Scrappy Sam

Ever accidentally get copied on an email that was not meant for you?

Yeah. Me too.

Like today. When one of my clients casually mentioned he was replacing me “with a new gal in a few months.”

A new gal.

I read it twice, just to make sure my decaf coffee hadn’t spiked itself.

Apparently this gal got old. Expired. Past her best-by date. Should’ve come with a sticker: Consume within three fiscal quarters.

We’ve worked together for a few years. I’ve referred him business. We’ve sat in meetings, traded ideas, laughed about clients, built campaigns that went legitimately viral. Not marketing-viral. Real viral. The kind where strangers comment things like, whoever runs this account deserves a raise.

And yet. Here we are.

Tossed aside with the breezy efficiency of a seasonal throw pillow.

I think what surprised me most wasn’t the replacement. Marketing is a carousel. Everyone’s chasing the newest thing, the shiniest strategy, the younger algorithm whisperer. I get that. This industry has the emotional stability of a toddler on a sugar crash.

It was the word.

Gal.

Somewhere between 1952 and now, that word survived like a cockroach. Men in business still reach for it when they want a woman to sound smaller. Friendlier. Replaceable. A gal is interchangeable. A gal is decorative. A gal is… temporary.

A professional is not.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth I don’t love admitting: being a woman has opened doors for me in marketing. It has. I walk into rooms I might not get into otherwise. People underestimate you when you’re a gal. And sometimes that underestimation is a Trojan horse — you slip in, do excellent work, and suddenly they’re shocked you have a brain and a strategy.

But the girl card has a limit.

Apparently mine has an expiration date.

I’ve been sitting with this all morning, trying to figure out why it hit so hard. It’s not the lost account. I’ll get another one. I always do. Work is renewable. Skills are renewable.

It’s the disposable feeling.

That quiet realization that in some corners of business, loyalty is thinner than the paper your contract was printed on. Years of work can be summarized in one sentence: we’ll swap her out for a new gal.

No conversation. No transition. No acknowledgment.

Just… next.

And if I’m honest, the part that stings isn’t even about him.

It’s the mirror.

Because how often do we do this to ourselves? Tie our worth to how useful we are to someone else? To how long we stay shiny? To whether we’re the current favorite flavor?

The lesson, I think, is this:

Do excellent work. But never confuse proximity with friendship.
Be warm. But don’t build your identity on being chosen.
And for the love of all things holy, don’t shrink yourself into a “gal” to stay likable.

I am not a gal.

I am a professional business owner who built something valuable. If someone can’t see the value anymore, that doesn’t make it disappear. It just means my work is meant for a room with better lighting.

And maybe the real expiration date here isn’t me.

It’s the version of me that thought being indispensable to someone else was the goal.

It’s not.

Being indispensable to myself is.

I’ve been skiing with the boys all week and I’d like to formally acknowledge that I am no longer 22. My legs have submitted evidence. But somewhere between the soreness, the altitude, and the quiet luxury of the mountain, I remembered something important.

I used to be this girl.

In high school and college I was in ski club, then the club team. We had a condo in Mammoth growing up, and I’ve been on skis since I was three — which means I learned to walk and fall at roughly the same time. Inevitably, I outpaced most of the girls ability-wise. I’d room with them, sure. But when the lifts opened, I disappeared into the trees with the guys.

We spent our days launching ourselves off anything that could reasonably be justified as a jump, shredding moguls, and racing straight down runs that required both skill and questionable judgment. It was the freest I’ve ever felt in my life. The beauty. The speed. That thin line between control and flight where your mind goes quiet and your body takes over. Almost flying.

The boys never gossiped. No post-run dissections of who said what and what it meant. I earned my respect the simplest way possible — by keeping up. By sending it. By wiping out, laughing, and going again. Were they immature? Deeply. But it was clean. Easy. The mountain didn’t care about feelings. It cared if you could ski.

This trip felt like opening a door I hadn’t walked through in years.

It was an executive retreat hosted by my boyfriend — four brilliant men who also happen to be exceptional skiers, plus one snowboarder who may legitimately be the best I’ve ever seen. Watching him ride was like watching physics take the day off. Effortless. Precise. Calm.

That first day, we covered 32 miles of terrain. Thirty-two. We stacked more double blacks in one day than I’ve done in the last 15 years combined. It was intense and technical and humbling and exhilarating in the way only real challenge can be. There were moments I questioned my life choices — and then pointed my skis anyway.

