Follow by Email

Thursday, April 27, 2017

Bringing it Back to Square One

Anxiousness is a bitch. Planning can be difficult. Ruminating can be painful. 

Hold up. 

Take a moment. Breathe. Everything will be as it’s supposed to me. 

Sometimes I write these to remind myself of things. Always with the hope that it will resonate with someone. 

Take a moment. Breathe. Redirect those thoughts. Give in. Don’t push or pull too hard. Whatever you do is for the benefit of others. Oh, yeah … and take a second to look up. The scenery, or some moment is usually pretty sweet if you take the time. 

Lots of love - J

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

The i'Mpossible Project (53) with Jeanine Hoff

This is the fifty-third edition of The i’Mpossible Project: A series where anyone can share a personal story of inspiration or an event in life where they overcame tremendous odds. Everyone has a powerful story to tell and something to teach the world. (See HERE for guidelines on how you can write for The i’Mpossible Project.) Here we have Jeanine Hoff with Finding My Sunshine

---

I love rain. I love storms even more. Clouds, thunder, sideways droplets. It calms, soothes, and inspires me to do simple things like read, paint, or bake. But we all know, it doesn’t rain forever and eventually the sun comes out. Oh, the sun. Whereas the rain cleanses the soul, the sun returns to reveal it. And although I prefer gloomy weather, there is nothing more profound than the moment my life began to revolve around sunshine; internal sunshine; sunshine from my soul. I often share my journey in bits and pieces, giving the listener only what they need, but I always give them this; sunshine symbolizes the journey through a challenge, especially if that challenge is your own mind.

In the midst of the darkest days of my life struggling with anxiety and depression, I questioned what defines personal happiness and how does one master it. I always put my emotional worth into something tangible—a work project, new concept, recipe, creating a new graphic, composing a song, not just for me to see, but everyone else as well. After all, that was the only way I understood people to validate themselves. If there isn’t something “to show,” then how could it be real? Think about how many individuals define their validity through monetary displays: home, car, clothing, vacation. Despite this, something was terribly amiss. I began to internalize everything and focus on what happens when you appear to have it all and still lack inner self-worth—that sunshine if you will.

At the risk of sounding cliché, I thought about the song “Tomorrow” from the musical Annie. “The sun’ll come out tomorrow,” but as I waited for it, tomorrow continually felt further out of reach. I tried to “snap out of it,” or “not think about it,” and the more I did, the worse I felt. I realized everyone around me had the ability to just move on, while I had the ability to do the complete opposite. My “gift” was thinking about things over and over again. Going through every scenario, every possible outcome, relentlessly analyzing every word, thought, expression. Experts call this rumination. I call it self-inflicted torture.

The hardest part about this emotional tumult was that no one else seemed to understand and rightfully so. How exactly does one explain they feel awful, insignificant, useless and expect the average person to make sense of it? In my mind, everyone around me had something of value to contribute to the world and I had nothing. Even I didn’t understand it. What was wrong with me? When I looked at my life on paper I knew I had a wonderful family, beautiful children, a lovely home, enjoyed great vacations, was educated and was physically healthy. On the outside, I was the embodiment of the girl who had everything. On the inside, I was a swirling tornado of unending worry, anxiety, sadness, and despair. As this mixed bag of emotions continued to eat away at my spirit, my fears began to intensify. What an uncomfortable dichotomy; feeling simultaneously worthless and fearful of practically everything.

As I continued to doubt and second-guess everything, I wrote a list of all the songs I could think of where the lyrics focused on the sun. As a musician, my knowledge of sun-themed songs was unsurprisingly vast. What I noticed was almost all shared the same idea. The sun is a constant and will eventually shine through the toughest of times. But where was my sunshine?

And like that, it appeared. I thought about what I loved to do most. Writing, graphic art, photography, educating people, rallying my community, sharing my voice and speaking on behalf of those who fear to do it themselves. Then I thought about “What am I really good at?” I’m a singer, event planner, and fundraiser. And right there is was. My sunshine. If I can create something that could help people who are at their lowest, then we can heal together.

