A Mother’s Guide To Hidden Emotions And Healing

The Little Book of Feelings | The Complete Audiobook Experience for Moms

What if understanding your feelings could transform your motherhood?

In this special full-length audiobook episode, you'll journey through The Little Book of Feelings—a gentle guide to navigating the emotions that shape our lives. Together, we'll explore feelings like sadness, anger, fear, guilt, love, peace, gratitude, and more with curiosity, compassion, and practical tools for emotional well-being.

This isn't just a book to listen to—it's an experience.

Each chapter includes:
• A gentle yoga pose to help you embody the lesson
• Mindfulness and breathing practices to calm your nervous system
• Journal prompts for deeper reflection
• Simple ways to apply each feeling to everyday motherhood
• Encouragement to create more peace, connection, and joy at home

Whether you're feeling overwhelmed, emotionally exhausted, or simply longing for a moment to breathe, this audiobook is your invitation to slow down, reconnect with yourself, and remember that your feelings matter.

At Feelings Fitness, we believe:

Yoga + Mindfulness = Emotional Well-Being

So grab a journal, roll out your yoga mat (or simply get comfortable), and let's explore the feelings that make us human—one chapter at a time.

If this episode encourages you, please subscribe, leave a review, and share it with another mom who could use a little more peace today.

Transcript

Opening And The Emotional Map

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The Little Book of Feelings Honoring the Hidden Emotions of Motherhood by Suzanne Bazarco. Chapter 1. Resentment.

Resentment And The Invisible Load

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It's late. The house is finally quiet. The dishwasher hums softly in the background. My husband is asleep. The kids are tucked in. This is the moment I'm supposed to feel peace. The kind everyone talks about when they say, just wait until the house is quiet. But instead there's a knot in my chest. My mind whispers something small but sharp. No one even noticed. Resentment doesn't arrive like a storm. It doesn't crash through the door or announce itself loudly. It builds like a slow fog, settling in without asking permission. It collects in the corners of ordinary moments. The third time you're the one to make the dentist appointment, the mental note to buy more milk, the invisible work of remembering birthdays, permission slips, and who needs new shoes. It grows in the quiet understanding that these things will be handled. Not because you were asked, but because you always do. At first, resentment is easy to dismiss. You tell yourself it's not a big deal. You remind yourself of everything you should be grateful for. You swallow it, smooth it over, keep going. After all, this is what good mothers do. They carry the load without complaint. They keep the peace. But resentment doesn't disappear when it's ignored. It just goes underground. When I finally sat with it, really sat with it, I realized something important. Resentment wasn't a sign that I was ungrateful or unloving. It wasn't proof that I was failing as a wife or a mother. It was my body waving a flag trying to get my attention. It was the ache of being needed constantly, but not always being seen. The exhaustion of being essential, but rarely acknowledged. Resentment is layered. It can feel like deep fatigue mixed with quiet sadness, frustration tangled up with guilt. It lives behind the polite smile when you say, it's fine, even though it isn't. It shows up when you feel both indispensable and invisible at the same time. For mothers, this feeling often stays hidden because we're taught to be good, selfless, easygoing, and grateful. We're told love means giving without keeping score. So when resentment shows up, we turn it inward. We shame ourselves for feeling it. We wonder what's wrong with us. But resentment isn't selfish, it's information. It's a map pointing us back to our unmet needs. Rest, support, appreciation, partnership, space, needs that matter just as much as everyone else is in the house. Resentment doesn't mean you love less. It means you've been carrying more than your share for too long. When you stop pushing it down, when you let it speak instead of silencing it, you can finally hear what it's been trying to say all along. You matter too. In the body, resentment often settles physically even when we don't have words for it. Tight jaw, clenched teeth, shoulders rounded forward as if bracing, breath trapped, high in the chest. These are signs of holding, guarding, enduring. Yoga practice. Gentle movement can help release what words alone cannot. Supported heart opener, supine twist, kneeling chest expansion, supported heart opener to soften the chest where resentment collects. Supine twist to wring out emotions that feel stuck or unspoken. Kneeling chest expansion to reclaim space and remind the body it's allowed to take up room. Breath work. Long exhale release. Inhale for four. Exhale for six. This extended exhale signals safety to the nervous system and gently loosens held frustration, inviting the body to let go. Journaling prompts. Where in my life am I carrying resentment quietly? What expectation or imbalance lives beneath it? What would it look like to voice this need out loud? Chapter 2. Joy.

