Maleah Jacobs Intuitive Consultant

Andromeda is here too. 🦄

A Man Tolerated Me Last Night. Please Respect His Privacy During This Difficult Time.⁣
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I once had a man tell me I was being tolerated.⁣
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And by once, I mean last night.⁣
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And obviously, I’m great at letting things go.⁣
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I’ve been thinking about it all night, all morning, and now, in the clear light of day, I’ve decided to write a novella about it.⁣
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Because, apparently, my greatest crime isn’t being wrong, uninformed, or dull.⁣
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It’s being a lot.⁣
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Like a waiter who squats down to take your order unprompted.⁣
Like a voicemail that starts with “Hey… so…” and then pauses for a full five seconds.⁣
Like a text from an unknown number that just says “hey.”⁣
Like a single car on the 405 Freeway going the speed limit in the fast lane.⁣
Like a rogue shopping cart in the grocery store parking lot at three o’clock in the morning that only steadily moves when I walk past it.⁣
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After this very important revelation, he proceeded to tell me, over and over, that the PA was good at tolerating me.⁣
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I paused.⁣
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Tolerating me?⁣
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And then he said it again.⁣
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“Yeah, he was really good at tolerating you.”⁣
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And, because he wanted to make sure I got the point, he circled back to it a third time.⁣
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“I mean, you know a lot about stuff, and you could come off as intense.”⁣
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Ah. There it is. The magic words.⁣
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You could come off as intense.⁣
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The phrase that has followed women like a stray dog since the dawn of time.⁣
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Like a foghorn in a library.⁣
Like a jazz band at a funeral.⁣
Like a fire alarm that won’t shut off—urgent, unignorable, impossible to ignore.⁣
Like a glass of whiskey at a kids’ birthday party—somehow inappropriate just for existing in the room.⁣
Like a lit match in a room full of men who smell like gasoline and bad decisions.⁣
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The phrase that tells you the problem isn’t that you’re smart, capable, or engaged—it’s that you won’t downplay it.⁣
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But let’s get real here: that wasn’t a neutral statement. That was a backhanded insult disguised as an observation. A way to tell me I was difficult, but with plausible deniability.⁣
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If I had said, Excuse me? he could have easily backpedaled—Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. But he did mean it like that. Because if he meant it as a compliment, he wouldn’t have said “tolerate.”⁣
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Nobody tolerates something they enjoy. You don’t say, “Wow, I really tolerated that delicious meal.” You don’t say, “God, I just love tolerating my best friend.” You don’t look at someone you find fascinating and say, “The best thing about you is how easy you are to endure.”⁣
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No. Tolerating someone is what you do when they annoy you, but you’re too polite to say it outright.⁣
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See, if I had said nothing? I’d be uninformed. If I had been unsure? I’d be weak. If I had dumbed it down? I’d be sweet. Manageable. Tolerable.⁣
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And yet, I was none of those things.⁣
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I was knowledgeable, clear, and present. And to him, that made me a lot. Too much.⁣
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And here’s what I realized: “Too much” is only a problem when you’re talking to someone with too little to offer.”⁣
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When a man says “She’s intense” or “She’s a lot,” what he’s really saying is: “She requires a level of engagement I am unwilling or unable to give.” “She doesn’t contort herself into a more convenient shape for me.” “She knows things, and it makes me self-conscious.”⁣
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It’s not a compliment (obviously), but it’s not really an insult, either. It’s a confession.⁣
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A confession that he doesn’t have the range.⁣
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Because here’s the truth: the right people don’t tolerate you. They meet you. They rise to the occasion. They see what you bring and match it.⁣
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They engage. They respond. They think.⁣
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And most importantly, they don’t need to diminish you in order to feel good about themselves.⁣
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If a man ever tells you you’re a lot? Smile. Nod. And then ask yourself:⁣
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“Am I really too much… or is he just small?”⁣
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Because trust me—the ones who are big enough for you won’t say that sh*t.⁣
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They’ll be grateful for your intelligence. They’ll be interested in your perspective. They’ll want to hear you, not endure you.⁣
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And if they can’t?⁣
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Well.⁣
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Coincidentally, I’m adding “Tolerable” as a new skill on LinkedIn.⁣
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I’m done making it easier.

This is one I posted on my personal Facebook account and people seemed to like it so here you go. 👑

Listen, I have this friend. She’s the kind of friend who makes you believe in things like grit and resilience and the power of duct tape. You know, the one who keeps going when most of us would throw our hands in the air, give up, and eat a family-sized bag of potato chips in bed. (Not that she wouldn’t do that too, but she’d probably multitask and use the salt from the chips to replenish her electrolytes.)

This friend? She’s a force. A tornado in a pair of ethically sourced sneakers. The sort of person who can juggle catastrophe and comedy in the same sentence, which is a skill when your life is less Eat Pray Love and more Survive, Sweat, Laugh.

Meet My Friend: A Professional Survivor

Here’s the highlight reel:

She lives with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), which means her body is basically made out of knock-off Legos and sheer willpower. Add in POTS (the charming condition where her heart throws a tantrum every time she stands up) and Mast Cell Activation Syndrome (which is like being allergic to existence), and you’ve got a recipe for a fascinating biology experiment.

And yet, she’s thriving—not in a glossy, Instagram-filtered way, but in the messy, real, “one step forward, sometimes two steps back” kind of way.

The Slow Dance of Progress

See, here’s the thing: she didn’t just wake up one day with a body that decided to protest against the laws of nature. She was born with it. These conditions were woven into her DNA, quiet at first, then louder, until they eventually started throwing elbows and demanding attention.

