is to have music like hers—to have an artist like SZA who isn’t afraid to tell the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. She sings about insecurity, overthinking, heartbreak, healing, and self-discovery with such grace and grit. It makes me feel less crazy. It makes me feel like someone gets it.

So yeah… I’m obsessed. And I don’t think I ever want to stop being

[jennnylane]

Part of my self-care lately has been intentionally carving out space for me. Whether it’s going for a massage, getting my nails done, running errands at my own pace, or spending time with people who fill my cup. As a single mom, finding time to take a break isn’t a luxury, it’s a necessity. And lately, I’ve been choosing to show up—for life, for joy, and most importantly, for myself.

I’ve started saying yes more. Yes to invitations, yes to celebrations, yes to simple hangouts and random adventures. I’m choosing to explore, to enjoy, to revisit things I’ve loved and forgotten. Tonight, at a simple dinner with live acoustic music, I felt it—that familiar sense of peace. Someone told me, “You look so happy.” And I realized I am. Not in a perfect-life kind of way, but in a slowly-rebuilding-myself kind of way.

A few months ago, I couldn’t say that. Back then, I was barely holding on—living day to day, drained and disheartened, feeling like I’d lost my purpose and my spark.

Life didn’t go the way I had envisioned. I was forced to start over, and at the time, that felt like failure. But now, I see it differently. Every time I choose to breathe deeply, every time I get out of bed, every time I take a step forward—I’m choosing myself. And with every choice, happiness finds its way back to me.

It comes in big and small forms: in my child’s laughter, in my family’s presence, in live music on a random Thursday night, in meals shared with friends, in revisiting old hobbies that once made my heart sing. I honestly didn’t think I’d reach this point so soon. I’ve historically struggled through hard seasons and didn’t always believe I had what it took to get through. But this time… something feels different.

I’ve been making the right choices—not always the easy ones, but the ones that matter. And I don’t always give myself enough credit for how strong I’ve become. I surprise myself sometimes—handling tough situations with a resilience I didn’t know I had.

And that’s growth. It is allowing myself to feel joy again. To chase it, nurture it, and build a life around it. I surround myself with people who bring light. I make space for the things that remind me of who I truly am.

This isn’t just self-care. This is self-love. This is reclamation. It’s about choosing myself, over and over again. And for the first time in a while, I feel like I’m truly living—not just surviving.

[jennnylane]

Pain never shows up quietly.

It crashes through your life like a thunderstorm—loud, angry, disorienting. The first reaction is almost always madness. That raw, pulsing ache that doesn’t let you sleep, that sits heavy in your chest and fills your head with questions and blame and why did they do this to me?

It’s normal.

We all go there.

We spiral. We recount every wrong, every cold word, every way they made us feel small. We make mental lists of how they failed us, how they broke the promises, how they didn’t show up when it mattered. And in doing that, we build our case. We turn pain into evidence. It makes sense—we’re trying to survive. I was trying to survive.

But survival isn’t the same as healing.

The real shift happens when the storm starts to calm. When the anger quiets down just enough for you to hear your own thoughts again. That’s when clarity creeps in—not with fireworks, but with a whisper:

“You don’t have to stay here.”

That moment right there… is everything.

Because not everyone gets to that part.

Some people stay stuck in the mud—replaying the betrayal, blaming the other person, refusing to feel anything beyond rage or loss. Others run from the pain completely, distracting themselves with noise, with people, with anything that keeps them from looking inward. But avoiding the truth only buries it deeper. It doesn’t go away—it just festers.

I didn’t want that to be my story.

So I sat with it. All of it.

The anger. The sadness. The guilt.

I stopped pointing fingers long enough to turn one toward myself.

Not in self-blame, but in accountability.

Because here’s the truth:

It takes two people to make a relationship work, and it takes two people for it to fall apart. I wasn't perfect. I had my shortcomings. There were moments I could've shown up differently

And I own that now—with grace, not shame.

The more I pulled away from the pain, the more clearly I saw the bigger picture. Everyone is just trying to love themselves the best way they can. Sometimes that means leaving. Sometimes that means not knowing how to love someone else properly, because they’re still trying to figure out how to love themselves.

And while it hurt—God, it hurt—I don’t regret any of it.

Not the love I gave.

Not the time.

Not the vulnerability.

Someone once said, “We become the tapestry of the people we love.” And I carry that truth with me everywhere I go.

We are shaped by the people we share our hearts with—in how we love, in how we grieve, in how we heal. They leave their fingerprints on our stories, not just in the hurt, but in the joy too.

So no, I won’t rewrite the past as all pain.

There were beautiful moments. There was laughter. There was warmth, silliness, intimacy. And those memories deserve to live too.

