Diving right in. Last Friday marked ONE YEAR of us moving from Costa Rica to New York and wowwww how is any of that even real?

Up until now, trying to put any coherent sentences together about moving internationally with a 7-week old and a 3.5 year old; or trying to describe somewhat accurately what it was like spending the entirety of my second pregnancy in a remote beach town in a foreign country; or explaining the nuances within the immensely daunting challenge of choosing where to spend this next chapter of life when priorities and lifestyle preferences differed from my husband; or what it was like to take the lead on making a gigantic leap of faith decision for our entire family; or just having enough time to even reflect on any of this… felt impossible to do.

Even now, as I write all of these words, my thoughts about the past two years feel incomplete and scattered. I’m already anticipating this post feeling disappointing, stressful, confusing and frankly — kind of depressing, which, if we’re being honest, is a very real reflection of how the majority of my year living in Costa Rica felt for me. I would say I’m experiencing 10% confusion, 20% shame and 70% relief writing about my experience living abroad. I also have a math disability so who knows if that’s even really all that accurate.

But here’s what I know to be true: I have zero regrets about any of the decisions I made with Sam over the last two+ years when we uprooted from what would arguably be a very stable, very practical life in DC to enter into a metaphorical and literal jungle of confrontations and evolutions around what the concepts of home really mean to us.

What a blessing it is to be able to take a risk, try something new, struggle through, learn, recalibrate and alter our journeys in this life. If I could go back to Jesse of two years ago, before moving to Costa Rica and eventually New York, I would tell her: Going lighter with those highlights was a mistake. And also breathe. This is going to be even harder than you anticipated, and also, so much more rewarding than your wildest dreams. Oh and those pregnancy tests you brought from the states strictly for emergency purposes? Surprise! It’s an emergency!

I used to subscribe to the everything happens for a reason school of thought. As comforting of an idea that may be, it also now feels problematic to me. I refuse to believe that trauma, unthinkable grief, and terror have a moral purpose and predestined obligatory curriculum for us. There are some things that happen that are in fact, inexplicably horrendous and should not have happened, and trying to find the silver lining feels like a lie we are fed as a way to swallow our sadness. But at the same time, I firmly believe we have the agency and creative processing to give whatever meaning we choose to the things that happen in our lives. Some of my best emotional work, I think, is my optimistic flipping of shitty pancakes.

For instance —

As I look back on getting pregnant day one of us living in Nosara, I’m choosing to see my pregnancy as a reflection of my body knowing something my brain did not yet compute. My body felt safe, excited, healthy, and in a state of acceptance of whatever was coming my way. And even though I was absolutely rocked by pregnancy in Costa Rica, I know deep in my uterus/soul that going through my pregnancy in the way I did strengthened my commitment to Sam, Wes, Lenny, and myself tenfold. We allllll survived something big together that year.

Speaking of… for those who don’t know, there were zero hospitals within two hours of where we lived in Nosara, so I flew (yes, flew) for every.single.one.of.my.OB.appointments to the capital, San Jose. And because of the way our schedules unfolded in Nosara, for almost all of those appointments it was just me and Lenny bobbing around inside of me, taking an early morning tuktuk to a 10-person plane, flying for 40 rocky minutes, then making my way from the airport to my doctor’s private office in San Jose. Was it an insane way to spend my second pregnancy? Objectively, yes. But at the same time, I look back at those times with such an appreciation and celebration for what I was capable of doing. When there is no alternative, we really do adapt. And even though I would not necessarily recommend getting pregnant while living abroad in a remote surf town where even though you studied Spanish throughout college, you’re proficient at best, if you do find yourself in similar circumstances, you too will also adjust accordingly. Being forced to stretch our capacities makes space for more life to be lived every single time.

Some of you may wonder, so how does one go from deciding to move from DC to Costa Rica, get pregnant in Costa Rica, have a baby in Costa Rica, and then decide things weren’t exciting enough and move your entire family to Brooklyn? The irony is, I don’t think Brooklyn would’ve been in the realm of possibilities without all of the chapters outside of New York we had lived leading up to it.

Let me try to explain.

I’ve never been someone to settle down easily. My friend Patrick recently reflected back to me, “You seem to be on a quest for… belonging?” Even though I found that offensive, it’s because it’s painfully true and so classic ugh. While I wholeheartedly reject the tragic mulatto stereotype, there is something that feels painfully isolating and at times, I guess a little tragic, as a mixed person, and a particular, rare flavor when you’re Black and White and Jewish, and especially during this failing United States social experiment that only other mixed people with similar backgrounds can really grasp. And even then, our experiences vary so much, that there’s not a whole lot to really hold onto for support. And even though we all (the mixed people of the world? workshopping how to refer to our community) grasp that feeling, it manifests in so many different ways for all of us, that there is so much nuance that makes it difficult to fully feel into any of this. My mixedness is not everything and at the same time it is so much of what makes me who I am. At my core, I know that there is, of course, more to me than how I am incompletely perceived, and yet, as someone who floats through multiple identity spaces at any given moment, my environment is very impactful on how I experience myself. Or something like that.

I think if you are firmly rooted in who you are, and connected to your body, living in Nosara is a great place to connect with oneself. There is no doubt that living by the ocean is healing for the mind, body and soul, and I think that people who do their best there (aka my husband) turned to the ocean as a life mentor. Unfortunately, I am not as trusting of the ocean as my husband, and therefore, I was never able to relax in the same ways he did. I’m also not as trusting of any place where white people in harem pants refer to themselves as “healer” and “sister.” Grifters exist everywhere, of course, but I do think that the jungle attracts a particular brand of snakes that will suck you dry right before they suggest you consider polyamory instead of therapy and relentlessly try to convince you to buy a million dollar property in their eco village community in the mountains.

But I don’t think I need to do a deep dive, at least right now, and maybe ever, into all the issues I had with Nosara. Truthfully, my feelings changed daily, everything felt up and down, and my experience was highly correlated to where I was at in my pregnancy. Nosara is one town in one of the most biodiverse places in the world, and I also don’t feel that well equipped to dissect the ins and outs of a place I lived for one year. But what I do feel confident in, is my willingness to take leaps of faith. I’ve been leaping hard since I was nineteen, when I decided to transfer from NYU to Wesleyan my junior year of college, which I still think was a really big deal for a lost nineteen year old barely adult woman to do. Transferring to Wesleyan single-handedly changed the trajectory of my life, and it’s wild to think of a scenario where I stayed miserable at NYU just because filling out transfer applications was a pain in the ass and embarrassing to admit defeat. I lept hard for Sam at twenty, which was the biggest leap for both of us, to commit to anything before our frontal lobes had fully developed. I’m so happy we’re both impulsive frogs.

Sam and I lept big in our jobs, grinding hard in our early twenties, pretending like we were adults who had any business making life altering decisions. Going from teaching kindergarten to becoming a psychologist was the leap that keeps on leaping. Choosing a career path where I am constantly in my feelings and holding space for others in their feelings comes highly naturally to me and feels like it’s not always the best for my mental health. But I also have a deep knowing that I’m meant to be doing this work in some way or another. It’s forced me to confront so much of myself and now that we’ve opened pandora’s box there’s no going back!

The decision to move from Nosara to Brooklyn didn’t strike me like lightning, it trickled into my consciousness like a persistent leak. Over my tenure in DC as a young adult, I would frequently say, “there’s NO WAY I could ever live in Brooklyn.” But what I think I was actually saying was, “I’m terrified to admit that I want to live here, that I’m jealous of everyone who gets to call this place home. Let me pretend I hate it, so I’m not disappointed that I don’t get to be a part of it.” Anticipating we won’t belong somewhere is common place for mixed people. Hating on Brooklyn was protective, and also, just dumb. It’s fine to not want to live somewhere, but at a certain point, when you’re exerting so much energy judging a place, hating a place, complaining about a place, and thinking about how much you don’t like the place, one has to stop and ask the question, “Wait, am I actually maybe obsessed with this place?” I don’t know, just a thought.

Through both of my early adulthood stints with New York I think I was begging New York to tell me who I was. When I moved back to New York shortly after graduating from Wesleyan, I thought that proximity to the city would ultimately get me closer to who I was supposed to be. While that’s a cute idea, it’s an absolute fantasy. New York is not my friend, but New York is my mirror. And Brooklyn, in particular, holds up a past, present, and future vision of my subconscious desires, fears, and every feeling in between.

I realized very quickly during my time in Costa Rica, that in my heart of hearts, I am a city girl. I don’t need to live in the belly of the beast. In fact, that’s actually really overwhelming to me. But I need to be close to the action. My pulse beats with and from energy, and the energy in a place like New York is absolutely electric. It just is. Even if it’s going haywire, which it often is, it’s undeniably A L I V E. I also do believe that for a mixed family, New York, and more specifically Brooklyn, is our mecca. Is it problematic at times? Of course. Are many of the stereotypes about Brooklyn interracial couples true? Guilty. But there is a full spectrum of expression—cultural, ethnic, racial and beyond—in Brooklyn that is undeniable. The coolest people here are also the weirdest. They’re the ones who don’t ascribe to binary anything, and have no problem being in your face about it. And I LOVE that commitment to celebration of eccentricities. Of freak flags. Of full spectrumness. Wes walked out of the house in a Buzz Lightyear costume yesterday, just because, and a man on the street yelled, “To infinity and beyond my brother!”

I also want to spotlight Sam’s willingness to trust me on trying out Brooklyn for our family. He is the first one to admit that he was not adamant on coming here, at all. And while I joke that Nosara is the other woman in his life, I really do think he was on some real grown man shit letting me passionately but very much blindly steer us next to the Gowanus canal.

