Tag Archives: writing

Soul Hearted … or Soul Sold?

There is a peculiar alchemy in modern healthcare marketing: mix equal parts corporate speak and earnest platitudes, stir in some pastel graphics, and poof! … you’ve created the illusion of transformation. Trying to cover up a tarnished past with a new logo and glossy verbiage has a name: reputation laundering.

The latest to attempt this reputation laundering is Castlewood/Alsana. Marketed as a “Soul Hearted” renaissance rooted in “clinical integrity” and “whole-heartedness,” Castlewood/Alsana’s bumbling attempt is as follows:

“Today, we’re honored to share a letter from Jordan and Keesha:

For the past year, we have been writing a new story for Alsana. We have been listening hard and leaning in. Thinking and planning, building and dreaming. Connecting, collaborating, and creating change within our organization. We have been working together with our teams as well as with our trusted mentors to build what we believe is most needed in the eating disorder field — and honestly, what is needed in the world.

Based on our collective 35 years of experience in the field — countless hours treating clients and working alongside providers — this new beginning for Alsana is our offering to each of you. A love letter of sorts to this work we all hold so dear. It is equal parts an homage to the grassroots efforts of the field’s founders and aspirational intentions for a brighter future.

The way we want to approach this privileged work of healing clients and partnering with providers is something we call Soul Hearted.

We value clinical integrity, whole-heartedness, mutual respect, thoughtful engagement, and rooted reliability. Today, and in the coming weeks, you will see the visual manifestation of this change: a new brand experience, including a new website with updated information on our mission and vision, as well as the new clinical framework that we’ve implemented this past year.

We invite you to follow along. Use our link in bio to visit our new website or read more about our Soul Hearted story.

With this new beginning, we aim for every person who encounters Alsana to feel seen in their authenticity and to know their worth. This is our way to give flowers to those who have come before us, those who will come after us, and all the souls we have the honor of supporting in between. Because each of you deserves flowers. This field deserves flowers.

With Gratitude,

Jordan Watson, Chief Executive Officer, Keesha Amezcua, LMFT, CEDS-C, Chief Clinical Officer” and [Unattributed, Chat GPT]

Castlewood/Alsana is so clueless, it required ChatGPT to craft its message. You may be wondering how we know it was a ChatGPT creation? Simple enough.  Look at the overuse of the “em dash.” ChatGPT frequently overuses the em dash (—), often mistaken for a “long hyphen” or “ChatGPT hyphen” to simulate natural rhythm, add emphasis, link clauses, and replace commas or parentheses. It serves as a stylistic shortcut to mimic human spontaneity and structure thoughts. 

In the public announcement, hyphens are used four (4) times.  Needlessly so. But what better way to mimic human compassion than by having a soulless program draft your heartfelt announcement. While pretending it was “soul hearted.”

Chat’s messaging apparently attempts to include a new logo … a soft beige square with a delicate serif “A” and the soothing promise “You deserve flowers.”

But, if logos could tell the truth Castlewood/Alsana’s new logo would not be a soft beige square with a delicate serif “A” and the soothing promise “You deserve flowers.”

Instead, Castlewood/Alsana’s logo would be a cracked castle, its stones crumbling, sitting uneasily at the edge of the woods … because Castlewood/Alsana is not a new entity at all. Alsana merely remains as an assumed name, a pasteboard mask, a coat of paint applied to an old, failed structure whose legal name remains Castlewood Treatment Center, LLC. And its owner, The Riverside Company, desperately attempting to meet the needs of the investors behind this failed financial experiment.

As for its rebranding?

It is almost poetic how the rebrand leans hard into aspiration: “Because each of you deserves flowers.”

That’s lovely … until you realize that flowers are not a substitute for meaningful clinical outcomes, transparent safety data, and ethical accountability.

“You deserve flowers” is a lovely sentiment.

But flowers are not:

  • peer-reviewed treatment modalities
  • transparent adverse event reporting
  • independent oversight
  • staffing ratios
  • informed consent
  • ethical discharge planning

Flowers do not stabilize electrolytes. Flowers do not reverse medical neglect. Flowers do not replace cognitive behavioral therapy, family-based treatment, or medically competent monitoring.

Sure, everyone loves flowers. But the people truly harmed by substandard care don’t need floral metaphors, they need accountability.

When a treatment provider leans harder on aesthetic reassurance than clinical proof, the public should ask why.

Because in medicine, feelings are not outcomes.

And so, let us move on from the basics of that which the marketing materials disclose to that which they omit.

“Alsana” is not a standalone organization. It remains an assumed business name used by Castlewood Treatment Center, LLC, a company long associated with controversy in the eating disorder treatment space, particularly tied to its former Missouri operations.

If you review the Alabama Secretary of State’s business organization site for any mention of “Alsana” you will find … nothing. But, if you include Castlewood Treatment Center, LLC … bingo! Its registration as a Missouri based limited liability company appears.

This effectively means that Alsana cannot stand alone without Castlewood. The two are inextricably intertwined.

