Typically, this call is set during a time when I’d normally be freaking out. Coming back from eight days away, packed in tight quarters with a very ambitious, energetic family, I know that my neurospicy brain needs an “Amy Reset” - a good two hours to do nothing work-related or productive, other than zigzagging around the house following the family’s needs while anxiety slow boiling me into believing there is not enough time to get anything done. I typically block this time off on Monday mornings, vacation or no, to do just that.

And yet, I scheduled (and kept) my bi-monthly standing Zoom with my friend. I wish I could tell you that it was because my higher self knew there’s no better way to cut anxiety off at the pass than connection and vulnerability. The reality: I didn’t have enough brainpower to cancel, so I opted to follow up on the connection point that past Amy made. It’s a good thing, too, because I learned something very important.

My friend is going through an immense amount of change at the moment. She’s at the top of her field with a coveted executive role and high-profile platform, and a few months ago felt very unsettled and unfulfilled. Instead of her home in a bustling city, she’s with her similarly highly active family a thousand miles away for the summer so that they can be closer to relatives.

And yet…

As we sat across from each other on Zoom, I could see something different about her before she ever said a word. A subtle shift even from two weeks prior. The aura fuzz around her was an ombre of soft green and peach, giving me the sense that she’s vibrant and growing. The lines that dance between us are yellow and calm, giving my frenetic red jabbing lines a chance to sync and soothe. In the midst of so much uncertainty for her and my own frenetic space, she was grounded.

To my friend, this Monday post-vacation wasn’t a moment to give into the swirl. It was a chance to embrace and surrender, knowing that she felt safe.

I’ve seen this quite a bit in my clients lately as well. They walk into our first Spark Session, wanting a clearer direction on a specific career challenge or an action plan to pursue a dream they’ve had as long as they can remember. Often, their drive is marked by fear - fear that they’ll “miss their chance” or that they’re doing something wrong. Or, when they really go deep, they fear that they are wrong- a wrong fit for a role or that their life doesn’t fit the shell they’ve outgrown- and it’s all their fault. They want direction, for someone to tell them what to do, but I don’t offer that. Instead, I offer a neutral space, some insightful questions, and the key: safety.

Safety - psychological, physical, or emotional - is the root of giving ourselves a bit more bandwidth to dream. A safe landing spot, when it’s coupled with care and connection, can help increase our range to take on risks. To be honest, it all goes back to Maslow and that damn hierarchy of needs. I believe fear is the antithesis of safety. If and when we know we’re secure, even if we don’t know what the future holds or the curveballs we’ll face, the inner security frees up our mind a smidge. For a moment, we care less about what the inner critic tells us when we try something new and dive deeper into being curious.

And yet, this isn’t a magical one-size-fits-all fix. It’s a deeply cultivated practice, as my clients and my friend are showing me. Holding space for big feelings and a dedication to exploring your own curiosity leads us to the places we want to go, even if it isn’t as fast as we’d like. Once a client and I have our initial Spark Session, I offer the chance to meet up monthly or every other week, just to check in on progress or address any obstacles that come up. That combo - an initial kickstart and recurring check-ins - has been transformative for my clients because, let’s face it, nothing happens overnight. As we feel a bit safer in our skin and our minds, then we have more bandwidth to make progress. It’s one step at a time, as unsexy as that might seem.

The question I’m left with is this: Why was it so hard for me to remember that practice regularly, only to be starkly reminded as I sat across from my friend, who is literally embodying what dedicated curiosity within safety looks like?

Sometimes, it’s just easier than it looks. “Safe” looks different across seasons and among people with other backgrounds and experiences. Sometimes, even the person who holds safe spaces for others and writes thousands of words for a living needs the gentle reminder that she does not need to rush around trying to fix everything for everyone.

Sometimes, even though I’m the one who holds space for others, even I need another person to help refine the chaotic red and purple lines with her own mint green and peach projection. In fact, that was exactly what I needed on a Monday morning, and I’m grateful.

Limited Spark Session Openings!

This never happens, but I had a few last-minute openings for Spark Sessions in July and August, and I’d love to pay the opportunity forward with a discount. If you’ve ever wanted a thought partner for a single 90-minute session to bounce ideas off or help you see a bigger challenge from a new perspective, here’s your chance.

I have three sessions available at $150 per session (normally $500). If you’re interested, email me or reply to this!

What’s a Spark Session? I’m glad you asked.

A Spark Session is a single 90-minute conversation — just the two of us — where we find the language for what you’re carrying and the clarity to move toward what’s next. You come as you are. No agenda required, no polished story, no having it figured out. I bring the questions. You bring the honesty. Almost all of my clients leave with a clearer sense of direction than they’ve had in months — and a concrete picture of their next step.

It’s not therapy. It’s not coaching in the traditional sense. It’s a thought partnership — the kind where someone finally holds space for you.

Interested? Email me and let me know - I’ll send you the custom link to schedule.

What’s On My Bookshelf: July

With two six-hour flights and kids who mostly zoned out with iPads, I got a lot of reading done this month! You gotta do what you gotta do, right?

• GOOD WOMAN by Savala Nolan (I’m savoring this one, ya’ll)

• THE PARISIAN HEIST by (So glad this is finally pubbed!!!)

• LONDON FALLING by Patrick Radden Keefe

• THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN by Matt Haig

• THE COMEBACK ERA by Yasmine Cheyenne (“loved this book “ is an understatement)

• THE SELF DRIVEN CHILD by Dr. Stixrud and Ned Johnson (If you know my kids, then you know…)

• LAND by Maggie O’Farrell (Hoping to start this by the end of the month)

My challenge to you this week: Set a timer for 10 minutes and think about where you feel a sense of safety in your life. Is it in your relationships? Your craft? Your home? Once you do that, think about one area of your life where you are craving more safety and journal about that one as well. I’m curious to see what you come up with.

Until next time,

The past year has been an epic excavation of memories. A chance to examine the scene of events that shaped my life, to uncover the stories I told myself about those moments, and lay bare the sensory inputs of why I interpreted those stories in a particular way. I became an investigative journalist of my own life: two boxes chock-full of journals bursting at the bindings, email archives, and the constant barrage of questions that start with “Do you remember when…?” I laid out pictures of my ancestors, gleaning what I could interpret - or at least the stories I could recall by reading between the visual lines I saw jumping from the page.

When my editor and coach suggested I let the undercurrent and discovery of my synesthesia be the throughline for the story, I started the only way I knew how: make a list. Encircled by my research, I mentally placed myself as the main character of this ridiculously odd fictional story, and set aside an hour to write down as many scenes as I could recall. It started slow, only a trickle, and then the floodgates opened when I remembered one remarkable encounter. It started with a simple sentence.

“Michelle Obama gives the best hugs.”

Here’s the background. In 2018, I worked as the communications lead for a coworking and community startup in Seattle. On a shoestring budget, I hired Lestandra Alfred (yes, the inimitable Les of She’s So Lucky podcast and ) to run our social channels. There is no greater joy I’ve had in my career than to watch her hone her voice and talents week over week in her own ventures while she started Balanced Black Girl. It has been an ultimate honor to be her cheerleader.

When Mrs. Obama’s team reached out to her to do an intimate in-person conversation about BECOMING before her Tacoma event, she graciously invited me to be a part of it. I planned to sit back and soak it all in, watch Les shine. Whenever I tell this story, I mention how incredible it was to watch Les in her element, to see her friends surround her with love, and to enjoy a vulnerable, candid conversation with an icon. All of that is very true, but in revisiting this core memory in this book process, I realize there’s a big part that was missing.

This was one of the most beautiful synesthesia experiences I’ve ever had.

I remember seeing the fuzzy auras of personalities combine in the room as if I were watching the Northern Lights. The indigos and light blues faded into bright violets and teals. The vibrant clouds of color pulsed with every interaction; the air had a heartbeat and was coming to life. With each question from our circle of friends, I could see their longing and wondering in lines, an emerald green swirl here when searching for richness, matched by Mrs. Obama’s own light green dancing swirl. She met each person exactly where they were at in color and shape, something I’ve never seen before and never since. Well, almost all of them except for me.

I wanted to know about what it was like to raise two independent, resilient girls under the public eye. At the time, Brendan was 3 years old, and I was still squarely in the throes of postpartum depression and anxiety. The compressed juggle between work, parenting, and partnership left me depleted, even though I didn’t admit it. Even this life-changing event - meeting a Former First Lady - felt like a bit of a burden, if I’m honest.

“What was your primary focus for how you approached raising Malia and Sasha while everyone was watching you? How did you keep life as ‘normal’ as possible?” I asked. A magenta and royal blue double helix flowed from my body toward hers. (I only now know that color combination shows up with confusion and exhaustion.)

She took a deep breath and looked me squarely in my eyes as she leaned in. I could tell she saw the deep sadness, the questioning. I remember a blanket of peach and a pale rose-pink color wrap around my double helix as it soared toward me. If I close my eyes now, I can remember the tears welling up in my throat, and my shoulders slightly drop with relief.

“The one thing my mother taught me - and Marian taught me many things - was that you recognize what lights them up and fan that flame. Other than doing our best to keep them from harm, that’s the best thing we can do for our kids,” she replied.

Find the light. Fan their flame.

At the end of our time together, she hugged every single person before Secret Service whisked her to the Tacoma Dome. She pulled me in close, gave me the biggest hug, and took me by the shoulders to reiterate once again. “You’ve got this. You’re doing this. Even in the hard times, you find what lights them up and fan that flame,” she said.

She paused for a moment before continuing. “You have to do this for yourself, too - ya know?” She cocked her head to the side and raised her eyebrows, ensuring that I got the point.

“Yes, I do,” I replied.

*

Over the past year, the simple act of acknowledging synesthesia’s presence and understanding the phenomenon has taken me on a wild ride. Memories I once had are now forever altered because I remember why and how I felt them so deeply the first time around. It’s not that I recalled them incorrectly before. It’s only that with the additional clarity of how my brain works, I’m giving my mind another chance and a longer leash to comprehend the world around me. I’m no longer scared of the lines popping up at unexpected places. I’m more attuned to the energy I feel when I walk in the room, and I question why I see the colors and lines as I do. I don’t let it be a judgment of me or those I’m in conversation with, but use the data like an emotional barometer to read the situation in a new way.

At the end of the day, I’m taking Mrs. Obama’s advice and applying it to myself. I found the light, per se. I’m fanning the flame and seeing where it leads.

What’s On My Bookshelf: April - June

What a whirlwind spring. The last time I posted a reading list, it was for Feb. and March! You can find that here. Here’s a quick list of what I’ve read since then, and what is in progress this month. (And yes, the number of books on this list even shocked me.)

Read ✅

• STRANGERS by Belle Burden

• AMERICAN FANTASY by (I’ve recommended this to 10+ NKOTB

• KIN by

• BIBLIOPHOBIA by Sarah Chihaya (Pulitzer Prize finalist for memoir and it is a perfect choice)

• SELFISH by (some great one-liners there!)

• DOES THIS MAKE ME FUNNY by Zosia Mamet

• FAMESICK by (the audiobook is so incredible!)

• A SUIT OR A SUITCASE by Maggie Smith

• WHIDBEY by t kira māhealani

• MAKE BELIEVE by Mac Barnett (I had to read the passage that was in the headlines.)

• MISSING ME by

• TRUE COLOR by Kory Stamper

• THE BEGINNING COMES AFTER THE END by

• ONE BAD MOTHER by EJ Dickson

• IN THE DREAM HOUSE by Carmen Maria Machado

Up Next 📖

• GOOD WOMAN by (I might have a whole Substack on this one. Beyond incredible.)

