The chair emerita of voice at BoCo (the woman who hired me — thanks, Patty) is in LA teaching a semester at USC.

She posted recently that she can’t find her favorite salad equivalent on the West Coast. (The haloumi salad at Tatte– delish). We’re spoiled for choice in Boston, it’s true.

I sent her a few recommendations from my LA culinary memory file. I was pleased to see the Mendocino Farms has ex-PAND-ed. I used to get their sammies on Grand Street back when I did shows downtown. So good.

But then I asked my brother Ben who lived in Angeleno Heights for several years.

He was always finding the best top-secret Mexican mole joint that put special fairy cacao in their sauce or introducing you to underground Ethiopian cuisine served in a secret alley somewhere between Mid-Wilshire and the Byzantine Latino Quarter.

So, I reached out to him for ideas, and pretty soon, I was hitting Patty’s text inbox with more culinary establishments than she’d be able to fight traffic to get to by the end of April.

You ask me a question about singing or food, you made a mistake.

I will make sure you know everything I know and follow up to see if you tried that Mark Bittman biscuit recipe yet.

I love telling people about great finds. I love sharing great restaurants, books, podcasts, and hard-knock lessons from audition rooms I stank up.

Watch out for this, and you gotta try that.

It makes ma feel like I helped you. And my ego likes knowing things, too.

But then something will happen.

I’ll be around someone I think is fancy, and my brain short circuits.

I’ll say “you too” in response to “Have a nice flight” or “Enjoy your meal.”

I’ll get dysregulated by an unexpected smell that triggers a painful memory, and I’m dealing with anxiety that I subsequently scold myself for having. (There’s a reason I tell you to be kind to yourself every week. I need to hear it the most.)

Just last night and this morning, a thing came up between Melissa and me, and rather than sharing the anxiety with her, I kept it to myself saying, “No one would understand this. I don’t even understand it myself.”

The outcome — by not communicating, I ended up hurting her feelings and making my brain go even more haywire in the trigger/confusion spiral.

I love to give advice, and in the throes of nervous system overload, not only do I have no advice for myself, I’d be impervious to it if I had it to offer.

If I get knocked emotionally sideways, it’s hard for me even to check my email. All practical functioning slows way down.

Then, of course, I tell myself about all the folks I know who continue to plow ahead just fine in the face of emotional adversity. Why can’t I just get on with my day?

Truth is, the way my brain and nerves work, I actually do have to stop for a moment. I have to understand that I’m going to be a little loopy and cognitively challenged until I gain equilibrium again.

I hate it.

I want the fast fix. But that’s as available to me as a slam dunk competition victory. (Still getting over scoring for the other team in peewee league.)

When I get blindsided, I have to understand that my list of recommendations isn’t going to do it for me. I’m going to need to embrace my current membership in the linear time experiencer club, take several deep breaths, notice my physical sensations with as much compassionate curiosity as I can muster, maybe take a walk, and phone a friend.

If you’re going through something tough today, I hope you’ll give yourself the gift of time and acknowledge that it takes some moments to travel from one place to another.

This is true in your songs as well. It could take 4 or 5 phrases to get your brain and breath balanced. We’ve bought the lie of the immediate fix. (And what’s wrong with me that I can’t get this magic wand to work?)

You and me — we’re beautiful, frail, resilient, complex, simple, multifaceted humans.

I can tell you how to get your mix more flexible, where to find a solid cheeseburger in Boston, and the best chocolate cake recipe you’re ever going to make, AND, I could be waste-deep in hot mess town at the same time.

Wish I could skip it. When I figure out how, I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, I hope you’ll give yourself the gift of time, breathing, moving, and the space to let yourself have a process. I’m still resistant to the whole idea.

I do know this, though. For sure. There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much (that includes you),

Dan