Being Me with Chelsea

About Being Me with Chelsea

A space for those seeking clarity, connection, and the courage to live life authentically. I’m Chelsea, a psychotherapist, mother, spouse, and caregiver, sharing my lived experiences through the many roles I carry. Together, we’ll dive into the beautiful, messy, and deeply human stories that shape our lives – making meaning out of the chaos and finding connection in our shared humanity. We all deserve time to reflect, grow, and embrace the wonder of just being. Let’s journey together. chelseawalsh.substack.com (https://chelseawalsh.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast)

Publisher

cheleawalsh.substack.com

Category

health & fitness · society & culture

Language

en

Explicit

No

First episode

25 Nov 2024

Latest episode

12 Aug 2026

Latest episodes

11 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   12 Aug 2026

   The Conversation: What Are You Saying Yes To?

   Me and My Shadow — Say Yes Welcome to Me and My Shadow. I’m Chelsea Walsh, a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist and Certified Mental Health and Wellness Coach. This is where we bring the unseen parts of ourselves to the surface—the patterns, grief, fears, desires, and all the things underneath the things. Because we can’t change what we aren’t willing to see. So, let’s get into it. Today I want to talk about saying yes. I just wrote an essay on my trip last year to Paris, Part One — Paris, Art & Grief (https://chelseawalsh.substack.com/p/part-one-paris-art-and-grief?r=476ovm) and I wrote a piece about grief, art, my husband and rebuilding. And underneath all of it, I realized there was this theme: Yes. My husband almost never told me no. I can actually remember the two times he did. One was when I wanted to paint our brick fireplace. He said no. I did it anyway. It was a f*****g disaster. So... point Steve. But his very few no’s meant a whole lot of yeses. He encouraged my yes. Yes to the adventure. Yes to the ridiculous idea. Yes to travel. Yes to living. And then cancer came. Suddenly I started saying no. No to trips. No to plans. No to things that would take me away from him. But here’s what I understand now: Every no is also a yes to something else. My no to the outside world was my yes to him. Yes to being there. Yes to caring for him. Yes to another ordinary Tuesday together. Yes to time. Cancer shattered the illusion that time was infinite. And once you really understand that, your yeses start to mean something different. That’s what I want to talk about when we talk about living on purpose. It’s not about saying yes to everything. It’s about getting really f*****g clear about what your yes is. Because your behavior tells the truth. You can tell me your family matters. Your health matters. Your peace matters. You want to write the book or change careers or finally do the thing. But where is your time going? Where is your energy going? What are you repeatedly saying yes to? Because that’s where your life is actually being built. And this is where behavior matters. We wait to feel motivated. We wait for clarity. We wait until we’re less scared. But sometimes the behavior has to come first. You take the walk before you feel motivated. You set the boundary while you’re still scared. You get on the plane while part of you wants to stay home. And then your brain gets new information: I did it. That’s how self-trust gets built. France was that for me. The person I wanted beside me wasn’t there. And I can’t change that. So I had to ask myself: What am I going to do with the life that is still here? I got on the plane. I went to Paris. I cried in museums. I laid underneath trees and listened to birds. I watched lovers tangled together in the grass and missed my husband so badly I could feel it throughout my entire body. And I also thought: This is f*****g beautiful. Both were true. That’s what rebuilding has taught me. You don’t have to stop grieving the old life to start participating in the new one. You can miss what was and still be curious about what might be. You can be heartbroken and hopeful. Scared and brave. Grieving and grateful. Two things can be true at the same time. So here’s what I want you to think about this month: What are you saying yes to? Not what you say matters. Look at your actual life. Where are your time, energy, and behaviors going? And then ask: What do I want my yes to be? You don’t have to rebuild your entire life today. You just have to decide what you’re saying yes to next. Because eventually, all those little yeses become something. They become your life. That’s it for this month’s Me and My Shadow. Next month, we’re going to talk about something that sounds completely backwards: Getting small to get big again. What happens when life becomes too much? When your world explodes, sometimes the answer isn’t to immediately build bigger. Sometimes you have to make your world really f*****g small. And I’ll tell you why. Until then, you don’t have to have it all figured out. Keep living on purpose. Bring your shadow with you. And as always... Take care of you, your loved ones. Sending all the love and hugs and gratitude. Bye! Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe (https://chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

2. 