Castlewood’s legal entity did not disappear. The liabilities did not evaporate. The allegations did not dissolve into pastel tones. Only the branding changed.

That distinction matters to patients, families, clinicians, insurers, and regulators, because accountability follows the entity, not the font.

In its rebranding announcement and on its new website, Chat GPT on behalf of Castlewood/Alsana’s leadership describes the transformation as a “love letter,” rooted in “Soul Hearted” values: authenticity, worth, gratitude, and flowers for everyone involved. What’s striking is what the letter does not include. It does not include:

  • Acknowledgment of past harm
  • No discussion of documented controversies
  • No explanation of why multiple senior leaders left
  • No data on outcomes, safety, or reform

In healthcare, especially eating disorder treatment, language without evidence is not healing. It is mere marketing.

Eating disorder patients are uniquely vulnerable to authority, suggestion, and coercion. That is precisely why the field should emphasize evidence-based care, transparency, and ethical restraint. Replacing those guardrails with inspirational language is not soulful. It’s dangerous.

And this specific danger was disclosed by former officers.

While Castlewood/Alsana’s press release paints a warm and fuzzy picture of healing, flowers, and listening deeply, bubbling up beneath the surface are sworn allegations from Castlewood/Alsana’s former high-ranking officers that paint a far grimmer picture. One of prioritizing growth and revenue above clinical care. Of threats, vindictiveness, and internal intimidation tactics that a credible clinical community would find alarming.

One cannot help but wonder if those former officers who came before will be receiving flowers? Or another subpoena.

Let’s be clear about something: it is one thing for critics on the outside to claim a treatment provider is more focused on profit than patients. That may be dismissed with a knowing smile and social media posts. It is quite another when former executives, the people who once ran the place, say the same thing under oath.

In sworn declarations multiple former officers, including its chief operating officer and chief clinical officer resigned or were terminated because they objected to the company’s direction, specifically its shift toward revenue targets at the expense of clinical quality and ethical integrity.

These aren’t anonymous critics with an axe to grind. These are the very people once entrusted with leadership. Under the penalty of perjury, they swore their concerns were met not with reform, but with threatening letters and what they describe as vindictive conduct from the company, conduct that made them fear for their own future if they voiced dissent.

Castlewood/Alsana’s former CEO, Jennifer Steiner, under oath, testified as follows: “As its CEO, I reported to the Company’s Board of Directors (the “Board”). The Riverside Company (“Riverside”), a private equity company, has been the majority owner of Alsana since December 2016, and it was the majority owner during my tenure as Alsana’s CEO.”

“Despite all of my success, however, significant issues with Alsana, its Board and Riverside developed over time, which ultimately caused Alsana to terminate me. Specifically, I became concerned with the direction of the company and what I considered to be Alsana’s decision to maximize growth and revenue above all else. When I refused to go along with certain decisions of Alsana’s Board, including decisions that I believed would jeopardize patient care, I was terminated.”

“Alsana’s bad faith and tortious conduct, which I believe was intentionally designed to frustrate my business and unfairly compete with me, has caused me to suffer both monetary damages and adverse mental health consequences.”

Multiple officers stated under oath that Alsana was prioritizing growth and revenue above all other goals to the detriment of patient care and the integrity of the business. Alsana was sending threatening letters to those former Officers. Alsana was directing aggressive and vindictive courses of conduct against former Officers. Alsana was not providing its officers with the information they needed to do their jobs. That an atmosphere of fear and not collaboration had been created. Alsana was engaged in tortious and bad faith conduct. That when the highest ranking Officer refused to abide by decisions of Alsana’s Board, decisions which she believed would jeopardize patient care, she was terminated. Creating fear and anxiety.

Again, these words are NOT mine. But former Officers.

And that is the same organization now promising every visitor to feel “seen in their authenticity.” It is amazing how visibility becomes selective.

And yet, Castlewood/Alsana’s sordid story gets richer.

The now closed Missouri residential treatment center, originally known as Castlewood Treatment Center had a long and reprehensible history. This history included:

  • Multiple malpractice and injury lawsuits alleging traumatizing psychological practices and harmful conduct at the facility.
  • Investigations and press reports of alleged inappropriate conduct by staff and internal complaints about practices that led to halting admissions.
  • Advocacy groups and former patient coalitions detailing a troubling legacy of psychological harm and exploitation at the same physical location that Alsana claims as part of its continuum of care.

This isn’t folklore, it’s part of the public record associated with the entity they now claim is reborn with “soul and heart.”

The eating disorder field is one where evidence-based practice literally saves lives. Compassion matters, but it is not a replacement for clinical rigor. When a provider’s most senior clinicians quit over ethical concerns, then get sued and threatened with additional legal action, that is not a “slow shift” toward quality, it is a red flag.

And yet Castlewood/Alsana’s public face leans into “connecting” and “creating change” without ever acknowledging the change that insiders say was needed but dismissed. Compliments and brand mantras do not a quality program make.

