It's been months since I've been on here. A lot has happened and I wanted to share this. It is based on my experience and I hope it may be helpful for those who have also suffered in abusive relationships.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me

Such bullshit that is

I hum this silly, stupid, false little rhyme as I sit shaking in my car

Ears ringing, heart thumping, tears flowing, eyes burning

Struggling not to hyperventilate

Repeating the same phrase over and over as I rock back and forth

A rough, primitive method of self-soothing

The only tool at my disposal right now

I second-guess my every movement, my every decision, my every judgement call

Unable to trust myself because of the dark shadow threatening to explode

And spit venom in my face the second I do something It dislikes

I prostate myself, flog myself, shame myself

Accepting the blame for something....what was that something?

Was it even something I did?

No matter, I must accept the blame regardless

I sit in misery and wring my hands and struggle to figure out what's missing

Why do I live each day on edge, a welt of anxiety swelling in my throat 24/7

The sun is shining and the sky is blue and opportunities swim around me

So why does it seem to foggy and blurry and distant

Why do I feel so trapped and heavy, weighed down by unseen baggage

Sticks and stones, sticks and stones

Physical pain is nothing new to me

Feeling my uterus cramp up every 23 days, almost on the dot

Pain so bad I have to gasp and pause for air

Feeling my head ache and pulse when stress and exhaustion and dehydration

Meet together, a perfect trifecta, and split my head in half

Sore muscles, tired feet, aching back

The pain is temporary, so it is bearable

But the words that pierce my skin and shock my senses

Branding themselves onto my DNA and the slippery crevices of my brain

These are harder to forget

These are harder to bear

You dumb bitch

You selfish white girl

You're a useless wife

Sometimes I just want to choke you out

Why are you so stupid?

They're just words, right? So we tell ourselves , trying to erase the pain

By breaking them down into neutral alphabetic symbols

And shoving aside the trauma into a dark and hidden space

If they're JUST words, why does it hurt worse than anything else?

Why am I curled up crying so hard I can't breathe?

He doesn't mean it

She doesn't mean it

They don't mean it

Maybe it was my fault

Maybe I made them angry

Maybe I deserve to be screamed at

Maybe I really am a stupid bitch

Maybe I really am useless

Maybe if I just obeyed them better, they would stop

Maybe if I didn't screw up, they wouldn't hurt me

Maybe if I can just do X, Y, and Z, we would be happy again

And so on and so on

The sweet lies we tell ourselves

Because THEY are the people we love

THEY don't mean to hurt us

So we accept the trauma, swallow the pain, shoulder the vicious insults

Bowing our heads and trying to be the bigger person

But how long until our very soul is torn apart and permanently bruised

By the endless streams of cortisol pouring into our system

Every day, every hour, every minute

How long until we wake up

And find that our life has withered away

Our passions dried up

Our inner fire turned into a dim flicker

Our hearts heavy with resent and bitterness

I find I am sick of bending over backward

Sick of molding myself and changing myself and censoring myself

Sick of suppressing my passions and silencing my opinions

Sick of apologizing for THEIR mistakes

Sick of sobbing until my stomach aches and my eyes burn

All so that I can be more favorable in their eyes

And for what?

To be the perfect wife? The perfect husband? The perfect child? The perfect partner?

We must ask ourselves these questions

Because they will not

They may have their own trauma, their own baggage, their own burdens

But this is never a valid excuse for abuse

Never. Never. Never.

One person's pain does not justify inflicting pain on someone else

Years of being a people-pleaser has warped my mind

Years of trying to be what other people WANT me to be

Has blinded me to my own strength and power

I tried on all of these masks in the mirror

Struggling to fit in and figure out my place

But the day I stood my ground and said NO, I won't do that

Was a beautiful and brilliant one

The day I left

Was a day I will always be proud of

Because it was the day I learned I am never obligated to say yes

I don't have to bear the blame for their own mistakes

I don't have to apologize for standing up for myself

I don't have to tolerate abuse because I want to "help them"

You will be called selfish. You will be mocked.

You will be made to feel guilty for daring to care about yourself.

