Macaroni & Cheese
reflections on
mental health, wellness, and leadership
by Dr. Victoria Ranade
Hi there, and welcome to my little corner of the internet! :)
When I was in sixth grade, I ran a newspaper advice column called Macaroni and Cheese. Fellow students would write in with their questions, and I'd offer my sixth-grader advice—sometimes serious, sometimes a little silly. The name Macaroni and Cheese felt perfect because it was warm, familiar, and a little bit cheesy, just like the advice I shared.
Now, I'm bringing Macaroni and Cheese back—but with a grown-up twist. This monthly feature is a space for thoughtful reflection on topics like mental health, wellness, and leadership. Just like the original column, my hope is to offer something useful, grounded, and maybe even a little comforting along the way. My hope is that these words serve as a reminder that you're never alone—and that a little comfort and care can go a long way. Because life is hard, and we've got to be there for one another. :)
Best,
Dr. Victoria Ranade
Spirituality: A Different Kind of Self-Care – Nurturing Your Inner World
Mar 13
Written By Dr. Victoria Ranade
As a clinical psychologist trained in evidence-based therapies, I built a career helping people heal, guided by treatments grounded in science and research. But for years, I carried a secret—one I feared would change the way people saw me, one I worried they might judge.
Here it is: I am a deeply spiritual person.
It wasn’t always something I had words for. It was something I felt within me—something that carried me through the chaos of my childhood. I grew up in a home where constant arguments filled the air and silence felt safer than speaking. My father’s moods controlled the energy in the room, shifting like the weather, unpredictable and heavy, and my mother had her own burdens to bear. Safety, for me, meant closing my bedroom door, learning to make myself small and unseen.
When you grow up in a home like that—where the very people meant to guide you are lost in their own wounds—you’re forced to find your own True North.
I didn’t just live my childhood—I survived it. And survival demanded more than my body and mind. It required something deeper—a presence within me, steady and wise, compassionate and kind. It was a real force I relied on to survive, as real as the force of gravity. It was my spirit.
And it saved me.
My spirit steadied me when the world felt unsafe. It gave me courage when words threatened to define me. It reminded me that I was more than my circumstances.
Over time, it became my source of hope, my North Star, and the quiet voice guiding me forward when nothing else made sense.
The Power of Community
Over the holiday break, my beloved dog Mei Mei, a spunky Welsh Terrier, went missing while my father was watching her. We were in Laguna Beach, California—a place where we were only visitors, where we knew no one. I didn't expect what happened next: a quiet, extraordinary lesson in the power of community.
I was sitting in a salon chair when my phone rang.
"Mei Mei is gone," my father said, his voice matter-of-fact, direct as usual.
"What do you mean?" I asked, my stomach tightening.
"She's gone," he repeated. "She slipped out of her collar and ran up and down the Pacific Coast Highway. No one could catch her."
That was it. No panic—just the facts.
"She's toast," he added.
I sunk my head into my hands. Where could we possibly find her? She could be anywhere.
For thirty minutes, I wandered the neighborhood in a daze until my phone rang again.
"We found her!" an officer said. “A child in the neighborhood saw Mei Mei running at full speed, in full flight mode, and led her to a safe spot.”
It was the first real moment of hope.
I rushed to the location, but when I arrived, the officer stood there, hands on his hips, shaking his head.
"She's gone," he said, gesturing down the road where the pavement faded into dust, vanishing into the emptiness of the desert trail.
"We tried. We've been chasing her all around Laguna Beach all morning. She just keeps running."
I felt the hope drain out of me..
"I recommend you download Nextdoor," the officer said. "It's an app where locals message each other."
I had never used it before and was about to disregard his advice—until I realized it was the only lead I had. So I downloaded it.
Almost immediately, messages poured in. Locals I had never met offered advice: Put up flyers. Leave out clothing with your scent. Stay in the area—dogs often circle back. Strangers called me, offering encouragement and their own stories.
The Beauty of Small Ideas
When I was a kid, there was a Chinese school fair, and each classroom had to come up with an idea to sell something to fairgoers. I remember raising my hand, my voice small but steady, and suggesting, “Let's do a prize lottery!”
The room was filled with the usual suspects—Chinese school slackers like me—and one by one, heads slunk back down to the desks, uninterested. My idea was the only one on the table. To my surprise, our teacher didn't dismiss it. She listened. She believed in me enough to let me take the lead.
With a mix of excitement and nerves, I went to the mall and picked out a Hello Kitty gift basket of items—the kind of thing that felt like pure treasure to me at the time. I put it in a box and wrapped it carefully, ready for the big day. Then, I made tickets for people to buy, envisioning a line of eager customers.