   12 Aug 2026

   Essay: Part One — Paris, Art & Grief

   Paris has a way of making beauty feel almost unbearable. The same way my breath was taken away two weeks after my husband’s death is now the way my breath is taken away by the complexities of grief, beauty, and wonder. The permanence and impermanence of life. I am standing in a city where rebuilding after destruction has been a way of life for centuries. Where the old is preserved and the new is built around it. Where destruction does not necessarily mean erasure. Maybe that is why Paris gets to me. Because I am rebuilding too. My grief is a constant bleed. Sometimes it’s a hemorrhage. Sometimes it’s a slow leak I’ve learned to live with. Sometimes it forms a scab and I almost forget how vulnerable it still is. And then something brushes against it. A memory. A piece of art. A f*****g beautiful tree in Paris. And there is fresh blood again. I walk through the museum looking at some of the most beautiful, real art I have ever seen. And what strikes me is how much of it isn’t beautiful at all. Death. War. Bodies. Credit: Musee d’Orsay Artist: Gustave Dore A woman holding a child on the ground. Agony. Anguish. Human beings have always made art about suffering. Standing in front of it, I start thinking about my husband’s death. I want to remember his death as peaceful. And it was. But death is still death. Looking at the brutality human beings have experienced throughout history makes me suddenly, overwhelmingly grateful for the way Steve left this earth. He was comfortable. His family surrounded him. We were present. We were all there. Because death can be horrific. And somehow, seeing that horror makes me grateful for the tenderness inside ours. It also reminds me why art matters. Someone looked directly at human suffering and decided it needed to be remembered. We must remember. Because when we forget, we start believing our own lived experience is the whole world. It isn’t. People have lost everything before us. People have buried the people they love. People have watched their cities burn. People have survived things they thought would destroy them. And somehow, human beings keep rebuilding. Credit: Musee d’Orsay Artist: Henry Levy Sepedon Then I see a body being carried. And this one cracks me open. The tears run down my cheeks. A human body is being lifted from one world into another. Darkness below. Light above. A figure holds the body gently by the head. Looking at him. Holding him. Almost loving him. And suddenly I’m not looking at art anymore. I’m looking for my husband. This is the moment my grief takes over and I start talking directly to him. Baby, I hope this is what happened to you. I hope when you left us, someone carried you. I hope the darkness became light. I hope you were held gently. I hope you weren’t alone. Baby, I miss you. I see you everywhere. I see you in art. I see you in death. But mostly, I see you in beauty. I hear you when the birds sing above my head. I see you in the trees. I see you in the sky. I lie on the ground in a park in Paris looking up at yellow flowers in the trees. Birds are singing around me. People are speaking French. And all I can think about is you. I watch lovers lying together in the grass. Arm in arm. Hand in hand. Tangled together. And I remember us. Every night we slept tangled together, never wanting to be separate. Because our greatness together was so much better. And now I have to figure out how to be great without you. Credit: Musee d’Orsay Artist: alfred dehodencq l’adieu de roi boabdil a grenade Another painting stops me. A man and a horse are looking backward. The anguish on his face feels familiar. Because looking backward can be f*****g devastating. It’s what you didn’t know. What you missed. What hindsight lets you see that you couldn’t possibly see while you were living it. And that is its own kind of agony. Because you cannot go backward with the information you have now. You can’t undo it. You can’t rewrite it. You can only stand where you are and decide what happens next. Then comes Romanticism. Nudes everywhere. And I think: in the end, aren’t we all just exposed? Can we just be beautiful and exposed? Without all the layers we add to make ourselves more attractive, acceptable, interesting, protected? Maybe that’s why I love tattoos. They mark us. They turn pieces of our stories into art. And maybe that’s also why sometimes I don’t like mine. Because sometimes I don’t want to represent anything. Sometimes I just want to be. A blank canvas. But life doesn’t really work that way. We get marked. By the things we choose. By the things we don’t choose. By love. By death. By the lives we’ve already lived. There are things we can’t undo. There are chapters we don’t get to rewrite. There are bodies we don’t get back. There are people we don’t get back. There is only what we do with what remains. And then I walk outside. Back into Paris. Back into this city that somehow holds agony and beauty in the exact same place. Inside the museum are centuries of war, death, blood, bodies, love, sex, suffering and beauty. Outside, life is happening. People are drinking coffee. Lovers are lying in the grass. Flowers are blooming. Birds are singing. Buildings that have survived generations stand around me. Nothing about the beauty erases what happened here. And nothing about what happened here makes the city less beautiful. Maybe that’s what I am beginning to understand about rebuilding. We don’t rebuild by erasing the destruction. We don’t pretend the thing that happened didn’t happen. We don’t become a blank canvas again. We preserve what mattered. We carry the marks. We integrate the old with the new. And somehow, slowly, we build around what remains. Paris has been doing it for centuries. And now, so am I. Me & My Shadow is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Chelsea Walsh Official (http://www.chelseawalshofficial.com) Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe (https://chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