I am who I am because of how others have loved me—even imperfectly. And in the end, that love taught me how to love myself better.

[jennnylane]

I’ve been reading back through my older posts—pages heavy with pain, rawness, and confusion. Each word was a reflection of a time when I didn’t know how to come up for air. I was writing from the middle of the storm, hoping that if I let enough of it out, maybe I’d feel lighter. But the truth was, I was sinking. Quietly, slowly, like a stone in still water.

It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t come with lightning or a sudden jolt of clarity. But there was a moment—one quiet Wednesday night—when I realized I couldn’t keep doing this to myself. I had exhausted every question, every scenario, every “what if.” I had replayed the past so many times that it had stopped being a memory and became a prison.

And that night, I whispered to myself, “Enough.”

I knew then that healing wouldn’t come from analyzing what went wrong or waiting for closure from someone who had already moved on. It would come from turning inward. From redirecting the energy I was using to hold on—to instead start building forward.

So I began the slow, uncomfortable process of loving myself. Not in the loud, performative way people often talk about, but in the quiet choices: choosing rest, choosing to speak gently to myself, choosing not to stalk her pages, not to reread old messages, not to water a garden that no longer existed.

I stopped asking why she got to move on so easily and started asking why I kept holding myself hostage in the ruins of something that had ended. And the answer was clear—I didn’t believe I deserved more. But I do. I always did.

Just like her, I deserve peace. I deserve love that feels safe. I deserve mornings that don’t begin with a weight in my chest. I deserve to dream again. And not because she moved on, but because I want to live. I want to feel joy that isn’t tangled in memory.

Choosing to love myself, to forgive myself, and to focus on what’s ahead instead of what fell apart—it’s been the most powerful, liberating thing I’ve done. It didn’t happen all at once. But every day I show up for myself, I feel a little more free.

The dark place still lingers in the distance, but I no longer live there. I visit only to remind myself how far I’ve come, how much lighter it feels when you finally put down what was never yours to carry forever.

I don’t know what’s next. But I know I’m ready. And for the first time in a long time, that feels like peace.

— Here’s to choosing me. Finally. Fully. Fiercely

[jennnylane]

[jennnylane]

Wow, I cannot believe my last post was 12 days ago. To me that means progress. That means no big emotions have hit me recently. It does get easier with time and the peace I feel right now is unmatched. I wouldn't trade this feeling for anything.

I'm thankful for the days that I feel okay, for the days that I find purpose, for the days that gives me hope, and for the days that I choose to keep going.

No looking back.

[jennnylane]

"When they were faced with the possibility of losing you, they decided that it was worth the risk."

Yes! What a great reminder for myself today.

I finally did it, deactivated all accounts that were still connected to the past. I have had it. I have had it with myself and my overthinking. I have had it with the false connection that I still maintained with an online profile. I have had it with the narratives I create in my head whenever I see that green dot next to her picture. I have had it with the rationalizing of the bad behaviors. I have had it with the constant replaying of scenarios in my head. I have had it with the self-blaming. I have had it with the obsessing over the truth. I have had it with holding on to hope that maybe it was all real. I just have had it.

I cannot remain stuck any longer, while she is out there living her best life like I never existed. I have had it. I need to break free from her control. I need to take control of my life and live mine as well.

[jennnylane]

Every time I get stuck in a thought, a memory, a phrase that was said, a promise that was made, or an idea of what could've been, I find ways to redirect my thinking.

My therapist told me today to hop on the helicopter and try to look at my life from above. To remember that my time in that relationship was only a fraction of my entire life. That I was perfectly fine before and that I will be just fine moving forward. She's absolutely right! Whenever I remove the rose colored glasses, I remember the relationship very differently. I remember the past for what it truly was--a lie.

I saw a video on TikTok that said "I realized I could never imagine being with anyone else, but he could. That's when I knew it was time to let go."

This kind of hit me hard. I feel so much shame for asking someone unfaithful to stay. When I love someone, I love deep. When I choose to be with someone, I never imagine being with anyone else. But she did. She imagined a better situation, a better person, and a better love. That should have been enough reason for me to walk away and never look back. But because I do not love myself enough, I was okay to settle. I was okay to accept the fact that this is the kind of love I deserve. I was okay being lied to. I was okay being used. I was okay being last. Shame on me for not loving ME enough.

I spend too much energy ruminating and obsessing about someone who does not give a single thought about me. This shit has got to stop. It's got to stop now. I need to shift all these energy to things that matter most to me and vice versa. I'm a work in progress, but I'll get there soon enough. I've been here before and I've always come out of hard situations stronger and wiser. I cannot wait. But for now, I'll sit in this discomfort and feel everything that I need to feel.

[jennnylane]

I could use as many reminders as I can find right now. I want to feel peace once again.