The eating disorder community doesn’t need another corporate monologue about authenticity and worth. It needs transparency about outcomes, commitments to evidence-based standards, and answers to why its former leaders felt compelled to walk away and speak out.

Because in the world of mental health care, soul isn’t a clinical safeguard. And heart isn’t a substitute for evidence.

It’s time to demand more than marketing.

Castlewood Treatment Center, LLC can call itself Alsana. It can talk about soul, heart, gratitude, and flowers. It can commission new logos and refresh its website.

But what it cannot do is rebrand away:

  • its legal identity,
  • its documented history,
  • the testimony of its former leaders, or
  • the unresolved questions surrounding patient harm.

For families seeking help, for patients fighting for recovery, and for clinicians trying to practice ethically, clarity matters more than comfort. Families deserve more than flowers. Families deserve truth, evidence, and accountability.

And until Castlewood/Alsana confronts its past instead of decorating over it, the castle, no matter how softly lit, no matter how hard its vacuous marketers attempt to put Humpty Dumpty back together… will fail.

No matter how many flowers it attempts to throw out designed to cover its corruption and misdeeds, those flowers are thrown over its own grave.

And if they are still looking for a new logo, I suggest this may be very apropos:

A Runaway Dog, Holiday Depression and … Community

In years past, during what is supposed to be the season of light and wonder, I have written about Morgan, my daughter. About our traditions. About the ritual of choosing a Christmas tree, the inevitable frustration of getting it into the house, the way it would sometimes tip and fall, shattering irreplaceable ornaments, or dry out far too soon until it stood there, brittle and skeletal, a hollow reminder of that which was once was alive. Depression was inevitable.

And yet, every year, some type of life preserver manifested. A sign. A message. Always gentle. Always loving. Something that steadied me, strengthened me, urged me to keep going when I did not know how.

One year it was candles being lit across the world—not just for Morgan, but for all those lost to eating disorders and other invisible battles of the mind.

Sacred, silent evenings filled with remembrance and fragile hope. Tears shed in the dark. Songs whispered more than sung.

But not this year.

This year there was no message. No inspiration. No carefully chosen words meant to lift the spirit or point toward brighter tomorrows. I would not, could not, manufacture hope when I did not feel it myself.

Yes, traditions were still observed. The familiar Christmas movies played on cue, laughed at in some places, cried over in others. A beautiful tree stood glowing in the house.

Every room dressed for the season. We hosted extravagant gatherings, opening our humble home to many. The food was exquisite. The drinks flowed freely.

And yet something was missing.

Something intangible. Something incorporeal.

An emptiness. A darkness that wrapped itself around me and pulled slowly, relentlessly toward a deep well of despair. I felt myself drowning in heartache.

Perhaps it was the sharper reality settling in: that Morgan is truly, irrevocably gone from this plane of existence. She is forgotten. And forgotten by a community who should remember. Perhaps it was the growing, unavoidable realization that no matter how many facts are presented, no matter how often the truth is spoken, the eating disorder “community” is a lost cause.

Lost to corruption. To incompetence. To ego and tribalism. To misused funding, hatred, ignorance, and endless divisiveness.

My daughter Morgan and so many others seemed to have been taken in vain. And the community charged with caring simply did not care. We parents of children who have been taken are living reminders of the community’s greatest failure. And because of that, we are meant to be silenced. At any and all cost.

That so-called community now barely exists at all. Perhaps in name only. It has shattered itself against the rocks of politics and radicalism. And it makes one wonder whether any true community can survive when it attempts to include people of differing beliefs, faiths, and backgrounds.

And just when you begin to believe the answer is no something unexpected happens.

Something small. Something ordinary. Something that quietly, stubbornly brings the glimmer of hope for greater tomorrows.

I am the owner of a two-year-old Vizsla. If you know the breed, you know this is fifty-five pounds of muscle, speed, enthusiasm and intelligence … paired with an almost absurd need to be pressed against your side like living Velcro. This is Beauregarde:

Because Vizslas require exercise, constant, vigorous exercise, my significant other (who is nothing short of a saint) found a nearby dog park. And so, every morning at about 7:15 a.m., we take this wood-headed dog to the park.

There, he runs. He taunts other dogs into chasing him, fully aware he can outrun them all. He greets strangers with unfiltered joy, as if each one might be the most important person he has ever met. And the people at the dog park, each owned by their own dogs welcome all with open arms.

These dog park people come from every imaginable walk of life.

One served aboard a Navy destroyer during the Vietnam War. When his house burned this past March, people from the dog park wrapped their arms around him and his family offering help, presence, and compassion without hesitation.

Another is an aeronautical engineer who worked on some of the most advanced aircraft ever built, and who carries his Alabama roots with well-earned pride. The depth and range of his intellect are astonishing.