• ON WITNESS AND REPAIR by

• WAITING FOR DAWN by my fave (this is a second read. It’s breathtaking)

• HOW TO BE OKAY WHEN NOTHING IS OKAY by (I started this and feel like it’s a book for our times! Brilliant!)

• GO GENTLE by Maria Semple (I’m saving this for our vacation)

• DEAD AND ALIVE by Zadie Smith (Still savoring this one)

I don’t know about you, but this summer season feels different. What are you doing to balance both the joy of spontaneous ice cream shop runs and the Jenga puzzle of logistics while keeping yourself afloat? Please share- I’d love to know!

“Is it just an excuse to say you’re a little, you know, different?”

A new acquaintance asked me this at a party about a month ago. In a former life (pre-EMDR work, I believe), I might have been extremely put off by the remark or shut down by the insinuation that, yes, I am different. Synesthesia isn’t something you encounter in a cocktail party topic each day, so I understand the fascination and intrigue of it all. Instead of withdrawing and becoming a wallflower, I decided to be a researcher. As someone who is in the messy middle of uncovering something that I’ve intentionally and subconsciously buried deep within my psyche, I find myself smack dab in the excavation process at the most inopportune moments.

For both my work and my own self-discovery, this investigation should include both the growing field of peer-reviewed research and the colorful context of public opinion.

As we clinked glasses, toasting each other to novel discoveries in midlife, I took out my phone and clocked this response. For every conversation I’ve had about the colors, lines, and emotions, I’ve taken note of the questions people have asked. Our conversations generally start with “I’ve never known anyone with synesthesia!” or “How come you’ve never mentioned anything about this before?” Once the confusion wears off, the deeper questions filter in.

Here are the top 10 questions I’ve received (most verbatim!) with the best answers I have so far. To get a quick primer about synesthesia and the TL;DR of what my experience is, read this first.

1. “Wait, is this a disorder? Should I be worried about you?”
   No, please don’t be alarmed. The word “disorder” is a bit more alarming than the colors and lines that float in and out of my perception. This is more of a phenomenon of when wires get crossed, like an extra-sensory ability. The word “disorder” is often used when there needs to be a diagnosis because a person is having challenges navigating the world and needs additional support, and there is even a lot of controversy and conversation about when and how it should be applied. Synesthesia is more described as a phenomenon of experiences where neurons are cross-wired. No need to worry.

2. “Did something happen to cause it, or were you just…born this way?”
   There are two types of synesthesia: developmental (a lifelong occurrence) or acquired (triggered by a specific traumatic event). As far as I can tell, I’ve always had this ability, but never truly said anything out loud until I was 9 years old. There’s a growing field of research showing that kids as young as 6 years old also can identify synesthetic experiences. The developing brain is fascinating.

3. “Can you turn it off? If not, is it exhausting to have it on all the time?”

   I wish I could turn it off and effectively, I proved I could drown it out for decades. There are times when the colors and lines are so saturated that, if they had a sound attached to them, they’d be screaming. There are times when it is exhausting and other moments when it’s exhilarating.

4. “What does it actually look like - are we talking full hallucinations?”

   Ok, Gen X and elder millennials, listen up - remember the overhead projectors we used to have in class so that the teacher could map out math equations or physics problems? It’s like someone placed an overhead projector paper and used different colored dry-erase markers to denote direction and intensity of other people’s personalities and emotions. It’s like I consistently have an extra layer of information on top of what I see, as if you were to add a piece of thin vellum paper with lines, zig zags, squiggles, and fuzzy auras on top of my field of vision.

5. “Did you take drugs?”
   No, I haven’t and don’t. Everyone always wants to blame this on drugs. Next question.

6. “How did you not know this until your 40s? Wouldn’t you have noticed?”

   What I know from my current research is that mood disorders often amplify the intensity of what we feel and experience in our world. There were moments in my 20s and 30s when I saw the colors and lines, but never wanted to acknowledge they existed. They were there - I just fought like hell to mentally block them out. Why? Well, you’ll have to read my manuscript to figure that one out with me!

7. “Do everyone’s emotions look the same color to you, or do they vary by person?”

   Everyone has a personality, or a more enduring emotional state, and feelings that fluctuate by the day, the situation, or any other number of factors. Think of the personality as more static over time and the emotional lines being more of a snapshot. No matter what, everyone’s personality is a little different and that can either coincide or conflict with the snapshot of their current emotions. Also, the intensity of their emotions is reflected in the saturation, or brightness and full colored nature, of the lines around them. An easy one to understand is that anger can show up as red jagged lines, and the hue can range from a fire blaze to a blood crimson color, depending.

8. “What happens when a room full of people is having a lot of feelings all at once?”

   One word: Fireworks. It truly looks like my own personal Fourth of July. This is why you will often find me in the back row or along the sidelines of larger events, unless it’s a concert I want to be fully immersed in.

9. “Is this part of why writing becomes so natural to you?”

   This is a very kind question, but one I don’t feel like I have an answer to. I still feel like I’m finding my way in the dark (no pun intended), feeling around for words to accurately describe this. Writing, from essays to book-length work and everything in between, requires craft knowledge, dedication, and an immense curiosity to tell stories that grip our hearts (both our wants and fears) and walk us through to the other side. The synesthesia has only sharpened how I observe the world I walk in and how I describe it to others.

10. “Do your kids have this? Is it genetic?”

    Who knows! We’ll see. The research does show genetic linkages, but we’ll discover all of that in due time.

Even with all of these questions, I’ll give you two bonus ones that everyone is afraid to ask. The first: “What are my colors?” The short answer is: I’m not going to tell you unless you’re a close friend or relative. I don’t want to make this into a party trick, though it seems natural to veer in that direction.

The second, more important question that everyone (except one dear friend) is scared to broach: “Do you ever long to not be able to know all of this information? You didn’t choose this perceptual ability, but now you have to live with it.” Sigh - I truly don’t know. I’m still noodling on this one, and I’m guessing it will have to be answered in another essay or Substack post.

Ok, I think that puts a pin in all of the questions I’ve received thus far, but I’d love to hear from you if you have more! Let me know in the comments.

For Shits & Giggles
The Synesthesia Regulation Edition

I keep coming back to “what helps dampen the brightness and

• Care: Beyond the Shakti spikey mat I mentioned last week, the biggest game-changer has been AirPod Pros. I had an old pair that were dying and not noise-cancelling. Dave gifted me these for Christmas, and I can dampen things if needed.

• Listen: I Am Not Afraid by Jhene Aiko. Jhene plays with specific sound textures and frequencies that help me focus. I am now at a space where, if I’m overwhelmed, I put them on my AirPods and walk around the house for a bit.

• Wear: As I rewrite this memoir, I’ve noticed my wardrobe has shifted to four specific things: Vuori joggers, jumpsuit, my new Be Here Now merch, and soft Bombas socks. There will be a day when I will transition back to structured clothing, but the priority right now is to find a way to take the edges off and soften the barrier to mentally spelunk into deep memories.

• Care: EMDR therapy has been vital to this. When anyone discovers something “new” about their life that has been buried for decades, you find it’s essential to understand the context around the discovery and the feelings/stories that surround it. My EMDR therapist also combines Internal Family Systems work, and it’s been incredible.

• Wear: My Goodr sunglasses. When I’m in public and everything is amplified, these help me hide and recalibrate. Plus, they have the most fun names. “Sunbathing with Wizards?” Yes please!

Win of the Week

I am so very proud of my dear friend (and de facto Spark Session originator) , whose TEDx talk about fight to diagnose her sleep disorder led to her calling as a nationally-recognized advocate for sleep health. Click below for this must watch and follow her on IG.

Any questions about synesthesia? Let me know! We’ll learn together. Until then, I hope you get some time today to touch grass and breathe deep before the weekend is over.

Every day, I pass a pair of bonded bald eagles while driving the kids to school. Their nest, high in a tall oak tree at the top curve of Queen Anne’s neighborhood arterial street, has stood for at least three years, much to the delight of our neighbors and their simple website documenting the pair’s progress.

The birds first showed up during the pandemic, right as our big world shut down to very tight quarters. Our family did daily walks to burn off the energy of a 3-year-old Brendan, but we could never make it the 0.75 miles to the nest and back with his little legs. We monitored the happenings on the website, remarking at dinner in early May that they started seeing the mom and dad perched next to the nest, indicating that they believed the eggs had hatched. Once they started fledging, we tried to extend our walks to have a snack and watch the little ones try to fly. Since then, we come back year over year, now bringing Evie in tow with her scooter on the way to the playground.

It’s an odd spot to build an eagle nest. While quiet, the street is the main thoroughfare for large supply trucks for our local grocery stores and restaurants on the main avenue. It reminds me a bit of Pale Male, New York’s beloved red-tailed hawk who, for almost three decades, built his nest in Central Park on the eaves of a 5th Avenue building. Beyond the traffic and onlookers, the eagles’ main challenge is a murder of relentless crows that won’t leave them alone. We’ll watch them divebomb mom and dad to mess with them - it’s not like they need anything from the nest, anyway.

Over the past three years, the eagles have grown wiser. For the past few months, they’ve stationed themselves on two branches, forming a triangle with the next for maximum coverage. Crows were at bay in the branches above, seemingly hesitant to disturb the two stanchions watching over their likely hatched chicks. They’ve also encountered a year of no eaglets, something that was heartbreaking for us though we’ll never know if they had any emotional reaction to the loss.

This year, we’ve still only seen two adult eagles, scanning the horizon for dangers while simultaneously building a scaffold for future fledgling chicks ready to soar.

I realized this week that I’ve been sitting, guarding my writing like these eagles. Scratch that - not just my writing, but my entire life. How I mother, how I navigate after this pivot away from corporate success, how I conduct my days (and how they look wildly different than six years ago). The truth I haven’t wanted to say out loud: I’ve been waiting for the crows to see how I leave all of it unattended and swoop down to pick it apart.

The metaphor isn’t clean at all, and yet, we know what it’s like to be a protective barrier for our loved ones or ways of life. I feel this way with my kids - during growth spurts, I want to bubble wrap them so that their giraffe-like legs won’t wobble. Build a scaffold for their education so that they can maneuver and find their way, even when their brain navigates the world at a different pace.

In my work, the feeling is even stronger. Stand tall and guard all that we hold dear, so that no one is hurt when our ideas or thoughts are critiqued. Polish the draft so that it is clean and precise, maybe even agreeable. Have the insights be above reproach so readers can get lost in the story without being bothered by questioning whether or not minor details are true. (I’m thinking a lot about that in the wake of critiques I’m hearing about New York Times bestsellers recently.)

But is the armor really there to serve as protection? Is it to protect me against the belief that I might see the world a little differently, so much so that it would cause the readers of this newsletter or my essays to shun me for good? By not publishing hundreds of essay drafts or creating content around being a synesthete, is that decision helping me or suffocating me? I’m starting to see it’s the latter.

As I let synesthesia become a more prominent part of my everyday, I’m seeing one truth very clearly: I’ve spent a lifetime looking outside of my own knowing to everyone else’s assessment that I completely forgot I had the answers within me all along.

