The Warmth of Your Inner Voice

The Warmth of Your Inner Voice

an original article by candy washington
this was first published in l.a. style magazine

It’s a warm Sunday morning in West Hollywood, and I can feel the sunbeams peeking their way through my blinds, determined to interrupt my sleep. As an entrepreneur, Sunday’s are one of the few days of the week that I let myself sleep in, so I’m holding a playful grudge against the sun. I roll over and stretch my entire body and then I set my intention for the day, “Today, it is my intention to relax, release, and enjoy my day off.”

I’ve quickly learned over the years of building up my own on-camera, blogging, social media, and consulting business, from the ground up, that if you don’t take the time to slow down, enjoy the process, and allow yourself to relax, then you’ll inevitably burnout, breakdown, and extinguish the flame that once ignited your soul.

Setting my intention for every morning allows me to be grounded and focused throughout the day and serves as a guiding force for my actions. If I need to buckle down and pitch brands, catch up on emails, or create a strategy for a campaign, then I set the intention for productivity. On the days that I need to edit and shoot photos, write, design, or record a podcast, I set my intention for creativity. I let my intention be the wave that I ride throughout my day.

I also make sure to periodically check-in with myself to ensure that I’m present in what I’m actually doing at the moment and not operating on auto-pilot. This ensures that I’m paying attention to my intuition and gut feelings, which is one of the most powerful resources we have as human beings and is what I’ve always based my most important life decisions upon. 

Never underestimate or ignore the power of your inner guide, that little voice of your higher self that whispers in your ear, because it’s there to gently guide you to the next right direction of your life. I’ve found that meditating, focusing on your breath, practicing mindfulness, and being present in your stillness are transformative ways to tap into discerning the voice of your inner guide. Journaling is another powerful way to get in touch with how you’re feeling and use it as a tool to take inventory of what themes are recurring in your life.

As I’m lying in bed, basking in the warmth of the sunbeams that are now dancing on my sheets, still not quite awake yet not quite sleep, I send unconditional love, support, and protection to my mind, body, and soul. I can feel the warmth of my inner thoughts wash over my body and penetrate my subconscious mind. Bathing myself in self-affirming mantras is how I cultivate a healthy and loving relationship with myself. 

Consciously elevating your self-belief is fundamentally one of the most effective ways to live a more fulfilled and complete life, because every relationship that you will ever have is a direct reflection of the relationship that you have with yourself. This means the relationship that you have with your family, friends, lovers, spouses, and your career is just a manifestation of the relationship that you have with yourself. If you don’t love yourself, you cannot love others, and if you don’t respect yourself, others cannot respect you. 

Once I internalized this principle, everything changed for me. My validation and self-worth came from me, my internal source, rather than some external person or perceived success, therefore nothing and no one could ever take away my inherent value as a human being. I am here, therefore, my life is meaningful, and I matter. 

This was the essence of why I wrote my first book, Sugar Pills: 10 Days to Awaken Your Inner Power, because it’s imperative to know that our work is what we do and it does not define who we are. The book is an interactive journal and guide that shares actionable insights on how to elevate your self-esteem and self-confidence through self-love. 

I wanted to share how I learned how to separate being my authentic self with the public persona that we often take on as ‘the parent of,’ ‘the spouse of,’ ‘the sibling of,’ ‘the boss of,’ ‘the founder of,’ ‘the creator of’ and so on. Once we are able to tear back the layers of the titles that we wear, it’s revealed that we are all intrinsically the same and inherently connected. 

It’s extremely humbling and empowering to know that we are not in it alone, but that we are all the same shadow and light versions of ourselves, dancing our way through life. I now know that I have the power to set my own intentions. I have the power to determine my level of self-love, self-esteem, and self-worth. I have the power to choose the trajectory of my life and create my own destiny. I have the power to wake up every morning and to choose joy. I have the power – and so do you. 

It’s Katherine, but everyone calls me Kitty

It’s Katherine, but everyone calls me Kitty
”Does this mean I’m gay?”
- Rebecca

an original fictional short story by candy washington

I was mesmerized by the fluidity of her body as it moved in time with the rhythm of the music. She must have caught my stare because she grinned as she bit her lower lip and waved a tiny “Hello.”

Without permission, my lips, in turn, mouthed, “What’s your name?”

I remember that she smelled like lemongrass as she leaned into me to whisper, “It’s Katherine, but everyone calls me Kitty.” 

Her voice was low and steadied as it flowed into my ear underneath the loud beats of the music pumping from the DJ booth and I felt her soft skin slightly graze against mine as we brushed up against each other in the crowded club. 

It turned out that Kitty was a friend of a friend, and Kitty was everything that I was not. She had a very short pixie style haircut that was raven black and looked like midnight against her honey brown skin. She was a freelance artist with every inch of her studio apartment consumed by paints, easels, and remnants of last night’s party. She preferred women to men and made no apology about it. 

