My romantic history used to read like a series of unfortunate, albeit predictable, car crashes. I’d spend months desperately wanting someone’s attention, only to get it and immediately feel the need to fake a sudden illness and move to a new town. My brain was a tiny, panicked committee meeting where one half screamed, “Please, love me forever!” and the other half was already changing the locks and rehearsing the breakup speech. This, I later learned, has a fancy name: Fearful Avoidant attachment. It’s a special kind of emotional gymnastics where you sprint toward intimacy and then, at the last second, vault yourself headfirst into a wall of your own making.

After one particularly spectacular breakup that left me contemplating a new life as a hermit who only communicates via strongly-worded letters, I decided to become a reluctant expert in my own brand of chaos. I became an archaeologist of my own heartbreak, digging through the rubble of past relationships to figure out why my desire for connection was always dueling with a primal urge to flee. I’ve since crawled my way from that mess toward something that feels, dare I say, secure.

I’ve documented the entire, undignified journey—the triggers, the baffling behaviors, the coping mechanisms that barely worked—and turned my field notes into a service for others. If your own inner monologue sounds like a terrified squirrel trapped in a megaphone, consider this your safe harbor. I’ve created a workbook for those who prefer to wrestle their demons in private, with checklists and prompts that are slightly more productive than staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m. Or, if you’d like to talk to someone who has not only seen this movie but was also the star, director, and caterer, you can book a one-on-one session with me. Think of me less as a polished guru and more as the friend who face-planted into every romantic pothole imaginable, then came back with a crudely drawn map so you don’t have to.