You will be criticized by those who preyed upon your compassion

Who took advantage of your desire to help

And used you as the scapegoat upon which to unload their grievances

It is not easy to escape this vicious and toxic cycle

It is painful and difficult and slow

But there are always support systems out there

If you know where to look

Roots and branches that will support you and listen and love

That will let you cry until your eyes swell up

And remind you, with a gentle voice

It's not your fault

You are not worthless

You are stronger than you realize

Do not be afraid to ask for help

Chances are, you will find someone who understands

And who will hold your hand as you step onto the uncertain path

Toward freedom

Toward happiness

Toward becoming

Heartbeat? Erratic, fluttering, failing.

Weight? 79 pounds and dropping fast.

Bones? Fragile and brittle. Swiss cheese holes on the inside.

Skin? Dry and saggy.

Face? Thin, pale, skeletal.

Stomach? A sad, shrunken sack filled with the remains of fibrous, low-calorie veggies.

Breasts? Nonexistent.

Body Fat Percentage? In the single digits.

Menstrual period? Never started.

Years in fervent, desperate denial? Three and counting.

But god, I felt completely fine. Nothing was wrong with me, so why the panic? Why the worry? Why the shocked stares? Why the tears pouring from the eyes of my mother?

Death sneered over my shoulder and breathed in my ear, knowing I was blind and deaf to the obvious. It's easier to devour a victim when they can't see you, when they put 100% of their effort into denying your presence.

I wore a fake, ghostly smile like a badge of honor, pretending I wasn't crumbling inside. A few more pounds, a few more frenzied bouts of exercise, and my heart may have given up, stopped all efforts to preserve a swiftly dying body.

I tempted death every time I denied myself the pleasure of food, of sex, of love, of desire, of flesh, of imperfection. I was killing myself slowly, but couldn't see it, my mind warped and twisted, lost in a foggy haze.

Only now can I see what they saw. Only now can I look at old photographs and feel a sick shame burn in my guts, tinged with nausea and horror.

The human body is resiliant. The human mind equally so. I am living testament to that fact. I am not ready to die. Rather, I am ready to live, perhaps for the first time in my life.

So carry on, Grim Reaper. My flesh is not yours to take, not yet. I have learned that perfection is a fickle beast, and that even when my spirit is splattered on the ground, broken into a million terrified bits, I still have a reason to stick around and rise from the proverbial ashes.

Better luck next time.

Have you ever done it

On the shores of a shimmering lake, far from civilization?

The sun beating down

The sky scrubbed, polished, and free from clouds

We spread a thin tapestry spread on the ground, adorned with suns and moons

But the pine needles spike our bare skin nevertheless

And the dirt and sand sneak into our touseled hair

And we couldn't care less

Kisses are sweeter in the embrace of Mother Nature

Sensations are stronger, lust is more powerful

Tinged with a hint of animal instinct

Freed from inhibitions, seen only by the insects and birds

Sweat bubbles on our skin as we rip off our clothes

And meld together into one living, breathing organism

Teasing, exploring, touching, breathing, laughing

Wild as wolves and sensual as serpents

And afterward I leap into the lake with childlike glee

And he laughs at my enthusiasm for the icy water

Watching from afar until I coax him to join me

For a little while time stands still

We are in the moment, nowhere to be, no one to talk to

A sip of pure joy

I imagine that I left the womb reluctantly

Hesitating to emerge from the warm and comforting fluids

And fall from safety into a sterile and cold place

I was a Water Baby from the beginning, I am sure of it

Even now the water is my refuge

It oculd be a vast ocean, tinged with salt and muddy foam

A chlorine-soaked swimming pool, surrounded by concrete walls

A bubbling hot springs, smelling faintly of sulfer and other mysterious elements

A crystal-clear lake, filled with multi-colored rocks and clay-like red mud

That I smear on my face and hands, laughing with childlike delight

I dig my toes into the sand and feel the icy Pacific Ocean water swirling and churning

I strip my clothes off, fling myself into the waves, and stay as long as possible

Until my teeth chatter and my skin erupts with a rash of goosebumps

Only then do I drag myself out and leave until the warmth has returned to my flesh

I jump into the chlorinated water, strapping on my goggles and sinking underwater

Swim laps from one side to the other, pushing my way through the liquid barrier

My heart dances rapidly against my rib cage, and I imagine myself transforming

Into a frog, a dolphin, a river otter, a seal

Something other than human

I sink into a pool of steaming water, heated by molten rock deep in the earth’s core

My hair loose, my skin bare, my cheeks flushed, my heart and soul at rest for once