This first year of Brooklyn living was not easy, but it was also not as hard as I anticipated. I think that’s because we’re in alignment here. At least for the time being. If we’ve learned anything from the past two+ years, it’s that we really can’t plan too far ahead. And that’s okay. But what I do know, is I’m not having any urges to flee our life here. I’m not feeling unsettled in a way that feels unsafe. And every single day I leave our apartment, even if I’m just walking to the corner to get a cup of coffee, I feel inspired. My nervous system is somehow… regulated? I know it doesn’t really make sense on paper, but it makes sense in my body. We have so many people, new and old, rooted here, and so many who pass through, and the buzz of activity is energizing for all of us. Lenny’s favorite activity these days is crawling up the two flights of stairs to our apartment. Wes loves zooming around on his scooter to various playgrounds, waving hi to all of our neighbors and friends we run into on the street. Sam is hustling hard, while still able to prioritize great food and great company, and oh yeah, training for the New York Marathon in November. And I’m in a process of returning back to myself. I’m reconnecting with people who represent all aspects of myself, many of whom are now moms as well, and it feels so comforting to be navigating this New York psychedelic parenting trip together. I’m opening up my therapy practice to clients in New York this fall, and I’m working on a creative project that I’m really excited to share more about soon. We are in a constant state of motion here, and that’s just how we roll.

I’m only a year in, but I feel like a part of me has lived in New York many lifetimes before. Like some specks of my spirit have always haunted a rent stabilized apartment in Brooklyn, whispering, then shouting for me to come home already.

Love,

Jesse

I don’t really feel like small talk this week. I can’t stop thinking about the photo of Nolan Wells circulating around. The one of him, a young Black man, sitting on a boat with his white supposed friends. Because there are no such things as coincidences, immediately after seeing this photo of Nolan Wells on instagram, I came across a photo of my son, Wes, posted on his summer camp instagram page in a sea of white children, all with their gummy gap tooth smiles. It’s a version of a million photos I’ve seen of me as a child. I am not going to pretend for a minute as though circumstances are that similar between Nolan Wells and myself or my child, because they are certainly not. For so many reasons. But what I know is that no matter how much I try to suppress it, ignore it, rationalize it or mock it, my soul understands that no Black, Mixed or Brown child is ever safe as the only one in white spaces.

I am heartbroken, enraged, and determined more than ever hearing what we know and what we are still uncovering happened to Nolan Wells. And I’m finding myself at a loss of words for how to accurately describe how I’m feeling, in part because I think it stems from a conscience that developed when I was really young. If that makes any sense?

This is where my mixedness, my class, my family, and my upbringing are all extremely relevant and intertwined. I’ve grown accustomed to being in white spaces. And my trajectory of experience in white spaces always goes like some variation of this, I’m genuinely comfortable, I can do this, I’m fine, I’m being myself enough, this is fun albeit a bit surface level. Okay now I’m starting to lose a part of myself. A comment went sideways, a gesture feels harmful, there is a loosening of boundaries that is starting to make me feel unsteady. Now I’m scanning the room, did anyone else catch that? Who feels safe enough here? No other Black, Mixed people in sight, okay what about someone Brown? Queer? Someone who also floats in a specific marginal, privileged space and speaks a similar language? If I can’t find anyone who feels kindred, then I start to panic. Fear sets in. I wish I could describe this more accurately, but it’s really difficult. You’ll just have to trust me when I say it is a deep knowing that I am far away from myself. But that’s not quite it, either. It’s almost like I go through the phases of an allergic reaction that can quickly go from mild itchiness to my throat is seconds away from closing up.

This is a working revelation that I’m sure is not original: I think, in part, well meaning white people don’t grasp the severity of being the only one when the tables are turned (i.e. being the only white person surrounded by Black people or other POCs) because they don’t realize how much work goes in behind the scenes to making a space feel comfortable for them. Yes, they have systemic protections in place, but there’s something else. There is an accommodation factor. A care piece. And correct me if I’m wrong, but it is my observation that white people are not taught to look out for others, the way people of color are. Or maybe it’s that they’re not taught to look out for others who are not white. They rarely have to, so they rarely do it. I’m still processing all of this, but I’m starting to get closer to some understanding. It’s actually something I really experienced living in Costa Rica. Costa Rican women (Ticas) show up for others, especially children, in such a profound way. All children are not only revered, they are communally protected. I think that for many white people, there is more of an insular processing. Family is everything, but the concept of family is limited. And before you come for me, I knowww it’s not all white people. But it’s still by and large a common theme. Is this problematic speaking this generally? Maybe… I can’t decide, but if y’all are going to continue reminding me I’m half white, then I’m going to continue speaking on whiteness. Period. I really do fearfully wonder what the parents of Nolan Wells’ friends said and didn’t say to them before and in the aftermath of them leaving their one Black friend behind.

But I’m not going to center my experiences in this discussion anymore and feed (any more than I already have, oops) into the stereotypes about Mixed women inserting ourselves in conversations surrounding Blackness that are not ours to claim. Believe it or not, I'm in a stage of life where I’m tired of all the self reflecting. It’s important, of course, but it’s not energizing. Or changing anything. And it keeps me stuck and depressed. So instead, I’m moving towards action. Momentum. Something is better than nothing. I’m catapulting into my role and power as a mother, a wife, a daughter, a friend, a virgo rising with blind aries determination and a libra heart. And a therapist who wants therapy to feel more expansive, experiential and frankly, useful. What are we going to DO with what happened to Nolan Wells? What tangible changes need to take place? How do we honor his life and change the course for this next generation for the better? How can I position myself as a Black, Mixed person who is in community with a ton of white people to actually propel towards progress?

The author, Rebecca Carroll, recently re-posted on instagram something she wrote ten years ago that feels like a tangible starting place. As a Black, transracial adoptee in a white family, she has some incredibly painful and profound insight into what happens to Black and Brown children when they are the only ones. I want to create my own version of this list for my family and hopefully for other families with Black, Mixed children. Our version, I imagine, as with everything else, will be very nuanced, overlapping in some ways and differing in others. But this is somewhere to begin.

Rebecca Carroll:

As part of my keynote at the Pact Family Camp for families of interracial adoption at Lake Tahoe yesterday morning — I created this list, which I read aloud and was then asked for printed out by no fewer than 10 parents afterward. If you use it, give credit cc Damon Young, Roxane Gay, Ta-Nehisi Coates, and Issa Rae.

10 things for white adoptive parents of black kids to keep in mind right now:

1. Give your black children some black to grow on — black friends, black culture; work hard and tirelessly to make sure they are never the only one in the room, anywhere.

2. Find a black person to teach you how to manage your children’s hair and skin.

3. Do not judge any aspect of black culture that you don’t relate to or approve of, particularly in regard to pop culture — vet it first through black friends, folks, people. i.e. Beyonce’s Lemonade, the N-word. Check yourself on what makes it inappropriate to you.

4. Pay attention to Black Twitter — it knows everything.

5. Make sure you know who the following people are: Ta-Nehisi Coates, Amandla Sternberg, Damon Young, Roxane Gay, Bryan Stevenson, Ava Duvernay, Issa Rae, Rembert Browne, Kara Walker, Nikole Hannah-Jones, Kadir Nelson, Mickalene Thomas.

6. Don’t underestimate the power of black vernacular — and never, ever refer to it as ebonics or slang. Understand what it means to code switch.

7. Prioritize racial conversancy - the sense that a world can and does exist beyond the default of American whiteness.

8. Recognize and implement that black history is not a month, but every single day of our life in America.

9. Be prepared to be resented by your black children for your whiteness — it will manifest in a number of ways, be vigilant cultivating resiliency.

10. Realize that if in fact all lives mattered, the Black Lives Matter movement would not be necessary.

Important to note: Carroll wrote this list ten years ago, and as she stated in a recent instagram post, “TBT I would upgrade, revise, add several many more names to #5, and of course capitalize the B in Black, but 10 years later, numbers 1 and 10 still feel sadly and especially pointed.”

Rest in Power Nolan Wells. May your memory be a blessing and a prayer for us all.

Love,

Jesse

Also, I don’t know about you, but this time of year (helloooo cancer season) naturally activates sad girl summer vibes for me. But something equally powerful is brewing within.

It’s… levity!

I’ve been thinking a lot about levity lately. It came up in a session with a client of mine this week, where we were talking about levity as the antidote to wallowing. It was in that moment I was able to realize (yes I’m aware her therapy became mine… oops) that levity is a crucial life force for me. If joy is sometimes doing the most, levity is it’s hot, younger sister with an impeccable sense of humor. Levity is honest, resilient positivity. It is an artform. If a wave of sadness is coming through, levity is a sturdy, effervescent booey to hold onto until the feeling passes.

Lately, I’ve been trying to process a lot of mixedness through the lens of levity. I’m learning that when you do a deep dive on mixedness, especially in the context of the US, it can feel suuuuper heavy. This identity, while beautiful in many, many ways, has a twisted underbelly of exploitation, abuse, loss, and isolation. So much isolaton. And while I don’t want to shy away from understanding these parts of myself, I need my levity lifejacket to help me feel safe.

So with that… a few recent moments that have brought some much needed levity to my spirit, and hope it will bring some to yours too!

Lenny broke her week-long hunger strike with the most expensive fruit she could get her hands on.

After a category 6 meltdown, Wes melting our hearts on a swing.