Joy That Shows Up Mid-Chaos

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She twirled in the living room, tiny bare feet slapping softly against the hardwood floors, a princess dress floating around her legs, cowboy boots on the wrong feet. Her giggle ran out pure, unfiltered, and it felt like sunlight pouring straight into my chest. For a moment, time slowed. Then my brain jumped to the laundry pile waiting down the hall. The moment passed. But that flicker of joy stayed with me. Joy has a funny way of showing up quietly, slipping into our lives without ceremony. It doesn't wait for things to calm down or the house to be clean. It arrives in the middle of chaos, not after it. It lives in kitchen dance parties, shared glances across a crowded room, sticky hands reaching for yours, the sound of your child's laugh echoing through the hallway. And yet we so often push past it. We hurry back to the to-do list, the mental tabs constantly open, the belief that everything must be handled before we're allowed to enjoy anything. Joy becomes something postponed, something we promise ourselves later. After the dishes, after bedtime, after life feels easier. I used to think joy was something I had to earn, something reserved for vacations, milestones, or moments when I finally felt caught up. But joy doesn't wait for the laundry to be folded. It doesn't require permission. It belongs to us in the middle of our messy, ordinary, beautiful lives. Joy also has a softness that can feel unfamiliar when you've been living in survival mode. When you're used to bracing yourself, joy can feel almost suspicious, even uncomfortable. It can bring up guilt. How can I feel this good when there's still so much to do? Or fear. If I let this in, will it disappear faster? But joy isn't frivolous. It's not a distraction from real life. It's what keeps us from going numb inside it. Joy is the light that flickers on in the midst of motherhood, reminding us we are still here, still alive, still connected, still capable of wonder. Joy doesn't erase hard days, it doesn't cancel exhaustion or grief. It simply coexists. It says both can be true. Life can be heavy, and this moment can still be sweet. When we learn to stay with joy just a little longer, to linger in it, breathe it in, let it move through our bodies instead of rushing away, it begins to change us. What once felt like a fleeting spark becomes a steady heartbeat, not loud, not constant, but reliable. Joy becomes something we recognize, something we trust, something we allow. In the body, joy often feels expansive and warm. Warm chest, open shoulders, lightness in the breath, energy that wants to move or sway. Yoga practice. Invite joy through gentle, expansive movement, mountain pose with arms lifted to open through the heart. Playful balance like tree pose with a gentle sway to invite lightness and ease. Open arm flows to mirror joy's expansive nature, breath work, three-part breath, belly, ribs, chest. This full expansion mirrors the way joy grows when we allow ourselves to fully receive it. Journaling prompts. What simple, ordinary moments bring me joy but often go unnoticed? How can I allow myself to stay in joy longer instead of rushing past it? If joy had a sound, texture, or color, what would it be? Chapter

Overwhelm And Nervous System Signals

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3 Overwhelm. The morning started fine. Cereal bowls on the counter, backpacks by the door, the familiar scramble for lost shoes. By 8.15, the house felt like a storm. Noise layered on noise, requests stacking faster than I could respond. My chest was buzzing, my jaw tight, my brain like a browser with too many tabs open. Nothing was catastrophic, nothing was technically wrong, and yet together it felt like too much. Overwhelm is one of the most common emotional states in motherhood, and one of the least acknowledged. It doesn't usually arrive as one big crisis. More often it's built from a thousand small, invisible responsibilities, each one light on its own, but heavy when carried together. The packed lunches, the permission slips, the doctor's appointments, the emails waiting for replies, the emotional temperature of the room. It's the way your brain holds the weight of everyone else's world all day long. For years I didn't even call this feeling overwhelm. I just called it normal. This is just how life is. This is what motherhood feels like. But it's not normal to live with a racing mind, a tense chest, and a constant undercurrent of don't forget. It's not sustainable to always be on, always scanning, always anticipating what comes next. Overwhelm is not a failure of organization or willpower. It's a nervous system trying to keep up with an impossible pace. It's what happens when the demands outnumber the support, when the expectation is to handle everything without pausing, without help, without rest. When I finally started noticing the early signs of overwhelm, before the snapping, before the tears, before the shutdown, something shifted. I stopped waiting for the breaking point. I learned to pause in the middle, to breathe before the eruption, to make space instead of pushing harder. Because overwhelm isn't asking us to do more, it's asking us to slow down. Overwhelm isn't a character flaw. It's not proof that you're bad at this or that you can't handle motherhood. It's information, a signal that something needs to change. Whether that's the pace, the expectations, the support, or the way we speak to ourselves. You don't need to earn relief. You don't need to justify your exhaustion. Overwhelm doesn't mean you're failing. It means you're human. In the body. Overwhelm often shows up physically before we name it emotionally. Tight chest, shoulders lifted and tense, breath trapped high in the chest. These are signs the nervous system is bracing. Yoga practice. Gentle grounding postures can help bring the body back to safety. Child's pose to soften and return to grounding. Forward fold to let the world fall away for a moment. Legs up the wall to regulate the nervous system and invite calm. Breath work. Box breathing. Inhale for four. Hold four. Exhale four. Hold four. This structured breath slows racing thoughts and gives the nervous system a predictable rhythm to settle into. Journaling prompts. What's currently filling my cup? What's draining it drop by drop? If I gave myself five minutes to breathe, what would change? Chapter 4.