The gauntlet was high. And I stepped up.

We scaled it back the following days because we’re adults with calendars and responsibilities and bodies that now require recovery. But that one day stood apart. It reminded me that growth lives just outside comfort. That living sometimes means choosing the harder line — doing the thing that scares you because it calls you back to yourself.

At this stage of my life, I’m intentional about the women I surround myself with — women who build instead of compare, who move instead of measure, who understand that becoming is far more interesting than performing. That lesson didn’t come from a podcast or a caption. It came years ago, from ski guys who showed me that respect is earned through action and joy is found in forward motion.

I’m heading home today exhausted. Sore. Slightly offended by stairs.

And completely full.

My body is tired.
My spirit is soaring.

Turns out the version of me who flies down double blacks never left. She was just waiting for an invitation.

I did something hard.

And she showed up.

What a gift. I’m taking her with me.

I didn’t plan to write about this. Honestly, I would’ve rather written a post about holiday elf antics or the importance of good lip gloss while prepping holiday meals. But after almost a year of repeatedly being called a few choice names I won’t print on my blog, and—my personal favorite—being told I’m “going to hell” via LinkedIn, I decided it was time to put pen to paper (or keyboard to blogosphere).

Not because I want to rehash drama, but because I realized something: we talk a lot about emotional abuse in dating and marriage, but rarely admit that it can happen in friendships too.

And if I, a grown ass, therapy-loving, boundary-practicing woman, can still get blindsided by it—maybe someone else out there is quietly grieving over a friendship they can’t explain.

So here we are.

This isn’t a rant. It’s a release.
A little truth-telling with a side of grace (and maybe one raised eyebrow).
A love letter to every person who walked away from a friendship and wondered, “Does this make me the bad guy?”

You’re not. And if no one’s said it yet… welcome to the conversation we should’ve been having all along.

The Friendship No One Warns You About

Almost a year ago, I confronted a friend about some things that had been bothering me for a while: negative, critical comments directed at me and my relationship. Thinly veiled jealousy. Small jabs. Sarcastic digs. The kind of comments that leave you feeling a little smaller every time you walk away.

I didn’t yell. I didn’t attack. I scheduled a sit down and simply said, “This hurt me.”

The response? Textbook deflection. Minimized my feelings. Flipped it. Ghosted me for a few weeks.

Texted me “I’m sorry you think I’m negative.”

Hmmmmm….

So, I asked for space. Set a boundary. And quietly walked away from a relationship that no longer felt safe.

I kept waiting to miss the friendship. Feel sad or any emotion. But none came. I actually felt better without someone actively popping holes in my balloon on a daily basis.

And then things escalated in a way I honestly never saw coming.

Her husband began sending harassing messages to both me and my boyfriend. For months. Texts, voicemails, and even LinkedIn messages after I blocked him on my phone. Under the guise of “clearing things up,” the messages were full of pressure, guilt, and accusation.

Nine months of it.

Recently, we ran into them. We were still at a distance when my boyfriend and I looked at each other and silently agreed: Let’s bail. So, we turned around and walked out. (I had received another crummy message only the week before from him)

That night, our phones lit up.

We were called cowards. Pathetic. Cruel. Horrible people. Bad words were used. It was ugly. I was told I abandoned her and threw away the friendship “like trash.”

I cannot tell you how disorienting it is to be harassed, attacked, and then portrayed as the heartless one who walked away.

I felt misunderstood, slandered, and honestly—emotionally battered.

It took me a minute (okay, more than a minute) to realize:
This wasn’t just “a conflict that got out of hand.”

This was emotional abuse in a friendship.

Wait… Can Friends Be Emotionally Abusive?

Short answer: yes.

Friendship abuse doesn’t always look like screaming or threats. Often, it looks like that kind of “friendship banter” that isn’t actually banter?

Like when every hangout includes at least one “harmless joke” that lands somewhere between ouch and did she really just say that?
Or the sneaky little jabs about your ex, your life choices, your faith—wrapped in a smile and the feeling that somehow you are the “project”.
(Translation: I get to say something rude, you’re not allowed to react.)