This morning, I saw the eagles perched on their branch, jutting out to the west of the tree. We drove by, and the kids yelled “Hi EAGLES!” as we rounded the curve. Just another day, another school drop off, another chance to take some deep breaths and build resilience for all of us. Brendan clocked that they’d sat on that branch most mornings for the past few months, and yet, we still hadn’t seen any babies soar out of the nest between the large oak leaves. We completed our morning ritual and as I had my morning coffee, I felt too buzzy, too unmoored - a cue to go for a walk. So, I went for a walk to check on our feathered family. Nothing else seemed important.

They were in the same spot as we left them an hour or so earlier. Eyes scanning the horizon, feathers fluffed. The crows had migrated south, pestering some poor bunnies that hopped between the bushes under lilac and honeysuckle overhangs to friendly and safe backyards. They seemed more alert than normal, as if they were preparing for something new. As if their body knew the bigger moments that were about to unfold without their brain making a big fuss.

I let them be and circled back about ten minutes later, only to find one of them gone. Scanning above in the peerless blue sky, I saw them: one parent and one fledgling on their first flight. The other parent seemed slimmer, less puffed and bothered. It seemed like a giant exhale months in the making. I wonder if that’s what it feels like - the joy, fear, and uncertain pit in your stomach - to watch your dreams take flight, knowing it was going to happen all along.

For Shits & Giggles - Maycember Edition

Maycember is a fancy way of saying that EVERYTHING feels like it happens during this month, as if it's the same intensity and gravitas as December. Now that we’re out of the thick of it, here is a bigger list of things keeping me sane. Next week, expect a podcast version of FS&G!

• Read: The Heart Folds Early by Jill Christman - talk about refining yourself through tragedy! Plus, Jill is an incredible human and a north star for me as a writer and mom. So grateful for her!

• Listen: I may be late to the game, but Raye’s new album “This Music May Contain Hope” is a 73-minute masterpiece. And when Hans Zimmer surprised her at the last LA show? Priceless. Who wants to help me find a ticket for the Vancouver shows in October?

• Care: These Shakti mats and pillows are spikier than normal and have singlehandedly gotten me through the hardest part of Maycember. (That is, if I can wrestle them away from Dave.)

• Drink: I’m a Recess fan, but I noticed that I needed more help with hydration. Enter Trace Minerals 40,000 Volts. My trainer Nate introduced me, and I’m hooked - just enough sodium to help absorption, no sugar or additives to turn me away.

• Care: I STRUGGLE with making sure I’m taking my meds (and yet, somehow, everyone else has theirs laid out)! And now, this medicine organizer helps me stay on track, no matter where I am! I can separate by day, pack some on the go if needed, and it’s big enough for me to put estrogen patches in! Grateful to for sharing this on her IG.

  

Does this concept of “standing guard” resonate? What would you do differently if you stopped waiting for permission and just let things unfold as they should? I’d love to hear more in the comments.

In your corner,

I hate to admit this, but I’m a sucker for watching a metaphorical car crash. I’m the nosy neighbor who wants to look back at why everyone is gathered on a street corner, under the guise of “making sure everyone is ok.” I’m a curious person, always have been, and it’s always fine to gawk, I guess, until I know someone is hurt.

For the past few weeks, the gossip du jour in the literary community has been the release and happenings surrounding ADULT BRACES, Lindy West’s new book. Now, I have traditionally loved the way Lindy brings her readers into and through a story. I thought SHRILL was brilliant, both on the page and on Hulu. Yet I haven’t subscribed to her Substack in a while because, well, something felt off. Her classic style is vulnerability cloaked in humor with a dash of self-deprecation, and she takes on deeply personal topics like identity, feminism, depression, body size, and cultural perceptions through those lenses. I had ADULT BRACES on my library list (after reading some potential comps for the memoir) as a fun, summer read. Something to dig into once the sun is shining, the seasonal depression wears off, and I have a bit more bandwidth to absorb perspectives that make me think beyond my bubble (and possibly cringe a little).

Instead of reading the book, I’ve been inundated by the commentary. It’s difficult to miss. It pops up first thing on Threads as I scroll while putting kids to bed. It’s a hot topic on group chats, Facebook writer’s groups, and more. There are more nuanced takes on Substack (I found ’s post was the most thoughtful) and Instagram (’s IG take was brilliant). I’m not going to go into the play-by-play of the book, the relationships, press, articles, emails, and more; you can easily find that yourself.

The deluge of people’s opinions is unavoidable. In scanning the writers’ groups, there’s a question that everyone is circling: What if this backlash happens to me? What happens if I publish my work and people have feelings or reactions? What if I’m misperceived? What if people start talking about me on Substack or social media, and I’m the reason for the cringe?

And yet, the question we’re really pondering is: What if no one believes me?

I’ve been circling this question a lot lately as I share more about my exploration of synesthesia. About 6 months ago, I met with Margo Steines, my book coach, to get her brutally honest feedback about my memoir. I had tested out the querying waters and got a ton of good feedback and full requests, but no agents were interested. It’s risky putting your work into the hands of someone new, and yet, she gracefully said the thing out loud that no one else did.

What if you write directly into the topic that you allude to and simultaneously avoid?

As we’ve rebuilt the manuscript with more in-depth research and rigor, it’s more of an exercise of letting it all - my life, my writing, my desire to have everything orderly and under control - be messy. In fact, “messify” is my word of the year, intentionally vague and not even a grammatically correct word. The answer to Margo’s question is really at the heart of what writers, especially memoir or non-fiction authors, face. What if no one believes me?

Let’s face it, we have a global history of not believing women. We grow up with an intense emotional and mental acuity to provide undeniable proof that what happens to us is real. I learned that I either needed to provide a rationale for what I was seeing with colors and lines that were accurate, or else I’d be labeled crazy, weird, and imaginative, often with eye rolls. Taking the synesthesia out of it, I know I’m not alone in this.

Maybe you’ve felt that, too, even if you’re not a writer. I know I have. What if I speak up and say something stupid in this meeting, and people talk behind my back? Been there. What if I say the hard things that I’ve held deep down for so long to my family and they react poorly or tease me about it? Yup, and I’ve reciprocated.

While Lindy’s narrative is hers, it’s not my job as a reader to judge her. Instead, I get to choose whether I believe her. I’ve watched readers have visceral reactions to her work, the discomfort echoing the pangs of their own trauma or the resonance of feeling seen in some of her stories. They believed her words and assessments of the situation were accurate or not, but ultimately, their reactions came addled with their own past. Lindy wrote this account to bring her ideas into the world; her control of the narrative ends after the final edit of the book.

The truth is this: there is no guarantee that anyone will believe what you say. What we do with that truth is our journey. I should know - I spent three decades not acknowledging that my brain worked slightly differently in fear. Courage comes when you put yourself out there. It’s very messy and uncertain, but then again, isn’t that life?

In the end, the conversation swirling around ADULT BRACES shows what happens when we put our beliefs out in the world. Sometimes they’ll be widely accepted, sometimes they won’t. We need enough self-trust to stay grounded while the world reacts. After all, once it passes final edits, it isn’t our work anymore - it’s everyone’s. That’s truly why we gather around the metaphorical car crashes. We’re not only asking if those involved are going to be okay; we’re checking if we’re okay as well.

For Shits and Giggles

• Listen: Debbie Millman interviewed the incomparable Lidia Yuknavitch, author of The Chronology of Water and many other books, on Design Matters. It’s a must listen.

• Watch: National Geographic is doing an incredible series of 33 Seconds, highlighting the National Geographic 33, changemakers who are remarkable. Harrison Ford’s is particularly incredible.

• Buy: Leuchtturm1917 classic notebooks. I keep coming back to the Medium A5 dotted notebooks for my journals. I even spend too much time figuring out which color to buy. This season’s colors: Ink and Dusty Rose.

• Read: WHIDBEY! Y’all - I finished it and have so many thoughts. I loved the plot. I was uncomfortable in spots. I was rooting for unlikely characters. Did someone else read this, and can we discuss??

• Buy: The Aeki lymphatic face brush was such a cliche Instagram/TikTok purchase and is worth it. The kids love it too.

“Feet in the mud. Head in the sky.” - Harrison Ford

I love his eight-word mission statement. What’s yours? Let me know in the comments.

Rooting for all of us,

While I was on my solo writing retreat in January on the rainy shores of Lopez Island, I chose my only call to be with an author I’d long admired. I know when I’m coming out of my winter hermit-like tendencies when I start to put more Zoom calls or coffee dates on the calendar, and I keep them. Sometimes the latter is the hardest part.

So when popped up on Leigh Stein’s Hype House weekly call, I immediately scheduled a catch-up. I’ve virtually met Christie through mutual author friends and devoured both of her books, GROUP and B.F.F., so I feel like I’ve known her forever. In reality, we’ve never met.

We set up a call for the first morning I set up camp in the rainy cabin on Lopez. While I’d love to fill you in on all of the details of our laughter bouts, her writing life, where we’re finding joy and feeling stuck, I’ll keep those details to myself. Yet, as she was talking through a particularly challenging and emotional situation, she shared a question that kept ringing in her ears.

Where is the shame?

It’s an odd question to ask, right? Shame is a sticky, muddy emotion. We don’t voluntarily put one foot in front of the other daily, to go about our day and peer into the depths of our most vulnerable emotions to uncover the root cause. No, we leverage the language of efficiency, struggle to find the “productive” solution, or identify “where the friction is.” There is nothing efficient, productive, or seamless about shame.

And yet, as Christie has been pressure tested the past few years, her story reminded me that her question hits the bullseye of what helps us uncover our next steps. It’s the exact question we need to investigate why we’re stuck. I nodded along, deep down thinking that’s great for her, but I don’t need to do that digging.

Friend, I was so very wrong.

I reserved the second day of my retreat to rewrite large sections the newly revamped memoir that I’d like to, very soon, resubmit to agents. No pressure. The silver lining of being in a cabin with a very analog goal is that I couldn’t access the world’s news, didn’t need to worry about the kids, and had warm clothes to go for a walk if I needed to move my body. I had a plan; it seemed foolproof.

My goal: turn 60k words into 80k. I’ve received great feedback from others on direction. I’ve talked it through with my editor; anyone who has heard me talk about centering my book around synesthesia was encouraging as recent as the day before with Christie.

I could just sit down and write, right?

Wrong.

I spent the day tied up in knots, trying to find the perfect spot to sit in the house and write or read, fixing the next cup of coffee. I put pen to paper and couldn’t get started. I hit my wall around 2 pm with a blank page and a racing heart to show for a goal I likely wouldn’t meet. After moving my body a bit, I came back to Christie’s question and coached myself in the same way I would counsel others.

Where is the shame?

I help other writers and thought leaders connect the dots. I should be able to do this for myself. Okay, Amy, but is that really it?

If time away from my family is a precious luxury and I’m not maximizing it by being productive, what the hell am I doing anyway? Yes, but they get it, and you’re the one putting pressure on yourself. They’re not expecting anything. So what is it?

The story I need to tell is less about the ups and downs of my life, but pinpoints back to a mustard seed of shame in early childhood when I felt so small and insignificant. So much so that I buried a secret - my synesthesia - for decades. And now, my mind and my body need to reverse course and release that story.

That’s it. That’s the shame.

I could skirt around it a million other ways, give thousands of reasons, and make myself feel better. If I did that, something would still feel off. But once I named the feeling, things started to unlock. I reenvisioned the framework around the discovery that took me three decades to share for fear of being called insane and othered. I put the scary parts on Post-it notes, acknowledging that they exist, and I had full permission to move them around or delete them altogether.

Remarkably, within three hours, I met my 20k-word goal with entirely new sections to the manuscript.