Better than any bubble bath, I bask in the natural heat and close my eyes

Dream of the next time I can escape the cars and chaos and computers

And escape to my own personal paradise

I jump fearlessly into a pure, snow-fed lake, so far from humanity and civilization

That an unearhthly hush surrounds the grassy shores

I feel the squishy seaweed under my feet and stare up at the turquoise sky

Swimming and diving and twirling, performing a wild water dance

Flinging my arms up and beaming at the sun

This is my home away from home

My second skin

My refuge

Yeah, self-care can really be that simple. That term gets thrown around a lot. Sometimes I love it, sometimes I think it's the most self-centered and shallow idea I've ever heard of. Just hearing the phrase "treat yo'self" makes me feel vaguely nauseated. It all depends on the context. The truth is, many people don't really have the luxury of indulging in "self care" as it's presented in glossy magazines depicting smooth-skinned models with snow-white teeth and plastic smiles. People who live paycheck-to-paycheck, or live in poverty, or work multiple jobs, or deal with racial/gender discrimination on a daily basis, or struggle to make ends meet don't exactly have the time and money to go to the spa or take "mental health days" or spend 30 minutes meditating each morning. Hell, I know I don't have the time/means to do those things on a regular basis. I also find that "self-care" is incredibly gender-specific--after all, when was the last time you heard someone telling a male-identifying person to practice "self-care"? It seems to specifically target a white, female, middle-to-upper class audience, which I find problematic and incredibly exclusive. So I propose a new, revised definition of self-care, as follows:

It means acknowledging your own prejudices and biases, and responding to these not with guilt or shame, but with a determination to educate yourself and be open-minded about changing your perspective.

It means having the strength to stand up for your beliefs, and the humility to admit when you're wrong.

It means learning to share your emotions and feelings with a fellow human being(s), and remembering that although you cannot control what you feel, you can, in somecases, control how you respond to these emotions.

It means cultivating empathy and compassion for yourself and for others.

It means treating your body with dignity and respect, and remembering just how fucking amazing the human body is.

It means stepping outside your comfort zone and trying new things.

It means learning to recognize both your strengths and weaknesses, and figuring out how you can utilize them to make positive changes--for yourself, for others, for the community, for the world.

It means finding that delicate balance between destructive perfectionism and sloppiness.

It means taking deep breaths.

It means acknowledging your past mistakes, but not dwelling on them to the point where it paralyzes you from moving on with your life.

It means taking responsibility for your mistakes.

It means learning when to draw boundaries, and when to step beyond them.

It means become better listeners.

It means doing your own independent research, and not blindly believing something that you are told.

It means practicing both skepticism and faith.

It means not saying destructive, harmful, and demeaning things like "boys don't cry" or "racism doesn't exist" or "suck it up and be a man" or "women are hysterical."

It means fighting against injustice in whatever way you can.

It means learning your own unique coping mechanisms, and figuring out whether or not they are healthy and constructive.

It means knowing when to ask for help.

It means not being afraid to ask questions.

And so much more.

Something I wrote about a year and a half ago. Still relevent.

*all names changed for privacy, as per usual*

Barely five minutes into the walk, the inevitable happens. Six-year-old Sarah*, struggling to keep up with my lengthy strides, asks if we can take a break. Holding back a smile, I reply.

"I can hold that bag if it's too heavy for you."

She happily consents, passing over the bag stuffed with toys, books, and two plastic packages of sliced cheese. 

"It's hurting my arms and my wrist," she says, shaking her slender limbs with a sigh of relief. 

"I told you not to put too much stuff in it!" I exclaimed. "Remember when I said that back at the house?"

"But it wasn't heavy back at the house," Sarah protests, as though the laws of science have just been broken in the most offensive way possible. 

"Well," I say in my best I-told-you-so Wise Babysitter voice, having predicted this moment long ago, "The longer you hold something, the heavier it becomes, since your body gets tired."

The minute I release these words into the foggy, chilly morning air, I realize that I've stumbled upon a perfect metaphor. One that applies so perfectly to my life right now, I have to laugh inwardly at the uncanny timing. All this thanks to the decision of an ambitious six-year old 

See, the things we carry don't usually seem too heavy at first. We convince ourselves that we can deal with them, bury them, or just have them by our sides as an unpleasant, yet bearable, traveling companion. We don't feel the weight at first. And why would we? 