Then you finally set a boundary—and suddenly you’ve committed a felony. Cue the silent treatment, guilt trips, or the unofficial Friendship CNN segment titled What’s Wrong With You and Why Everyone Should Know About It.

Try to express how you feel, and faster than you can say “emotional maturity,” they’ve shape-shifted into the wounded party.
Or they tag in their spouse like it’s WWE’s Monday Night Friendship Smackdown.

You ask for space, but instead of space you get monologues. Long ones. Delivered across multiple platforms. Sometimes even LinkedIn—because nothing says emotional stability like spiritual threats sandwiched between job endorsements.

You pull back, and within days there’s a brand-new storyline starring you as The Cruel, Unstable, Possibly Demonic Former Friend Who “Changed.”

And here’s the kicker:
If this were a romantic relationship, every woman you know would immediately start Googling therapists and divorce attorneys on your behalf.

But when it’s a friend?

Suddenly it’s:
“Oh, she’s just lashing out.”
“He’s protective of her.”
“You’re being too sensitive.”
“Come on, you’ve been friends for forever…”

Meanwhile, your nervous system is in the corner waving red flags like it’s trying to land a plane.

Why It’s So Hard to Call It What It Is

It feels dramatic to say, “My friend is emotionally abusive.”

We’d rather say things like “She’s just intense,” or “He can be a lot sometimes, or even sugar cookie it up with “We had a falling out.” Meanwhile, you’re losing sleep, replaying conversations in your head, and second-guessing your own reality.

Part of what makes this so hard is that, deep down, most of us are terrified of being seen as the bad guy, especially when the other person is already out there telling people you’re cruel or abandoning them. And it’s not like you didn’t care. You’ve got years of shared history… inside jokes, holidays, birthdays, even vacations together. There were real laughs, real connection, and losing that hurts.

Plus, many of us—especially as women—have been conditioned to keep the peace at all costs, to smooth things over even if it means swallowing our truth. And to complicate it further, they’re not awful all the time. There are good moments, which makes it so tempting to minimize the hurt, explain it away, or tell yourself “maybe it wasn’t that bad.” But what I had to accept (through tears, not toughness) was this: the way someone reacts when you set a boundary tells you everything you need to know about the health of the relationship.

And that truth is loud, even when spoken quietly.

Healthy friends might feel hurt or confused, but they don’t harass you, insult you, or recruit others to attack you.

They aren’t angry because you’re cruel—they’re angry because you didn’t give them unlimited access to you anymore. That is not friendship. That is entitlement.

Red Flags of Emotional Abuse in Friendship

If you’re wondering whether a friendship has crossed the line into emotional abuse, here are some signs to pay attention to:

• You feel anxious or tense before seeing them or answering their messages.
• You leave interactions feeling smaller, ashamed, or “less than.”
• They mock your feelings, partner, faith, job, or dreams—and then say you’re “too sensitive.”
• They never genuinely apologize—only deflect, minimize, or blame you.
• They make you feel guilty for having other friends, interests, or boundaries.
• They use information you’ve shared vulnerably as ammunition in conflict.
• When you pull back, they escalate—bombarding you with messages, insults, or pressure.
• They twist the story with others so they look like the victim and you look like the villain.

If you see yourself in this, please hear me:

You are not weak for feeling hurt. You are not bad for stepping away. And you are not “un-Christian” for protecting your heart.

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What It Looks Like to Protect Yourself

I’m still working this out, but here are some things I’m learning:

1. You’re allowed to go no contact.

You do not owe anyone unlimited access to you—especially someone who is actively hurting you or sending in their hit man to guilt you into submission.

Blocking someone after months of harassment is not petty. It’s self-protection.

2. Document the harassment.

Screenshots. Saved voicemails. Dates. Platforms.
If things escalate, this becomes important. Emotional abuse is still abuse. Repeated harassment is still harassment.

3. Resist the urge to defend your reputation to everyone.

Let people think what they want. The ones who truly know you will ask, “Hey, are you okay? What happened?” instead of assuming the worst.

You don’t have to send a group statement. You don’t have to build a case. Your life, character, and consistency will speak for you over time.

4. Remember: their reaction is a diagnosis, not a verdict.

They may call you horrible, selfish, unstable, or “going to hell on LinkedIn”
That doesn’t make it true.

Often, the things abusers call you are projections of what’s going on inside them.