++

Shame and fear are powerful siblings. They can ultimately silence and shrink a person if you let things go unsaid. It can wreck our bodies, often literally causing us to cave in. We all know this fact, and yet they are the two emotions we are most likely not to consciously excavate. They’re too painful, too out of reach.

I’d argue that asking Christie’s question might just unlock more than we’d bargain for, if we were honest in our answers. The real flex is not letting the harsh world dull or sharpen your edges by whispering to us that our deeper questions aren’t worth asking.

In our house, we have a saying: if we struggle to put on our heavy coat in the middle of winter, it's never about the coat. The thing we're avoiding is never the thing (the coat), it's how it makes us feel.

We’re in the messy middle of it all. And it's not easy, but the mess is expected. We just have to start by being brave enough to ask a simple, powerful question.

Where are you in the messy middle of it all? Could be family, work, passion projects, anything. Please share in the comments or reply to this email!

Take good care of yourself this weekend,

Friday’s post about our name and perspective shift was a big one, and I wanted to come back with our links and reads separately. Moving forward, this section will be right under the essay, giving you both deep cuts and light links to navigate your week.

I used to call this “Amy’s Three Things,” and I loved that title, but I was reminded a few weeks ago about how much I love Midwestern idioms. I know it’s not a uniquely Midwestern US thing, but we have a ton of catch phrases. “You can’t unring a bell,” is a saying that I’ve now adapted for my kids. I was called out by classmates a few weeks ago for using the phrase “The cobbler's kids have no shoes” at least four times for saying that my social media presence sucks right now, and that I need to devote more time to it.

None of those idioms felt right for our link list until I was reminded of my favorite one by one of my favorite writers, Megan Stielstra, in our Off Assignment writing class last week. It’s something my Grandma Plum used to say all the time. “For shits and giggles,” meaning that sometimes, you just need to have joy and amuse yourself. Joy doesn’t need to be complicated.

So, without further ado, I give you my uncomplicated list of links I’ve loved and what I’m reading.

For Shits and Giggles

Experiences

• I’m in a class about writing rage (timely, right?!) with Off Assignment and & friends. This week’s guest was . Look how much fun we’re having!!

• Seattle parents, please take your kids to the new Pier 58 Playground. Grab a coffee from 70&Sunny Coffee Co. while you’re down there. Perfect Saturday.

Listen

• Robyn’s new song Dopamine has been calming my nervous system.

• I’m so grateful to my friend Amy (yay, 1980s chicas) for suggesting I listen to "Cherry Blossom" from Empire of the Sun. So many synesthesia references.

• and team at WNYC’s Radio Lab released an incredible episode about the self-esteem movement that rocked most of our elder millenial lives. Listen here - you might just hear someone you know (wink wink).

Love

• Pep Talks from the Pick-up Line: I got a lot of encouragement to keep going on Instagram, giving you pep talks from my car before I pick up my kids. More to come on these.

• My Brick has been getting a ton of use, even though I have an irrational fear that it will lock me out of my phone forever.

Feb. & March Reads

This one is a part catch-up, part future planning for my TBR. As always, you can find what I’m reading on Bookshop.org.

Read ✅

• ONE DAY, EVERYONE WILL HAVE ALWAYS ALL HAVE BEEN AGAINST THIS by Omar El Akkad (a must read)

• SIMPLY MORE by Cynthia Erivo (Another great synesthesia reference, so grateful)

• THE CRUCIAL YEARS by Sheryl Gonzalez Ziegler (we’re in middle childhood, help!)

• THE MIND ELECTRIC by Dr. Pria Anand (this was a comp for my book and I tore through it - so good)

• THE MOBIUS BOOK by (Check out her Substack,

• THE CORRESPONDENT by Virginia Evans (I cried, so much. This is me when I’m 80.)

• RAISING TWICE EXCEPTIONAL CHILDREN by Dr. Emily Kircher Morris (IYKYK)

• DIE, MY LOVE by Arian Harwicz (translated by Carolina Orloff and Sarah Moses)

• TRYING by Chloe Caldwell

• BUTTS by (check out her Substack, )

• TAKE IT FROM ME by (this is a MUST for any nonfiction writer, as is her Substack )

Up Next 📖

• DOES THIS MAKE ME FUNNY by Zosia Mamet

• A SUIT OR A SUITCASE by (Out on March 24!!! HAPPY DANCE)

• WHIDBEY by (Out on March 10!!! SQUEEEEAL!!!)

• THE ART OF VANISHING by Laura Smith

• SOMEBODY’S DAUGHTER by (a re-read for her coming to our class next week!)

• DEAD AND ALIVE by Zadie Smith (Still savoring this one)

Serious question: have you tried Brick? What do you think about it? Does it work for you? Let’s chat - I have so many thoughts.

Here’s to all the things we can do for shits and giggles.

Other friends had rabbits, hamsters, gerbils, or fish as class pets. Some of those animals could go home, much to the delight of kids and the dismay of parents. Did we have anything cute and fluffy? No. We had a crustacean that was arguably one of the creepiest, most alien-like creatures you could feasibly contain in an aquarium. And, to our family’s surprise, we were charged with caring for them at home over the winter holiday break.

Have you ever watched a hermit crab outgrow its shell? Sometimes they slither out just before space becomes a little too cramped, their soft bodies lightly scraped by the sandpaper-like shell as they move. Other times, they break the shell altogether, cracking it into pieces, aggressively waving it free while flailing with their 10 legs and violently peeling off pieces with their claws. Molting happens every 12 to 18 months, but no one warned us that these crabs were overdue for their annual shell switch when we brought them home. Even though I had been mesmerized by them since the beginning of our school year, my fascination (and disgust, if I’m honest) grew as I watched one gently slip out of an old shell, its peachy-pink body curl out and fish for a larger shell to call home.

This crab spent an extra four months in a shell that didn’t fit, and it looked relieved when it finally figured out that it had the ability and agency to make a shift.

Why am I thinking about hermit crabs? Funny you should ask. I’ve spent the past few months toying with the idea of shifting. Regardless of what is going on in our world, culture, and more, I’ve found that I have a lot to say, but I don’t have a big enough container. The longer I’ve waited, the more it felt like different ways I show up online and in my writing - here on Substack, on social, and more - felt a bit…outdated.

I sat in the old container, reformatting my memoir and working with Margo Steines, an amazing author and writing coach. Our work together has challenged me to finally give a voice to that peachy-pink part of what I’ve recently accepted in how I navigate the world. Taking Hype House with was another knock on the door, another prompt for me to get out of my own way and talk about what I’ve discovered is a superpower - something that I’ve kept under wraps for the longest time.

It’s the right time to rename this Substack newsletter and more accurately reflect this journey.

I’d like to introduce you to…

Why Reading the Room?

It’s simple - I’ve been literally “reading” every room I enter since I was a child. When I walk into a space, I don’t just see people, objects, walls - things that normal people experience. I also see a thin layer of colorful lines, shapes, or orbs that surround and bounce between people. This dynamic display is like my mind’s fireworks, bouncing in real time as moods change and winds shift. It’s something only I can see - something I’ve kept hidden, my own secret for the past four decades and a fact I’ve only recently been able to accept.

This phenomenon is called synesthesia - the blending of sensations where some initial spark (or stimulus, in research speak) triggers a person’s alternative sense to fire, allowing them to perceive the world in a way that feels like we’re mixing up our five senses. For some, looking at a specific letter (F, for example) makes them taste chicken even though they didn't have any in their most recent meal. For others, sounds stimulate touch or feeling within their body, letting specific pitched noises feel like needles or fluffy clouds, depending.

My synesthesia: I see other people’s emotions as colors and lines that bob and weave above their heads and between people. I can often accurately map what people are feeling or their personality traits, even if they can’t articulate their own sentiments. Think of it like this: I enter a dinner party, and I suddenly have three times the amount of data to assess a situation. I see my friends and can read their faces, their own personality halos, and the lines buzzing back and forth as snapshots of what they’re feeling at the moment.

I’ll be honest. It’s a lot. As I’ve been restructuring this hybrid memoir with synesthesia research as its central spine, I’ve been sinking deeper into conversations with others and a treasure trove of academic research. It’s given me a language to approach the world with a clearer lens and an overlay of new information.

Here’s what you can expect in READING THE ROOM:

• Weekly essays about life as I’m experiencing it, including commentary on motherhood, caregiving, current culture, mental health, and <gestures wildly> all that is happening with the world

• Insight into how I learn to navigate synesthesia as a lens to view and interact with my little corner of life

• Select questions and writing prompts to help you reconnect with your own stories of emotion, maybe even uncovering your own superpower

• Curated lists what is sparking my joy, and a lot of hot takes

• Creative pep talks - for you, but mostly for myself

Some things you won’t find here: hot takes about what colors you specifically bring to the world. I’m not going to be in the business of “diagnosing” your feelings by color. I’ll wait for you to tell me your emotions as you experience them, ok? Also, not everything will be about synesthesia. Just like you, I contain multitudes, and we have so much to talk about.

It feels good to bust out the shell a bit and remodel this piece of internet home. I hope you’ll join me on this journey.

Have you discovered a way that you’ve been outgrowing the stories or boxes you’ve lived in? I’d love to know how you’re busting out of those edges in the comments!

Know of someone who might find this interesting? I’d be honored if you click the button below and share it with them!

Share Reading the Room

It’s said that the only two people we need to impress in our lifetime are our 8-year-old and 80-year-old selves. I remember watching that idiom recirculate on my Instagram feed recently as a meme that others shared with b-roll of them dancing wildly in the background. As if that was a permission slip to be uninhibited and free, dancing without abandon. To live without rules or obligations or any f*cks to give.

Maybe I’m odd, but I took it as a permission slip to be curious. Not to brush up on my dancing moves, but to investigate what emotions bubble to the surface when I think about my 8-year-old and 80-year-old self. It didn’t take long for an intense email exchange to rise those emotions to the surface.

Let me set the scene: I work with lots of individuals to help them make sense of the stories they want to share with the world. I leave my consulting elevator pitch a little loose because I love meeting people where they’re at and exploring the possibilities of what has been pulling at their ambitious and driven heartstrings. It doesn’t matter the mode; I love helping people, mostly women who are in the midst of a transition, bring those long-dormant ideas to life.

I love this work. I live this work. I spend more time during my week contemplating the deep inner workings of our emotions and psyche than the normal person. I recognize this may not always be healthy, but it’s what fuels me. And sometimes, it burns me out.

I received some feedback on my recommendations for a project that initially made my body go into fight/flight. I haven’t had that response to a work email in a while, so much so that it stopped all dinner table conversation as Dave watched my mood turn into a hurricane from sunny skies in an instant. Now, I don’t expect everyone to love my ideas; that’s not the point. The point is that the delivery was such that my primal brain took over and overruled any ability to reason or think objectively.

So, I did what I do best: I ruminated. A LOT. I downward spiraled into tanking my entire consulting business, burning it to the ground, and starting again. I wish I could kid about these things.

With sleep and a deep breath, I approached it the next morning after completing the stress cycle that Emily Nagoski and Amelia Nagoski so beautifully explained in their bestseller BURNOUT. The feedback still stung, but I realized something incredibly pivotal.

The feedback didn’t trigger 44-year-old Amy. It activated 8-year-old Amy.

My mind and body learned well how to deal with stressful situations in middle childhood. I understood that the way to solve a fiery issue was to apologize profusely, take all the blame, and do whatever I could to make it right. When all else failed, I could run and hide in my own way, retreat to a safe space.