Kitty was wild - and Kitty was free. 

I, on the other hand, was predictable - and there’s nothing more boring than a predictable person. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t stifled or repressed, I was just unexplored and complacent. But I thought I was happy. 

I liked my basic name, Rebecca, and my shoulder-length mousy brown hair. I liked my boyfriend, Lamar, who was averagely built with a hipster beard and who wore ironic thin-framed glasses to match. He was into video games, tech start-ups, and cryptocurrency. We’d met in our junior year of college and we’d just ushered in our sixth year together. 

I liked my cozy job at a PR firm and I had just been promoted to senior account manager, which was what had brought us all out tonight to celebrate. Lamar was feeling under the weather so he skipped the club night but promised a celebratory brunch of just the two of us in the morning. Which is what we did every Sunday morning.

Again, we were predictable. 

But watching Kitty move as if her faded rugged jeans were a second skin in a crisp emerald green tank top, I felt an excitement that I had never felt before. I had felt the call to be wild. 

My fingers yearned to run themselves across the small of her back as she leaned into me. I had never felt such carnal feelings for a girl before. 

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. 

Once in 8th grade while at an all-girl slumber party, we were changing into our pajamas and I saw how full Kyla’s breasts were. They seemed to have magically tripled in size and volume over the summer. 

I had wanted to touch them and to see how her flesh would feel inside of my flesh. She, like Kitty, had caught my stare, but instead of smiling, she snickered and said, “What are you looking at? Freak.” 

The gaggle of girls erupted into laughter as my cheeks flushed with hot shame. I diverted my gaze and excused myself to the bathroom where I cried into her mother’s set of embroidered towels for the remainder of the night.  

From that night on, I decided that I would never be considered ‘a freak’ again. I would walk, literally, the straight and narrow. I vowed that I would never expose the warmest and softest parts of myself that were vulnerable to ridicule and to the opinions of others. 

From that night on, I, Rebecca Hemsley, would be predictable, because predictable, was safe. 

But nothing about the wild lust pumping through my veins for Kitty was predictable. She must have smelled it on me because she started to grind up against me as the music seemed to fade into the distance and all I could see was her. 

“I’m Rebecca… but everyone calls me... Rebecca.”

She was kind and we laughed in unison at my weak joke as I quietly yet defiantly whispered my name into her ear. She pulled me in closer and let the words, “Are you into girls?” dance out of her mouth and into my eager ears.  

I shook my head, “No.”

But then, and I’m not sure if it was the tequila or my newfound wildness speaking, but I said back, “No, well, maybe. Actually, I don’t know.” 

“Well how about we find out?” she said as she gently took my hand and led me off of the dance floor and onto two stools at the end of the bar. I let myself flirt with her as she played with my sweaty hair and I sipped on my Old Fashioned and her on a dark IPA. 

Our friends had come over in between songs to take shots, order more drinks, and catch up on the latest inner circle gossip. No one suspected that Kitty was secretly caressing my inner thigh underneath the bar and that I had secretly liked it. 

We made excuses for not sharing a Lyft home with our other friends and were the last two standing of our group. I had been honest about Lamar and about how I thought I had been happy with him for the past six years, and about how I thought I had been happy with myself. 

But I had never wanted, needed, and yearned for Lamar the way that I had wanted, needed, and yearned for just one more moment with Kitty. 

She understood but it didn’t stop her from cupping my tiny face into her soft hands and encompassing my lips into hers for felt like an eternity, but yet, for not nearly long enough. 

When I agreed to share a Lyft back to her place, I laced my fingers into hers, and asked, “Does this mean I’m gay?”

She lightly cocked her head back and said, “Baby, does it really matter? Besides, the best is yet to come.”

My Boyfriend's Wife

My Boyfriend's Wife
“He wanted to keep me, and I wanted to be kept.”
- Rosie

an original fictional short story by candy washington
this was first published in ‘coffee, wine, and words magazine’

I nervously picked at the peeling light pink nail polish on my thumbnail while twiddling my fingers together in the back of my Lyft ride.

Quietly, I cursed myself for not getting my nails touched up and I wondered if he would notice.

I was on my way to my first ever blind date, which was early cocktails and dinner at a cute French bistro in the meatpacking district, and my stomach was humming to me, threatening to spill out its contents of my green smoothie and kale salad.

My friend Tess had set us up. He was an acquaintance that she had met on the golf course, and I was her best friend since grad school.

I soothed myself by lightly rubbing my tummy and thinking back to the morning that had led to my belly being full of greens. My roommate, who had had enough of me crying into pints of Häagen-Dazs while watching old episodes of Sex and the City on repeat, had started dragging me to her early Saturday morning yoga class to clear out my chakras and align my romantic energy. After each class, we always went out for smoothies and salads with a couple of our downward dog girls.