Last weekend, while solo with the kids (honestly, please cue the applause!) I took them to the Coney Island mermaid parade. It was hot and very, very crowded. While our plan was just to be parade onlookers, we ended up walking IN the parade (Wes’s idea to sneak into it!) and it was honestly soooo much fun. Note to self - when in doubt, sneak into the parade.

While in the process of looking for my own therapist and psychiatrist, I stumbled upon this identity questionnaire for one practice with these categories to choose from. In my 36 years filling out questionnaires, I have NEVER had the choice of “Bi/Multi-racial.” Turns out, it really does feel great to be seen.

Love,

Jesse

In honor of Juneteenth and the Knicks winning the 2026 NBA Championship, I’m taking a break from writing this week and asked my wonderful, white, ally, husband, Sam, to fill in. Sam is a lifelong Knicks fan and has taught me everything I know about this team past and present. Therefore, it only felt fitting that he write a guest post this week dedicated to the one and only New York Knicks!

What is it about sports that turns grown ass adults into rabidly emotional toddlers? Why are most of my earliest memories tied to sports? Why is it that I’ve cried more in the past week than in the previous 10 years? There’s something happening here. Let’s start by taking it all the way back to 1999, the last time the New York Knicks had a taste of NBA Finals action.

It’s June 5th, 1999. I don’t remember where my family was returning home from, or why we split up, but as fate would have it, I ended up at home in my family’s living room at our Upper West Side apartment, narrating the end of the Knicks’ Game 3 of the Eastern Conference Finals against the Indiana Pacers to my Dad, who was listening intently on the car phone (yeah, remember these beauties). I couldn’t tell you the exact sequence of events, but when Larry Johnson rose up from just behind the three point line, absorbed some contact from the defender and sunk that three, I absolutely lost my shit. I remember dropping the phone, jumping up and down, screaming, taking off my shirt, sprinting around the house, and then remembering “oh shit, Dad’s on the phone and has no idea what happened!” I scrambled back to the phone, out of breath, and attempted to narrate what had just happened. I remember this like it was a few weeks ago.

Fast forward 27 years and eight days later, and the sequence of events was pretty similar. For a few hours (or maybe for the past few weeks) I was a kid again. In all the joyful, emotional, volatile, passionate glory. It was Saturday June 13^th, a beautiful night in Brooklyn, and thanks to the foresight of some Knicks fan friends, we had 4 outdoor tables reserved at Brooklyn Crab in Red Hook, Brooklyn, which was proudly presenting Game 5 of the NBA Finals between the Knicks and Spurs on a brand new 230” outdoor TV. It was all lined up perfectly.

The Knicks came out and promptly dropped their lowest scoring first-half performance of the playoffs at the worst possible time, falling behind by 15 points. It was all so on-brand. And then, just as characteristically, they began marching back. On the shoulders of the Captain, Jalen Brunson, the team that built a reputation as the most resilient in NBA history launched another comeback for the ages (note: it wasn’t even the most impressive comeback they completed that week; that honor belonged to their Game 4 comeback that occurred three days prior, and that I was lucky enough to witness in-person at Madison Square Garden; but I digress).

When the final whistle blew, and the Knicks were crowned NBA Champions for the first time since 1973, I became that eight year old kid again. I jumped, I hugged, I cried, I called my dad. I let out several primal screams of “victory” and “let’s go Knicks”. The emotions flowed through me like a river after a rainstorm. I was possessed.

And it wasn’t just me. Far from it. All over the city, on every corner, outside every bodega and slice shop, throngs of New Yorkers took to the streets to watch and to celebrate. To bask in the glory. To hug a stranger.

As a dad now, there’s a particular flavor to this kind of emotion. As I was sobbing and screaming and hugging whoever was closest to me, some part of me wasn’t just watching my team win—I was watching an eight year old version of myself finally let go of 27 years of Knicks heartbreak: the ’99 Finals sweep, Patrick Ewing’s missed finger roll, two decades of losing seasons, failed draft picks, and James Dolan mismanagement. My inner child had been carrying all of that around for a long time.

Over the past few days, I’ve spontaneously broken into fits of sobbing at random moments in the day—often brought on by a particularly triggering TikTok that cuts to my core. Somewhere during one of these wet-eyed moments, I caught myself thinking about Wes, about what it means to hand your own kid a Jalen Brunson jersey with an NBA Finals patch on it instead of the inherited trauma. To let him grow up expecting the Knicks to win. Healing the inner child is supposed to be slow, deliberate work—therapy, journaling, processing. Turns out it can also happen in a single playoff run, capped off by a perfect evening at an outdoor crab shack in Red Hook.

In sports, there’s often a lot of shade thrown at “bandwagon fans”, those people who only start paying attention once a team is already doing well, buy a bunch of gear and start posing like they’ve been a fan forever. But that’s not the case here. Not in NYC, not for these Knicks. All are welcome. Never watched basketball before? No problem, throw on a Jalen jersey and yell “Fuck Wemby” with the rest of us! The general rule seems to be, the more the merrier. It’s an odd phenomenon that I’ve been thinking about a lot this week. There’s a genuine positivity and inclusivity in this Knicks Championship run that is unique, and uniquely New York.

One year ago, when we were getting ready to leave Costa Rica and move back to New York, I was dreading our return to city life. It felt like a loss, an admission of defeat in our pursuit to find paradise. What I now realize is I was overlooking the magic of community in New York. There really is no place like New York. Where you can have world famous celebrities reveling alongside balance-defying street performers, shoulder to shoulder with underage drinkers and geriatric partiers. The city is so alive with Knicks fever. It’s infectious. It’s fantastic. It’s exactly what the doctor ordered.

Community is somewhat of an amorphous concept in my life. It’s a beacon that I talk and think about a lot, but it’s hard to define exactly what it means and exactly what I’m seeking. With this Knicks Championship, I think I’ve grown a bit closer to understanding its full meaning. It’s more than just the family and friends we know intimately and can lean on in life’s big moments. It’s also about the genuine love and embrace of strangers who share values and experiences. It’s my homie Ronnie Zeidel, the 55-year old dad who I sat next to at Game 4 and shared a tear-soaked hug with after OG’s game-winning tip-in. It’s the feeling of kinship with the stranger who gave me a pound and a “Knicks In Five” on Sunday morning when Wes and I were walking to the playground in our Jalen jerseys. It’s Mayor Zohran Mamdani seeming like he’s in a “90s movie called ‘Kid Mayor’ where every idea works and he wears a basketball jersey under a suit jacket” every day.

There’s something almost emotionally intelligent about the way sports build community, in a way I don’t see replicated much elsewhere in adult life. It cuts through all the normal small talk. Mayor Zohran nailed this at the parade, comparing the Knicks’ 29-point Game 4 comeback, when they had just a 0.4% chance of winning the game, directly to the personality of the city itself. As our Kid Mayor said, “It is in that 0.4% that we go to work”. That’s not really a Knicks thing. That’s a New York thing. The Knicks just happened to put it on full display for the world to see.

This city isn’t logical, it’s fantastical. The Knicks winning the Championship is a dream come true. And this moment is everything I’ve longed for when I’ve longed for community. Thank you, Jalen, KAT, OG, Josh, Mikal, Deuce, Mitch, Landry, Jose, Sochan, Jordan, Kolek, Huk-Tuah-Porti, Pacome, and Mo. And let’s not forget MikeMikeMike. And Walt Clyde and Mike Breen. Thank you, 2026 New York Knicks! Thank you, New York!

If I Can, Make It There

I’ll Make it, Anywhere

It’s Up to You

New York, New York

Lenox Lyn Walker aka Lenny Lyn aka Lenny Lentils, Lenwich, Leonardo, Lenny Bug, Lilly (when Wes is trolling her), Lenita Petita turned ONE two-ish weeks ago, and I am deeeeep in my feels about it. I’m also feeling major parent/life burn out right now, but I’m desperately trying to dig myself out of the mud a la the Knicks in game 4 of the NBA finals. Using the Knicks as a metaphor for every single thing in my life is my entire personality right now, so if that’s not really your thing, let’s circle back in July.

Moving on! Before I get emo about the passage of time, it’s really important to state that the overwhelming feeling I’m experiencing about being Lenny’s mom is supersonic gratitude. I know, I knowww, every child is a blessing. But Lenny is a B L E S S I N G. Everytime I start to spiral about ________ [insert literally anything you can think of that could go wrong] she reels me back in with one look that says, “Relax… bitch.”

Lenny is such a Lenny. She’s so funny, so tender, so joyful, so opionated, so loving, so excited, so beautiful, so silly, so grounded, so determined, so resilient, so open hearted that it’s honestly impossible not to feel like the highest version of yourself in her presence. And while I may sound a bit… manic… in my descriptions of her, I don’t think I am. That’s just the effect this girl has. Lenny is like lightning. For those who believe in magic, she rewards with continuous bolts of joy.

Lenny is also white-assumed. For those unfamiliar with that term, welcome, class is in session! When a mixed child is white assumed, it means that while they carry non-white ancestry in their lineage, to the common, superficial eye, they look prettttttty phenotypically w-h-i-t-e. This is a term and concept I’m still understanding myself. What was once referred to as, “white passing,” many mixed communities are now changing the language to white-assumed, because passing gives the sense that someone is actively choosing to pass as white, while many white-assumed people would not choose this for themselves, however being assumed as white is still part of their everyday lived experience.