Looking back at my response to this specific email, I could see that my childhood self was just trying to manage a situation that caught her off guard. Looking across the decades of my career, I see how this scenario has played out with every surprising, tense situation.

Instead of firing off a response email, I took a beat and wrote a letter to my 8-year-old self. And instead of keeping it hidden, I wanted to share it with you below. Maybe the most radical act this Valentine’s Day is not just in how we show others how much we care, but in how we give the younger versions of ourselves a hug.

Dear Amy,

You’re 8, and you're f*cking resilient, you know that? I know we’re not supposed to say that word in front of you right now, but I want you to feel the magnitude of love and care I have for you. Sometimes clean words fall short.

I know you may not hear this much, but I love you for all of the things that make you both strong and soft. You’ve needed to create a haven for yourself, whether that’s retreating to a comforting space in your home or calming your mind. You’ve learned that, sometimes, the things you love most will hurt and disappoint. I wish you didn’t need to know that until much later in life.

You’ve become an expert at diffusing bombs, not literally, but you know the ones. Here’s the thing: not everything is explosive just because someone else puts heat behind it. And another lesson: you don’t need to extinguish every fire.

I see that you’re doing what you need to do to protect yourself, to protect me. It’s okay -it’s what we’ve learned! I now give you permission to let it go and just be a kid. Just play, be silly, care for others without taking the knocks.

Always yours,

Yourself 30+ years in the future

What would you want to tell your 8-year-old self? Would you give them advice or permission to let stuff go? Or would you feed them lottery ticket numbers in the off-chance that time travel is a real thing? I’d love to know in the comments.

Sending so much love to you, especially on Valentine’s Day,

As I heard Evie’s heavy footfall, quite literally, hitting the ground running each morning this week, I was doing what I do best: scrolling on Instagram to get a quick dopamine hit before lunches, diapers, homework, and breakfast.

I recognize this is not how I should start my mornings, but sometimes survival depends on a quick social media scroll. On Friday, I quickly found out that I could’ve done without the rabbit hole I found myself deeply embedded in. My feed was filled with this “2026 is the new 2016” trend that is granting mostly millennial creators the license to have a bit of nostalgia for a decade ago. I love that for them - the whimsy of tiered chokers, Beyonce’s epic release of Lemonade, pictures of them as young couples with their now partner, and fashion choices (likely from the 1990s) that they’d like to revisit.

And while the warm fuzzy feelings of Instagram filters, flat lays, and an immense amount of skinny jeans are cute, my body felt this trend with a much different response: dread.

What these decade-old creators fail to remember is a specific historical point of reference that is deeply influencing today’s uncertainty: the 2026 U.S. Presidential Election. Ironically, it’s the beginning of a chain of events that sets in motion the reason they’re craving the dopamine nostalgia hit.

The truth is, I don’t remember much of 2016. It was a blur of a miscarriage and pain, hope that we’d see a woman elected to the highest office in our land, the whiplash of another pregnancy so quickly after tragedy, and uncertainty of my consulting career as I launched headlong into an identity shift - one that I’m still undertaking. The only mental image I have of that year is a picture of me and two close friends sitting at a bar on the early evening of Tuesday, November 8, well before we knew what the night would hold. I can’t recall what I wore or what I posted on social media, or even what the top song was on my iPhone that year, as I drove around Seattle meeting with clients. I only see three ambitious women who canvassed, called, wrote letters, and lobbied, only to know they’d be devastated and bawling on their couches at home in three hours, feeling like logic, reason, and their own hard work spiral down the drain.

I see myself, the soon-to-be mom, early on in my pregnancy with Brendan, with a trepidacious, yet optimistic, look as if the last year of hell would be worth it when the results would be called in for our first female president. That rational thought would prevail, and that, just this once, I’d be able to raise my son in a world that felt more inclusive, diverse, and welcoming of whoever he wanted to be.

My body remembers what November 8th felt like, but my brain doesn’t remember a single thing from that moment. Isn’t it odd how grief is like that? How it steals from us pockets of time, making them vanish into thin air. If we tune into our bodies closely, we notice the chasm between what we remember and what our bodies hold, the aches and pains. Similarly, I can recall certain parts of 2020 in the thick of the pandemic, but it’s always a time capsule treasure hunt when Facebook serves up photo posts from that time that I can’t place. I don’t remember standing in the bathtub pleading with Brendan to sit still as I feebly attempted to cut his hair, yet it’s one of the pictures our family points back to for that moment.

Looking back, I think of that 2016 Amy and shake my head, saying, “Oh hun, you’re so naive.” We know a lot more now over the course of a decade. As the communications lead at The Riveter in 2018 and 2019, one of my favorite questions was to ask when members launched their business or passion project. Almost always, it had a direct tie back to the 2016 election. We watched women protest in record numbers in response to the inauguration. We watched new wars start, we lived through a global pandemic, we whispered in hushed tones, we raged as women’s and gender affirming care was stripped away, we marched as Black and brown people were killed, we watched genocide from our small screens, we rejoiced when babies were born and new companies were started.

I know people say that, once you have kids, time speeds up very fast. I don’t think I needed to have kids to have that happen, as the past 10 years have launched us into a new reality that leaves us wondering how we walk through life with a modicum of a semi-regulated nervous system while watching the wildness unfold in front of our eyes, while we shell out more money for basic health care and groceries.

I also don’t believe that one singular decision is prompting all of the gaps in my memory over the last 10 years. I’ve written before how I don’t remember much of Evie’s first year, and how I repeatedly forget my name and birthday. That said, I don’t think we’ve talked about compounded trauma and grief enough to know why some memories fall through the cracks and others don’t.

So, do I want to look back at 2016 and pretend it’s the new 2026? No, I most definitely do not. I want a better reality for all of us, one that is centered on kindness, care, and inclusive community. Do I want to relive those days? No, but it continually builds more resilience. Those experiences helped me find my voice, brought me two kids, perimenopause, and an awakening.

I just truly hope that, if this trend circles back in 2036, we’re looking back knowing that this year, this moment was a turning point of waking up to what it means to show up for one another and protect each other, to reject ideologies that focus on an extreme power grab at a most expensive cost: the lives and rights of our fellow neighbors. Maybe then I’ll look back and not have so many gaps in my recollections.

In the meantime, please excuse me as I put Lemonade on full blast.

Life Tip: State of the Unions

No, not that State of the Union. I’m talking about the one you schedule with anyone in your partner or a trusted advisor to check in and plan forward. I’ve seen versions of this with various couples I know, but none of those squeaky, polished plans actually worked for Dave and me.

Last week, we figured it out. Here’s what it entailed:

• Friday afternoon timepoint - kids are still in school/daycare and work is mostly done for the day.

• A fun location outside of your home - likely with food and alcohol. Beer or wine just makes talking about finances more fun.

• A shakeout dance before you go - my song choice: Robyn’s new Dopamine hit.

We spent a few hours going through everything: a finance check-in (this alone is a miracle for our nervous systems), organizing our trips and annual schedules, summer camp planning, house and family maintenance items, and emotional/relational checks with each other. I walked away from that session so renewed and uber impressed that we accomplished so much on light speed.

Looking ahead to your week, what is one way you can make it 1% easier on yourself? Maybe that’s saying no to something that will drain your energy or making a delicious meal in advance. I’d love to know how you’re going to bend time toward your own needs and self-care (and not lose it to grief or “what ifs”) in the comments.

Cheering you on as always,

I watch a blue digital ball slide left to right and back again on my computer screen each Monday afternoon. It’s nothing special, really. A weekly sync with my EMDR therapist, who asks me to sink deep into my body and past experiences to uncover the scattered shards of glass that lie underneath. I don’t ever prep for these sessions as I would have in the past. The Amy of five years ago would have a bulleted list of all of the ways she was “doing ok” and “just fine,” like a duck swimming in a monsoon. Now, I know overpreparing is just my fear wanting to wallpaper over the holes in the walls.

After almost two years, I wonder if we’re still making progress, as if “healing” is on a never-ending to-do list. At the end of each session, I see how much we’re chipping away at the layers.

Back and forth. Eyes following the ball. Head centered and still. Fingers tapping bilaterally when I lose my thread. Sometimes I only pick up one piece of my puzzled past. Sometimes it’s a few. The only consistent piece of each session is the question “What is mine to hold?”

See, the thing is, I think everything is mine to hold. It feels like it’s my sole responsibility to fix everything. I don’t think of it as a way to control or manipulate, but more as a means of finding a constant in the chaos. It’s the same way that I train the kids to focus on a static point on the horizon and come back to it quickly with every merry-go-round loop they do.

I wonder where this urge to be the “fixer” comes from. My therapist would ask if there was a scene from my childhood where this theme rang true - that’s her training after all. Raised by hardworking Midwesterners, we brought casseroles instead of our feelings to the dinner table during a lot of family gatherings. It’s how we’re told that a functioning society moves forward; we show up with helping hands and click off the to-do list of what needs to be done.

Sure, the “Amy as Fixer” might be lurking there somewhere, but I’ve really only seen it more clearly once kids entered the picture. As we walked into Brendan’s kindergarten year after Evie was born, something deep within me profoundly shifted. I needed one point far in the distance where I could focus on, and I couldn’t find it. With the swirl of hormones, a new level of postpartum depression, and uncertainty in our national and global two years after the Covid shutdowns, and a year after our nation’s own Capitol was seized.

In a world where it feels like nothing is certain, we are essentially human beings who want one thing to remain secure and steady.

As the ball bounced this week, I realized the thing that I held as constant was my ability (no, my strong-armed attempt) to “fix” Brendan, guised in a ruse to build supports and scaffolding for a neurodivergent kid who we’re seeing easily fits in the twice exceptional (2e) category.

I saw how I lost the plot of what this whole parenting thing is all about. I saw how that “fix-it focus” wasn’t laser trained on a need to focus on me, but leapfrogged over to my son. As if he were a problem to fix. I let that story reverberate in my bones and see where I feel the tension in my body. It landed in the same deep hole in my chest where the story of “I am a problem to fix” lands when we go deep into EMDR.

I cringe as I write this. It is the antithesis of how I want to raise my kids. It feels ugly, and yet, one of the more honest things I’ve ever shared. I praise my kids’ teachers and tutors for seeing the beauty in their unique perspective, and yet, I often have trouble doing the same myself.

And yet.

Naming it helps us begin again. To compost what isn’t working and try a new route. What is mine to hold here? The fact that my story— both about Brendan and myself — is an outdated one. It’s a story I need to rewrite.

What is not mine to hold? Trying to put up “supports” for my child that stunt his own resilience and growth.

And what do I need to let go of? The story that says our life needs to move forward on a certain linear path. Everyone else’s reactions to this dynamic shift. The need to explain why we approach life & our kids’ days in a way that doesn’t fit the status quo. Frankly, I need to let go of the deep desire to be applauded for my parenting prowess and just show up to love my family well, as they are in this moment, without rushing to the next.

Things I Loved This Week

• To Listen: I may be late to the game, but please don’t forget to listen to the entire Lily Allen West End Girl album in her track order at least 15 times before you shuffle the tracks. Her storytelling puts this album in my top 10 of all time.

• To Cancel: Spotify. I used to live life on the free version and loved sharing playlists, but after hearing the same ad for ICE at least 15 times in a full work day, I’m done. You do you, but I won’t be supporting that anymore. I’m currently taking any music streaming recommendations you like (and aren’t ethically questionable).