There are others who are owned by their dogs. A sound engineer. A lighting engineer who toured with internationally known rock stars. A person who did space planning and construction for high-end retail outlets, including Neiman Marcus and whose resemblance to Burl Ives is uncanny. A dear, dear woman whose larger-than-life husband was cruelly taken from her just twenty months ago. A salesperson for a major lumber retailer, a hardcore Dallas Stars fan, (envision Santa Claus about 200 pounds lighter) married to a wife classically trained as a singer and musician. Another who works security for school districts and private companies, and who has trained his dog for those very same protective tasks. There is a married couple—he a brilliant PhD in business, she with a rich history of national-level sports activity and a lifetime spent caring for animals of every kind.

And there is an incredible woman who has battled anorexia for more than thirty years—who carries that struggle every single day, and yet brings resolve, wisdom, and quiet reminders of perseverance simply by showing up.

All of these individuals, of different ages, races, political beliefs, upbringings, and life experiences have inexplicably found themselves drawn to one place.

A dog park.

Drawn there by love for their animals. And in that shared love, they learned to look past their differences … because what united them was so much greater than what could ever divide them.

And so, we took our dog park meetings to a higher level.

First, we met for drinks. Then for dinner. And this Holiday Season, we welcomed the dog park group into our home.

The laughter was constant. The conversations effortless. The warmth unmistakable.

And then came the moment that revealed, without question, just how real, how solid, how deeply bound this community truly is.

On a cold Monday evening in North Texas, unknown to us, strong winds blew open one of our fence gates. We let Beauregarde into the side yard, unaware that his path to freedom had quietly opened.

Ten minutes passed. Perhaps more. Then we realized he wasn’t in the house. A quick search outside revealed the open gate—and the awful certainty that he was gone.

We live in a dense residential area. Texas Department of Transportation records indicate over thirty thousand (30,000) cars pass through nearby streets every day! Coyotes and bobcats roam nearby creek beds.

In short, it was a recipe for disaster.

We jumped into the car, driving frantically through the neighborhood, calling his name, scanning every shadow and street corner. And then it struck me …  The dog park people have a group text.

A frantic message went out explaining that Beauregarde had escaped and was missing.

What happened next overwhelmed me.

Instantly, messages poured in. How can we help? Where are you? We’re on our way.

Three people who lived closest to us immediately left their homes, getting in their cars, driving the neighborhood, or heading straight to our house.

And then less than ten minutes after the message was sent, a miracle appeared on my phone:

“I found him. I have Beauregarde.”

The woman who has fought anorexia for decades. The woman who has worked with horses and animals her entire life. The woman raised in Siberia, South Africa, and beyond, had found our wood-headed dog walking down the middle of a busy street.

When she called to him, he came to her immediately. And nothing could have been more symbolic than that reclamation of a lost loved one.

As I raced home for the reunion, a wave of relief and gratitude washed over me so powerful it was almost physical.

Soon after, one person from the dog park arrived at our house. Then another. And Beauregarde greeted each person with unrestrained joy—jumping, wagging, recognizing his people.

These were people who left their warm homes on a cold night. Who stepped away from their own lives to search for a dog. Who came without being asked, knowing full well the search might be fruitless.

They came because of community. Representing the very best in life.

We have so many differences. And yet none of that mattered. And it never has.

Because we were bound by something far greater than our differences. Something deeper than ideology or background or belief. Something strong enough to cut through despair and fear.

Perhaps that is where the answers lie.

Not in our differences.

But in embracing that which we share. In honoring our common humanity. In choosing love … again and again.

That night, we shared something sacred.

We shared our love.

We shared our community.

The Best of Times … the Worst of Times: Real Life in the Age of Social Media

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities,

Dickens’ well-known quote reflects the contradictory nature of the era it describes, the French Revolution and the Industrial Revolution, where societal extremes of wisdom and foolishness, belief and doubt, and hope and despair coexisted. The phrase is often used today to describe any period of conflicting circumstances, where seemingly opposite conditions exist simultaneously. 

Dickens captured an era riven by contradiction—one that is strikingly familiar in our decaying, digital age. Today, we move through a world that offers extraordinary access, unprecedented connectivity, and boundless opportunities for expression. Yet those same spaces are shaped by curated identities, algorithm-fed anxieties, and an ever-growing sense of distance among people who are, paradoxically, more connected than ever.

The fears, insecurities and cowardice which define the essence of keyboard warriors have come to define their very lives. And pushes them even further from humanity.

It Was the Best of Times: The Goodness of Real Life

Real life … messy, unpredictable and intimate remains the realm where meaning truly accrues and matters.

When I am out in public, be it the local dog park, a mixed-use shopping retail development, restaurants, the courthouse, bars, going for walks, I interact with people from all walks of life. Men, women, numerous races and ages. Each time, there is laughter, discussions centered on our families, our pets, the holidays, our health, the beauty of the day. I have dear friends from both ends of the political spectrum. We socialize, party together, laugh together.

In real life, conversations are not filtered through screens or stripped of tone and nuance. A friend’s laughter, the warmth of a handshake, the look in someone’s eyes when they understand you … these moments carry a weight no number of “likes” can replicate. Human relationships deepen through vulnerability, shared experience, and presence. Real life offers the “age of wisdom,” where insight grows not from viral posts but from quiet reflection, trial and error, and authentic connection.