I’ve recently started working with a coach for mixed parents of mixed kids (we’re not fucking around here/you really can find a coach for anything these days/shout out to Sarah Lotus of Mixed Bloom Room) who has immensely helped me do a deep dive on my own experience of mixedness, ways to support and relate to my children’s experiences, and ways that our experiences will be different. And difference, for a mixed person, can often feel like an inevitable pain point. Many of us have felt racially different from even our closest family members, and that difference only gets more and more illuminated outside of our homes. It feels like especially when we’re talking about mixedness today, people carry mixedness with such internal and external variety that, often, it feels hard to grasp onto anything concrete. I genuinely love that this identity is so fluid, however, when my brain needs some structure in order to understand a concept, mixedness can stir up a lot of discomfort and wobbliness.

There are two mixed wolves that live within me. There’s the wolf that celebrates my daughter fully, for who she is and who she is meant to be. The wolf in me that feels a deep, soul level kinship with Lenny, even if the outside world won’t always immediately recognize that kinship or passive aggressively ask, “Who does she look like??” Then there’s the scared wolf that’s terrified of my daughter not experiencing a sense of belonging within Black Carribean or Mixed communities. A wolf that already anticipates her telling people “I’m part Black” and people assuming she must be joking or worst, making her the butt of the joke. Or asking her to prove it. And I’m ashamed to admit this, but there’s a part of me that understands why people would have so many questions. A part that is still holding out shameful hope that maybe if we bask in the sun long enough, her perfectly peachy thighs will brown up and then magically all of her white assumed woes will melt away.

I know these woes won’t go away though. That this is all, frankly, mixed magical thinking. It formed early on for me. This yearning for fullness. My magical thinking has gone from wishing I was fully white (ugh) to wishing I was fully black (complicated but still ugh) to wishing I looked more Jewish (yikes) to wishing I was not Jewish (eeeeeek) to wishing I had more people in my life who mirrored my mixed experience to finding many people who get it to still feeling like my experience is uniquely my own to taking some ownership over these parts of myself to having a son who phenotypically looks like me to taking a quick exhale to still getting triggered by ways that mixedness causes him distress to having a daughter who does not phenotypically look like me to feeling like “okay universe, you’ve got a twisted way of teaching me a life lesson about mixed feelings” to feeling even more lost in all of this and now I’m swirling somewhere in the middle of a beginning, middle and end place.

Mixedness is a ten hundred layer cake of identity conversations. There’s the layer of siblings in mixed families not always looking phenotypically similar, as well as children not looking like their parents or looking freakishly exactly like their parents. There’s the layer of EVERYONE seeming to be ENTHRALLED with how mixed people look. You know when something feels like clogged shit in your gut, but you don’t have the language or the energy to really unpack why? That’s how I feel everytime someone comments on mixed kids’ attractiveness. I guess actually writing that now, it’s kind of obvious that objectifying children is… problematic… and yet, we ALL do it. And then I start going down an inherited racial trauma rabbit hole of the exploitation of mixed children during slavery and I need to hook myself up to a ketamine IV drip and float far, far awaaaay.

And look, our society is apperance obsessed, so it’s no surprise that we start em reaaaal young, but there does seem to be something else, or more, that’s happening around mixed kids that I’m determined to understand, confront and disrupt. There’s the layer of how crucial mirroring is for any child, but especially, for those who are mixed, and yet, we so rarely receive that mirroring from others. That mixedness, like any other identities, is absolutely not a monolith, and yet there do seem to be some universal truths around otherness and pressure to choose parts of yourself over others, usually to satisfy others’ confusion and/or ignorance. That being mixed with Black and White lineage holds a particular heaviness and responsibility that feels… tough to carry. That mixedness is both not everything and everything, everywhere, all at once. That this unpacking, uncovering, and processing is lifetime work, and is extra tender as people shift and change. And we are now living in an age where mixed people are having mixed kids, so buckle UP, it’s only getting more mixed upppp.

My coach, Sarah, recently posted 5 Things White Assumed Mixed Kids Need to Hear Early on:

1. You’re not pretending to be mixed, you really are mixed. When you’re read as white, it can make you question whether your mixedness “counts.” Your lineage doesn’t need outside validation. It lives in your body, your family, and your story, whether or not anyone else can see it. You are mixed!

2. People will often get it wrong. White assumed kids are misread constantly, called “white,” “ambiguous,” or “not really mixed.” That repeated misunderstanding can sting, but it doesn’t have to define you. You get to decide when to correct them or when to protect your peace.

3. You come from histories that matter. When your appearance lets you move through spaces seen as white, those quiet ancestral stories risk being forgotten. You deserve to know, show & name them, not out of guilt or performance, but to stay connected to the truth of who you are.

4. Whiteness will open doors, but that doesn’t mean you owe your silence or complicance. White-assumed mixed people hold privileges associated with whiteness. Using your voice can bring more honesty, care and integrity into rooms where diversity is not an emphasis and racism goes unchecked. Use your voice.

5. You belong in every part of your story. Because white-assumed mixed kids are often told they’re “too white” or “lucky not to deal with racism” (which may be true) but belonging isn’t earned through struggle, it’s inherent. You are the sum of all your lineages, you’re whole and complete as you are and you belong.

[From Mixed Bloom Room’s instagram post here]

My daughter is white assumed, and she is a Mixed girl. My daughter is white assumed and she is whole. My daughter is white assumed, and there will be no assumptions in our family about her being less mixed than others. My daughter is white assumed, and her chosen family will always recognize who she is. My daughter is white assumed, and she carries, Afro Carribean, Black, White, and Jewish, ancestry. My daughter is white assumed and there will be times when some people misread who she is. My daughter is white assumed and there are certain spaces that she is not meant to center herself in. My daughter is white assumed and she will be okay. My daughter is white assumed and her mixedness is worthy of celebration. My daughter is white assumed and she doesn’t always have to talk about her mixedness. My daughter is white assumed and she deserves to breathe easy.

My daughter is white assumed and she inherited my joy. My daughter is white assumed and she is ever evolving. My daughter is white assumed and we are both on a path, together, towards full self acceptance of our mixedness. and multitudes. My daughter is white assumed and I can teach her, from my own experiences of mixedness, while different, how to brace for many people to lack fluency in her racial language. My daughter is white assumed and I am her mother.

The other day, I met a Panamanian woman whose son is in the same swim class as Wes and we became fast friends. I was carrying Lenny in my arms, and the woman looked at Lenny, then at me, and offered with such honesty and grace, “You’ve got a special one there. She’s got your spirit and your eyes [we both laugh]. No, not the color, I know, but the shape. The depth. You two compliment each other so beautifully.”

I love you always Lenny.

love,

Mom

This week I’ve been working around the clock (I’m.not.kidding) to get ready for Lenny’s first birthday celebration, so writing has taken a back seat. But rest assured — I’ll be back next week with mannnnnnny words about having a daughter who is one year old.

Happy birthday Lenox Lyn Walker! You are one of one.

love,

Jesse

This week has felt like a combination of cement, honey and thunderstorms. While there is a lot I want to write about and share, I’m pressing a gentle pause on my need to make! create! and produce! right now. I know the universe is telling me, chill girl, and even though I hate when anyone tells me to chill, I know she’s right. But god damn it, there is just something about New York on the brink of summer that revs my engine up with so much energy and inspiration for possibilities, and also makes me feel completely insignificant and annoying — like a little blob of pollen that is lodged in someone’s throat.

Yesterday, somewhere in between the chaotic flurry of dinner, fifty small toys splayed out on the floor, and bath time, Wes turned to me and said, “I’m feeling a little sad and a little happy about Lenny getting older. It’s going to be sad when she’s not crawling anymore, and when she gets more hair. But I’m a little happy she’s going to walk and start brushing her teeth!”

Truer words have never been spoken.

This stage of life we’re in, the constant motion that feels like we’re being catapulted down the steepest, bumpiest hill, can feel so overwhelming at times that all I can do is close my eyes tightly and pray for a softish landing. Where getting to the end of the day, when pajamas are zipped and little necks tucked into blankets, feels like pure ecstacy. Followed by an endorphin crash that can only be soothed by sitting in complete silence and dissociating through a forty-five minute tiktok scroll hole.

This is such a bizarre state of being. Somehow staying present, while perpetually planning, and mourning, and folding, and tending, and laughing, and crying, and growing and sleeping while standing up.

I am both so unbelievably fulfilled and utterly depleted by this life I’m living. I’m that sponge that won’t quit — a constant beat of absorption, release, absorption, release.

And I don’t really have anything else to say right now. And I’m at peace with that. With incompleteness. With longing for more. With bracing myself for everything to come. With celebrating a brief moment to myself, to share a little sadness, and a little happiness, and to feel like if this is all there is, it’s more than enough.

love,

Jesse

Let’s get right into it! I recently stumbled upon the below meme and my life will never be the same.

A Diva Has Distractions is the only way I will be referring to my ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) here on out. And when I really think about it… ADHD is so diva coded. She’s extra, she’s all over the place, she’s impulsive, she’s sometimes doing way too much, then other times doing absolutely nothing… but we love her for all of her mess!

I’m in such a weird in-between place with my ADHD (what’s new!) I was officially diagnosed with ADHD back in 2016, after I quite literally almost lost my mind year two of grad school, but I knowwwww deep in my distracted bones that I’ve had this diva syndrome my whole life.

For me, I was obsessed with being a good girl, so I kept my ADHD symptoms on LOCK. I now understand that I was doing something called masking, the conscious or unconscious suppression of natural ADHD traits to appear “neurotypical.” People use it as a survival skill to avoid judgment, but the constant pressure to fit in causes severe burnout, anxiety, and identity confusion over time. And masking as a little mixed girl in predominantly white environments! Whewwwwwww baby, I’ll be doing healing work for that part of myself for the rest of my life.

