Pain Changes Things

“Change happens when the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain to change.”

~Tony Robbins

What would you do if you found yourself every so often feeling like you were on the wrong path? Do you think you would obey that voice inside your head and take a different route? Do you think your fear would last a couple of months or years? How would you react?

Well, it took me years. It was a whisper at one time. I proceeded on the same path despite the call. I got up everyday, went to work, I came home and I was on repeat for decades. The call to move became louder and louder. What was the call–BE true to yourself.

At the start of 2015, I decided that not answering the call was too painful. I found myself making one of the most fearful decisions ever. I stepped out on faith and walked away from my career. This moment reminded me of a sermon by T.D. Jakes (Secret Agents for Change). In this sermon he says, “When you hurt enough you’ll change.” This statement became very real for me. I waited until not acting wasn’t an option. I tried to remain in the place of comfort but the pain of not being true to myself began to hurt.

“There is freedom waiting for you, On the breezes of the sky, And you ask “What if I fall?” Oh but my darling, “What if you fly?” ~Erin Hanson

Truth be told, I made all the excuses that I’m sure a lot of people make when faced with having to choose between comfort and discomfort.

How I knew that I was ready and on the right track despite discomfort?

  1. I not only HEARD the call, I LISTENED.

Hearing simply happens. Listening is something you consciously choose to do.

  1. Fear followed me.

Don’t be fooled fear doesn’t disappear. Acknowledge it and accept that despite the constant companionship of fear you have to move.

  1. I crossed paths with like-minded people.

You suddenly find yourself in the presence of people who have/had similar experiences.

  1. The pain of resistance became draining.

Fear of the unknown brings about resistance. Even when you accept the change to some degree you will feel your resistance to the change. The degree of your resistance determines how much energy will be depleted.

  1. The call remained the same.

When you feel a tug trying to move you in a different direction in life and that call remains the same, you may want to LISTEN.

  1. When I moved in the direction of the call, I felt free.

When you finally do that thing that you’ve been procrastinating about you will feel liberated. This doesn’t mean that fear won’t be there or that you won’t feel uncomfortable. You simply feel at ease after just taking that first step, which in turn releases the what ifs and maybes.

Upcoming Event – A Leap of Love: Dying To Be Reborn

A Leap of Love: Dying To Be Reborn

***Space is limited!***

Where: Carver Terrace Recreation Center
2026 Maryland Ave., NE
When: June 24, 2017; 11am-5pm
Cost: $30; Additional services $75
Host: Crystal Bell-Lundy

Blessings Beautiful,

  1. Have you been on a journey to shed your old self while looking to gain insights into your new self?
  2. Have you felt like life seems to be passing you by while everyone else appears to be steadily progressing along?
  3. Have you been hurt but now you’re fed up and have finally gotten sick and tired of being sick and tired?

Well if you answered “YES” to any of the questions above. Come out and join us for a day of rebirthing the phoenix within each of us. Myth states that the phoenix is a magical and radiant bird which lives for many years before it dies by bursting into flames. It is then reborn from its ashes, to start a new life. So I ask you are you ready to shed your “old” muck as we engage in group discussions, partake in creative play, listen to storytellers share their experiences, allow ourselves to heal and leave everything which no longer serves us on our yoga mats! Your rebirth is here and this won’t be an event like any other. Don’t miss the wave, ride it!

NOTE: Wear comfortable clothes, bring refillable water bottle, yoga mat, hand towel, pen & paper and an open heart!


For an additional fee a private consultation session can be purchased. I thoroughly enjoy diving deeper and investigating what and how we bury things. Please contact me before the event for a brief consultation.

Field Tripping

“We’re often afraid of looking at our shadow because we want to avoid the shame or embarrassment that comes along with admitting mistakes.” – Marianne Williamson

Single file line, please.

That day we all stood outside of the greyhound bus with our name tags on. All I could think about was you begging me for money.

Back of the line Hair.          