Loneliness In A Full House

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Loneliness. The car line was full, moms on their phones, moms waving from across the lot, moms who looked like they belonged. I sat in the front seat with my coffee cooling in the cup holder and felt something. A quiet ache inside me. Not alone, just lonely. Motherhood can be both full and hollow at the same time. The days are crowded, children tugging at your sleeve, a partner asking questions, notifications lighting up your phone. There's always someone nearby, and yet there can be a deep sense of being unseen. Loneliness in motherhood is confusing because it doesn't look the way we expect it to. We imagine loneliness as empty rooms or long stretches of silence, but this kind of loneliness happens in full houses and busy parking lots. It happens while sitting on the couch as your kids play nearby. It happens when you're surrounded by people and still feel invisible. Loneliness isn't just about lacking people. It's about lacking connection. It's about missing the version of yourself that felt alive, curious, and known, not just needed. It's about craving depth in a season that can feel all surface. Logistics, schedules, conversations that skim but never land. This kind of loneliness is quiet. It hides behind small talk and routines. It slips into moments you don't expect and lingers longer than you'd like. It can be painful to admit out loud because it sounds like ingratitude. How can I feel lonely when I have so much? But loneliness isn't ungrateful. It's honest. It's your soul longing for real connection with others and with yourself. For a long time, I tried to outrun in. I stayed busy. I told myself this was just a season. I minimized the ache and kept moving. But loneliness doesn't disappear when it's ignored, just grows quieter and heavier. When I finally stopped pretending it wasn't there, something softened. I realized loneliness wasn't a failure or a personal flaw. It wasn't proof that something was wrong with me or my life. It was a signpost, a gentle, persistent nudge pointing toward what I was missing. Community, creativity, self-reflection, I'd been too busy to reach for. Loneliness wasn't asking me to escape my life. It was asking me to come back to myself. And slowly, when I began naming it without fixing it, without shaming it, it loosened its grip. Not because everything changed, but because I stopped carrying it alone. In the body, loneliness often settles quietly in the body. Tightness in the throat, a hollow feeling in the chest, a low, dull ache in the belly. Yoga practice. Gentle, heart-centered movement can support reconnection. Seated forward fold to invite inward reflection. Supported bridge pose to softly open the heart. Gentle heart opener to allow connection to trickle in. Mindfulness practice. Write a letter to your future self. Not a list of goals, a love letter to the woman you are becoming. Journaling prompts. Where in my life do I feel unseen or disconnected? What kind of connection am I truly craving right now? How can I offer myself the belonging I keep searching for everywhere? Chapter 5. Gratitude.