I originally began “Where is the Sunshine?” as a means to bring people some positive inspiration. It soon evolved into something so much more. I realized this when I began tweeting my senators telling them to support mental health legislation. Within days I was blogging about things that most people keep to themselves. I knew that I could be a reasonable voice in mental health and advocate intelligently while never losing sight of those I’m trying to help. I have voiced my thoughts on mental illness and gun ownership, on mental illness, and terrorism and so much more. I knew I did not want people with mental illness to be seen as criminals, dangerous, or unreliable. I knew I wanted to educate those with mental illness, their loved ones, and the general population. I knew I wanted to speak to students, veterans, lawmakers, and corporations. In less than six months, I went from depressed to sharing positive thoughts to becoming the founder of the non-profit organization, where I work with local organizations to better support mental health.

The darkest days of my life, brought me to my brightest. My family and I have never been happier and more whole. In finding my sunshine, I found simplicity, beauty in the mundane, and the meaning of true love of family. My storm washed away my former soul and sun revealed the real me.

---

BIO: Jeanine Hoff is the founder of Where is the Sunshine?, a non-profit organization and social media resource dedicated to positive mental health advocacy through education and community collaboration. Jeanine is a TEDx presenter on mental health, a certified presenter for the National Alliance on Mental Illness’ (NAMI) Peer-to-Peer program, helped create Mental Health America’s nationwide Peer Specialist Accreditation Certification team and is certified in Mental Health First Aid. She is a classically trained musician holding both a Bachelor’s and Master’s degree from Arizona State University. She and husband Mathew are the proud parents of three boys.

***

You can find more stories like Jeanine's in The i’Mpossible Project - Volume 2: Changing Minds Breaking Stigma Achieving the Impossible, now available for pre-order (click here). 50 authors. 50 inspirational stories of managing and overcoming mental health obstacles.

The first 200 people to pre-order will get a “thank you” in the front of the book, a free ebook copy of the book The Gospel According to Josh: A 28-Year Gentile Bar Mitzvah, and a free ebook copy of The i’Mpossible Project - Volume 1: Reengaging With Life, Creating a New You.

Thursday, April 20, 2017

Flight Delays, First Class… and a Really Awkward “Progressive” Racist

Okay… so the title of this post is super weird and pretty much an oxymoron. But there’s a quick story behind it and a pretty damn interesting takeaway. So…

Two weeks ago, I was on a two-leg flight from Boston to Chicago and Chicago to Omaha (final destination, Council Bluffs, Iowa). On the first leg of my flight, since I’m such a road warrior and have premium status with a few airlines, I got bumped from coach to first class. Score! Free food and snacks, a hot towel for my face, and a less-busy bathroom. Except I sat next to a woman who, at first was pretty hilarious, then overly chatty, and then racist and xenophobic and a few other “ists” “isms” “phobes,” which became annoying, and unsurprisingly the loudest (mostly one-sided) conversation on the plane. 

Whenever someone says, “you know I’m not racist but…” or “I’ve got nothing against the _insert group_ but…” you know you’re in for some trouble. This woman had a daughter that she loved, who also happened to be a lesbian, and despite being “supportive” of her daughter; she had some unsavory things to say about the LGBT community. She also had lots of xenophobic things to say about people from other countries who were, “stealing our jobs, and blowing up and killing our citizens.” Pretty much everything she said was based in fear and after getting into a disagreement with her and grilling her on the facts, it was clear that she had a lack of education on the topics she was mouthing off about. 

After my attempts to shut down the conversation were ignored, I asked her, “What is it that you want when you say these things? The terrorism, the ‘bleeding heart liberals,’ the ‘good gays and the bad gays’ — when it’s all said and done what do you want as a result of everything you’re talking about?”

Racist lady: “I want our country—my country—to be safe. I want people, especially young people to take on a sense of responsibility like you are with how you’re helping people. I want a better future for our kids.”

Josh: “Holy s*%t lady! That’s what I want, too. I vehemently disagree with how you want to get to that place. But I love it. We want the same thing.”

The racist lady and I hi-fived and bro hugged, after which I found an opening to finally shut her down. “I have to finish some work and listen to some Biggie,” I said with a smile and then put in my headphones. 

My takeaway from this obnoxious situation: With people who are not like us, who don’t share the same views—look for the root of what they actually want, and then find what you can agree on and strengthen that.

My scenario with the racist lady may be an extreme case, but with any committee, relationship at home or at work, or even with politics; it’s important to find common ground rather than bitch and moan at each other about your disagreements. In the board room, a 30 min plane conversation, the grocery checkout—these are not places to change hearts and minds. They’re places to find camaraderie (if possible). If you find that your core values are not in line with the other person’s, there are other times and scenarios to go after hearts and minds. It usually has to do with descriptive stories and storytelling—a la “The i’Mpossible Project.”