Real experiences ground us. They tether us to something permanent and tangible: the smell of freshly cut grass in the springtime, the scent of the Christmas tree, the chaos of family gatherings, the comfort of routines, the joy of unexpected kindness. These are the “seasons of light,” moments illuminated by genuine human engagement.

It Was the Worst of Times: The Digital Landscape of Angst and Despair

Yet we live simultaneously in a world where social media defines culture. Platforms promise connection but often deliver its hollow imitation.

To properly illustrate the decay of society, one need only understand that the financial goal of the five (5) wealthiest corporations in the United States is attained by enticing us to immerse ourselves completely in our personal devices, to remove ourselves from real life and to exist solely on social media. To isolate ourselves. To limit our face-to-face human interaction. That insures their financial success while insuring the destruction of our well-being.

Here, the “age of foolishness” reigns … where impulsive opinions eclipse thoughtful dialogue and where appearance overshadows substance. Belief contorts into echo chambers, while incredulity becomes a reflex to any idea that challenges our curated worldview. We scroll endlessly, absorbing news of tragedies, political battles, and social comparisons until the world feels saturated with crisis. Cowardice and fear are the watchwords. If you do not agree with someone’s viewpoints? You need only “block them” on social media. With a keystroke, you have eliminated intelligent discourse and the expanding of your mind.

We are inundated with political parties disagreeing for the sake of disagreeing. Promulgating the power of their own party over the needs of the Republic. Indeed, politics has become a new religion rather than an enlightened arena where we can engage in intelligent conversation with a shared goal, the well-being of our nation. Politics is now pop culture. Name calling. Inflammatory labeling. Each tribe remaining in the safety and comfort of their own echo chamber. Pundits opining that we are closer to a civil war now than at any time since the end of the Civil War.

There is the parade of angst, personal attacks, tribal entrenchment, absolutism, and fear … the very worst of our qualities.

This is the “season of darkness.” Online, despair grows quietly: the loneliness of constant comparison, the fear of missing out, the anxiety of measuring oneself against the polished illusions of others. Validation is quantified, self-worth becomes algorithmic, and interactions feel more transactional than relational.

However, when people experience “real life” and interact personally with their fellow humans, more often than not, it is our goodness which shines brightly. Not our disagreements. When pain, anxiety and fear are disclosed, it is in the context of a safe place to be shared and cared for by people who want only the best for you. It is tragic that we have unnecessarily permitted social media to diminish our human connection.

In this winter of digital despair, everything is visible, yet little feels real.

The Spring of Hope: Rekindling Humanity in a Connected Age

Despite its cold edges, social media also holds the “spring of hope.” It has connected the isolated, amplified marginalized voices, and spread information at breathtaking speed. But harnessing its good requires remembering that platforms are tools, not substitutes, for human connection.

We can reclaim the best of both worlds by grounding ourselves in real relationships while using digital spaces intentionally. Social media should supplement our lives, not consume them. It should extend community, not replace it.

Choose Light Over Darkness

Just as Dickens depicted an age torn between extremes, we too, navigate a world of contrasts. The best of times and the worst of times coexist in our hands … literally, in the glowing rectangles we carry everywhere.

The goodness of real life lies in its humanity. The manner in which our souls seek out to connect with others. The despair of social media lies in its impersonality. By choosing presence over performance, conversation over commentary, and authenticity over algorithms, we can keep the light from being swallowed by the dark.

In the end, it is up to us to determine which “season” defines our era.

Ashes Set Free

We live in a society of rules. Rules for seemingly everything. In 1925, Texas passed a law stating it was illegal to milk another person’s cow. In 1937, Minnesota passed a law prohibiting women from dressing up on public streets as Santa Claus. In 1961, Gainesville, Georgia passed an ordinance stating it was illegal to eat fried chicken with a fork. In Oklahoma, it is technically illegal to cuss in public places, in the presence of a female, or around children under the age of 10. [Which if enforced, would result in a reduction of the average Oklahoman’s verbal communications by 65%.]

Therefore, it should come as no surprise that various international, national, state and local laws exist regulating the spreading of a loved one’s ashes. It should also come as no surprise that there is a cottage industry of corporations who for a shiny dime, will plan, assist and guide you through the spreading of your loved one’s ashes.

I can only imagine Little Johnny, the Ash Scatterer in first grade. When his teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, Little Johnny enthusiastically responded, “I wanna grow up and help spread my Grandpa’s ashes around the Back 40!”

In the United States, traditional burials are slowly being replaced by cremation and alternative burial or ash-scattering services. According to the 2020 NFDA Cremation & Burial Report, the cremation rate was 56%, surpassing the burial rate of only 37.5%. Cost is certainly one factor. The freedom to release the remnants of your loved one in special places, places of meaning, of meditation, of places which bring peace and comfort are certainly other reasons.