Gratitude Without Toxic Positivity

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I stood at the kitchen sink, exhausted. The day had been long, the house still a mess. Light poured in through the window, catching dust in the air. From the other room, I could hear my daughter humming to herself. My breath slowed, a small wave of gratitude settled in. It didn't fix the mess, but it softened it. For a long time I misunderstood gratitude. I thought it meant ignoring hard feelings, overriding exhaustion with positivity, silencing frustration with you should be grateful. Whenever I felt tired or resentful, that phrase showed up like a scolding voice in my head. And instead of bringing peace, it made me feel smaller, quieter, less allowed to be honest. That version of gratitude felt like pressure, and pressure never brings relief. Real gratitude is different. It's not loud or performative, it doesn't demand a list or a smile. It doesn't ask you to pretend everything is okay when it isn't. Real gratitude is gentle. It lets softness sit beside the hard instead of trying to replace it. It simply says, and this moment matters too. Gratitude isn't about denying reality, it's about widening it. It's noticing the warm light on the kitchen floor even when the dishes are still stacked. It's hearing laughter drift down the hallway after a day that felt heavy. It's the deep exhale after everyone finally falls asleep, when the house grows quiet and you realize you made it through. Gratitude doesn't cancel grief, it doesn't erase overwhelm. It doesn't undo resentment. It just creates space around them. There were days when gratitude felt impossible, days when the weight was too heavy, the fatigue too deep, and that's okay. Gratitude isn't meant to be forced. When it's real, it arrives naturally, often in the smallest moments. A shared glance, a familiar sound, a sense of safety in your own body. Gratitude doesn't have to be grand to be powerful. It doesn't need fireworks or milestones. Sometimes it's simply a steady hand on your back, reminding you you're here, you're breathing, this moment is enough. And over time, these small moments begin to anchor us. Not because life gets easier, but because we learn how to notice what's still holding us in the body. Gratitude often feels subtle and settling. Gentle expansion in the chest, slow, steady breath, shoulders softening without effort, yoga practice. Invite grounded presence and ease. Gentle standing flow to move with awareness. Mount imposed to ground and steady. Hands to heart center to acknowledge what's here. Breath work. Inhale gratitude. Exhale a soft sigh. This simple breath mirrors the ease of letting gratitude in without forcing it. Journaling prompts. What am I grateful for right now, even if it's ordinary? How can gratitude be a daily anchor rather than a pressure? What moments make me feel quietly safe? Chapter 6. Guilt.

Guilt From Impossible Standards

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He asked me to play. I told him no. I was tired. My brain was already spiraling and everything still left to do. I needed a moment, maybe more than a moment. That night as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, guilt curled up beside me like an unwelcome guest. Guilt is stitched into motherhood. It shows up whether you're working or staying home, saying yes or saying no, doing everything or needing rest. It doesn't wait for clear mistakes. It arrives quietly, often after the day is done, replaying moments and asking you to measure yourself against a standard that was never human to begin with. For a long time I believed guilt was proof that I had done something wrong, that if I felt it, I must deserve it. But when I started paying closer attention, I realized something important. Most of the guilt I carried didn't come from harm I'd caused, it came from impossible expectations. Guilt whispers, you're not doing enough. It grows in the space between who you think a good mom should be and the real breathing woman you are, the one with limits, the one who gets tired, the one who can love deeply and still need space. Some guilt has a purpose. It can be a teacher, a quiet nudge toward repair when something truly needs tending. It reminds us to apologize, to reconnect, to do better when better is needed. Some guilt has a purpose. It can be a teacher, a quiet nudge toward repair when something truly needs tending. It reminds us to apologize, to reconnect, to do better when better is needed. But most of the guilt mothers carry isn't instructional. It's noise. Noise from cultural messages that glorifies self-sacrifice and perfection. Noise that equates worth with productivity, patience, and endless availability. Noise that tells us rest must be earned and needs are selfish. That kind of guilt doesn't help us grow, it only keeps us small. When I learned to pause and question guilt, instead of immediately obeying it, something softened. I stopped assuming it was always telling the truth. I began asking different questions. Not what did I do wrong, but what do I need right now? When I replaced I should with I'm human, guilt loosened its grip. Guilt doesn't disappear overnight, but it quiets when it's understood. When we learn to separate responsibility from self-punishment, when we allow repair without requiring shame. You are allowed to rest without apology. You are allowed to say no and still be loving. You are allowed to be enough without proving it. In the body, guilt often settles low and heavy, heavy feeling in the gut, rounded shoulders, quiet, shallow breathing, yoga practice, gentle practices to soften self-judgment, seated twist for emotional clarity, heart melting pose to open and soften, supported forward fold to release shame and pressure, breath work, alternate nostril breathing to balance the mind and calm inner judgment. Journaling prompts. What story is feeding this guilt? Is it true or a reflection of impossible standards? How can I offer myself grace in this moment? Chapter