It reminds me of the story about the frog. If you place it in a pot of boiling water, it will of course attempt to jump out, unable to bear the blistering heat. But if you put it in a pot of cold water, which is then slowly brought to a boil, the poor frog doesn't stand a chance. The tipping point arrives too late. 

Sometimes I wonder what this invisible baggage would look like if we could see it. Would it surround the person like a thick smog? Would it cling to their shoulders like an ugly, bloated parasite, sucking out just enough energy to keep it going while still letting its host live? Would it burn on their skin like a festering wound?

The things we carry come in many different forms and shapes. Abuse. Trauma. Emotional pain. Physical pain. The loss of a loved one. Stress. Anxiety. Depression. Anger. Fear. Resentment. Jealousy. A sense of inadequacy. An emptiness hard to explain but horrible to experience. 

We all carry one or more of these things, dragging them behind us while plastering on pseudo-smiles to get us through the day. Because our society does not reward honesty and vulnerability. It does not praise those who understand the importance of sensitivity, of emotional intelligence. 

So we hide those stories and call them "skeletons in the closet," failing to understand that these burdens are not lifeless bags of bones. No, they are pulsing, raw, and very much alive. 

Barely a week later I sit at the polished wooden table hearing my grandma tell my boyfriend and I how she had to take three full days last month to stay at home and let go of the things she was carrying. Guilt, fear, anxiety, and the ache of losing her husband, my dear grandpa, just over a year ago. Among other things. She was brave enough to cry. Brave enough to release the toxins and acknowledge her limits. Brave enough to be human. 

I sit and listen and feel my own baggage lying thick and sticky in my stomach, heart, chest, lungs, and mind. I can feel it eating me alive, and this thought terrifies me. It's a familiar monster, and I have let it take over, have buckled under its weight one too many times. 

When Sarah finally shrugs off her heavy bag, she skips off down the path, light as a feather, shouting "Wait up" to her younger sister. Later, at the park, I realize that I still have the bag slung over my shoulder, though I could have put it down 30 minutes ago on the rain-soaked bench. Story of my life, I think wryly, holding onto things I shouldn't. 

I am a giver by nature, eagerly lending my support to those who need it. Not because I feel obliged to do so, but because I want to help. But I squirm at the thought of resolving my own issues, or letting go of the things that stick to my body like cancerous tumors, draining me a little bit more every day. 

"Letting go" is easier said than done, a term that gets chucked around in the arenas of self-help, pseudo-spirituality, life coaching, and a certain icy Disney movie (yes, I had to go there. Don't pretend you aren't humming it right now). We can't all resolve our life traumas by singing and prancing around in snow castles. Hell, if only it was that easy. But guess what? Disney lies and happy endings aren't really a thing. Sorry kids. 

The holiday season was practically non-existent for me this year. I felt like the proverbial Grinch, though perhaps that had something to do with being immersed in holiday music, junk food, and commercialism at my job. But I know it was more than that. It was all those emotions that I've accumulated in the past year, finally catching up to me. 

So I sat myself down tonight, said Kendra, you need to get your shit together (true story), and finished writing this post. If only to remind myself that it's not too late to let go. Because a sweet kiss from my loved one tonight gave me a spark of happiness, so I know it's not out of reach. It's always been there, but I have to let it in.

Next week, Sarah will probably want to carry an even bigger bag with her to the park. And I will remind her of what happened last time, and she will do it anyway. But I know that someday this will change. When I am with these two sweet girls, I listen to them freely spout out their feelings, not feeling ashamed or embarrassed to cry or laugh or scream or shout. And what a beautiful thing it is. 

The things we carry are an inevitable part of being human. We can't erase them, and we can't exterminate them. Every person on planet Earth, the assholes and the angels alike, has skin that is etched with a millions stories and a million wounds. If we learn to share our burdens, perhaps we can be a bit more connected. A bit happier. A bit more loving. 

Even as I type these words, fingers flying on my smudged keyboard, I can feel one more shadow fading away, unleashing its grip on my heart. The process has begun. And I welcome the voices of those who have also started this process, because we're all in it together. It is no longer an I but a We. 

Take these words as an invisible hug. A soft touch on the shoulders. An invitation to share and speak. And maybe cry too. I will listen to you and you will listen to me. And together, we will get better. And we will let go. 