Scattering your loved one’s ashes can elicit deep emotions. In the best of circumstances this act can renew your spirit, strengthen your resolve, be a bold, ever-growing bond and a reminder of your loved one. Ashes are the last, tangible vestige of their physical presence. To leave them in places where your loved one wanted to go, or talked about, or where you had incredible shared experiences, more closely binds your souls together.

For those who know me even in passing, it should come as no surprise that I did not look up nor even consider any laws passed by international, national, state or local governments which would prohibit me from spreading the ashes of my beloved daughter, Morgan.

Morgan is now offshore near Tahiti. She became one with the Grand Canal in Venice, Italy. She is in Washington, D.C. She is a part of a peaceful brook in Kyoto, Japan. She is in the end zone of the Cotton Bowl where she and I enjoyed a number of Texas – ou rivalry games together. Off the coast of Cabo San Lucas. Joined with a shipwreck off Barbados.

And now, part of San Francisco Bay having become one with the water in Sausalito.

Morgan being Morgan of course had to have the last laugh. As I was remembering her, her laughter, her intelligence and yes, her pain, I slowly opened the small container. As she was becoming one with the water, a sudden burst of wind came up and part of her was blown back toward me! Really Morgan? Really? What the actual blue hell?

Well, that was unexpected! The solemnity of the moment being interrupted by the absurdity of wanting perfection.

Afterwards, we slowly walked down the rocky shoreline. About 10 minutes later a local fisherman hooked what appeared to be a large fish. We watched with fascination the on-going struggle. His helper grabbed a large net and when the catch materialized, it was a Stingray! About a 4-foot-wide Stingray! It wasn’t until I returned home that the timing and symbolism of this event was made clear.

Some people believe Stingrays, with their graceful underwater movements represent adaptability and inspire people to navigate life’s difficult currents. They stand for emotional harmony and the significance of preserving inner peace even in choppy waters.

Stingrays are perceptive animals that exhort us to believe in our gut feelings and inner wisdom. They teach us how to approach life’s challenges with poise as they move with grace and finesse. Aren’t those lessons universal? Certainly, I have attempted to learn some of them through Morgan, reading her journals and remembering her strength and struggles.

Poise. Grace. Finesse. Inner peace. Harmony. So easy to write. So difficult to find and embrace. So elusive. We all desire peace and harmony.

And yet, a harsh reality which frightens so many is that sometimes going to war is the only way to find and obtain those elusive qualities of peace and serenity.

But those qualities are present. Surrounding us. Within our grasp. Sometimes, it takes an Ai generated song to remind us of that which gives us strength. And hope. And resolve.

https://suno.com/s/gr86nC62zW2wJ3Mr

When Words Wound the Soul

Dear Dr. Christina Propst a/k/a Chris Tina:

In the early morning hours of July 4, 2025, a gut wrenching catastrophe struck Central Texas. An unimaginable event which would take the lives of so many little girls. Girls, daughters whose future lay before them. Unlimited possibilities. Young, innocent, naïve, full of life souls. They knew not political parties nor the divisiveness which is tearing apart the Republic. They are our best hope for greater tomorrows. And yet, you exacerbated the agony their parents would experience. The darkest of days which will forever haunt them.

In your ignorance, you felt the need to look past compassion, grace and understanding.  And you posted this on your social media page:

May they get what they voted for? Bless their hearts? [In this context, it is a term of derision.]

This from a trained, so-called professional pediatrician. A medical doctor.

As parents were experiencing the worse pain possible, the public outcry against this doctor was swift and sure. Social media disseminated her words and the backlash went viral. Consequences were immediate. The doctor was fired from her position at Blue Fish Pediatrics, an independent partner of internationally renowned Memorial Hospital. Complaints are being filed with the Texas Board of Medicine.

The good doctor saw her world crumbling, albeit in a manner which pales in comparison with a parent burying his child. In all reasonable likelihood, panic began to set in. And then, the doctor did what many people under similar circumstances often do … she tried to rectify her damaging words through an apology. An apology which rang as hollow as her initial words had been horrific.

As part of her “apology,” the doctor said that politics have never impacted her judgment or actions as a medical provider. But that’s not really true. After Texas Governor Greg Abbott issued a ban on school masking mandates, Dr. Propst stated the Governor was a direct threat to the health and well-being of the children of Texas. This despite the fact that children under 12 years of age were least susceptible to Covid19.

In 2020, the good doctor organized a letter which in essence blamed Congressman Dan Crenshaw for Houston’s COVID surge. This was based on Dr. Propst’s belief that Congressman Crenshaw unfairly pushed back on lockdown hysteria stating, “Dan Crenshaw, on the other hand, has spewed lies for the past four months – minimizing the threat we face and spreading dangerous disinformation for self-indulgent headlines.”

Both politicians are Republican. Dr. Propst is a Democrat. But there were no politics in play? This is what happens when blind allegiance to your political party predominates over the needs of the Republic … or the needs of the family. My dear doctor … do not insult our intelligence.