Peace Inside The Noise

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7 Peace. The kitchen was loud, dishes clanging, kids. Laughing, someone yelling for a towel. The day was still moving fast, and yet standing at the counter with a warm cup of coffee in my hands, I felt still. Not because life was calm, but because I was. For a long time I misunderstood peace. I thought it meant silence, escape, a clean house, an empty calendar. I believed peace would arrive once everything was finished, organized and under control. If I could just quiet the noise around me, surely I could quiet the noise inside me too. But the quiet never came. Peace isn't the absence of chaos. Peace is a steady pulse inside it. I spent years chasing it, trying to manage my way into calm. I cleaned harder, tried to do things better, waited for the perfect moment when no one needed me. But peace kept slipping through my fingers because I was looking for it outside myself. Peace found me when I stopped chasing it. It showed up in the middle of a noisy kitchen, in the pause between breaths, in the realization that stillness isn't something I earn once life cooperates. It's something I can cultivate within. Peace didn't require silence, it required permission. Peace is soft. It doesn't shout or demand attention. It doesn't announce itself with dramatic change. It simply invites you to exhale, to soften your jaw, to settle back into your own presence even when the sink is full and the house is alive with sound. Peace isn't a permanent state. It comes and goes, often quietly. Sometimes it lasts only a few seconds, a breath, a pause, a moment of grounding. But those moments matter. They accumulate. They remind us that calm is not something we have to wait for. It's something our bodies remember when they feel safe enough to let go. Peace doesn't mean nothing is wrong. It means you are no longer bracing against everything. And when peace becomes something we practice, rather than something we pursue, it becomes accessible. Even here, even now, even in the middle of the noise. In the body, peace often feels subtle and steady. Relaxed jaw, open chest, steady breath low in the belly, yoga practice, practices that invite deep settling, restorative shavasana to allow full release, supported legs up the wall to soothe the nervous system, soft seated meditation to return inward. Breath work. Four, seven, eight. Calming breath. Inhale for four. Hold for seven. Exhale for eight. A longer exhale cues the parasympathetic nervous system and gently guides the body into rest. Journaling prompts. When have I felt truly at peace recently? What daily rituals bring me back to myself? How can I let peace live in the middle of the noise?

Sadness As Love In Motion

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Chapter 8. Sadness. I was folding the tiny clothes she'd outgrown. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that invites memory. I held up the little onesies and felt the lump rise in my throat. It wasn't just fabric, it was a chapter ending. Sadness is a sacred guest. It arrives at endings, transitions, and the quiet in betweens. It shows up when something meaningful has shifted, sometimes without warning, sometimes long after we thought we'd moved on. For a long time I tried to outrun sadness. I smiled through it, filled my schedule, powered on. I treated sadness like a weakness, something to manage or eliminate as quickly as possible. But sadness isn't something to conquer. It's something to let move through you. As mothers, we carry so many bittersweet moments. First steps and last nights in the crib, growing up and letting go happening at the same time. There is joy here, yes, but there is also grief. And that grief doesn't mean we love less. It means we love deeply. Sadness in motherhood isn't a failure of gratitude. It's love wearing a different outfit. There were moments when the sadness surprised me when life was objectively good, when nothing was wrong, and yet something inside felt heavy. This kind of sadness doesn't always come with a clear story. Sometimes it's about what was, sometimes it's about what will never be again, sometimes it's about who you used to be. When I finally stopped resisting it and I let the tears come instead of swallowing them, they didn't destroy me, they softened me. Sadness released something I didn't even realize I was gripping so tightly. Sadness doesn't ask to be fixed, it asks to be felt. And when it's met with tenderness instead of urgency, it does what it's meant to do. It moves, it clears, it makes room. In the body, sadness often settles gently but heavily, heavy chest, ache in the heart center, water in the eyes, yoga practice, postures that support release and surrender, child's pose to rest and return to the earth, hip openers where the deep emotion is often stored, forward fold to let go, breath work, soft belly breathing, long inhales, longer exhales, allowing emotion to rise and fall naturally. Journaling prompts. What sadness is asking to be felt right now? What memory or moment am I grieving? How can I hold this sadness gently instead of pushing it away? Chapter 9. Anger.