People are strange, interesting, and certainly complex. Most people aren’t all bad or all good, super dumb, or incredibly smart but a mix. You are the company that you keep, but sometimes unwanted company shows up at your doorstep (kinda like cousin Eddie in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation), which you’ll have to be prepared for.
-----

The i’Mpossible Project - Volume 2: Changing Minds Breaking Stigma Achieving the Impossible, is now available for pre-order (click here). 50 authors. 50 inspirational stories of managing and overcoming mental health obstacles. I'm so proud of these people I can hardly contain myself!! :) 
Read a few sample chapters HERE.


The first 200 people to pre-order will get a “thank you” in the front of the book, a free ebook copy of the book The Gospel According to Josh: A 28-Year Gentile Bar Mitzvah, and a free ebook copy of The i’Mpossible Project - Volume 1: Reengaging With Life, Creating a New You.

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

The i'Mpossible Project (52) with Benjamin Tyler

This is the fifty-second edition of The i’Mpossible Project: A series where anyone can share a personal story of inspiration or an event in life where they overcame tremendous odds. Everyone has a powerful story to tell and something to teach the world. (See HERE for guidelines on how you can write for The i’Mpossible Project.) Here we have Benjamin Tyler with The Past. 
---
If you could go back in time, what would you change in your life?

Often I am asked this very question. Upon inquiry an inventory of memories begin flooding through my brain.

Would I erase that evening at twelve years old begging for my mother’s affection, which I was denied—the point where I defined myself unlovable.

Or the dark period where I was showering with a garden hose in my dirty New Orleans apartment—a period in my life that was plagued with shame, disgusted with the man that I had become.

Maybe I should remove the time in New York City with my six-figure salary? Grinding away at soul sucking work twelve hours a day. Highlighted with frequent anxiety attacks knowing that I had a larger purpose that couldn’t wait.

People always want the definitive moment—a scene that if erased, I would have never have embraced a world of drugs, alcohol, sex, porn, and gambling. And without that definitive moment or scene, I never would have relied on these vices to fill the loneliness and lack of self-worth that consumed my life.

What people forget is that they are doing exactly what that question was asking—and what I was doing for many years—they are removing my past.

Being the youngest in a household filled with backstabbing and manipulation—I saw everything. To cope, I created four rules for life:
           
1.     Emotions will only hurt you. Shut them off.
2.     Love and admiration comes from perfection. Build a life others envy.
3.     Always, always stay busy.
4.   When at home get to the basement as quickly as possible. The basement is where one can be alone.

Alone was safe—an internal haven where nothing could hurt me. Connection made me disconnect. Touch made me quiver. Love was nauseating. Unfortunately, “alone” never works for the soul. So, I found comfort and connection in the things that made people define me as an “addict.”

At the core of my intentions was a continuous need to run. Keep relationships superficial. Always be switching cities and neighborhoods. When things got “real,” I got out.

The result of always running away was a chronic need to chase something down. To fill the ego with validation for what I had become, I wanted to create a mantel-place filled with trophies for everyone to see. “Look at me! See what I built all alone!  I don’t need anyone!” 

That was unless we were talking about the bottle. I always needed that. My Cleopatra. When she held me I could bear my soul to her. Tell her how alone I felt inside. How shameful and ugly my existence was.

Unlike my mother she always listened. Told me that I was beautiful and smart. That I would always be loved. All I had to do was keep coming back.

And coming back was exactly what I did. Every chance I could. While there was a voice inside telling me to loosen from her grips—I couldn’t. Like Caesar, Cleopatra had seduced me to the point where I lost control.

The most powerful force in life is defending the person you believe yourself to be. For me, that was being a lone solder. My ego thrived on this notion. My ego. The protector from two things: not feeling worthy, and not being loved.

To break free from the ego and the vices fueling it I knew where I had to go—my story. The very thing that I was desperately avoiding. The tales I told myself and allowed to define who I was for years.

So instead of running away from the story, I decided to run into it. I got present with those past events. Relived each scene multiple times to feel the pain, regret, and shame that came with them. Had the necessary conversations with its characters. Built a community that helped me find the truth when I still wanted to listen to the lies I was telling myself.