It is a prison

A madhouse

An asylum for the fiscally insane

Yet people flock to it in droves

With panting tongues

Drooling mouths

Hungry eyes

Greedy hands

Inside--artificial air

Sickly-sweet scents

Blinding banners

Dangerous dungeons

Look!

A shop where people deal with the devil

Trading their souls for a bit of precious metal

Guaranteed to win them a lifetime of bliss and happiness*

*NO refunds, NO returns, NO actual/literal/100% guarantees, NO payment for marriage counseling included.

Look!

A shop churning out toxic treats

Slowly poisoning the little ones

Whose parents are too tired and drugged to care*

*More money for us, suckers.

Look!

The chance to win $5,000*

*So long as you consent to five obnoxious phone calls per day, an endless stream of emails, and a lengthy survey in which we take all of your personal information and sell it to the federal government.

Look!

Greeting cards so personalized and well-crafted

So sweet and poignant

That you couldn't take the time to write one yourself*

*You lazy, entitled, thoughtless piece of trash.

Look!

A luscious-lipped model lounging on the wall

Beckoning you into her labyrinth 

Where you will leave with an empty wallet and arms full of frothy lace*

*Nothing sexier than looking like an 18th century doily.

The atmosphere is thick

With broken dreams and toddler meltdowns

High-pitched giggles and shallow conversations

Manic babbling and incoherent mumbling

Stale popcorn and windowless walls

Bloated teddy bears and bulgy-eyed stuffed animals

Grease stains, vomit, trash, and filth. 

At the end of the day the iron bars are lowered

Not to keep people in but to keep them out

Because we all know the horde of shuffling zombies will return the next day

Eager to start the torture all over again

Hooked by a temptation they can't resist

Welcome to the mall.

Slaves to the screen

Eyes down, glazed, vacant, staring, empty

Shuffling zombies

No spatial awareness

Drowning in data

Sound bytes, quick and light

The shorter the better

Sleeping with their special drugs

Making love to their apps

French-kissing their selfies

Brains stuffed with nutrient-void information

How many likes?

How many comments?

How many notifications?

Hyper-stimulated kids

Young minds hooked on that hypnotizing glow

Apple doesn't fall far from its corporate tree

In one ear, out the other

I long to shove real books down their throats

Add a little fiber to their diets

But I am not without guilt

I too am tempted by the Apple

It offers so many juicy delights

The poison is gradual, sneaky, insidious

A text here

A swipe there

A few choices bits of today's gossip

Ears stuffed with wads of wire and plastic

Are we capturing the moment or missing it?

What's the catch?

What's the price?

Fragmented focus

Stunted conversations

Tranquilized toddlers

Selective blindness

Never enough to tame our bloated appetites

Never enough to satisfy our egos

Never enough to get us to the top

But we'll keep biting as long as the hook is there

Eternal optimists

Or should I say tech-optimists?

Make new words, why the hell not?