Over time, I’ve learned that my ADHD is my inner sprinter. When and only when we are absolutely running against the clock and my team (family, friends, colleagues) depend on me — I’ve never run faster. I am laser focused, skilled and unstoppable. But the minute the race is over, I fully collapse. And the analysis paralysis I get, a true inability to get anything done, for days, sometimes weeks, after I’ve given my all to something, is so unbelievably debilitating. I know that even today, there are so many people that probably view my life and have no idea how bad my ADHD is. You know who knows how bad it is? My husband and my closet. Ooooooops!

My ADHD is my most trusted, inconsistent bestie. She will get me through something when I’m in full crisis mode, but if I’m just calling to catch up or try to get regulated just cuz, she’s absolutely nowhere to be found. She is also my enabler. She often tells me that it is completely acceptable to get back into bed right after I’ve just brushed my teeth to start the day. Also this bitch loooooves her piles. A pile of unfolded clothes on a chair? That’s her ultimate kink. A random assortment of chotchkes that have no rhyme or reason in a corner of the room? Perrrrrrfect. Unopened boxes of things that are probably really crucial to my wellbeing? Let’s just leave them there and see what happens. My ADHD pretends like she’s a thrill seeker, but underneath it all, she’s a very scared, overwhelmed little girl who needs someone to hold her hand and give her clear, step-by-step, action items but they can’t actually be in to-do list form or she will forget about it as quickly as she writes, “Buy more bananas.”

ADHD pivot! Dr. Sasha Hamdani is a psychiatrist and ADHD clinical specialist who talks openly about her own struggles with ADHD throughout her life. I’m going to be vulnerable for a minute and share that I did first encounter her in an Armchair expert interview, but soooo what!

I listened to the episode, no joke, three times that same day, and I know you’re probably thinking, who has the time?! and just to be clear, not me! I fully dropped the ball on several things I was supposed to do that day in order to obsessively immerse myself in everything Dr. Hamdani had to say.

There are so many important things in this episode, but here are the top three that I can’t stop thinking about:

1. ADHD is a dopamine dysregulation error. Let’s just get nerdy for a sec. Dopamine is a critical chemical messenger in your brain that controls feelings of pleasure, motivation and motor function. Research now suggests that ADHD is characterized by abnormal reward prediction error signals carried by the midbrain dopamine system, which then impact the frontal brain areas responsible for cognitive control. If that made no sense to you, saaaame. But essentially the point is that in an ADHD brain, the system for anticipating and processing rewards is miscalibrated, which affects motivation, attention and follow-through. Okay just stay with me for one more minute… because this is where things get really real! The ADHD brain regulates dopamine differently, which likely contributes to what’s called an “interest-based nervous system,” as opposed to the more common, neurotypical “importance-based system.” People with an importance-based system are motivated by significance, responsibility to others, and external rewards. Those with an interest-based system may fully understand the importance of tasks, but still struggle to initiate them until they become urgent. This tracks. The ADHD brain thrives in enviroments that align with its interests, yet struggles in traditional settings. Motivation hinges on factors like interest, novelty, play, and challenge — elements that stimuluate dopamine production! The more you know!

2. While boys are typically diagnosed with ADHD at ages 5-7, girls are diagnosed much later, with an average age of 35. 35!!!!!!!!! And many women only discover they have ADHD in motherhood when they come to psychiatrists desperate, on the brink of a nervous break down. R e l a t a b l e.

3. Parenting with ADHD is an incredibly daunting, overwhelming task. For a brain that is already stretched thin managing attention and organization, the multi-tasking required in parenting can genuinely feel impossible to achieve. And for many parents with ADHD who already struggle with their own executive function, they also have to be executive function for the whole family. This leads to a chronic state of overwhelm. For moms (typically) this is compounded by the invisible mental load of family life — remembering birthdays, signing permission slips, coordinating appointments, playdates, finding your kid’s astronaut costume for space day at school, etc. There are obviously soooo many nuances here. And plenty of Dads out here doing the work. Bless you. But from my personal experience, as a mom with ADHD who has an incredibly supportive partner and a ton of resources and tools at my disposal, it is still extremely daunting doing all of this with a brain that needs different things to get anything done.

Okay before I fully get lost in the sauce, what I really want to say is — this is ongoing personal work I’m doing, and an ongoing conversation I want to have with anyone interested. So for any other person, especially moms out there, whose brain is like mine, I SEE YOUUUUUUUUU. I really really do. And if you are also in the parenting trenches, I want you to know that the fact that certain things are harder is not a negative reflection of what kind of parent you are, babe. It is a reflection of the gap between what our brains were built for and what the current systems of motherhood demand. That gap is real. It is neurological. And it is not a personal failing. I am confident that my ADHD, like my mixedness, is also my superpower. It makes me incredibly creative, empathic, funny, flexible and deeply understanding of what it means to feel different.

All of that said, I do need some help eeee. So I’m currently looking into finding a new psychiatrist, considering pros and cons of ADHD medication of this stage of the game, going down ADHD hyperfixation rabbit holes of all the latest research, and planning to get some answers and actionable things! to! do! So stay tuned for more. In the meantime, here are a few resources to get started. You’re doing great, sweetie. Even if it doesn’t feel that way.

• Dr. Sasha Hamdani’s interview on Armchair Expert

• Self-Care for People with ADHD by Sasha Hamdani

• Poog ADHD Culture Episode

• Organizing Solutions for People with ADHD

• Scattered Minds: The Origins and Healing of Attention Deficit Disorder by Gabor Mate

Love,

Jesse and one of several magic piles in the house

I wanted to start by saying thank you thank you THANK YOU to every single person who reached out to me about last week’s post to celebrate my rage and share similar sentiments. I really do believe we all just want to feel seen and like our feelings aren’t too much.

I will say that I’m feeling a bit chippier this week. There’s still anger, let’s not be ridiculous, but it’s feeling a little more… contained! As a numerologist I recently spoke with told me (more on this) this next month is all about zip zap zoop energy, and that’s the perfect way to describe what’s happening for me internally at this moment.

So here’s the ZIP:

I wanted to officially share that I’m soft launching a new 1:1 support container, MIXED FEELINGS ABOUT MOTHERHOOD, a space dedicated to allllll of the conflicting feelings that may arise for you surrounding motherhood.

This is an opportunity to work with me in a highly individualized, nourishing, therapeutic space (although please don’t use this as a full therapy substitute) to meet a person wherever you’re at on your motherhood journey.

The ZAP:

Whether you’re considering if motherhood is the path for you, feeling like absolute shit during the first trimester of pregnancy, in the postpartum trenches or fully immersed in mothering and trying to stay afloat, this is the space for you. This is highly customizable, with 6-week, 8-week, and 12-week program options, as well as opportunities for further processing, if needed.

As a highly sensitive being, and mother of two, I sooo wish a space to process my many mixed feelings about motherhood existed before I fully entered into this vortex. And while this is truly a place for anyone wanting to dive deeper into motherhood reflection, I am especially interested in working with mixed individuals and those who are in interracial relationships, trying to navigate the many identity pieces related to motherhood and mixedness. There are laaaayers to this work, baby.

The ZOOM:

In honor of Mother’s Day, I will be offering 25% off this program for anyone who starts working with me in May. Do I feel a little cringy using all of these sales terms? Yup! Do I need to start making more money to support two kids living in Carroll Gardens? Also yup! Do I know deep in my soul that I have something to offer to others in this space? YUP YUP YUPPPPP!

So please, share this info with any moms, moms-to-be, curious about motherhood-ers, and everyone else in between you know who you think might be a good fit for something like this! Click here to book a complimentary consultation call to learn more about the process and how I work. You can also always reach out to me with any questions at jessewalkerpsyd@gmail.com.

Thank you for being here!

Love,

Jesse

I’d like to start by acknowledging that I’ve already failed at my intention of posting a new substack article every Wednesday. Friday it is until it isn’t!

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I’d also like to announce that I am experiencing a level of rage coarsing through my veins that is powerfullllll. At first, I considered skipping writing this week, waiting until I could think of something more uplifting and joyous to share with you. But then I thought — fuck it. And also, maybe you’re experiencing something similar too, and have similarly received messages that while your joy is whimsy, your anger is a major liability.

I’ve been reflecting a lot on whose anger is hot and whose is not. It’s an interesting thing as a Mixed woman. It’s almost as though my anger is disappointing to others. Like it’s experienced as unnatural, or uncalled for, or just not that substantial in the grand scheme of things. While others weaponize Black women’s anger to discredit and dehumanize them, Black Mixed women’s anger is in this weird in-between space (duh) of being heard, for a minute, but then quickly dismissed or forgotten about. It’s like, I hear you sis, now throw that curly hair into a 3A messy bun and keep it moving!

And then there’s the trope of the angry mom. Oooof this is layered and racialized and I just don’t have the time to fully dive in right now, but what I’ll say is it’s met with such intense judgement that I know many of us try to keep our anger under wraps. And I do get this, to a certain extent. When we’re feeling extremely rageful towards our kids, it is very appropriate to manage those feelings and not make it our kid’s work to regulate for us. But I also think it’s really important for moms to model that anger is not an emotion we have to be ashamed of. That it’s a “bad” feeling that needs to be scolded or iced out. One way I’ve been trying to confront my anger more is by intentionally labeling it in front of my kids. And also letting them know when something they’ve done has upset me. When my four year old son throws cheerios at my face, I tell him, “woaaaaah not cool, I feel angry that you did that!” Now, if he’s caught me at a particularly overwhelmed moment, internally I might be screaming, “YOU MOTHERFUCKING UNGRATEFUL SON OF A BITCH. YEAH THAT’S RIGHT, I’M THE BITCH. I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON A CHEERIO.” But I don’t say that part out loud. Because that is an overreaction. And that is my anger completely unfiltered. And it’s not actually true, but it does sometimes feel verrrrry true in the moment. You feel me?