• To Watch (even though I haven’t yet): All Her Fault on Peacock. IYKYK.

• To Shop Small: Seattle peeps, we need to support small businesses now more than ever. My forever highlight: Be Here Now. Jen Bunder and team just hit their year 2 milestone, built out a strength training facility, and are cultivating an inclusive, diverse, and welcoming community. You can’t put a price on that. Remember, gift cards go a long way :)

• To Read: BUTTS by Heather Radke! OMG how did I miss this? mentioned this during our last coaching session about SLOW BOIL and I’m so grateful. The way Heather infuses her voice within research and history about how we view one of the most interesting and taboo body parts is equal parts hilarious and exquisite.

Giving you a big hug as you figure out what’s yours to hold, and what you can let go of.

In your corner,

An Irish tradition, dating back to the fourth century, is to mark the last day of Christmas festivities with “Women’s Christmas.” January 6th is a day to rest, recharge, and reconnect with friends. Nevermind that it’s the last day of Epiphany and also called Three Kings Day, I like this tradition a bit more. It feels aptly timed as the first time any caregiver can take a deep breath after the Thanksgiving to New Year’s bullet train.

As kids went back to school on Monday, my body slowed down of its own accord. With the flurry of the holiday season behind us and the decorations all put up, I was caught in the middle ground of choosing to start back on the memoir or an instinctual drive to organize the house. My body made another choice: to lie down and listen to a podcast about planning out my year. My brain shut off, and I slept for hours. I don’t even remember the first five words of the podcast past the jingle.

I planned to take that day to rest, recharge, and reset intentions for the year, and I spent the rest of the day doing just that. If you’ve been around here a bit, you know I do an extensive year-end review and set an intention for the year. In 2024, I shifted to letting two questions guide my year. Last year, I didn’t do any of that. I went to the mountain and searched for stillness. As Zora Neal Hurston has said, "There are years that ask questions and years that answer." 2025 left me with more questions, and I discovered the answers lay deep within.

So here we are in 2026, and everyone is clamoring for a word, or a reset, or a way to understand the chaotic nature of our world. Resolutions are branded as passe because we don’t need to “fix” ourselves. We’re all craving a way to make a modicum of sense. I want to propose a word for the year that calls for the opposite.

My intentions for this year center on a semi-conjured word of permission that my writing coach gave. This year’s guiding light: messify.

Obviously, it isn’t in the dictionary. “Messify” came up as a permission slip for me to be more vulnerable, honest, and raw in my restructured memoir draft. Within a session of working together, Margo saw through the carefully crafted, overpolished chapters I had given her, seeing that they lacked depth. She wanted to see where I cracked, where I found myself, where I allowed myself to color outside the lines.

This word keeps bouncing around my mind at the most inopportune times: when Evie decided to color on the couch, when I’m driving across icy roads in our rental car, on hour three of a Switch2 marathon with Brendan, when I hit my emotional limit after hour 1,520,204 of parenting over break as Dave drew me a bath.

The messiest moments are often the most mundane and the most joyous. They push me to see things as neutral, not positive or negative. They are authentic, not contrived.

It’s also a permission slip to allow things to remain messy for a while. Transitions are always that way, and if my 40s are characterized by anything, it’s the shift of becoming a new version of myself. My goal has often been to not let anyone see the cracks underneath. This intention - to allow things to just be as they are - gives me more wiggle room while also being incredibly uncomfortable.

I totally get the side eye you’re giving me right now. I can hear you saying Amy, in THIS WORLD, you really want MORE uncertainty?? Not really, but I don’t want to spend time hedging my bets to protect us from all possible scenarios. I’m tired of overthinking and overpreparing, and I want to rewire my brain and life to be a bit more resilient in the limbo.

The first step to messify is to let January 6 be Women’s Christmas. To rest and recharge on January 5 and reconnect the following day. I always knew I loved Irish traditions.

January Reads

You can check out these titles and all of my past recommendations on Bookshop.org.

• DEAD AND ALIVE by Zadie Smith (Yes, I had to put this one on hold)

• FIRST LOVE by (It’s my second re-read, and I finished it on Jan. 1)

• HEART THE LOVER by Lily King (Also finished on Jan. 1. Special thanks to for loaning me her copy for so long.)

• THE CHRONOLOGY OF WATER by (gotta read it again before the movie comes out!)

• THE LAST DRAGON ON MARS by Scott Reintgen (a Brendan read - I love our chapter book era)

Did you make an intention in starting this year? It’s okay if your answer is “no” - that was my response last year. I’d love to hear from you either way.

Protect your peace this week. Find a way to recharge if you can. I’m rooting for you.

‘Tis the season for giving, for light. ‘Tis the season for meltdowns, for puddles of tears and wiggling limbs. ‘Tis the season for merry making. ‘Tis the season for burning out bright, Die Hard-style. ’Tis the season for endings, for beginnings, for murky middles that ramp up expectations. ‘Tis the season for love, both the big gestures kind and the “I’ve got your coffee right here” kind.

All of these things are true, and yet.

I’ll let it be the season of a pause before a full-bodied “yes.” For letting someone else take the lead on the holiday gift drive or the Black Friday scramble purchasing (and wrapping, don’t forget the wrapping). I’ll give way to the discomfort of not having my stuff together by not preplanning each moment. I’ll do my damndest not to do one more errand, one more holiday activity.

I’ll do this all imperfectly, without clear communication, so that everything will go awry. I’ll let my Advent be the season of letting go. Of holding loosely to these tenuous, precious moments of frosting on faces and daily rearranging of Christmas ornaments on our tree.

Because, as much as I hate to admit how often I miss this point, this season isn’t about the presents that the Magi bring or how loud the angels sing. It’s about the tears falling down the cheek of the babe in a smelly manger. It’s asking the questions about what happens after the menorah lights build wax puddles below. It’s the stillness once the food is eaten, the dancing is done, and we’re left asking ourselves, “What now?”

I’ll let Advent be my protest, to push back the dark by sitting still.

It’s easy to celebrate the shiny sparkle. And yet, it feels more holy to stand still with wobbly legs in the muck, in the waiting middle ground. Please miss me with “the years are short, days are long” trope, for it will only make me want to rush faster. If I keep rushing around, I’ll miss it altogether.

About This Piece

I’ve been thinking a lot about Advent lately, mostly spurred by Kate Bowler’s series on Advent on Everything Happens. We celebrate Christmas in our household and encourage the kids to learn more about Hanukkah and Kawazaa as well. It’s safe to assume that kids can’t keep it all straight with their ever-developing, synapse-firing brains, but I think they see the connections better than I do.

The main connection they’ve learned: this can be a stressful time of year. We all know that pressure to “wrap up the year well,” to give to all of the holiday gift drives and end-of-year teacher moments, and to make the most of every possible December weekend for at least one thing holiday-adjacent. I was talking about it with Brendan the other day, making sure we were hitting all the bases of holiday cheer, when I asked him what he really wanted to do.

His answer: to have a day when we were all chill and not going anywhere. To watch Home Alone and any holiday special on our streaming platforms with hot chocolate and marshmallows.

Funny thing is, that’s exactly what I want, too.

This isn’t a novel parenting concept. It’s something we hear often about how fast it all goes. When others ask about why the kids are so big, I jokingly reply “I blinked.” I’m not proposing anything new here, just meditating on the reminder I need for myself: rest is sacred and holy. Stillness gets you to the heart of what you’re searching for.

We (and by “we,” I mean every single well-intentioned parent and TV/social media influencer alike) like to say that “the reason for the season” is to foster a sense of generosity and kindness. The Advent that I was raised in meant to do all of those good works and get a pat on the back. It encouraged us to go, go, go. And yet, the manger that held baby Jesus was one where Mary and Joseph were in a season of their most vulnerable selves: the waiting and the protest. They had a miracle son, and here they are - sitting in a stable of nauseating fumes, wondering what their next step was going to be. It’s the ultimate uncomfortable stillness as they try to answer the question, “Now what?”

That question and this season juxtapose every “truth” we know and shorten the space between our knowledge and often misaligned actions. We say we want one thing and do another. We say we want peace and common ground, but get stuck in our own agendas. We say we want the quiet when we pursue the loud.

What if we just sat and wondered at the season - with all of its wildly unbearable feelings of the Joy window counting down - and, just … marveled?

Question for the Week

What are ways you can sit still and enjoy your surroundings for more than an hour? Make a list of all you see, hear, smell, and feel - either in the moment or in reflection afterward.

Looking forward to being uncomfortable in the stillness with you this week :)

When I’m gone, scatter my ashes at Colchuck Lake. I want to be a part of glacier swims that take your breath away, that are just frigid enough on a short hike on a scorching day in August. I want to be held by the waves where we both find joy - you in the sunshine and me when the bone-chilling cerulean waters woke me up after the drudgery of new motherhood.

Put a picture of me on the altar, but not one of only me. Find snaps from when we held each other close, half smile, full content. Unearth the least flattering photo of me, the one I’d snicker at because my face looked too wide or my pose too awkward. Dust that image off and place it right next to my great-grandmother, with her innocent, trusting smile and perfectly coiffed hair. Set my picture upright next to one of my grandfather when his heart expanded to love his first granddaughter. Sneak it next to the snap with me and grandma, taken right before she couldn’t see how her craterous wrinkles were once my smooth skin.

Don’t leave me alone on the altar. Don’t leave me alone in the lake. Be with me because I’ll always be with you, our rendezvous when the veil is thin and we can hug again.

About This Piece

I’ve always wanted to write an instructions flash essay, and this one seemed to arrive at just the right time. The stretch of time between Halloween and Thanksgiving is one that I’ve often felt a bit more conscious of the spirits surrounding us. For years, I’ve often stayed up on Nov. 1 for an extra hour, simply lighting candles and marinating in the stillness of the night. For those in Latin cultures, Dia De Los Muertos is earmarked for celebration, not mourning.

Last year, Brendan asked if we could build an altar for Grandma Plum (my grandmother) and the ancestors he’s heard so many stories about. The request came about at 5 pm on Nov. 1, a little too late to grab marigolds from the store and scour for pictures. This year, he remembered with plenty of time for Dave to print some pictures and for me to find chrysanthemums nearby. I realize now why it was top of mind: This was the first year without his grandfather. He’s working through his “year of firsts,” finding simple, notable moments to honor, remember, and celebrate the legacy he carries.

Navigating your kids through landmines of grief is something we don’t write prescriptive manuals for. Our lexicon of loss has grown over the decades since I lost my grandfather and great-grandmother, even though it doesn’t get any easier to maneuver. There are still moments when it hits hard, imploding Brendan’s emotional stability in seconds without warning. And yet, in a few seconds, we’re then able to find a moment that makes us laugh so hard we snort. Grief is a wild duality.

This flash essay above is my attempt to give him some future instructions for how to meet me there. I’ve reworked this piece to a longer version many times, and yet, it still wants to remain brief. It wants to have the right balance of prescription and witness, with space for him to find his own way.

Creative Prompt for the Week

Give directions or instructions to somebody you know, somebody you love, about something important to you. It doesn’t have to be grandiose or elegant; it can be as simple as setting the table for dinner.

Once you have the instructions and scene, think about the deeper why you’re giving this person or group the directions in the first place. What is your driving factor in sharing this? Is the impetus more about them or about you?

I’d love to read what you come up with! Share in the comments.

As you walk through your week, take care of yourself and each other.