Anger As A Boundary Compass

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It was the fifth time someone called, Mom, in under two minutes. The mess, the noise, the endless needs pulling at me from every direction. I snapped. The door slammed, I stood there breathless and guilty, the echo of my own roar hanging in the air. Anger has always been a complicated guest. Many of us were taught to fear it, especially as women, especially as mothers. We were praised for being calm, accommodating, nice. Anger felt dangerous, unacceptable, something to suppress or apologize for. But anger isn't the enemy. It's a message. Anger says a boundary has been crossed. It says, this matters to me. For years I buried my anger beneath a polished smile. I told myself to be more patient, more understanding, more flexible. But buried anger doesn't disappear, it vesters. It leaks out sideways as irritability, exhaustion, resentment, or sudden explosions that surprise even us. When I finally began listening to my anger instead of suppressing it, I realized something important. Anger wasn't trying to ruin anything. It was trying to protect me. Anger is a compass. It points toward places where I need support, where I need to say no, where I need to ask for help, where I need to claim space instead of shrinking. Anger when honored and held with care doesn't lead to destruction. It leads to clarity. It helps us name what isn't working. It shows us where change is needed, not through force, but through honesty. Anger isn't something to fear, it's something to work with. In the body, anger often shows up as heat and tension, heat in the belly, clenched jaw, tense hands or fists, yoga practice, movement to safely channel and release energy. Warrior pose. Flow to turn fire into strength. Forward fold to cool and ground. Shoulder rolls and release to let go of held tension. Breath work. A primal release that clears pressure without harm. Journaling prompts. What boundary is my anger pointing to? What is it trying to protect? How can I release the fire without burning myself? Chapter 10.

Love As The Thread That Holds

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Love. The lights were low, the house finally quiet. My daughter's small hand rested in mine as she drifted towards sleep. Her breathing slowed, mine followed. Love wasn't loud in that moment. It didn't announce itself. It was steady, quiet. It was the thread that had held me through every emotion in this book. Love is what remains when everything else softens, when the sharp edges of the day round out, and what's left is presence. It's the undercurrent beneath resentment, joy, overwhelm, loneliness, gratitude, guilt, sadness, anger, and peace. Love is the glue holding our messy human stories together. So often we imagine love as something grand, big gestures, endless patience, perfect presence. But real love is rarely dramatic. More often it's subtle. It's showing up even when you're tired, staying even after you've snapped, repairing instead of retreating, trying again. Love lives in the whispered, I love you in the dark, in the quiet way you keep going, in the choice to remain open even when it would be easier to shut down. Love doesn't mean getting it right all the time. It means staying connected when things go wrong. It means coming back again and again to what matters. And perhaps most importantly, love isn't only what we give to others. It's what we return to ourselves. For a long time, I thought loving myself was optional, something I could get to once everyone else was taken care of. But love that flows only outward eventually runs dry. A mother who loves herself fully doesn't love less. She loves more freely, not from depletion, but from abundance. Self-love is an indulgence. It's foundational. It's how we stay present. It's how we soften instead of hardening. It's how we remain open to joy, peace, and connection. Love is not fragile. It doesn't disappear when emotions get messy. It outlives the storm. It remains when the noise fades. It's the steady beat beneath it all. The place we can always return to. Love is the thread that holds everything together. In the body, love often feels open and warm. Open chest, soft gaze, warmth in the hands. Yoga practice. Practices to cultivate openness and rest. Heart opening flow to invite expansion. Supported bridge pose to gently open the chest. Shavasna with hands over heart to rest in connection. Breath work. Loving kindness meditation. Silently or aloud. May I be safe? May I be loved? May I be free. Then, may they be safe. May they be loved. May they be free. Journaling prompts. Where can I offer myself more love? How can I love people without losing myself? How can I return to love as my anchor each day?

Closing Prompts And Extra Support

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Closing reflection. You've met your feelings here. Resentment, joy, overwhelm, loneliness, gratitude, guilt, peace, sadness, anger, love. Each one holds wisdom. Each one carries a story. Each one is worthy of being felt. End prompts. Which emotion surprised me most? Which one do I try to avoid? Which one felt like coming home? How can I make space for all of it? You're not too much for your feelings. Your feelings are your map back home. If you'd like extra support with yoga poses andor breath work, you'll find me on Facebook, Feelings Fitness, Emotions for Moms, and the Stay At Home Mom Studio.