I was never good at straight lines, I liked jagged lines better. I refused to stand directly behind Robin, I needed to see if you were there, where all the homeless people were sprinkled on the lawn across from the National Air and Space Museum. I was upset initially, but I later found that the back of the line was the best position; great view, more roomy, and easier to follow or not. I followed Robins jeepers; the ones with the zigzag lines on the soles.

Pay attention Hair.

Ms. Clark always picked on me. She refused to call me by my mother’s last name even after I told her my mom said it was ok.

Keep up Hair.

As the bus moved away from the curb my heart was pounding. There we were out in the open for all the see. I bit my nails, I had saved all ten of them knowing I would need them to keep me from biting the inside of my mouth. I followed Robin while singing, jeepers, creepers, where did you get those creepers.

Pay attention Hair.

‘We are going to fix him up real good’, this is what I wanted to remember about you, the remarks from family meant to make me feel better. The jeepers stopped and my face went into Robin’s hair.

Pay attention Hair!

I was afraid because the door was right there and just like in the movies, I thought you would come stumbling up at the last moment, begging me for my lunch money.

Line up for roll-call Hair.

With my last nail wedged in between my teeth, I ripped it off and all hope that things would get better turned into a puddle at my feet.

Change Agents: Alexi Panos & Preston Smiles

Be Inspired. Be Empowered. Be Transformed.




Step 1 – You always have a choice

Step 2 – Be Radically Responsible

Step 3 – Act Now

Step 4 – Own Who You Are

Step 5 – Have a Blast





One of the overarching principles we teach in our work is how you do ANYTHING is how you do EVERYTHING. This means that how you show up to something small and seemingly pointless in life is how you show up in all aspects of your life the same pattern of self-sabotage that kicks in when you procrastinate on working out is the same self-sabotage that gets triggered when you’re up for a promotion. Perpetually showing up late with your friends is mirroring the same lack of respect that you show for yourself.

It’s all connected and everything is touching everything; you cannot selectively be a particular way in one area of your life without it bleeding into and affecting other areas. So when you begin to flex those sexy awareness muscles of yours, you are able to take what you’re noticed in one area of your life and see where else it’s showing up – creating the space for exponential breakthroughs, growth, and new possibilities.




One area to being awareness to that we often don’t think about is what unconscious agreements we’re living by. Unconscious agreements are the beliefs or should that go unexamined yet are secretly running the show (there is no choice when you’re on auto-pilot).

Those are the beliefs we have picked up along the ways from our family, society, institutions, friends, and partners that have shaped our view of the world. Most of us operate on the assumption that our beliefs, or agreements, are the RIGHT ones and that the world should meet our expectations of them.

DISAGREEMENT = Two opposing agreements (often unconscious) that do not align with each other


Yesterdays, an excerpt by Tiffany Q.


One door was closing and another one was opening. I didn’t know how long we’d keep the house, but I did think it would be long after they’d left this ole’ world behind.

I sit on the pink counter resting my bare thirty-five year old feet and bottom against the coolness of it, while hugging my legs against my chest. I tilt my head as my eyes roam the bathroom.  My grandparents brought this house in the seventies. I look not wanting to let go of the memories that made us… my family… who we are today.

I try to make sense of it all; the pink tiles traced in white grout, in some places brown show the years of teenage kids pounding against its foundation; a crystal powder dish that takes up residence on the left side of the wash bowl catching sunbeams shining in from the window. Don’t touch! Towels lay in place from the towel rack, a blue glass dish bubbling over with Efferdent solution and pink-gummed dentures that claim a space around the brim of the washbowl.  Red and white, blue and white, yellow, all worn toothbrushes show signs of an owner fill the holes of the toothbrush holder affixed to the wall under the medicine cabinet mirror. For the toilet… an ornament – a toilet bracket, a telltale sign of age. On the far wall is a small window giving its viewers a clear view of the side of the house. Looking down beside me on floor is a straw woven laundry basket and there, a pink tub shines like glazed over bubblicious.

