Mark today’s date, friends, because it’s a VERY special day! I can now officially check off another item on my Writing Dreams Bucket List with my newest essay “Why I Didn’t Love My Red Hair Until After My Father Died” for Good Housekeeping. Never in my wildest dreams did I EVER think I’d have a personal essay in the beauty section, but I do and this is one I’m very proud of — I know, I say that all the time, but the ones about my father just hold extra special meaning for me.

It’s no secret that I’ve long had a love/hate relationship with my hair. I hated the redness of it, which always made me feel a little like Bozo without the face paint. Then after my father died, I noticed a not-so-subtle shift. I suddenly, well, loved it a lot more than before. I’d look in the mirror and see my father. It made me feel so close to him, like a tangible connection I’d always have with him.

Anyway, here’s an excerpt of the essay, and I love the photos they chose…

As I grieved his death, I finally saw my life through a new lens. More specifically, I looked in the mirror and my red hair looked different. This was the first time that I actually saw it for everything that it had been and everything that it could be.

Growing up, I always saw my hair as just one more thing that made me stand out, just like my physical disability and the fact that I barely crack the 3″10′ mark. It made me unique, and to me, unique was the kiss of death. I could easily be picked out of a crowd, and that was the last thing I wanted. I wanted to blend in. To go unnoticed, to be just like everyone else. But little did I know that wanting to be someone else meant I’d risk losing the most important part of myself — the essence of what makes me, well, me.

I missed my father so much. With him gone, I wanted to fiercely hold tight to anything that would keep him with me. I could now see and appreciate the unique connection my red hair gave me. I began to see my red hair not as a Scarlet Letter, but as one of the lasting connections I’ll ever have with my father.

You can read the full essay here and I’d love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to email me anytime at mellow1422@aol.com and let’s chat! And of course, feel free to share my essay on Facebook, Twitter or even your local refrigerator. If you share on Twitter, be sure to tag me @melissablake so we can connect! I can’t wait to hear from you! Love you all… xoxo

A few weeks ago, I wrote an essay about my journey in therapy following my father’s suicide, and today it was published on Good Housekeeping!

I’ve never been shy about sharing my experiences or ashamed of the fact that I’m still in therapy 13 years after his death. In fact, I’m actually proud of how far I’ve come over the years. For me, therapy has always been a healthy — and necessary — part of the healing process. Honestly, I can’t say enough good things about it, obviously.

Here’s a little snippet…

The more I shared, the more I could feel my heart soften. I felt like I was setting those words free, at long last. Looking back now, I realize that it was the first step in setting myself free, too.

Then a few years ago, because of the cumulative number of sessions I’d had, my insurance company reviewed my case to see if they would still cover counseling. I’d done it all over the years — quiet introspection, theory building, childhood analysis — and yet, I knew in my heart that I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I could never seem to work up the courage to quit. Before, I was afraid of that therapist’s couch — afraid of exploring the dark recesses of my mind. Now, I was just afraid to leave, afraid to stand on my own out of fear that my heart wouldn’t be able to heal itself anymore.

Therapy is sort of like an addictive habit, ironically. That’s how it was for me, at least, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it’s one of the most important journeys you’ll ever take with yourself. As you delve deeper into your issues, you discover other things about yourself — things that may be bothering you or things you need to work on — that you weren’t even aware of. You enter the therapist’s office as one person and come out a different person. It’s a journey spent getting to know yourself.

I desperately needed to talk about my feelings and give a voice to everything I’d been holding inside. It was the only way to set myself free – but maybe even more than that, it was the only way to set my father free as well. Deep down, I knew I needed to forgive him and make peace with what he did. Counseling went a long way to helping me find that peace.

You can read the full essay here and, as always, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

***Not to make this post into one giant after-school special PSA, but I STRONGLY encourage you to seek out therapy if you’re grappling with life’s big or small struggles. No shame, remember? It’s all about taking good care of yourself, friends!!! I love you!!! xoxo

P.S. And of course, feel free to share my essay on Facebook, Twitter or even your local refrigerator. If you share on Twitter, be sure to tag me @melissablake so we can connect!