3. 

   14 Feb 2026

   Saying Yes While My Heart Was Shattered

   Hello Reader, It has been a while. The thing about grief is that the foundation of your life no longer feels steady. The illusion that it ever was has now been exposed, and that giant spotlight shining on the rubble feels overwhelming — uncertain, unsafe. In fact, nothing feels safe anymore because we now know the truth: that this whole life is only an illusion of safety. At any minute of any day, we could be the one taking our last inhalation with no exhale left. Jaw dropped, perhaps eyes still open, heart still beating for those last few minutes — and then it is over. There is only a body left. And in my case, it was his body.My now late husband’s beautiful body. Filled with fluid retention, swollen, unable to move. The light no longer in his eyes as I gently pushed down each lid to close them. Rest my love. Rest. The living no longer know what rest means. Rest is counterintuitive when you are the one left. Eating is foreign. Drinking, walking — anything normal feels abnormal. There isn’t one second, not even one, where you are not keenly aware that your foundation has been bombed and you’re bleeding out with no insight into how to make the bleeding stop. In fact, there isn’t even a desire to stop bleeding — because stopping bleeding feels like stopping grieving. And one never wants to forget, not a single second, what it was like to have that person here on earth. So attempting to stop the bleed isn’t even a desire. The bleeding is rapid at first. Blood flowing everywhere. You talk about it. Dream about it. Wake up choking as if being strangled. Blood falling out of your mouth. Tears down your face. Covered in agony. “My husband is dead,” said to random strangers. Aversion to eye contact because it risks more blood. But I could not help myself. Eye contact felt different now. It was as though the blood was contagious. Like a shark smelling blood, I too could see another’s wounds. I saw it in their eyes — that depth of pain rooted in my inner knowing: You’ve been through something too. And then there are the tears. Tears of such intensity that I would beg out loud for his return. “Baby, how can this be? How are you not here? How will I ever be able to do this without you?” Hysteria that would result in me sitting on the floor rocking back and forth until I could catch my breath. The brain is like scrambled eggs. Not yummy, fluffy eggs — but eggs with shells that don’t smell right, that keep falling out of the pan or are overcooked with such grit that it feels as though the pan will be ruined. My brain didn’t work. Hard because everything. Getting the mail, groceries, taking care of any household responsibility, bills — all the easy things felt like being disabled and having to figure out how to do simple tasks in a completely new way. Two weeks after his death, I began to shut down. In therapy, we call this agoraphobic — when the world outside your home feels intolerable, unsafe, impossible to enter. But clinical language feels sterile compared to the lived experience of it. It wasn’t just fear. It was collapse. I remember the first time I tried to go pick up cheesecake mix at Walmart. Of all places — fluorescent lights, beeping registers, vacationers everywhere — the ordinary chaos of the living. I wanteda tub of cheesecake. Something simple. Something normal. I didn’t even think twice. But the moment I walked through those sliding glass doors, panic overtook me. My chest tightened. Vision blurred. Sound distorted like I was underwater. My body knew before my brain could process it — this is not safe. I abandoned the two girlfriends I was with and raced back to the car. Hyperventilating.Sobbing.Gripping the car door like it was the only solid thing left in the world. How is the world still moving……when my world just ended? But here’s the truth I would learn slowly: My world did not end. My chapter ended.Cancer ended.My husband’s life ended.Our life as we knew it ended.Our hopes and dreams ended. So much of grief is grieving what was……and what could have been. It was a phone call that changed everything. My sister invited me and the kids to meet her family in Paris, France. Paris. It sounded absurd. Impossible. How could I get on a plane?Be around humans?Go to France… when my life had exploded?When even the idea of flossing my teeth felt hard? “I’ll talk to the kids,” I told her. We only had a few hours to commit. The trip was in three days. I sat down with our babies — our teenagers who will always be little to me and to their father. The grief exposed them in a childlike way, and the helplessness I felt to shield them and protect them made the bleeding out even more. They, too, were bleeding, and I could not make it better. Teenagers who had seen too much.Been through too much.Who held their dad’s hand.Who slept in the recliner next to his hospital bed.Who learned to say goodbye far too early. Kids who bravely showed up and leaned in — with open hearts and broken hearts. Their first answer was no. “We don’t think so.” And I understood. But then I heard your voice, baby. My husband’s voice — laughing. “YES, of course!” And I remembered how we had just renewed all of our passports the year prior in hopes of traveling abroad. I thought about the many trips he had taken to France and all over the world. I thought about his fight for life — his willingness to keep saying yes to living despite his illness. Chemo bag at volleyball games.Active infection but still going to a Dead and Company concert.Visiting his roadie buddies whenever he felt remotely decent.Spending his first disability check on an electric bike because we loved riding together — even though his body was no longer able to. The way he still tried to care for us.Still said yes to every ask of our children…Even while his body was in the fight of his life. “Yes,” I said out loud. That will be our duty — to honor your father’s life. We will say yes to every invite.Yes to living. Our bodies and brains will protest. So we created a boundary: Yes only needs to be ten minutes of immersion.After that, we can leave.We can change our minds.We can go back to the hotel and cry if we need to. But we will say yes. I made up my mind and, in that moment, I could see him smiling down. It has been almost nine months now. My brain has finally turned back on. My grief is integrating. My life has been lived amidst the day-to-day chaos. So many miracles.So many stories. My yeses to continuing to live big while I grieved big. The gifts are starting to come back. This was the beginning. The beginning of grieving big.Living big.And keeping my wounded heart wide open. Thank you for your love.Your support.For being a reader. All my love,Chelsea Me & My Shadow is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe (https://chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