In her attempted apology, the good doctor also stated, “… her post came from a “place of frustration” over the need for “more and better support and funding to help prevent and respond to tragedies such as this.” This language could have come directly from the DCCC. If ever there was a political statement, this would qualify.

Dr. Propst then wrote, “Perhaps my biggest regret is that my words are now serving as a distraction from our shared responsibility to heal the pain and suffering of those whose lives have been forever changed by unspeakable loss, and to take every step to ensure such a disaster never occurs again.”

Her biggest regret is that her words are a mere distraction? Not the pain they caused. Not exacerbating the grief which rips the hearts from parents who suffer such an unthinkable tragedy? Instead, her words are a mere distraction. That is her biggest regret?

Let us now take a look at another part of the good doctor’s attempted apology which also rings hollow.

In her attempted apology, she stated, “I take full responsibility for a social media comment I made before we knew that so many precious lives were lost to the terrible tragedy in Central Texas.” So, my good doctor, can we presume you believe your words would have been acceptable had fewer lives been taken assuming those lives were all MAGA persons? For discussions sake, what is the minimum number of MAGA people dying which would have been acceptable and excuse your hate filled messaging? What is your choice, Sophie?

There is another fact which calls into question the authenticity of the good doctor’s so-called apology. Now, I am not privy to the exact time the good doctor published her social media post. But, as for the timeline of the tragedy, we know:

On July 4, 2025:

5:57 a.m.: The Coast Guard was asked for help and started sending resources to the scene.

7 a.m.: Kerr County begins to evacuate people near the Guadalupe River in Hunt amid major flooding caused by 6 to 7 inches of rainfall.

10 a.m.: The Kerr County Sheriff’s Office confirms there have been “multiple fatalities” from “catastrophic flooding.”

So, we know that evacuations were in place as early as 7:00 a.m. And multiple fatalities were announced as early as 10:00 a.m. The scenes broadcast on social and legacy media were horrifying. So, despite the fact that the world knew of the tragic events and death which had visited Central Texas, this doctor did not know prior to her ill-advised statement? How is that remotely possible since she had actual knowledge of the flood and hoped that everyone, except MAGA voters stay safe and dry?

It is important to note that Dr. Propst did NOT say she was not concerned about children. To the contrary. She hoped they stayed safe and dry. That is, perhaps unless they were children of MAGA voters whose lives may have been taken by the flood. So, are we to presume wishing harm on MAGA voters, which harm would directly devastate their children, perhaps even turning them into orphans, is acceptable?

Her former employer, Blue Fish Pediatrics issued its own press release stating in material part, “That post does not reflect the values, standards, or mission of Blue Fish Pediatrics,” Blue Fish Pediatrics wrote. “We do not support or condone any statement that politicizes tragedy, diminishes human dignity, or fails to clearly uphold compassion for every child and family. We continue to extend our full support to the families and the surrounding communities who are grieving, recovering, and searching for hope.”

Dr. Propst’s social media post was atrocious. She was fired and her former employer distanced itself from her. Her apology was vapid.

So, what can the good doctor do to attempt to rebuild her life? That is a difficult question with nuanced complexities. Were I advising the good doctor, I would recommend the following: A public statement that in order to gain a much deeper understanding of our humanity, she would announce she is taking at least a one-year leave of absence from the medical profession. During this time, she commits to undergoing many hours of therapeutic intervention with an emphasis on compassion, a parent’s grief, and how politics is undermining our soul.

Then, I would advise the good doctor to attend as many funerals as possible for the victims of the tragedy. Sit in the back of the church and see in person, the pain permanently etched on the faces of parents. Take in the tears of family and friends and neighbors. Look into the eyes of a parent who believes that the very best part of them has been forever taken. Not just one funeral, nor 5, nor 10 … but as many as possible.

All Dr. Propst did was mumble out vacuous words with no meaningful action supporting them. She did not show the courage of her convictions, assuming she has any. Nor a commitment to taking action. Just words. Vapid, empty words.

And vapid, empty words will be all that remain of Dr. Propst.

Through Tragedy, We Can Find Our Soul

The forces that descended upon the Guadalupe River in Texas’ Hill Country in the very early hours of Friday, July 4, 2025, were a generational, worst-case scenario.  

Four months’ worth of rain fell in just a few hours. Water-laden thunderstorms stalled in place. When combined, this “perfect storm” gave rise to a wall of water that surged down the river in the darkness of the night. This in itself limited the number of people who could get warnings and move to higher ground.

Sunrise revealed the devastation and horror inflicted upon Texas. Summer camps along the Guadalupe River were buried under a choking tsunami of flood water. And yet, we still did not understand the extent of the tragedy to be revealed. Reports began to trickle in of people whose lives had been taken by this tragedy. Search and rescue operations conducted by numerous first responder units were shown on television and on social media. The grisly numbers began to be disclosed.