Getting sick wasn’t a single, dramatic event. It was a gradual shift—a slow unraveling of things she thought she could count on. And getting better? It’s been the same: a process. Progress doesn’t come in fireworks and confetti; it comes in small victories and consistent care.

She’s recently spent time in world-class hospitals, surrounded by people who listened, believed her, and worked tirelessly to help her piece her life back together. Her doctors? Incredible. Her care team? Top-notch. These are the people who didn’t just see a complicated patient—they saw her. And because of them, she’s getting better, day by day.

Advocating for Herself, With Help

That doesn’t mean it’s been easy. She’s still had to be her own advocate—because even with the best care, no one knows her body better than she does. She’s learned to walk into appointments armed with questions, research, and an unwavering determination to collaborate with her care team.

But this isn’t a story about a broken system. It’s a story about what happens when the right people come together at the right time. It’s about teamwork, trust, and the kind of healthcare that makes you believe in humanity again.

Trauma, Healing, and the Weirdness of Recovery

And healing? Oh, it’s a wild ride. Because when you’ve lived for so long in survival mode, learning to trust that your body can improve feels… almost suspicious. She’s unlearning the habits of constant vigilance, letting herself believe that better isn’t just possible—it’s happening.

Progress looks like this: fewer fainting spells, more energy to tackle the day, and moments where she catches herself laughing—not out of defiance, but because things are genuinely good.

Wait. This Friend Sounds Familiar…

And as I sit here, typing this, I realize something: this isn’t just any friend I’m talking about. This isn’t some abstract hero I conjured up to inspire you.

No.

This friend? She’s me.

Yup. It’s Me. Maleah.

Yeah, I am the friend. The one who’s been through it, who’s still going through it, and who’s finally starting to see the light at the end of this absurdly long tunnel.

I’ve spent years fighting for my life—not in the dramatic, cinematic way, but in the quiet, grueling, day-after-day way. The kind of fight that doesn’t come with applause or recognition, just exhaustion and a deep gratitude for every tiny step forward.

And yet, here I am. Still fighting. Still laughing. Still caffeinating. Still me.

Why I’m Telling You This

Because maybe you need to hear it. Maybe you’re out there, struggling with your own version of this story. Maybe you’ve been sitting in a dark room, wondering if it’s just you, if you’re the only one fighting battles that no one else can see.

You’re not. You’re not alone, and you’re not broken, and you’re definitely not weak. And if you ever doubt that, just remember this: I’m out here too, duct-taping my life together and figuring it out one impossible day at a time.

So here’s to us—the survivors, the fighters, the ones who keep showing up even when everything in us is screaming to quit.

Here’s to the grit, the mess, the chaos, and the ridiculous, beautiful, relentless hope that keeps us going.

Here’s to the half-empty water bottles scattered like breadcrumbs across every room because hydration is a battlefield.

Here’s to the Google search history that could make a med student blush: “Why do my fingers hurt when I breathe?” “Can you be allergic to standing up?” and “Am I dying or is this just a Tuesday?”

Here’s to the journals filled with half-written thoughts, the Post-Its of forgotten ideas, and the to-do lists that prove progress isn’t linear, but it’s still progress.

Here’s to the slow dance of healing—messy, weird, and entirely worth it.

And here’s to you. Beautiful, complicated, raw, unstoppable you. Keep going. You’re the hero of this story, and every chaotic, gritty, not-so-glamorous step you take is proof that you’re doing something extraordinary.

We’re the heroes of this story, whether anyone else sees it or not. And if no one else will say it, let me be the first: you’re doing amazing.

Keep going. Keep shining. Unless you’re not feeling like shining. Take a lie down. “Watch tv with your eyes closed” as my dad was fond of saying and doing.

If you’re lucky enough to have good health, or just less sh*tty health, congrats. And be mindful that you’re not always looking at people whose insides match their outsides.

Maleah

The Grace & Grit of Surviving Uncertainty, Chaos, & Overwhelm
(Even When Surrounded by As****es Rooting for You to Fail)

Let’s not sugarcoat it: uncertainty, chaos, and overwhelm aren’t poetic challenges wrapped in metaphors—they’re a relentless, messy slog. They’re the mornings when the weight on your chest feels heavier than gravity should allow. The nights when your brain runs laps around every decision you’ve ever made, whispering, “What if they’re right? What if I can’t do this?”

And then there’s the chorus. Oh, the chorus. The doubters, the critics, the as****es sitting front and center, practically begging for you to fall flat on your face. They’re not just rooting against you—they’ve got popcorn.

But here’s where grace and grit collide.

Grace is what keeps you soft when the world gets sharp. It’s what lets you breathe through the chaos, stay kind when it would be easier to snap, and hold onto hope even when it feels like the ground is crumbling beneath you. Grace is the part of you that knows the chaos won’t last forever—even if it feels like it will.

And grit? Grit is what gets you back up. It’s what fuels you when every ounce of energy is spent, when the as****es are louder than your cheerleaders, and when it would be so much easier to quit. Grit is saying, “Watch me.” Not in spite of them, but because of them. Because their doubt is the fire that lights your path.

To survive this? You don’t have to be fearless, flawless, or have all the answers. You just have to keep going. Keep showing up. Keep pushing forward when every nerve in your body screams to stop.

Uncertainty doesn’t mean you’re failing. Chaos doesn’t mean you’re lost. And overwhelm doesn’t mean you’re not strong enough. They’re just part of the process. And every time you keep going, you’re proving that grace and grit aren’t just words—they’re weapons.

So let them watch. Let them root against you. They’re expecting you to break. Instead, give them a front-row seat to the moment you rise.

You’re not just surviving—you’re building something extraordinary. And one day, those same as****es will be asking how you did it.