The result was a rewritten history. A story that was more truthful, more realistic, and more uplifting. I was loved. I was beautiful. I was worthy. The story that I hated more than anything I began to love. All of its moments. All of its characters. All its pain. Who I really was and, more importantly, what I was becoming.

Through this process I was able to take control of my life. Put the power back in my hands. Life was no longer riddled with shame, but intoxicated with joy. I began walking through life not fearing who was going to hurt me, but started embracing the opportunities that come from leaning into uncertainty.

It was at that point that I could let Cleopatra go. Long before she could become the catalyst to my death. Unlike Caesar, I didn’t wait too long.

And by letting her go I reclaimed life. Clarity and purpose started to fill my soul. I left that “great” job to pursue my passion of inspiring others to live bigger in their own. I left the city that attracted me for its money and women to move back to my hometown to be with family. A place I ran away from for ten years.

Snapping back to the initial question, “If you could go back in time what would you change?”

Not one thing.


---
BIO: Benjamin Tyler is a transformational speaker and creator of Unleash Yourself—a program that has changed the lives of people across the world to stand in their potential. He believes that the path to living a fulfilled life is found through the meaning you derive from the work you do, relationships you build with others, and the relationship with one’s self. You can learn more about Benjamin and his work by heading over to Benjamin-Tyler.com.


***
You can find more stories like Benjamin's in The i’Mpossible Project - Volume 2: Changing Minds Breaking Stigma Achieving the Impossible, now available for pre-order (click here). 50 authors. 50 inspirational stories of managing and overcoming mental health obstacles. 
Read a few sample chapters HERE.


The first 200 people to pre-order will get a “thank you” in the front of the book, a free ebook copy of the book The Gospel According to Josh: A 28-Year Gentile Bar Mitzvah, and a free ebook copy of The i’Mpossible Project - Volume 1: Reengaging With Life, Creating a New You.

Friday, April 14, 2017

The i'Mpossible Project (51) with Ashley Lewis Carroll

This is the fifty-first edition of The i’Mpossible Project: A series where anyone can share a personal story of inspiration or an event in life where they overcame tremendous odds. Everyone has a powerful story to tell and something to teach the world. (See HERE for guidelines on how you can write for The i’Mpossible Project.) Here we have Ashley Lewis Carrol with The Visceral Way. 
---
“Pretzels.”

I begrudgingly answered the pediatrician I’d had my whole life when asked me what foods I’d still eat. One word. I was a somewhat stocky sixteen-year-old girl who'd played sports nearly non-stop for the last decade of her life. And yet here I sat.

The doctor left to talk to my mom in the waiting room. When she came back, she looked worried.

“Have you been cutting on yourself?”

There it was. The question I was queasy in anticipation of.

I looked away and nodded.

“Show me.”

I pulled up the sleeve covering my right arm to reveal a forearm crisscrossed with self-inflicted wounds. Dried blood on fresh cuts and halfway healed scabs on others. Red and angry and unapologetic. Painful to look at and excruciating to live with. I think now about a specific wool sweater with belled sleeves and how the fabric would catch on my scabs and tug. The little realities of being a cutter that so many don't think about. Don't want to.

Tears sprang into my pediatrician's eyes. She looked at my arm and then at me.

“These cuts aren’t something I can ignore.”

Her words felt like a threat.

“I’ll be praying for you.”
                                                 
The follow-up felt like a warning.

I lived life as an on-again-off-again cutter from sixteen until twenty-one. I lived life as an on-again-off-again human through that time also. I was half girl, half woman. Half person, half disorders and diagnoses. Not even half understanding what was even going on with me and how it would influence the trajectory of my life.

When I was sixteen I started starving myself. Then I started binge eating. Then, I started purging. I binged and purged my way through the next six years of life. Because living with an eating disorder sucks, I started self-harming myself to cope. I found I got a brief reprieve from the incessant food thoughts that had so quickly dominated my life. I mostly cut my arms, but also my legs and stomach. I would occasionally branch out into burning and bruising. I even went through a stint of sticking needles in my veins.

I craved the release but hated the harm it did to me. I didn't mean for my arms to become borne with scars that told such a sordid story wearing short sleeves became a political statement.

I wore short sleeves anyway.

