Author photo. Author sitting on 1958 Chevrolet Apache. Her dream vehicle.

If you had told me that one day I would create a website and write blog posts, I would have thought you were joking.

Why? Because I hated school and despised writing assignments.

Growing up, my mother constantly told me she was going to take me to a psychiatrist because I needed my head examined.

At the age of nine, I didn't know what a psychiatrist was. Didn't know where you had to go to have your head examined. But from the way she said it, I knew seeing a psychiatrist was not good.  And then I began to figure something out. It was during the twice-a-year visits to see my great aunt, who was at the "crazy" hospital.

In the family room, before my great-aunt arrived, a tall, grey-haired man in a white coat approached my grandmother and mother. I could sense that something was different because when he entered the room, everyone stopped talking. He proceeded to speak with my family, but in a quiet voice. When he left, both my grandmother and mother seemed upset. When I asked who he was, my mother said, "That's your great aunt's psychiatrist".

Needless to say, from that day onward, I had a mortal fear of psychiatrists.

This fear of psychiatrists grew into a deep-seated belief that something was inherently wrong with me, a struggle with self-acceptance that I'm sure many of you can relate to.

Another thing that reinforced my belief that something wasn't right about me happened whenever my parents introduced us at church.

When you grow up in the rural Bible Belt South, church is a dominant presence in your life.

Here's how the introductions went: 'This is our daughter; she's smart, and one day she's going to be a writer.' 'This is our son; he's a star athlete who's going places.' Oh, and this is just Julie.

I kid you not..It was how we were introduced every time. Ironically, I'm the oldest but constantly introduced last.

I decided I needed to work harder to gain my parents' love.

Since my mother was an elementary school teacher, I became an elementary school teacher. I was a teacher with a horrible secret. I struggled to read a book, doing math was nearly impossible, and I disliked writing. Talk about impostor syndrome. I could teach the mechanics of reading and the functional use of reading, but I definitely wouldn't be able to instill the love of reading.

To get my father's attention, I learned how to operate a Ford farm tractor, plow fields, plant gardens, and treat cows for pink-eye.

None of this worked. I remained just Julie.

It was then that I made a firm decision to discover what made me so different from my family.

While homeschooling my children, I noticed that one of my sons was struggling with reading. I discussed this with my doctor, who referred my son and me to an education specialist. We were both diagnosed with ADHD, and I was also diagnosed with dyslexia.

I learned techniques to deal wth the ADHD and dyslexia, and at the age of 35, I began reading for pleasure. And what a world opened up. 

Somehow, in my quest to figure out what's wrong with me, I managed to become a certified Montessori teacher, a certified health coach, and still trying to learn why I'm so different, I went to graduate school in my 50's, received my Masters degree in Mairage and Family therapy and worked as a university counscelor and maintained a private therapy practice until I retired.

Ironically, homeschooling my children and then obtaining my master's degree only created more problems with my parents.

But it would take going through the turmoil of Hurricane Helene and reaching out for therapy that gave me the diagnosis of Complex PTSD. I'm just Julie, who was raised in a violent, abusive, narcissistic home and was cast in the role of scapegoat for the family.

In learning about Complex PTSD, I stumbled upon the story of the eagle that fell into a chicken coop. A major light bulb moment; we're talking Fourth of July fireworks going off in my brain.

It all made sense. My parents had the mindset of how children were supposed to be. Everything would be done the way they had been raised. Only I came along and didn't fit the correct mold they had developed.

I was an eagle, and I did not react to the world in their preconceived ways. I wanted to soar. I questioned ideas; 

I didn't want to do things just because that's how it's always done. 

Suddenly, I could frame the complex PTSD with this story of the eagle in the chicken coop. For me, the eagle represents working towards things I want to achieve (like this website), overcoming limiting beliefs (the chickens), and learning how to create a nurturing environment that suits me, rather than a restrictive one like a chicken coop.

Instead of shying away from being 'just Julie,' I'm learning to embrace my unique, eagle-like self as 'Just Julie.' It's a journey of self-acceptance that I invite you to embark on as well.

If you've read this far, I'm grateful for your time, and I'm excited to help you discover your own unique, 'quirky eagle' self. Let's take this journey together.