I jump down from the counter and walk to the window. I move the latches… one to the left, the other to the right… and pry the window open. I take in the fresh air while supporting my chin with my hands and resting my elbows on the windows ledge as I gaze out into the day. My eyes fixed on the side of the house where my grandma would sit butchering fish. The sharp blade would come down striking without mercy as their slippery slimy mouths gasp for air. The blade rips off the tail rushing against the cutting board, landing it into the trash. Again and again the blade would skit across the board in a whisper against the worn cutting board ripping off the head and a gory mix of guts would hang from where the head once was attached, the oozing of a colorful mixture of reds, greens, whites and browns. Switching tools and holding a more sleek style blade, the hands of a southern born licorice complexion bow-legged grandmother, sliced the belly straight down the middle relieving the catch of its prized possession.

Repeating this surgical like procedure on my grandfather’s catch at least once a month was the norm. The kids in the house had the pleasure of taking the butchered corpse and baptizing it into the waters of the kitchen sink. On some occasions we would scale the fish sending the scales dancing into the air in preparation for the ultimate sacrifice. My grandma’s skin burned against the sun rays of the hot afternoon hours as she slaughtered the catch one by one.

I smile thinking about when the chore was done, how my grandma would gather the heads and guts of the catch and place them around the rose bushes and the other flowers my granddaddy had grown in the yard.  He was an avid gardener who could grow anything, sad that as a child I didn’t appreciate this gift until now. I still don’t know what fish heads and guts have to do with the growing of his gardens, but I do know that just like clockwork, year after year the flowers return like long ago friends to tell about how well life is treating them. The tulips and perennials dancing in the spring showing off their fancy dresses, swaying to the earthly beat, intoxicating fragrances filling the air, as my granddad pours before them a limitless water supply to quench their thirst. I still hear him calling my name in the spring when flowers begin to bloom ten years ago today and so far from home.

The Licorice Queen, by Tiffany Q

The Licorice Queen, by Tiffany Q

“Good evening – right this way.”

I crush my clutch under my armpit and follow. Sliding the chair from the table she motions for me to have a seat.

A menu is extended, “Take your time looking over the menu. Is this your first time here?”

“Yes,” I force a smile.

“Welcome and thank you for joining us this evening. Our special for the day is sea bass, which comes with a caviar sauce. I hope that your dining experience this evening exceeds your expectations and your waiter will be right with you,” she smiles and turns to walk away.

My eyes veer off as I sit center of the restaurant facing the kitchen as the swinging doors flag on its hinges. My eyes deceive me when the swinging doors part ways and I catch a glimpse of a black woman resembling Queen, my grandmother. When the doors swing open again I catch a glimpse of the blade she held ripping through the air of the kitchen.

Continue reading

Change Agent: Osho

 Be Inspired. Be Empowered. Be Transformed.

intuition knowing beyond logic, by Osho

an excerpt


STRATEGIES – page 98


Drop the mind that thinks in prose;

Revive another kind of mind that thinks in poetry.

Put aside all your expertise in syllogism;


Let songs be you way of life.

Move from intellect to intuition,

From the head to the heart,

Because the heart is closer to the mysteries.


Man’s being is simple, but his personality is not; the personality is complex. The personality is like an onion—there are many layers of conditioning and corruption, and hidden behind so many filters that you cannot see it—and hidden behind these many filters, you cannot see the world either, because whatsoever reaches you is corrupted by the filters before it reaches you.

Nothing ever reaches you as it is; you go on missing it. There are many interpreters in between. You see something—first your eyes and your senses falsify it. Then your ideology, your religion, your society, your church—they falsify it. Then your emotions—they falsify it. And so on, and so forth… By the time it reaches to you, it has almost nothing of the original, or so little that it makes no difference. You see something only if your filters allow it, and the filters don’t allow much.