4. 

   11 Nov 2025

   Ocean Eyes

   I’m here with our daughter. At a concert in the same venue where you and she went to your last concert together — the final one you’d ever attend with her, and the last one she’d share with you. Because you, my love, have left in physical form. Death has robbed us all of the comfort of your presence. My eyes fill with tears when Billie Eilish starts singing Ocean Eyes. My breath catches. Baby, I see you. I see the deep blue depth of your eyes meeting mine. The quiet knowing that used to live between our eyes. It was your superpower, my love— the way you looked so deeply into my eyes when you spoke that I felt seen. It was as though you were looking straight through my soul. And in turn, I could see yours too. Tethered in the locking of our eyes, there was a knowing — that beautiful, wordless understanding that happens when eyes speak loudly because words can never cover the truth of eyes. Now, it makes me think of my new world — the one I’m navigating through grief, agony, and pain. How my eyes now find new delights, small glimmers of hope. Grief has slowed my mind and made me notice the beauty in every natural detail. I’ve always had the gift of sensing things, of reading eyes. And now, the eyes of others in pain shine like a spotlight, saying, “Here I am, too. I’ve been through some s**t.” Isn’t it strange how pain becomes a shortcut to recognizing pain in others? The eyes don’t lie. Show me your eyes, and I’ll know your soul. There are layers and depths within them—the shine of eyes not yet dulled by the agony of being human. I love shiny eyes — that sparkle, that flicker of magic. The way it stirs curiosity and excitement. The way it speaks. Sparkly eyes are contagious; they offer a flash of wonder to anyone lucky enough to catch a glimpse, even now, as I type these words, a small smile forms on my lips. I’ve always been attuned to seeing — to reading — to noticing depth. I remember when our son was in kindergarten, seeing a boy with hollow eyes. Eyes that were stripped of innocence, robbed by neglect or some sort of cruelty. Reminding me of a kid I used to do therapy with, if you can call it therapy, since I would leave the office door open and only play cards with him during our sessions. He had eyes that warned of danger — the kind that makes your body tighten before your mind catches up. And yet, I’d like to believe that eyes can change — that we can add new layers, making them more complex, more beautiful eyes. That pain can soften through gratitude, love, and presence — through truly seeing the human in front of us. Because connection, even in the briefest glance, can make this world feel a little less isolating. The truth is, once we’ve seen, we cannot unsee. So I trust that faith and God are holding me as I keep looking. My eyes wide open. Because that’s what human connection really is — you see me, and I see you. The real you. The mirror of my eyes reflecting your own eyes right back at you. And let’s be honest — who doesn’t want to be seen for all of their layers? Our children have your eyes — the depth of a beautiful ocean, still glimmering with light. But now, that ocean holds new layers too. The kind that comes from the vicarious trauma of simply being human… and from losing you, sweet baby. I see it in them — the tenderness, the ache, the wonder—the knowing. And maybe that’s the legacy of love: when the eyes of those we leave behind still carry the shimmer of our own. Me & My Shadow is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe (https://chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