I think what I’m getting at, is that anger in motherhood is SOOOOOO NORMAL. In fact, if you are a mom and tell me you never feel anger, I’m backing away slowly from you because you are out of your fucking mind. The work of motherhood is exhausting. And relentless. And often times, invisible. And of course, there is so much to be grateful for, but let’s not go there yet. Just let me beeeeee for a minute, okay? Here’s a list (in no particular order) of things that infuriated me this morning:

• Lenny woke up a 4:45 in a rage and banged my lip while thrashing her head so hard that I actually started tearing up. Then she would only fall back to sleep if I cradled her in one arm, stroked her forehead, and repeatedly “shush shusheddddd” for thirty minutes. It’s cute until it’s your morning.

• Wes, an hour later, jumped onto our bed and screamed “WAKE UP, WAKE UP, WAKE UP, EVERYBODY WAAAAAAAKE UP” and when I didn’t open my eyes fast enough, he pried them open with his little tallons that I know were in his butt two seconds earlier.

• Wes then gleefully announced, “It’s the weekend! No school today!” and when I told him, “actually no, you’ve got school today” he screamed like I was cutting off his finger and proceeded to slam our bedroom door over and over again, until I threatened that he would “never be allowed to watch anything ever again if he slammed the door one more time” because I am weak and I am human.

• Lenny is in a phase where she has decided that getting her diaper changed is optional, and that it’s also the perfect opportunity to perfect her twerking. Long story short I got her poop all over my wrist, my wedding band and somehow also in her hair.

• Sam announced that he was going to the gym, which of course is his god given right, but I was so enraged that he’s so diligent with working out and that he has healthy, acceptable, avoidant, coping strategies. Ugh, can you not? Also, I have Lenny on Thursdays and Fridays, which is an arrangement we very much agreed on and which I genuinely enjoy most of the time, but this morning I felt soooo resentful. DO YOU FEEL ME?

• I received a text from someone about scheduling something. Vom.

• My parents delayed their arrival time for getting here, and even though it is understandable that shit happens literally and figuratively, the change in plans sent me reeling.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. It’s okay, you can say it. Am I PMSing?! Rude and stereotypical and maybe?!?! My period since weaning off breastfeeding is like that old childhood friend who pops in ocassionally to text and send a big life update. Sometimes you two get into a consistent communication flow, especially around the holidays when you’ll be staying with your parents and there’s one bathroom everyone is sharing, and other times, she might as well be dead.

And actually, one more thing now that I’m on a roll! I feel like there is this really interesting narrative that I’ve been seeing lately in the parenthood sphere (who am I?) that there’s too much complaining and fear mongering about parenthood, and motherhood specifically, and that it’s actually really cool to share how much motherhood rocks. While I don’t need to explain myself to anyone, I do want to clarify for my own sake when I re-read this post next week and think “wow. that was…. something.”

I love being a mom like I love living on this universe at this specific point in time. It is an incredibly beautiful, dynamic, moving, purposeful role that feels like it was always meant to be this way, and also, that there is absolutely without a doubt, life beyond this place. That I was some energetic being before now, and I will be some energetic being after. And sometimes it feels like a psychedelic fever dream. When I am reduced to only mothering, and worse, to only mothering with a smile on my face, it is absolute torture. When I am told that I will miss this one day, when I am genuinely at my most depressed, say it with me, “That! is! not! helpful! babe! ” And that’s another thing! Let’s start reading the room when it comes to helpful feedback during vulnerable times. I’m sorry but unless the person is a masochist, no one ever desires to hear what they should be doing when they’re struggling. Even if someone begs you to “JUST TELL ME WHAT TO DO” they are never actually asking for you to tell them, “You shoud’ve just budgeted your time better.” Never. Tell me what to do is code for Help me LIVE BETTER. Help me be a functionally flawed person in this functionally flawed world. Help me feel seen. Help me feel a sense of belonging — that my feelings are not too big, too terrifying, too negative. Help me work through this feeling, through writing, movement, screams, tears, hilarious tiktoks. Help me by grabbing my hand, getting down in the mud, and then convincing me to make a mud angel with you because it will make for a cute photo.

Let this post serve as an invitation to celebrate your anger, for making you hot and a real, live person.

Love,

Me and this tiny pidgeon on the verge of a nervous breakdown I found perched on Lenny’s dresser this morning.

I should’ve predicted that my return to substack after a two year hiatus (almost to the day!) would be extremely anticlimactic. That one day (today) I would just decide (five minutes ago) to abandon the 40 million ideas I had for the perfect come back post, and just…. write something….

The past two years have been a clinically insane whirlwind of moving from DC to Costa Rica, getting pregnant day three in Costa Rica, deciding to have a baby abroad, having that baby (heyyyy Lenny girl!) abroad, feeling it in my bones even though it made absolutely zero sense on paper that we had to leave paradise for Brooklyn. AND FUCKING DOING IT.

I’m simulataneously exhausted, elated, anxious, trusting and hopeful all at once. And I’m sort of ready to share some of my internal experience with the world, aka YOU, my 250 substack subscribers :)

I’ve also found that with everything important in my life, I need an external force to hold me accountable or I can and will literally sit on an idea until I die. I’m very much entering an act now, think later era. And while that might sound like a fun excuse for impulsivity, I’m too reved up to care!

So here we are again, all mixed up fam! I’m a bit older, saggier, witchier and wiser. And I’m expanding mixed feelings to encapsulate alllllll of the contrasting emotions that come up for me and maybe you in this phase of life. It’s stories from living abroad. It’s confessions. It’s getting kicked out of a “cool moms” clique. It’s grief. It’s joy. It’s life in all her glory and misery. It’s Blackness and Mixedness and Celebration. It’s partnership and friendship and adulthood and inner child work and learning how to cook (metaphorically speaking). While I will always see the world, at least to a certain extent, through a lens of race and mental health, I’m no longer as obsessed (or interested, frankly) with such a narrow view of mixedness. We’re going alllllll in this time. Mixedness to me is fluidity. It is vastness. It is curiosity. It is vibrancy. It is (sorry) BOTH, AND. I promise it won’t always be this vague, but I’m buying myself some time here. Mixedness is a state of being that I think everyone can relate to. And I want you all to be here.

I’m going to try to commit to posting here once a week, knowing full well I will not always live up to that. And all I ask from you in return is $5/month, curiosity, open heartedness and tender care with my fragile vulnerabilities. With my mistakes. With my experimentation. With my whole ass, human self.

I recently wrote down this quote that I want to take credit for coming up with but know that like every other prophetic verse, it was definitely on instagram:

When you are feeling, you are alive.

Here we goooooo!

love,

Jesse

from my recent cult themed 36th birthday where I made everyone dress in all white and worship me and my underboob (singular) for 4 hours.

By now, I hope it’s become abundantly clear that this newsletter is a spontaneous, ADHD + Anxiety fueled fever dream and if that’s not your jam… I bid you farewell and Godspeed trying to unsubscribe from Substack…..

For the rest of you, Welcome Back! I wish I was coming in hot with a big piece to really kick this spring season off, but as of late, I’m like a helium balloon fourteen days after the party. So tired, shriveled, bobbing aimlessly in a corner, snorting lines of dust and praying no one kicks me too hard. 

I’ve been playing phone tag with my joy for the past six+ months, and while I knowww she loves me unconditionally and wants me to be happy and blah blah blah, she’s also been force feeding my insecure attachment big time with her inconsistencies. My joy will occasionally send me a “I miss you! Let’s catch up!” text, but then when I call her it immediately goes to voicemail and she writes back 300 hours later, “Bahh so sorry just seeing you called, crazy week!” and I honestly don’t expect anything from her anymore, which might be the saddest part about our relationship. 

Ugh sorry, I really thought this would be a more positive post. If it helps, I have had some micro moments lately, where I’ve just felt like ahh okay yep, this is living. I get it! And I hate to admit this, but I feel my best when I accept that the world may literally end in a few years, give or take. When I stop trying to control other people and just focus on controlling my breath. When I hold my son’s hand and we watch a caterpillar in our yard safely cross from one leaf to another. When my husband laugh cries at anything. When I witness complete strangers being decent to each other. When I use my grapefruit scrub in the shower. When I watch a hilarious/dumb tiktok. When I floss for twenty days straight. 

Lately, I’ve been keeping a chaotic list on my phone entitled, “Revelations/Thoughts/Ideas/Musings.” I wish I was the kind of person who had my “aha” moments while immersed in nature or after a deep meditation, but let’s be real… 98% of these thoughts come to me while I’m sitting on the toilet. I guess it makes sense, right? Are we not our most honest and vulnerable while shitting? At least for me, sitting on the toilet is the most peaceful part of my day. Sometimes I’m reflecting on concepts that I’ve already encountered and want to distill further, other times I’m a legit genius and thinking these up all by myself. Either way, I wanted to share the ones that I keep coming back to these days. Take ‘em or leave ‘em.

• Every worthwhile experience requires compromise of some sort – it’s all a question of how much you’re willing to compromise yourself and your spirit to reach some sense of balance and peace. 

• It’s always the truth in the thing that makes it stick and resonate. 

• I’m not afraid to believe in things – in myself, in the world, in others. 

• Giving and receiving is the economy of our souls (to be honest, I heard this one somewhere but I can’t remember who said it, so if it was you, please take full credit)

• By ourselves, we are very unreliable narrators. 