5. Let yourself grieve.

You did lose something. Even if it was unhealthy, it was still real to you.

Grieve the friend you thought you had. Grieve the future you imagined with them in your life. Let those tears come—they’re part of healing, not weakness.

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Moving From “Why Me?” to “Thank God I’m Free”

I won’t pretend this process is neat and ted up with a pretty bow.

Some days, I feel strong and clear thinking, I did the right thing.
Other days, I feel shaky and misunderstood: How did we get here?

But underneath the swirl of emotions, one truth remains:

God is not in the business of guilting you into staying in emotionally abusive spaces.

Peace is often quiet. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a deep knowing: I am finally safe enough to exhale.

If you’re reading this and realizing, I think I’m in an emotionally abusive friendship, I want to gently say:

You’re not crazy, you’re not overreacting and you’re allowed to step back or even walk away entirely.

You are worthy of friendships where:

• You can share your heart without it being weaponized.
• Apologies are real, not manipulative.
• Boundaries are respected, not punished.
• Disagreements lead to deeper understanding, not character assassination.

That’s not asking too much.
That’s what healthy love looks like—even in friendship.

Blessings-Sam

Day 3 of the Gossip Detox Series
(aka: Just because it came out of your mouth doesn’t mean it started there.)

There’s a verse I’ve wrestled with for years. It’s short. Sharp. And just annoying enough to be true.

“Out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks.”
— Luke 6:45

Ouch, right?

Because if that’s true… really true, then the salty, sarcastic, and slightly unkind things I say from time to time? Yeah… they didn’t just come from nowhere. They came from me.

Deep breath.

Now, before we all spiral into guilt and start deleting our group chats, let’s take a second. This isn’t about shame. This is about awareness. It’s a heart check, not a scolding. And I’ll go first.

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Spiritual Arrows

So, here’s the thing: sometimes my words are, well… less than righteous. Not always. But occasionally. (Okay, more often than I’d like to admit.)

And every time I say something unkind about someone—even if it’s low-key, even if it’s funny in the moment, and then that person walks by? Instant gut punch. Like I shot an arrow I can’t retrieve. It didn’t physically pierce them—but it nicked something in me. In my heart.

Because even when our words never leave the room, our spirit knows what we did.

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Gossip Isn’t a Mouth Problem

Let’s be real for a second. Gossip doesn’t just come flying out of our mouths because we ran out of things to say or we had two glasses of wine and slipped. It comes from deeper stuff: our wounds, our brokenness and our ego.

• Validation: When we feel small, saying something that makes me look better or “more together” than someone else gives a cheap little ego boost. It feels good—for about 7 seconds.
• Control: Sometimes gossip is about owning the narrative. If you can plant the idea first, you get to set the tone, steer the room, or protect yourself from being misunderstood.
• Comparison: Christian women are so good at this one, aren’t we? We’ve learned how to wrap critique in spiritual packaging. (“We all need to pray she just needs to surrender that area to the Lord.”) Really?
• Entertainment or Status: And then there’s the one that stings the most—repeating something juicy because it makes you feel in the know. Like being validated by your proximity to information. (Even if that info is half-baked and wholly unconfirmed.)

None of these motivations serve anyone. And they create a distance between us and the heart of God.

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💃 Dance Moms and Dodging the Fire

There’ve been so many times, especially as a dance mom, where I’ve had to make a choice in the moment:

• Walk away from a gossip tea party
• Step in and change the subject
• Or go find the dads and talk about fantasy football and work

Sometimes I’ve gotten it right. Other times… not so much.

But the older I get, the more I’ve learned: It’s not about controlling the room. It’s about guarding my own heart… and my peace. Because once a fire is lit, you don’t always get to control what it burns.

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Reflect

Take five minutes and sit with this:

What have my words revealed lately about what’s going on inside me?
Fear? Envy? Insecurity? Exhaustion?
Or maybe… a heart that’s just been running on empty?

Reset

• Is there someone I’ve spoken about recently that I need to pray for, or even apologize to?
• What’s one thing I can say instead of gossip when I feel the urge to speak?
• Where can I invite God to heal what’s leaking out of my words?

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Coming Up: Day 4 – “How to Shut Down Gossip Without Being Awkward or Self-Righteous”
(Yes, it’s possible)

You can read all the posts (or sign up to get them by email) at ScrappySam.com 💛