Do it before the phones do it for us

Be a rebel

Be a dreamer

Be a visionary

Books are sexy

Pencils seductive

Conversations titilating

We see more

But understand less

Hear more

Listen to less

There is so much we miss

We must be careful

Lest we fall through the greasy black looking glass and never return

You try to rip our tongues out

Tell us to be silent

A hushed winter night blanketed in snow

Beauty and fairy dust

Seen not heard

A collection of parts, bought and sold and examined

The process of dehumanization is slow and insidious

So much that the True Believers

Are willingly transformed and drip and melt like hot candle wax

Until they become the smooth-skinned dolls

Painted and postured for your pleasure

Bowing their heads and swallowing your semen

Distancing themselves from their own pleasure

Until they are your blind and obedient servants

Nothing more than hollow cavities into which you can

Pour your disease-riddled fluids

A fire cannot exist without oxygen

Which explains the suffocating layers of bullshit

You try to stuff into our pulsing brains

So inflamed and enraged

We know that our power scares you

Our sexuality frightens you

Whores, sluts, bitches

A woman who knows her strength is a danger to your hierarchy

A gnarled and jagged tree that topples

Onto your white-washed, brittle, crumbling castle

So gather your knights, call up your bloodhounds

Sharpen your axes, fill up your cannons

But we laugh because we know your weapons are useless

You have, once again, underestimated us

We are not disgusting when we touch ourselves

And moan, and sigh, and find pleasure in exploring our bodies

In learning the secrets that lie within every inch and pound of flesh

We have learned to slide under the surface of censorship

And share our secrets in the dark

Yes, it's frightening when we embrace our bodies

Instead of hating them, fearing them

Nipping and tucking and altering and piling on

Layers and layers of chemicals so that we do not lose our youth

And become undesirable

But if we desire ourselves, purely and freely

We no longer need your validation

Our breasts, our voices, our muscles, our sexual organs, our independence

Are no longer yours for the taking

We have become the parasitic vines that creep on the walls of your

Ancient and weed-riddled castle

The water in your moat is churning

And we are thirsty for blood and vengeance

Be it real or metaphorical

The tables are turning and clocks are smashed

Mother Nature is screaming to reclaim what was stolen from her

So watch your backs and choose your words carefully

Fuel to the fire, that is all your words have become

And fire spreads

So very fast

Good Manners for Young Ladies, by Emily Thornwell, 1859

Rule #1: “A lady ought to adopt a modest and measured gait; too great hurry injures the grace which ought to characterize her. She should not turn her head on one side and on the other, especially in large towns or cities, where this bad habit seems to be an invitation to the impertinent.”

And now, nearly 200 years later, tell me, please, how this has changed. When from the moment our hips begin to swell outward, we learn to walk like stiff robots, avoiding eye contact for fear of tempting “the impertinent.” I watch young girls sprint down the street like exuberant colts, covered in sweat and dirt and laughter, and I hope with all my soul that this won’t change. But I know it will. 

Rule #2: “A lady should not present herself alone in a library, or a museum, unless she goes there to study, or work as an artist.”

And here I was taking for granted the fact that I can step into a library and immerse myself in ink and paper without having someone come up and question my motives for being there. Who knew?? Even now, our motto as women is to travel in packs, because it’s safer. Because maybe moving as one fluid amoeba will ward off, how did she call it?—the impertinent. 

Rule #3: The following behaviors are, and I quote, “in the highest degree displeasing:” to balance yourself upon your chair; to bend forward; to strike your hands upon your knees; to cross your legs; to laugh immoderately; to roll the eyes or to raise them with affectation; to play continually with your chain or fan; to beat time with the feet and hands; to whirl round a chair with your hand; to shake with your feet the chair of your neighbor; to rub your face or your hands; wink your eyes; shrug up your shoulders; stamp with your feet.” 

From all this talk, you’d think our bodies were, at their core, deeply corrupted. Well, now I feel like a certified sinner, because I’ve broken every one of these rules. The fire in my spirit refuses to be contained, and I reject the notion that the motions of my body ought to be controlled by the frowning faces of others. My body is a fortress of strength and power, and it is capable of so much more than you, Emily Thornwell, will ever know. 

Rule #4: “All are aware that uneasy feelings, existing habitually in the breast, speedily exhibit their signature on the countenance, and that bitter thoughts, or a bad temper, spoil the human face divine of its grace.”

Well, now I know that my anxiety, my fear, my depression, and my heartache are only cause for concern because they may mar and spoil the “divine grace” of my face, thus transforming me from a flawless angel into a real life, flesh-and-blood human being. And what could be more terrifying? Even now, in the 21st century, we are taught to conceal, hide, repress, and smother—and in doing so, we become accomplices in our own abuse. We cannot be lifeless rag dolls with tight, jagged seams for lips, refusing to embrace the power that is just there within reach. We can’t sit on the shelf collecting dust, limbs stuffed with cotton, a fake cherry-red smile painted on our lips. 

Rule #5: “Avoid even the appearance of pedantry. If you are conversing with persons of very limited attainments, you will make yourself far more acceptable, as well as useful to them, by accommodating yourself to their capacities, than by compelling them to listen to what they cannot understand.”

Ah, this sounds familiar. As a woman, I must downplay my intelligence, put on an appearance of stupidity, play the ditzy blonde once again. You see, smart women are dangerous women. Women who know their power, who challenge the status quo, who speak their mind—they must be squashed and exterminated at all costs, because they threaten the toxic foundation upon which this country was built. And this is why, Emily Thornwell, we firmly reject your advice. Because we’re changing the rules. And because we know a better way.