• I do not belong everywhere, but I am striving to belong in spaces worthy of my belonging. In spaces that want me and see me there. Of finding others who believe in my full magic – that is where I want to be and belong. 

• When someone is going through something difficult, maybe the kindest words we can offer is, “I wish you the best, because this is a motherfucking struggle” (said by my very wise friend, Wendy)

• I want to radically live as myself and see who comes with me and who doesn’t. 

• Grief is a portal into truth – and it closes over time.

• Great writing is a distillation of a feeling. 

• Without talking about “hard things” (aka uncomfortable topics) we are not being honest – and without honesty there is distrust, or worse, no trust. 

• No one has their shit together. Often times it’s just a fluke that something works and so we just keep doing it that way. 

• My fear of judgment comes from my OWN self judgments. Wowwwww.

• Don’t take life so seriously. Le duhhhh. 

• Death is the first contract we make with our first breath (got this from the Psychedelic Today, “End of Life Care & Psychedelics” episode, that I listened to, while sitting on the shitter)

• I feel more and more certain that learning how to accept impermanence and be grateful for the time we do have here IS the work of life. 

• Pain is clever and has major stamina. 

• People with anxiety are some of the most creative people in the world – without fail, we come up with the most original, elaborate fantasies, over and over again.

• Insecurity is loud, confidence is quiet. 

• I like being around people who I don’t think are going to judge me. 

• Attention and consistency are the currencies of love. 

Welp! That’s all I’ve got today.

Talk to ya when I talk to ya.

Love,

Jesse

image by Crocodile Jackson

Me again! I knowwww I don’t *need* to explain my absence or inability to form coherent sentences at this point, but my anxiety feels obligated to inform you that I have been tryyyying to get back in touch with you and with myself.

It’s really hard out here, y’all. Parenting a toddler + working with people who are experiencing unbearable suffering + experiencing your own shit + being hiiiiighly sensitive + war + trying to find slightly baggy but tight-ish boyfriend jeans that cover your ankles is… A LOT. But I’m also trying to do this thing where I just do things…when I can. And I don’t beat myself up about it, too much. It feels pretty revolutionary, tbh. I’ll just check in, when I can. I’ll just clean that mess, when I can. I’ll just shower, when I can. I’ll just process, when I can. And that’s that!

So here I am, with a few minutes to myself, feeling like I can share a little something about my son, Wes.

I realized that since I left instagram in June (hold the applause), that the (only?) thing I miss from that pure chaos-aesthetically pleasing dumpster fire- compare and despair, brand influencers for social justice wait what? - fake belonging grifter campaigns — app, is showing off Wes. Call it exploitive, or narcissism by proxy, or just annoying as hell, but I can’t help myself. I love showing off my kid. This creation. This personality. This being who drives me to the edge of the cliff of despair and self-doubt, and just before I jump, does something so simultaneously small and incredible that forces me to step back, and reckon with the fact that it is, in fact, possible to love someone to the edge of the universe and back.

And it feels important to name this love, explicitly. For myself, and for Wes. Because sharing a love that makes me feel whole at a time when there is so much hatred and division is crucial for my survival. I guess you could say I’m choosing love as an act of resistance, or something.

I’ve also realized how few people truly know about Wes’s (and by extension, my) life these days. How much I relied on instagram to be my personal PR rep. Wowwww. I don’t feel great about writing that sentence! How gross it feels to think that some filtered photo reel could convey a full life. I’ve always had sneaky suspicions that this society is not set up for communities to stay connected in a meaningful way, but I am now experiencing that ugly truth. There are so many people I love and care deeply for who I haven’t spoken to in months, even years. That so much of maintaining relationships these days feels like playing a card game with half the deck missing, and you have to just sort of make up the rules while you play, but every time you stop playing, the game completely changes and you have to start all over again.

There are so many people I love who don’t even know that Wes is eating with a fork now, or that he prefers using his left hand, or that I started- then stopped - and think I’m going to start up again dyeing my multiplying gray hairs, or what my favorite color currently is (moss green). So many people I love who I know so little about these days. I guess none of this is new, but there’s something about being responsible for a child in this dying world that just hits different.

So while I have no real solutions or wise words or notes of comfort today, I do have some updates about Wes that I’d love to share with you:

1. We have reason to believe that Wes has just met his first invisible friends, Colleen and Carl. Yes, you read that correctly. A few nights ago, Wes brought up Colleen and Carl, casually, and told us that they were all having lunch together next week. Sam and I double checked Wes’s daycare roster to make sure we didn’t miss the memo about an elderly couples exchange student program in Petite Scholars Toddler B Class. Nope. No Colleen and no Carl. I wonder where they’ll go for lunch.

2. Wes loves Paris, moms in yoga pants, big boys, Miss Rachel (or as he calls her, “Mitchell”) and ecstatic dance.

3. Wes prefers bananas to apples, trader joes waffles to cheerios and sparkling water to still (oops).

4. As of ten days ago, Wes became OBSESSED with Santa Claus and all he wants for Christmas is: eggs.

5. Wes is learning how to apologize. He now says “you okay, Mama?” and “I sorry, Dada” approximately 20 minutes after the offense. Maybe I’m just trying to justify his behavior, but I think it’s kind of nice receiving an apology totally out of the blue.

6. Wes is currently the size of an average 3.5 year old. I’d be lying and a better person if I said we haven’t made several jokes about sending Wes to Catholic School for their sports programs. In all seriousness, though, it has been both very fascinating and a little bit heartbreaking watching our gigantic (that’s the politically correct term) toddler navigate the playground with some of the meanest kids I’ve ever met. The other day I overheard some five year old bitch (sorry but if you’re talking shit about my son, I don’t care how old you are, you’re a bitch as far as I’m concerned) say, “ewwww, that kid is still in diapers!” The mama bear/cannibal in me wanted to eat that girl for breakfast and in between bites scream, “He’s not even two yet, you monster!!!” but I decided instead to privately cry in the shower during Wes’s naptime later that day. And I know that, because nothing is fair, that one day Wes’s height will probably serve as a (Jacob Elordi) status symbol, but holding onto that future idea doesn’t really fix the problem or make me feel that better. Most kids assume Wes is a developmentally delayed four year old when they first interact with him, and I’m getting the smallest, most privileged window into how cruel kids can be to those they perceive as different. Wonder where they learned how to be so mean….

7. All of Wes’s “I love yous” are obviously on his terms, and as much as it feels a little withholding, we love him for living his truth.

8. If you ask Wes what his name is, nine out of ten times he will respond with “Nick.” A former nanny told us she is positive in a past life, during the depression era, Wes was a history professor named Nicholas. So there you have it.

9. In Wes’s culture, it is extremely rude to not say “hi!!!” to every single person, or inanimate holiday decoration, you pass on the street.

10. In just under two years, Wes has already taught us so much about reveling in life’s simple pleasures. To compliment the smoothie you’re drinking, and tell it “mmmm. you’re yummy.” To take a break, mid dinner, and rest on the couch for a few minutes. To stand completely still in the shower and count the water droplets that trickle from your knees down to your toes. To give Santa Claus a quick call when you need a pick me up. To put on a blue beret and pretend you’re in Paris fashion week. To ask for what you really want. To make time for that lunch with your dear friends Colleen and Carl, who you don’t see nearly enough of.

I love you,

Jesse

I know it’s been way too long since I last wrote. I’ve been feeling a lot like this over the past 6 months. 

But as fragile and scared as my heart feels right now, it has been relentless in its call to share itself more. So here goes, a messy, imperfect, all over the place, little love letter from my aching heart to yours:

First and most importantly, please invest in staying human right now. We have become so desensitized, as a people, to death and destruction, it’s no wonder many believe the false illusion that our hearts are like faucets we should turn on and off for conservation; as if our compassion is some conditional entity that will rust if we let too much of it flow freely right now. 

The messages we have received over the past twelve days are filtered through broken hearts and broken promises. None of this is new, but the way information is being shared is so intense and overwhelming right now, that any act of staying informed requires heavy armor. I also want to validate anyone feeling terrified. Regardless of what side your beliefs fall, it is absolutely soul crushing to bear witness to this level of violence. 

When I’m feeling so lost and powerless like this, I eventually get a twinge from my heart, a gentle nudge that reminds me to keep finding reasons to love. It tenderly explains to me that oppression is a three-headed monster that feeds off of silence, division and helplessness. Oppression avoids thinking about consequences or accountability, because those two forces require care, and oppression is so unbelievably careless.

My heart reminds me that my very existence, as a Black, Mixed, Jewish, mother in the United States is a constant exercise in cradling the oppressor and oppressed within. That my 23andme —33% Sub-Saharan African, 66.9% European (50% Ashkenazi Jewish) — is a case study in the duality of colonization and independence; settler mindset and revolution; destruction and creation. There is no honest way to simplify or justify all parts of my existence.

And to be abundantly clear – just because I often choose to express joy, does not mean I am not often also carrying despair. For the past six months, I have been experiencing a deep, overpowering depression that has been relentless in its propaganda that my conflicting parts will never come together to make me whole. That my inner conflicts will never reach any form of resolution. That a sense of safety is only granted to my body if I am prepared to hide behind a white supremacist, capitalist, patriarchal facade of protection granted to me solely through my proximity to the dumbest manmade myth—whiteness. And while I know there is so much I have to be grateful for, my Blackness and Judaism both teach me that with critical thinking comes accountability, and to never forget the fragility of my privileges in an oppressive world. 