Scientists agree; scientists say we see only 2 percent of reality—only 2 percent! Ninety-eight percent is missing. When you are listening to me, you will hear only 2 percent of what has been said. Ninety-eight will be lost, and when the 98 percent is lost, that 2 percent is out of context. It is as if you have taken two pages from a novel at random, one from here, one from there, and then you start reconstruction the whole novel from these two pages. Ninety-eight pages are missing! You have no inkling what they were; you don’t even know that they existed. You have only two pages and you reconstruct the whole novel again. This reconstruction is your invention. It is not a discovery of truth, it is your imagination.

And there is an inner necessity to fill the gaps. Whenever you see that two things are unrelated, the mind has an inner urgency to relate them; otherwise it feels uneasy. So you invent a link. You fix those loose things with a link, you bridge them, and you go on inventing a world that is not there.

George Gurdieff used to call these filters “buffers.” They protect you against reality. They protect your lies, they protect your dreams, they protect your projections. They don’t allow you to come into contact with reality because the very contact is going to be shattering, shocking. Man lives through lies.

Friedrich Nietzche is reported to have said, “Please don’t take the lies away from humanity, otherwise man will not be able to live. Man lives through lies. Don’t take the fictions away, don’t destroy the myths. Don’t tell the truth because man cannot live by truth.” And he is right about 99.9 percent of people—but what kind of life can there be through lies? It will be a big lie itself. And what kind of happiness is possible through lies? There is no possibility; hence humanity is in misery. With truth is bliss; with lies there is only misery and nothing else. But we go on protecting those lies.

Those lies are comfortable, but they keep you protected against bliss, against truth, against existence.

Man is exactly like an onion. And the art consists of how to peel the onion and come to its innermost core.


Imagine That

I imagined, that I would run into my brother. It’s been sixteen years since, I last seen Jeremiah. He calls often offering me slurred, I miss yous’ and promises that break when we end the call. I used to play with his words as if it was opposite day switching, I miss yous’ for I love yous’ and broken promises for actual meetings. I know he’s drowning in sorrow unable to bring himself to say, “I need you.”

I thought about my upcoming meeting in a couple of weeks in D.C. and if chance would have it that I run into him. He lives there, he was raised there and something tells me, he will die there too. I imagine walking with my co-workers spewing legal terminology, spying in the crowd praying that Jeremiah doesn’t surface above the crowded city streets.

I imagine men and woman crowding the cross-walks, staring at their phones, walking their dogs, running for the bus, the cab or uber. Statue-like homeless people on every corner. No eye contact, just a fluid stream of bodies slamming into each other, through each other, and around each other, just a means to an end kind-of-day.

I imagined Jeremiah as one of those bodies on that busy street. On cue, I will play my part in a conversation with my colleagues, “The judge entered the judgment because the plaintiff failed to serve parties in time. Can you believe he forgot. It’s what–a 100 day deadline and he forgot,” and I would fling laughter in the air, “100 days, what the hell was he thinking?”

At this Jeremiah playing the part of a homeless statue on 15th and New York Avenue comes alive, holding a coffee mug wrapped in the sky that reads, family ain’t shit, written in the clouds, “Hey baby girl, got a penny to spear!”

My laughter turning on me, drowning out Jeremiah’s request, the noisy city, the to-do lists and all I could see was the clouds pouring down. My laughter growing until it all came to a halt. The universe granting me a millisecond that seemed like an eternity to consider, how to save my brother.

My mind ran through the first time we met, I was nine and he was twelve; then the smile we shared; the meal we had at the seafood restaurant uptown; the jobs that were close enough to have lunch; the conversations about Dad, his ambitions, and jail-time; the loss of employment; the accusations about infidelity; the girlfriend; the divorce; the every other weekend he had with the children; the fights with family; the eviction; the– “penny to spear?”

The sound of the city picked back up; horns, car doors slamming, heels beating the concrete and my own laughter coming out in a chuckle. I reached in my pocket and turned the penny around in hand, In God we Trust, was my answer to: How to save my brother.

I placed the penny it in the cup and shelved the smile in my memory.

~Tiffany Q.