5. 

   29 Apr 2025

   The Things We Swallow

   I once knew a man who ate glass.I don’t remember his name, but I remember him vividly. The memory no longer distant. Me, in my twenties. Tall, long blonde hair, youthful wearing black cigarette pants and likey some cute tight top with black platform heels fully immersed in this party.Our house decorated for a Singles Valentine’s Day gathering— paper hearts cut from construction paper covering the walls each saying some inappropriate innuendo for the day of love. Party strings. A DJ spinning music that felt too loud for the size of the room and was likely even louder the condo owner next door shared living room wall. Every inch of the kitchen counters cluttered with bottles of cheap alcohol. Then: the crash of a bottle breaking. And him — a young man, mid-twenties, sturdy in frame and height, brown shaggy hair, dressed in all black, like he belonged to some forgotten 90s band — walking calmly over, picking up a shard of broken glass, and without hesitation, putting it in his mouth. Chewing it. Swallowing it. Eating glass. I remember being stunned — my face frozen in disbelief. The thoughts that raced through my mind: What is wrong with this human? The image of his insides being cut. The fear that caused my heart to drop right into the pit of my belly when I had the fleeting thought, what if this gets stuck in his throat? And then I come back to the present moment. This memory, a movie trailer clip, has come to an abrupt end. In this moment, I'm not eating glass, but can’t stop thinking that the exact feeling that resides within me mirrors what it would be like to eat glass. My throat is raw and dry.My chest feels like it’s being sliced from the inside.Each breath cuts a little deeper down through my diaphragm, into my stomach.The blood — invisible but real — a reminder of my current pain. The clinical term pops into my head: vicarious trauma. Vividly aware that attuned, empathic hearts will feel another human's suffering, whether from physical injury or emotional agony, as though it is happening to them. Because the pain is. No barrier. No distance. Just pain — shared, absorbed. A new movie trailer clip. I am rewatching yesterday—the pain in his grey-blue eyes. “Keep your eyes on me,” I say. Watching anguish, panic, and physical pain. “Breathe with me. In through your nose, baby. Keep your mouth closed. Eyes on me.” Breathe. The alarm alerts scream, beep, and flash red on the machines. His blood pressure is too high. His oxygen levels are rapidly dropping. Heartbeat now 165. Eyes on me. “I’m going to have to put this in your artery,” Jason says. I know this man. He is on the MET team (Medical Emergency Team). I met him and the others just 5 days earlier during my husband’s internal bleed that spilled out of him externally. The needle is big. “Baby, keep looking at me. Breathe.” IV meds are administered in the other arm. They work around me. Never asking me to leave his bed or let go of his hand. Machines continue to scream. Constant chatter of communication—directives, information, speculation. “Sepsis.” “Keep looking at me.” He is scared. I am afraid, too. He is confused. Me too. We stare into each other's eyes, but much deeper because I can see his soul. I wonder if he can see mine. The intensity between us is palpable. His eyes convey wordless trust, fragile and sacred. Death by a thousand cuts—I think of the psychological description of watching someone you love suffer slowly, helplessly. It feels like eating broken glass. And just like that, my mind flashes back 20 years ago, to that young man chewing glass at a party, surrounded by music and laughter that covered up so much unseen pain. I wonder where he is now.What his insides look like.I wonder if he ever healed. I wonder if his eating glass was his way of proving a pain he didn’t know how else to show — and I wonder, too, how many of us are walking around looking fine, looking normal, while inside we are shredded and bleeding, carrying wounds no one else can see. And then, my thoughts turn inward.I wonder if I will ever be the same.I wonder what my husband’s insides look like now — if he will ever truly heal from so many physical cuts.If he escapes death this time, will it be enough to heal my invisible cuts? I decide that in this moment, survival means we both will bleed — but bleeding means we are still alive.So I hold fiercely to the truth I know in my bones: cuts heal.And it will be my work, not to willingly eat broken glass, but to trust that healing is possible. Me & My Shadow is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Me & My Shadow at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe (https://chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