I’m experimenting with an essay in a numbered format, something that is stretching the left half of my brain to contort in new ways. It is an essay that I’ve wrestled with over the past few months, and never truly found an entry point. I bounced ideas of starting lines with multiple writers and my entire essay incubator cohort. Overwhelmingly, they offered me the same craft advice: try a new configuration.

As my friend and mentor Megan Stielstra would say: “Writing requires scissors.”

Life does too, sometimes.

In complete frustration a few weeks ago, I literally took scissors to the essay. I printed out the 15 page behemoth to slice and dice. A section here, a scene there. I laid all of the pieces, from scraps of a line to three intact pages, fanned out on the floor to see how I could put the puzzle back together. I truly wish my synesthesia could magically arrange a story in front of me with lines and magic, as if I’m looking at futuristic dashboard like the ones we see with Tom Cruise in Minority Report. The ones where he puts on the gloves and twists his hands, blue fingertips blazing. A slight twitch of your index finger and a section flies to the top left of the screen.

Sadly, we’re not technologically there yet. AI is interesting, but not that advanced. Instead, I did the next best thing: number each section, braiding together the seams as a numbered essay.

The beauty of the numbered essay form is that you can present a myriad of disconnected scenes and inner dialogue as a more cohesive story. There’s something soothing about having a numbered list guide you down the rabbit hole, deeper into the crux of what you actually want to say (the thing you avoid saying most). One of my favorites is Megan’s An Axe for the Frozen Sea, a play off of Franz Kafka’s line about how she learned how to throw axes in 2018 and what she discovered about how she made sense of the world. (Please do yourself and pause this newsletter to read that first - it’s gorgeous and you won’t regret it.) In it, she starts he story at the top of a downward spiral, teaching us the mechanics of throwing an axe at a target. With each numbered section, she goes deeper into the spiral until you find the sliver of truth that she is often scared to admit: she has rage against injustice, and sometimes it scares her. As a reader, you go on a journey with her, even though there are so many themes and threads, because she guides you down the path with numbers.

I started to number the sections, with “1” being the top of the spiral and each new scene diving deeper into the abyss. As I wrapped it up, I realized that, even though the essay was about hummingbirds, the reality is that it’s about being seen and building a connection with things that are dissonant and distant.

Friend, that’s when the lightbulb went off. This idea - of seeing others, being known, and connecting in that promise - is the drumbeat of my life, my work. Seeing the pattern when everyone else sees static. Pulling the thread on themes and helping it find its cohesive, organic order without force. Finding a realistic, deeply-aligned story in the midst of chaos.

I think about our lives similarly to a numbered essay. If “1” is our first year on earth, it’s filled with more promise and joy. Sleepless nights? Sure, but filled with care and compassion. As we move down the line, a new layer of complexity is introduced, something that adds a richer hue of shading or a stark pivot point. If I were to take

This week, I added “44” to the list by turning the page on “43.” My birthday started just like any other day, dazily chugging a London Fog latte and wide-eyed rushing to get the kids out the door. It was filled with phone calls, texts, and social media posts from friends near and far with their well-wishes. After running errands through the drizzly Seattle November day, I found myself curled up on Brendan’s bed with my journal to reflect on the year that was:

If I’m going to write 43 as an essay, the thread would be a bit of bravado, a dash of curiosity, and an appreciation of being fire-tested and found worthy. For the first time in a long while, I can confidently say this was one of my favorite years. There’s something magical about choosing yourself and betting on your strength time and time again to prove that all that you needed was inside you all along.

Somewhere along the way, we lose that agency. The world tells us we need a quick fix. Social media gives us a numbered list of ways we can be better.

This was the year I stopped asking the world for answers about who I am and what I need. This was the year I started finding the answers within my own knowing. It has been there all along.

Here’s to building upon foundations year over year. Here’s to realizing when the foundations need to be repointed, attended to. Here’s to the permission of choosing yourself each day.

I can’t wait to see what 44 will look like.

Things I Loved This Week

• To Listen: My love for Dr.’s insight and storytelling prowess runs deep, and I treasured her conversation on We Can Do Hard Things to help make sense of this crazy world. It challenged me to see the world even more in terms of stories that we tell as a culture and society. Listen here.

• To Read: I’m so proud of my friend Lindsay Scola’s LA Times letter to the editor about the dissonant portrayal of narcolepsy in NBC’s “Stumble.” Disabilities are never a punchline. Read here.

• To Care For Yourself: I introduced Evie to Versed Skincare this week. Yes, she’s three years old, but we’re doing everything we can to help her wind down each night with self-care. Bonus: It meant that I needed to re-up my own stash since she’ll likely steal more of my cream cleanser in the future.

• To Celebrate: Friends who are thinking outside of the box. I had the most amazing conversation with one of my favorite thinkers/podcast hosts/writers/multi-hyphenates last week, leaving me so energized about how we share complicated business stories in our own unique way.

A question for you: How are you celebrating the moments or projects that are wrapping up in your life? Winter is naturally full of endings to various stages in our lives, and that should be commemorated. I’d love to know!

Take good care of yourself and others,

“When do you feel like you’ve found your purpose?” my client asked a few weeks ago. She leaned in as if she stretched the word “purpose” on a taffy pull, sounding somewhat like a cat when they’re very content.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I usually respond with “tell me more,” but I’ve recently become aware of how I overuse that phrase with my son. “Tell me more,” is the gateway to an open-ended labyrinth of possibilities. “What do you mean?” narrows us down to a few specific options.

“It’s just that… in my late 40s, I feel like I should have discovered by now. You know, the reason for working so hard. The thing that I’m going to leave behind when all this is dust.” She closed her eyes and let out a deep exhale. “I just don’t want this all to go to waste.”

I got where she was coming from. In the very Mary Oliver “one wild and precious life” of it all, we want to make sure what we’re doing matters. That it has weight and heft. Purpose is often cited as the driving force for some to start their own companies, while for others, it is the motivation to leave existing companies.

I’m noticing that the pursuit of “purpose” is having its moment in the sun lately. Clips of Elizabeth Gilbert extrapolating on purpose anxiety from Tim Ferris’s 2024 podcast episode are recirculating through my Instagram feed. , host of LinkedIn’s Hello Monday, sat down with neuroscientist Anne-Laure Le Cunff and made a solid case for bypassing our desire for purpose in favor of tiny experiments. Peloton celebrity Robin Arzon has a Masterclass designed to help you unlock your true potential. Even as I write this, my Instagram discover section is full of quotables and memes, documenting the euphoria of finding a main intention for our life (and the three handy steps to unlock that intention in five minutes or less with trending hashtags and the latest cool music).

So if there’s all this conversation swirling around about not finding our purpose, why are we still so hellbent on excavating until we discover that one thing we’re destined to do with our lives?

Why does our purpose only have to include one thing? I was

And, why are we in a rush to find it now in the last eight weeks of the year, as if turning a calendar page without it means we’ll cease to exist, or worse, be irrelevant?

I believe that in times of uncertainty - and look around us - we’re clinging to something we can control. And if it doesn’t come with ease, then we believe it must not be right or meant for us.

I played out this scenario in my morning pages the other day, just to see what would happen if I followed the rabbit hole a bit. What would’ve changed if I had given my 13-year-old self permission not to have it all figured out? What would have relaxed had I granted a little freedom to that 26-year-old woman fresh out of graduate school (in the middle of an economic recession) the chance to be curious instead of being productive and purposeful?

What would happen if I give the almost 44-year-old woman furiously typing this - and my client as well - the liberty of knowing that there’s no wrong answer?

This permission is a privilege when it happens in the moment. When it happens in the rearview mirror, it’s healing. I loved how Jodi-Ann Burey framed her “Experiment Season” as a time that allowed her to heal and curiously uncover what lit her up - ultimately leading her to write AUTHENTIC.

Sitting with my client, I could sense that she wanted me to put a stake in the ground and give her a solid answer. “The thing is,” I replied, “nothing we do is ever wasted. We’re just pulling the thread to figure out what’s best for us and what’s next.”

Our “purpose” can be a moving target. Here’s our permission slip to be content with not knowing and figuring it out as we go.

Things I loved this week:

• To Read: A few of my friends published incredible books over the past few weeks. You must pick these up!

  • AUTHENTIC by Jodi-Ann Burey. In her masterful way of describing issues around race, class, gender, and disability, my friend Jodi-Ann adeptly widens your view of the myth of bringing your full self to work (and life) and inspires you to investigate how you support others in true community. I’ve read this twice and marked up/post-it noted my copy beyond oblivion - gotta buy a new one! Buy it here

  • UNCOMPETE by Ruchika T. Malhotra. Her Seattle launch event at Town Hall was inspiring and thought-provoking. What I love about Ruchika’s work is her generous and graceful way of holding space and explaining frameworks around inclusion that are applicable everywhere. Buy it here, and more soon from me once I devour it fully.

• To Listen:

  • Brandi Carlyle’s new album, Returning to Myself, is breathtaking. It reverberates in my bones.

  • This week on LinkedIn’s Hello Monday, sat down with the Holderness Family (love them) for a conversation that gave me a newfound permission slip to restructure my work around my recent ADHD diagnosis. Listen here.

• To Care For Yourself: We recently started a subscription for Flewd bath salts that include an immense amount of magnesium. It wasn’t until I started soaking in these that I realized how depleted my body was.

November Reads

You can check out these titles and all of my past recommendations on Bookshop.org.

• HOW ABOUT NOW by (the way I squealed opening this package made 13-year-old Amy proud)

• MOTHERS AND OTHER FICTIONAL CHARACTERS, by (a re-read for the essay collection)

• THE MOTHER CODE by (another re-read, this time with highlighters and sticky notes!)

• DEAD AND ALIVE by Zadie Smith (I scored a signed copy!)

• UNCOMPETE by Ruchika T. Malhorta

• AWAKE by (it’s finally from my library holds!)

How are you taking care of yourself this week after rolling back the clocks and detoxing from the Halloween sugar rush? I’d love to hear in the comments on Substack or reply directly to this email.

Cheering for you as if you’re running the NYC Marathon, cowbells and all,

The essay starts with a chance encounter with an Anna’s Hummingbird as Brendan and I were running out the door, late for school one morning. The bird was inches from his face and staring deep into his soul. There’s not much that can make this kid be still, but a wild animal that is within striking distance will stop him in his tracks. Since then, I started noticing where the hummers showed up in life. Once I started paying attention, I saw them everywhere. In the new notecards my mother-in-law gave me, in the books I read, in the Native American traditions I could recall, in the bushes at Brendan’s school, and in the artwork he brought home.

This phenomenon - noticing an exorbitant amount of sightings of an object once you make an intentional choice to focus on it - is something I call the “Red Car Mystery.” Think about the last time you purchased a car. You likely researched the type, make, and model of the car you liked. You had an idea of what color you wanted to purchase. And then, if you’re like me, you scanned your environment to see if you were going to be the only one to have that color, make, and model, letting it stand apart in a crowd. (I do this because I’m notorious at forgetting where I park in large lots, so maybe this is more of a coping mechanism.) Chances are, you discover that you don’t see too many of that specific car on the road or in your neighborhood, and so you pull the trigger and sign the paperwork.

And then, the switch flips the moment you drive it off the dealer’s lot. You notice one, then two, then 57 of the same make and model of cars on the road, just on the drive home. It feels like everyone purchased the same car. Where were they before? Did you just not notice them, or did they all pop out of the woodwork?