I don't always identify as a “cutter.” Even though I've spent half my life with cutter scars over large parts of my body. Cutters are scary. Cutters are selfish. Cutters are melodramatic drama queens looking for attention. Or are they? Are cutters maybe the ones holding all the shit in to spare you from the truth? Are cutters the girls who feel too much, love too hard, and hurt so very deeply? Are cutters your favorite people to go to when you have a problem, or need a shoulder to cry on, or that flash of insight you can't quite reach on your own? Cutters are our sensitive souls, walking this world with stories to tell that we've outlined on our skin. Cutting may be scary but cutters are not. We are sad. We are scared. We often feel broken.

I stopped cutting, for the most part, when I started sleeping with my high school boyfriend. To be naked in front of him was hard enough—having fresh cuts made the whole endeavor unbearable. The shame of someone seeing stopped me. The burn of pain reflected in a loved one’s eyes. Ouch.

I stopped bingeing and purging when I was twenty-one years old. I was a lost girl at that point. I’d dropped out of college to get treatment. I’d dropped out of treatment when my parents ran out of money. I’d dropped out of life when my parents cut me off and left me alone. Twenty and bulimic. Newly sober and severely depressed. They paid one month’s rent at a clean and sober house. No job. No friends. No car. No credit. No back-up plan.

I survived. I put one foot in front of the other. I did the sober thing. I did the not sober thing.

I fell headfirst into a methamphetamine addiction.

I barely made it out.

This is how I made it out: I met a boy. I liked him. By the end of our first date I thought I’d marry him. Just three months after we met I got pregnant with his baby. I got and stayed sober. I learned to eat and not throw my food up. I came back to this thing we call life. I slept and ate and bathed and fought traffic and went to meetings and took classes. I had a baby and built a family. I became a social worker. I became a person.

This is also how I made it out: I took the steps in front of me. I followed directions sometimes. I forged my own path other times. I did the hard work and I took the easy routes. All of it. I learned that life—real life—includes the struggle and the sweet. I learned it the visceral way. Through life.

It’s been over decade since I made it out. I still find myself surprised that I did. That life could be good. That people are loving and kind. That skin can heal and scars can flatten and turn white with a whisper. I’ve found a lot of solace in my story—and a lot of strength in living life while telling it.

---
BIO: Ashley Lewis Carroll is a mother to two school-age daughters, wife to the Father of Every Year, social worker in the domestic and sexual violence field by day, and writer in the wee hours of occasional mornings. Ashley posts the momentous and the minutiae of her life on Instagram and is resurrecting her blogger identity at ashleylewiscarroll.com. Ashley has been published on Elephant Journal, Scary Mommy, Feminine Collective, and The Mighty.
***
You can find more stories like Ashley's in The i’Mpossible Project - Volume 2: Changing Minds Breaking Stigma Achieving the Impossible, now available for pre-order (click here). 50 authors. 50 inspirational stories of managing and overcoming mental health obstacles. 
Read a few sample chapters HERE.


The first 200 people to pre-order will get a “thank you” in the front of the book, a free ebook copy of the book The Gospel According to Josh: A 28-Year Gentile Bar Mitzvah, and a free ebook copy of The i’Mpossible Project - Volume 1: Reengaging With Life, Creating a New You.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Taking DeWayne for a Run