6. 

   30 Dec 2024

   Congratulations & Welcome to 21 Days of New

   Mental Health Disclaimer I am a licensed therapist and mental health coach, but the content provided in this course is for informational and educational purposes only. It is not intended to serve as medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Participation in this course does not establish a therapeutic relationship. If you are experiencing a mental health crisis or need immediate support, please contact call 988 or call your local emergency services. Blessings, Luck & Miracles Blessings, luck and miracles are part of this journey. We all have experience unexpected goodness throughout our lives and when we know that this is the natural course of living, we will start to pay attention. 21 Days of New is a course for paid subscribers. If you’d like to subscribe for this course only, sign up for the month of January $8 and cancel after the course. For annual subscribers get 20% off if you subscriber by 1/1/25 * Create a blessings, luck, miracle space: This can be a separate journal, notebook, box, jar, document, or place in our phone. Be as creative as you like. * Throughout this 21 Days of New Course, you will record any blessing, luck or miracles that have come your way. * Note, this does not replace your gratitude practice but acts as an added bonus. The point in separating the space is to rewire your brain that blessings are the bonus of life. Pay attention and make note! Most importantly, enjoy the feeling because feeling the goodness is how we attract more of what we want in life. Examples of Blessings, Luck, Miracles: Today I got 25 new substack subscribers! A car almost hit me but swerved out of the way. My girlfriend gave me 2 beautiful new handbags! Today I got a random check for $11.42 from the electric company! My husband who is battling cancer had a great day where he felt great! My job gave me a raise! I got an unexpected discount on a course I have been wanting to take. Our podcast was just asked to be on another show! I was asked to do a public speaking event! My daughter forgot her lunch at school and a friend shared with her. My water bill went down by $25 dollars. I asked for a sign that I am on the right track and I saw it! I was triggered and stayed calm. An old friend I was thinking about reached out to me and sent me a sweet text message. Tomorrows the BIG DAY!!! Can’t wait! Get full access to Life, Examined at chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe (https://chelseawalsh.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

7. 

   9 Dec 2024

   Part 3- Conclusion: Circle of Wounds

   Chelsea Walsh reflects on her experiences as a Therapeutic Behavioral Specialist, highlighting the importance of developing the prefrontal cortex and responding rather than reacting to others' behaviors.

8. 

   2 Dec 2024

   Circle of Wounds

   Chelsea Walsh shares her personal essay 'Circle of Wounds' and explores its themes in a reflective conversation to help listeners heal and grow.

9. 

   2 Dec 2024

   Part 1: Circle of Wounds

   Chelsea Walsh shares her 5th-grade story of trauma, resilience, and self-discovery, revealing how she transformed from a passive, shy girl to a fiercely protective individual who owns her mistakes and seeks healing.

10. 

    28 Nov 2024

    Dear Reader

    Chelsea Walsh shares her vulnerable journey as a writer and podcast host, revealing how embracing her true self and sharing her story can bring comfort, kindness, and connection to others.

11. 

    25 Nov 2024

    Curiosity Neutralizes Judgment

    Chelsea Walsh shares how embracing curiosity and acknowledging the layers of lived experiences can help us honor and appreciate the complexities of being human, leading to a more compassionate understanding of ourselves and others.

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