THIS is how I feel about hummingbirds right now. Maybe, for you, it isn’t a car. Maybe it’s a piece of clothing or some object you carry with you daily. (I have the same issue with running shoes.)

I didn’t pay much attention to hummingbirds until I started doing this essay - and it all started with this writing exercise:

• Think of an object, an animal, a moment, or something you put an immense amount of intention, care, and thought around.

• Think about how many times it has popped in and out of your world throughout your life, or even the last few months.

• Draw a line on a sheet of paper, with the X on the left symbolizing the first time you thought or saw that object. The X on the far right of the line is today.

• Set a timer for 10 minutes and note every time you remember seeing or experiencing that repetition of having that object, animal, feeling or moment in your world. With each X on the line, take a few notes to give you more context of the situation or scene and where you experienced it.

• Take a look at the Xs on your line. What are the trends that you see? Did you discover anything new about that item? Does the object mean anything different to you now that you see how many times it repeats in your life? Free write that for about 10-20 minutes, just getting your thoughts on paper.

Next week, I’ll go more in-depth about how I pulled the thread to weave the essay that is currently in edit. Until then, I’d love to know what patterns you found in the moment.

Here’s to finding repetitions in our lives that create meaning, give us hope, and a way to push forward,

All signs pointed to “go for launch” a few weeks ago for my solo writing retreat. I loaded my signature tote bag of books and talismans, pages spilling out the brim. I hit play on a podcast I’d saved for the drive - ’s interview about solitude being creative fuel. My car tires pointed east, gripping the pavement through Snowqualmie Pass; fall temperatures, larches, and auburn leaves billowing with every mile.

I realize this type of outing is a privilege. It’s not lost on me that pausing clients for a week and handing all parenting duties over to a partner isn’t possible for many. I’ve learned that these retreats are essential for me as a writer and creative soul, especially as I’ve had to mentally shift from a deadline-driven, consultant schedule to a more creative-led definition of success.

When I mention that I’m taking a few days to focus, either to other creatives or parents, the reaction I get most often is a version of “I’m so jealous” or “I wish I could do that.” If I’m honest, that’s the same belief I had when I did my first few days in January. I wish I could be the writer who could sit in a chair and religiously crank out thousands of words a day. (You’d probably read more Substacks if I could!) I’ve always been envious of people who don’t wait until the pressure of a deadline to light a fire under themselves, who can map out a game plan without stress. Each day, it takes me an inordinate amount of time to get into the flow of creating and by the time I’m finally getting words on a page, it’s time to pick up the kids. Once I finally accepted my own rhythm (conveniently not something I discovered until the past year - thanks, perimenopause and late-diagnosed ADHD), it became crystal clear that I needed these dedicated times away - no matter how much guilt I would heap on myself to make that happen.

The conversation with other women quickly shifts from “I wish I could do this” to a genuine curiosity about how to structure the time. We are hardwired to justify our time away from emotional or physical caretaking with some tangible receipts.

Having a few days to myself seemed too good to be true, but I could feel the parent burnout creeping in almost every three months. When I first booked my January trip, I had no idea what to expect. An open-ended amount of time is both exhilarating and overwhelming for my neurospicy brain, so I had to strike a balance between creative flow and rest without guilt or shame. I didn’t want to jinx it with word count goals or to-do lists (even though my brain had already assigned 3x more projects than I could reasonably finish).

Now that I have a few of these under my belt, I have a much better idea of where to give myself grace and rest, and where to push myself to create. Here’s a bit more about how I structure this time away.

Prep

I learned quickly in January that I put too much pressure on myself to produce big projects with little prep, if any at all. I ran headlong into the mountains, exhausted, dropped quickly onto the Airbnb bed, and crashed for 24 hours. No joke. I sprinkled in naps and nature walks to keep things interesting, but I mostly read (7 books, no joke) and slept. That is exactly what my body needed.

For May and October, I treated the week before as time to strategize and prep for a creative sprint. For those who may not be familiar with tech industry project management, an agile sprint (product, creative, or otherwise) is a time-blocked period during which your team tackles one to two major issues to help reduce overdue tasks or workload. Friends, you can take the girl out of tech, but it’s difficult to divorce the tech industry project framework from the girl.

My prep included three key components:

1. Identifying the aspects of content or creative work that kept getting pushed to the 'overdue' or 'someday' pile.

2. Aligning on what deadlines I had coming up within the next few months: querying agents, essay collection workshops, upcoming essays I wanted to pitch, etc.

3. An incredible Spotify playlist that helped set the mood of what I truly wanted to accomplish. You can listen to Q2’s playlist and Q3’s playlist if you like. Vibes totally matter.

Once I got clear on those, I wouldn’t set any goals or intentions - shocker, right? I’d make sure I had one or two project categories I wanted to address and bring what I needed for those, leaving the rest at home.

A note on packing - laugh if you want, but I really do carry a full tote bag of books, my journals (if they’re relevant to the project), at least three candles, I pack the best pajamas and the comfiest clothes I can find. I once thought I’d pack really adorable fits for content creation that scream, “Look at me! I’m a real writer!”, but I never wore them because I never really created content.

Flexibility Within

After a minor freakout in realizing that no one was asking me for one more story or another 20 minutes of Zelda, I take the first night and some of the next morning to rest and set my intentions. I look back to the retreat before and then free write. No matter what I had planned in the prep phase, free writing was the best way to set intentions. I pull a few cards from this deck and see what I need to know right now, and then I get to work.

When I went to Whidbey Island in May, my productive times fell into 3-4 hours blocks of work or reading with rest in between. There were many naps and lots of staring into the sunset with coffee or wine. Whenever I felt my brain start swirling with “are you getting enough done?” or “shouldn’t you hit this word count so that you can claim it was all worth it?" I would stop what I was doing and reset. Yoga or a quick phone call back home helped, and then my brain would forget that it was spiraling in the first place.

This month, I knew I would be in our essay class on the last day of the retreat. I used that as my final bookend, and spent a full 12 hours writing the day before. The only way I was able to do that intense day-long session before a rigorous class was because I did absolutely nothing but rest and read.

Long story short: it’s about knowing how you work best and getting out of your own head about what will make this time off successful. Sounds trite, but it’s true.

Wrapping Up

Reflection is key in any sprint, and it’s my favorite part of the process. I look back at my free write from the beginning and outline key takeaways from the time. I love to categorize them into four sections:

1. What I accomplished

2. What I learned

3. Where I want to focus on when I get home

4. How I feel moving forward.

During these kinds of sprints, we often only focus on the outcomes. That’s great and all, but if I forget about how I felt, the emotions that come up, and the insights, then it will all feel wasted.

In May, the biggest takeaway was that I have everything I need within me to build this writing life.

In October, I reminded myself that I can trust myself and my intuition to know what to write and how this creative life can flex over time.

Now, let’s talk about you…

My wish is that everyone gets a chance to go somewhere solo and find quiet time. Some of my favorite memories from these trips are finding a new way to start an essay or feeling so recharged and aligned that I can keep the momentum going when I get home.

We exist in seasons - we all need a break.

I want to hear your thoughts: Have you ever wanted to be a part of a creative retreat? If you were able to get away for a few days, what would be the one thing about that retreat that would make it all worth it? Share in the comments!

Wishing you a weekend of rest, recharging, and joy in the midst of all that is going on.

There are seasons when I write in the margins of everything — grocery lists, voice memos, late-night Notes app fragments that sound more like prayers than paragraphs. For a while, that was enough. Quiet, slow, just for me.

But lately, something’s been shifting.

Not loud, not showy.

More like resurfacing.

More like the tug of a story that’s still not finished.

Welcome (back) to Unscripted.

This is my place for the stories that won’t stop knocking — the ones we carry in our bodies, whisper to each other in low voices, or hold off until we have just a little more time, a little more courage. Oh! And a bit of a new look.

Here, you’ll find:

• Essays on ambition and caregiving, grief and identity, motherhood and systems that never fit

• Prompts, questions, and flash sparks to get you unstuck

• Cultural critique that refuses to flatten nuance

• The voice I use with people I trust — not the one I was trained to perform

Sometimes I’m writing as a strategist and coach — helping leaders see the truth in their stories.

Sometimes I’m writing as a mother, a daughter, a woman in the middle of it all.

Always, I’m writing from the inside out.

This space isn’t trying to go viral.

It’s not optimized for growth or beholden to a rigid editorial calendar.

It’s a creative laboratory, built for resonance and room to breathe.

For those of you who’ve been here a while: thank you. For the new faces: I’m so glad you’re here.

If you’re subscribed to the free tier, you’ll get 2–3 essays a month and occasional threads to join the conversation.

If you upgrade to the paid tier, you’ll get deeper into the mess with me — behind-the-scenes posts, live prompts, and experiments I’m not ready to publish anywhere else. (No pressure. All timing welcome.)

My only promise is to write when it matters, and to tell the truth when I do.

Let’s see what we find in the clearing.

💛

Amy

All I can hear is the whirl of my tires rolling east. I should put on a podcast or the songs I want to hear instead of K-pop Demon Hunters. I should call my mom, my step-mother, my mother-in-law, and my bestie in DC. The shoulds grow louder in my head the quieter it is in my ears, so I’ll focus on the tires, noting how their grip rings in my ears like velcro strips pulled apart on a fast loop. If I focus on that sound, I can drown out the way Evie curled up and cried when she said goodbye. I can muffle her pleas of “Can I go, too?” I can stifle Brendan’s tears from the night before, concerned that “it won’t be the same.” I can almost believe that it will all be fine. I can push down the guilt of leaving because I need time away from them.

It is almost quiet.

All I can see as I step foot in the cabin is dark. No lights on, the trees off the back deck tent the house in a late evening dusk. I hear the floorboards creak under my bare feet - a sound I haven’t noticed in a while. I lay on the sofa and see the world spin around the chandelier directly above. What do I do now? My mind shouts. I don’t know! It answers. My ears sense a beeping alarm, and it takes me ten seconds to realize my mind is fabricating noise. I half expect a squeal to round the corner in a game of chase. No one is running. I’m alone and unmoored.

It is simultaneously deafening and silent.

The next morning, my mind stops imagining noises and explains to my body that I am alone. Officially untethered. No snack or snuggle requests. No distracted diversions. Silence. Solo. I do my best to assure my body that I am safe and all is fine, but it doesn’t believe me. I drink coffee and dream up all that I’ll accomplish. My body says “fuck you” and nudges me toward the couch, chandelier still swirling. I hide under a blanket and plead my body for a reset, a few more hours of rest. It gives me eight hours and a migraine.

I crave the elusive quiet.

The night blankets me once again, and I wonder if a full day of productivity was wasted. A kettle whistles, tea is poured, and I sit with a family heirloom mug in front of the fire. My eyes close, though I don’t remember doing so. A cozy tangerine blanket covers my lap, though I don’t remember unfolding it. My lungs inhale, though I don’t recall telling them to inflate.

My mind hums, but instead of Velcro, it’s noticing the soft swirl of rubbing my hands together in circles. It’s my body’s tell that it’s finally ready to soften into the unknown, succumb to the flow of what will unfold. It feels like crossing The Enchantments to get to this moment. The last step is to get to the ice blue glacier lake and jump in.

It’s just quiet enough.

I’m really loving these flash essays I get to work on with you all. Here’s something I want to know from you: if you could take a few days to yourself, how would you fill your time? How would you help transition from normal life to retreat?

I’ll be back this Friday with more info on takeaways from this last solo retreat. Until then, please take care of each other. Find a chance to discover your own calm breath.