11 dead and many missing. 20 dead. 30 dead. The number kept rising just as surely as the flood waters had. The confirmed death toll reached 70 on Sunday afternoon. 90 or more on Monday morning, over 100 Monday night. Many of those found dead had not yet been identified, including children.

For the parents of the children who are still missing or have not been identified, they are existing in the worst hell imaginable. Sleep will not come to them. Their hunger is gone. A terror which can only be experienced by a parent who has had a child taken, grips their every moment. For some, it even snaps their will to live.

If ever there was a time for our nation to come together as the search continues, as hearts are broken, as souls are taken, that time would surely be now. Families are far greater and more important than any political party. The pain caused by the death of innocent children is universal. This would be the time and event which could start the path of healing. One could think that. And yet, one would be wrong.

Even as first responders and volunteers were placing their own lives in harm’s way, as a parent’s worst nightmare played out before their eyes, the social injustice, keyboard warriors, including some in the eating disorder community, began to spew forth their hate filled narrative. A narrative which gave new life to a quote widely attributed to Josef Stalin, “One death is a tragedy. A million deaths is a statistic.” Perhaps we have a tendency to feel more deeply individual losses rather than full scale tragedies. Regardless, the tsunami of political venom flowed with incredible force.

At this point, it would have been so easy to wrap oneself in righteous indignation, to call out the callous and unfeeling. To point out how people, lost in their own self-importance and identification politics, have exacerbated the pain for those families whose loss cannot be imagined.

Numerous people use social media as the vehicle to parade their ignorance. They believe that an entire segment of our society, literally millions of people are fundamentally bad because of whom they supported in the last election. As a society, we cannot allow ourselves to degenerate into this madness.

I choose to believe that people have the ability to rise above a crisis and to embrace the very best in humanity. That we can see the best in people. That when confronted with seemingly overwhelming strife, we have the ability to care the most for our fellow human beings. We hug parents who have experienced the most horrific loss possible. We honor those brave warriors who saved so many lives.

We remember. We mourn. We cry. We support those who must bear the most horrific loss possible. We feel and must remember our humanity.

In this article, I had intended to go off on those who had used this tragedy as a platform upon which to build their own destructive narrative. But then, loved ones (all 2 of them) and friends (all 3 of them) in essence stated, “Dunn, you are a f*cking loon if you do that! You will be no better than them if you do!”

They were and are … right. And I would have been so wrong. Wrong to pontificate. Wrong to inflate my views above all others. I cannot and will not, castigate others while my character flaws and faults are so prevalent and are a work in progress.

My heart goes out to those parents whose beloved children have been so cruelly taken. I know what it is like to experience that type of pain. The agonizing, soul crushing pain. But it would be so wrong to impose my own narrow views upon others. We are all unique, singular souls. And so, I mourn with you. And should any parent reach out, I will cry with you, I will hold you … you have a safe place.

And maybe, just maybe for the briefest period of time, we can escape our pain, our sorrow, our anger, our fear, through grace. And perhaps through humor. For me, Robin Williams provided that respite from heartache at least for a little while. I hope everyone can find their own goodness and love of life somewhere. Somehow.

Sound Advice at Last.

In the past eight (8) years, I have seen various psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists, counselors, shrinks, shamans, witch doctors and a few exorcists. (It takes a special sentient being to understand the many flaws and quirks which exist within me.)

But finally, I located one whose advice was incredibly keen and insightful. It moved me so much that I got permission to record his advice and share it online.

Of course, the advice was centered on me, being a father whose 23 year old daughter died from anorexia after she fought it for many years. We explored the inevitable guilt and depressive feelings that any father would have under these circumstances.

This is the advice given:

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/0Zl4KjRFf5Q

The advice received from the many, past mental health professionals who attempted to meander through my psyche in an attempt to reach me on a deep level, pales in comparison to this advice. This advice was the most insightful, sound, strong and compassionate I received.

And then … things get strange … very strange.

What makes it strange is that the person in the above video is not a person at all … it is actually an Ai generated image. The advice? Word for word came from an Ai program. And not a program specially designed for mental health issues. But a generic ChatGPT program. The image at the start of this article? Ai generated.

Some undoubtedly knew that from the beginning. I am no impressario of Ai generated images. But other people are. People who design and perfect silicone based programs.

These programs are still in their infancy. Imagine what these programs will be like in 2 years … or 5 years … or 10 years.

As a society, we believe that these programs can never have human empathy or life experiences so they will never be as insightful as person-to-person interaction. But that also means these programs will never have issues with countertransference or the incompetence or inherent failings of human beings. Go back and listen to the words being used. This silicone based program used words we associate with compassion, with caring, with concern.

Human generated therapy software programs are here to stay. Generated images improve in depth and quality seemingly every day. Therapy software programs are evolving as they continue to expand and learn.

The question that our mental health professionals need to be asking themselves at this point should not be, “should I be incorporating these programs in my practice in some way …”

But rather … “how am I going to incorporate these programs in my practice?”

The future is here.

Your choice is to embrace it … or be left behind.