Hey dummy. You can’t keep trying to run away from me like that. I’m always gonna be with you. No matter what. She doesn’t love you. They don’t love you. Shit. You don’t love you. You’re nothing. You’re worse than nothing. You’re my bitch.
“Hey, easy. She does love me… and so do other people… I’m just tired—and sad. And I am not your bitch.”
Yeah? Why are you here again? Sad. Miserable. Lonely—with people, lonely alone. Take a drink. Go ahead. Take twenty—no a hundred. You’ll feel better.
No. I can’t. Shut the hell up. Why are you so pissed off, anyway?”
Haha. I’m not telling you. It’s none of your damn business.
“I’m calling the wife… or a friend if she doesn’t pick up. I don’t need this right now, dude.”
                                                * * *         
That’s my depression talking. Needling me. Cajoling me. Laughing at me. Constantly telling me my life isn’t worth living. I’ve been living with this character, depression, my entire life; though we only met formally six years ago after I turned twenty-seven. His name is DeWayne. He can be cool sometimes but other times he can be an arrogant d-bag. And all this extra negativity coming from him? As of the past six months or so, it’s kinda my fault. I haven’t been taking him on regular walks and I sure as hell haven’t been taking him to the gym like I should. We do like the same music, but lately I haven’t been listening to the kind he likes. And he’s mad that I haven’t been feeding him healthy food either. Right now, I’m holding a bottle of vodka in one hand and a glass of ice in the other but I haven’t poured it yet. Sometimes I get lazy and I try to use vodka to shut DeWayne up—but recently, it’s just made him louder and angrier.
* * *
Just pour the damn drink and be done with it already. When you drink, all your problems go away.
“And they come right back in the morning—we’ve been through this a million times.”
Yeah, papi—but this time it’ll be different. I promise. See? Good boy. Pour it. Put it to your lips. Good boy…”
“No,” I say, slamming my drink on the kitchen counter and then pouring it down the drain. “I won’t this time. I’m going outside for a smoke.”
That’s my boy. A cigarette. Finally, something we both can enjoy.
* * *
DeWayne is right. We both find temporary pleasure in a cigarette—especially since lately I haven’t been taking care of him, or myself. I inhale the first drag of tar, nicotine, and pure momentary bliss. DeWayne is loving life right now, too. But my lungs and heart, however, are both incredibly pissed at me and have been threatening to go on strike if I don’t quit smoking for good. Unlike DeWayne, both my lungs and heart have asked that their names be withheld from this story for privacy purposes.
* * *
Why are we back inside? I’m already bored. I can just keep making fun of you… or, oh I know, you can hit yourself. Remember when you used to do that?
“I haven’t done that since I was thirteen. It’s not going to help get us what we want—what we need.”
* * *
It’s tough to admit this, but from ages six to thirteen DeWayne used to tell me it was okay to slap myself in the head repeatedly when things got too intense at home or when I couldn’t solve a homework problem or life problem. When I was in middle school, he had me wrap a belt around my neck after my dad got a little too physical with me. Somehow I figured out how to tell DeWayne that physically hurting myself wasn’t good and I stopped. But lately he’s been tempting me to start up again.
* * *
I see you looking at that bottle of sleeping pills. That would be easy. Just do it like your dad did.

“No man. We’ve been there before and we’re not going back. It’s been six years and it’ll be another six hundred more.”
You are such a drama queen.
* * *
I’m giving you all the bad things about DeWayne but sometimes he’s good to me, too. I’ve had to fight so hard against him my whole life, that he’s helped serve as sort of a rocket booster in the opposite direction of the feeling that I’m worthless. He can be encouraging at times, and he even lets me talk about him in public because he knows he hurts me and feels bad about it from time to time.
* * *
So you’re sad, bee-yotch. So you’re not getting what you want. Why even try?
“You’re not my enemy. You’re my friend. We’ve been through this before and we’ve made it out.”
Alright… what do we do? What did we do last time?
“Well, we’ve got to get back into therapy—maybe you and I do couples therapy, like last time,” I say going down the list of what I call my mental health first aid kit. “Get back into running. Less fried foods. Be vulnerable with the people we love. Manage expectations. And we’ve got to be in constant communication. If you’re not feeling good, I’m not feeling good. You’ve got to speak up sooner and so do I. Deal?”
Fine. But less talk-y and more run-y. Come on. Get your running shoes, Mr. I’m-Gonna-Take-Action. Hurry your ass up.
“Dude. Chill. I’m putting on my running gear as fast as I can. What should we listen to while we’re jogging? Coldplay?”
Dog. You know me too well. Start with “Viva la Vida.” That’s my jam, yo.
“Done. Let’s roll,” I say as we take off into the streets of Southern Los Angeles, the moon and the street lights as our only guide through side alleys, front lawns, and a thick layer of urban smog.
---

What you just read is my, Josh's, story. You can find more stories like mine in The i’Mpossible Project - Volume 2: Changing Minds Breaking Stigma Achieving the Impossible, now available for pre-order (click here). 50 authors. 50 inspirational stories of managing and overcoming mental health obstacles. I'm so proud of these people I can hardly contain myself!! :) 
Read a few sample chapters HERE.

The first 200 people to pre-order will get a “thank you” in the front of the book, a free ebook copy of the book The Gospel According to Josh: A 28-Year Gentile Bar Mitzvah, and a free ebook copy of The i’Mpossible Project - Volume 1: Reengaging With Life, Creating a New You.