In therapy yesterday, I told my therapist, “Not to be dramatic or anything, but I feel like my entire life is a perpetual state of never-ending confusion.” I went on to explain that I don’t know how to be a highly sensitive being in a world that demands I harden myself. That I am so confused by how softness is constantly seen as weakness, and it feels like there are fewer and fewer spaces where tenderness and care are celebrated. That to be fully myself is to inevitably offend someone, and that it’s better to avoid, retreat and ignore my feelings in times of suffering.

My therapist, a beacon of inspiration for me to say “fuck em” and live my life on my own terms, encouraged me to replace the word confusion with curiosity. Confusion is a symptom that makes us feel like we can’t think clearly, while curiosity, she explained, allows us to see the world as a place with infinite potential and possibility. 

As a therapist, it would be unethical for me (although plenty do) to sit here and manipulate you into feeling something that does not feel aligned for you. We also live in such a heterogeneous society, it would be impossible for us all to share the exact same opinions about what is happening and what should be done. And if I’m being fully honest, I am still in a process of educating myself and forming a solid belief system about all that has taken place past and present. I’m embarrassed to admit that— that I still don’t know what I fully believe, because I think it sounds like a convenient excuse. And that translates to me being spineless, like I’m trying to find the easy way to slink out the back. And of course, because this is how my psyche works (ugh), any fragments in my thinking directly translate to fragments in my being — I am all of a sudden not rooted enough in any parts of myself to lay claim to anything but isolation.

And yet, there goes my heart again. It really does show up for me, time and time again, when I am at my most vulnerable. My heart is encouraging me to share that it is okay not to know. That there are always others who will help pick up the pieces of me, non-judgmentally; that there are others who really, truly care. It is asking for everyone reading this, to check in with your hearts today. To take a moment of quiet, of breathing, of re-connection. If this exercise of heart opening is an unfamiliar practice for you, here’s a place to start (courtesy of Deepak Chopra)

1. Begin by sitting in a comfortable position and close your eyes.

2. For just this moment, let go of your thoughts and the outside world.

3. Focus your attention on your spiritual heart center, in the middle of your chest, and be aware of your heart as a space. The heart center is a point of awareness where feelings enter. In its essence, the heart is pure emptiness, pervaded by peace and a subtle light. This light may appear as white, gold, pale pink, or blue. But don’t strain to find a light of any kind. All you need to feel is whatever is there.

4. Resting your attention easily on your heart center, breathe gently and sense your breath flowing into your heart. You may want to visualize a soft, pastel light or coolness pervading the chest.

5. Let your breath go in and out, and as it does, ask your heart what it needs to say. Don’t phrase this as an order; just have the faint intention that you want your heart to express itself.

6. For the next 5 or 10 minutes, sit and listen. Your heart will begin to release emotions, memories, wishes, fears, and dreams long stored inside. As it does, you will find yourself paying attention.

7. You may have a flash of strong emotion—positive or negative—or a forgotten memory. Your breathing may change. You may gasp, sigh, or feel tears come into your eyes. Let the experience be what it is. If you daydream or drift off into sleep, don’t worry. Just bring your attention back to your heart center.

If you’re having mixed feelings about any of the atrocities happening right now, you’re in good company. I’m here if anyone wants to connect and process anything. I promise to listen with compassion and speak from my heart, and all I ask is that you offer the same care in return. 

With love, 

Jesse

On this week’s *bonus* episode: reunited and it feels SO damn good. 2.5 months apart felt like years (never again) but we survived, and we’re back together FINALLY in Mexico City! We share about our reunion, making this podcast, and what’s next for us individually and together. This one is short and sweet, just like the tres leches cakes we inhaled in CDMX.

We love you!

XOXO,

Jesse & Tessa

On this week’s episode: All About Endings. We start by discussing the ultimate ending: Death (nbd) and what we think happens to our souls when we die. Jesse discusses the Jewish grieving process of sitting shiva, and how she wants to bring shiva energy into all types of endings. Tessa shares about how she’s recently been hearing whispers from her ancestors, and promises to pluck Jesse’s eyebrows before her mandatory open casket viewing party. Then, we pivot to discuss another type of ending: Break Ups. Tessa gets real about how she’s doing six months post break-up, and shares some break up 101 survival tips. We both discuss the ways grief is a sneaky bitch, and how we want to change the ways we view loss. Finally, we reflect on the ending of season one of this podcast (cue the waterworks) and how proud we are of each other for showing up each week and creating something super special (at least we think so!)

It’s not goodbye, we’ll see you bitches again soon!

Thank you so much for your support throughout this season. We love you SO much. 

XOXO,

Jesse & Tessa

PS - special shout out to Sam, our producer and biggest cheerleader from day one. Thank you thank you THANK YOU!!!!

Mentions:

• Grief is Love by Marisa Renee Lee

• Being Mortal by Atul Gawande

• Staring at the Sun: Overcoming the Terror of Death by Irvin Yalom

• Journey of Souls by Michael Newton

• What really matters at the end of life? Ted Talk with BJ Miller

• The Dinner Party: community support for 20 and 30 somethings experiencing grief

• The Order of the Good Death: A Death Acceptance Movement

• The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill

We had a few technological difficulties this episode, which we’re fully blaming on our white ancestors. We have a feeling they really didn’t want us to record this episode exploring our relationship to whiteness. Ugh so typical of white people/spirits, right?! Why is it still so damn difficult for white people to talk openly and honestly about race? 

This week, we invite our white friends and family in, as we do a deep dive into some of our many mixed feelings regarding White People with a capital W. Maybe it’s the partial white guilt we carry within, but we feel like we have a moral responsibility to (lovingly) check our white loved ones on the things they do that continue to hurt us and other people of color. Jesse opens up about a life altering experience with a white therapist’s tears. Tessa explains why she always eats before she goes to any white person’s party. We both get heated while we recount some of our frustrations with white people who continue to bypass the emotional labor required for engaging in thoughtful cross-racial dialogue. And yet, humor is still infused throughout this episode, because laughter is super healing. This episode is meant to invite curiosity around whiteness and racial dynamics, not to make anyone feel like shit. This conversation is for everyone, but especially white people who want to do better; we’re no longer wasting energy on those of you who still don’t see what the big deal is. 

We love you. Thanks for being here!

XOXO,

Jesse & Tessa

Mentions:

• Brandon Kyle Goodman on the Art of Conscious Anti-Racism

• How to Survive the End of the World: One Drop - A Conversation with Yaba Blay

• To White People Who Want To Be One of the Good Ones

Please do us all a favor and remind a mom in your life just how incredible she is. 

Thank you so much for listening. We love you!

XOXO,

Jesse & Tessa

Sorry for the delay! Back to regularly scheduled programming :)

On this week’s episode: It’s us again! Hope you’re not sick of us, because we are BACK with an episode talking about a topic that is near and dear to our hearts and souls. That’s right, folks. We’re talking about the *mixed race experience* Dun Dun Dun. Are you feeling nervous? Good. Let’s get into it. This week, Tessa’s bringing high ponytail “don’t fuck with me” energy. Jesse hasn’t showered in two days. We both discuss our full racial and ethnic identities, and the (23andme) journeys we’ve gone through to embrace our many multitudes. We kind of take a lot of pride in constantly being mistaken for each other, but we’re also pretty sure that’s racist? We share about being exoticized from a young age, and the ways that did a number on us. Tessa opens up about what it was like to have a darker racial complexion from her brother, and how she came out of the womb with an ass. Jesse dives into the many mixed feelings that come up for her having a white father and a black mother, and how motherhood has challenged her to expand her ideas of mixedness and blackness. We unpack the privilege we carry as light skinned mixed women, and also, how this shit is still… a lot for us. We no longer have patience for being tokenized and/or for white people who are doing the bare minimum. You heard it here first! 

This episode is for EVERYONE - but especially our fellow mixed mamis, anyone in an interracial relationship (we see you, we are with you), parents of mixed kids (please, do us all a favor) and white people who want to do better. 

Thanks for being here! We love you!

xoxo,

Jesse & Tessa 

On this week’s episode: Let’s talk about S-E-X, baby. This week, our laptops got hot and bothered and almost didn’t let us record this episode. What is it about sex that makes two strong, grown ass women become awkward teenagers again? We share about losing our V cards (both to white Jewish boys - feels relevant) and the ways our concepts of sex and sexuality have evolved immensely in our 30s -  thank GOD(DESS). Tessa shares about her “embodied ho” practice and how f***ing good she feels in her body these days. Jesse opens up about sex after a baby, and the ways she keeps things spicy with her baby daddy of 13 years. We both agree that going through puberty during a pivotal internet era when teenagers had full access to porn didn’t necessarily set any of us up for success. We explore ways we were both exoticized at a young age by white men, show compassion to our younger, sad selves, and define pleasure on our own terms. This episode is raw, juicy, messy and fun (just like the sex we’re having!)

Quick Disclaimer: If you are our parents, grandparents, in-laws, exes, current clients, or anyone else who is going to feel v weird listening to us share about our sexcapades, this episode is NOT for you. Thank you for understanding <3

Also… Content Warning: Conversations around sex can be complicated and triggering for many people. We are very much speaking about our own personal experiences, but some of those experiences may be upsetting and problematic to hear.  We realize that some of this content might stir up a lot of feels, so listen to yourself, and no presh to listen to this week’s episode if you’re in a place where this type of conversation may not feel good. Look at you checking in with yourself and deciding what feels good - we love that for you. 

Mentions:

✿ Tessa’s Embodied Ho Playlist 

✿ Boys and Sex by Peggy Orenstein

✿ All About Love: New Visions by bell hooks 

XXX,

Jesse & Tessa