What had started out as us gushing about boys, work, and the latest issue of Us Weekly, had quickly become a haven for us to vent about the secret little vulnerabilities that we were desperately trying to hide through new outfits, flat abs, chic haircuts, and endless bottles of Rosé.

Alyssa, who was slightly older than the rest of us, had a particularly jarring tale of having been shuffled around by her husband for over a decade. Like the dutiful wife that she was, she had supported him for years while he got his tech start-up off of the ground. And like the cliché middle-aged man that he was, he one day, very calmly, looked her in the eye and told her that he needed to sleep with other people.

She had resisted and fought, trying to keep the web of her fragile marriage from coming undone. But her efforts were in vain as he dangled one meaningless tryst after another in her face without regard to the years of life lived between them.

We had cheered her on as she started having one-night stands but it was clear that her heart wasn't in it and it was just her way of trying to get his attention and to even the score. We referred to him as, “The Huzzband,” which we said with a snarky snarl. She'd report back to us his latest antics each Saturday morning and we'd all revel in the latest updates while secretly being grateful that it wasn't happening to us.

But now, I couldn't believe that my body was trying to betray me as my mind had finally resolved to move on from the fact that my asshole ex-boyfriend was now engaged to my former best friend. I had thought that I had been ready to drain the moat that had surrounded my heart, but perhaps I was not. That’s also why Tess was so eager to set me up and my roommate was peeling me off of the couch. It was time to heal.

As I poured myself out of the Lyft and oozed into the restaurant, I secretly slid into the bathroom to reapply my glossy nude lipstick and freshen up with a few spritzes of my floral-scented body spray before making my way to the table where he was already waiting.

He looked a bit older than his photo and thinner than I had imagined, and when he rose to greet me and gave me gentle hug, I felt my stomach settle as I breathed him in. He smelled like the ocean and I instantly felt at home.

He whispered, “Nice to finally meet you, Rosie,” into my ear and it tickled throughout every crevice of my body.

“Nice to finally meet you, Richard,” I heard myself echo back.

My lips parted into a crooked smile as I laughed at his jokes in-between bites of our shared appetizers and sips of Merlot. I couldn't believe how nervous I had been this morning about my impending rendezvous. 

Did all first dates always go like this? I hadn't been on one in years and I hoped that when he looked at me, he didn't see the trembling little girl that laid inside. I had wished that he only saw the cool, calm, and collected woman that was in front of him, meticulously slicing her medium-well steak.

But when his fingers gently grazed mine as we both reached for more wine, and our eyes locked, I knew that he had seen both, and both, had been enough.

The hours passed, then the days, and then the months, and our first little blind date had evolved into our little world of love and lust as I rarely left his modern and sleek apartment and he rarely wanted me to leave.

Throughout getting to know each other, he had explained that he had moved into this apartment, which was pristine with stainless steel and clean lines. His apartment would have been cold if it weren't for the heat being generated by our passion. He had casually slipped it in that his wife lived in their house not too far away with their six-year-old son that they shared between them.

When the word, “wife,” had hit my ears I felt the core of my stomach harden as it formed a pit of denial. Why wasn't he divorced yet? Should I even be here? Clouds of confusion swam throughout my mind and he could feel my once warm embrace grow cold.

He eased my concerns with stories of his wife's sexual escapades of her own and how they were more like brother and sister than husband and wife. The divorce was coming, but you know, these things can be messy, and they can take time.  According to him, we weren't doing anything wrong. He wanted to keep me and I wanted to be kept.

I desired him more than I desired the truth, and it was this yearning, this neediness, to be wanted, to be kept, and to belong to someone other than myself that allowed me to quiet the loud whispers of doubt buzzing throughout me. So I kept swimming in the sea of me and him.

It was a hazy morning, with streaks of yellow-gray sun peeking through the dark clouds, silently nudging me awake as I was sleeping in while he went out to get our usual coffee and bagels. I heard a light knock at the door and I wasn't sure if I was dreaming or not but I wrapped my naked body in the silk sheets and answered it's call. 

When I peeled back the heavy door, there staring back at me was the glowing face of Alyssa. We both looked at each other in disbelief and I felt a hot flash of anger cross my face as I heard the words, “Your my boyfriend's wife?” dance out of my mouth.

It was as though we were looking in a mirror, as two women sharing the same lie, “He belongs to me.” But the truth was that Richard belonged to no one and neither of us truly belonged to him. Once the blood started to flow again throughout my veins the only thing on my mind was revenge and with the sun reflecting off of Alyssa's eyes, I could tell she felt the same.

Now, ever-connected, we were two women, with a choice. As I heard his familiar footsteps approaching the hallway, I wrapped Alyssa in my silken arms while ushering her inside and we both knew what would come next...

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Have thoughts on My Boyfriend's Wife and what's next for Rosie and Alyssa? Then please email info@candywashington.com or send a DM to @candywashington on Instagram.