Yesterday, I lugged my wooden writing chair into my therapist’s office. Her mushy couch makes my lower back sore, so after a few sessions, I found the solution. The day I no longer need to bring the chair to therapy I’m cured, I tell her. She smiles because we both know that so long as I’m human in this complicated world, I’ll always need therapy.

I don’t always want to hash out, relive, and share my truths. I can walk 10 miles and never be as exhausted as I am after a conversation with 13-year-old Amy. So yesterday, I almost didn’t want to tell her what’s been going on in my head because I knew peeling back the layers would wipe me out. But I did because I committed to changing my behavior and understanding why I do (did – work in progress) what I do.

We’ve been working on Internal Family Systems, a therapy model built on the idea that we all have parts that show up to protect us, but also, can keep us stuck and unwell. There are no “bad” parts. Only ones that are pushed into protective roles during conflict.

I have a badass part who’s hustled me through some major conflict. I picture her holding a sword, calculating my next step, and shutting things down when they’re spiraling. She’s a combination of Elsa and Maleficent. She’s saved my life. But also, keeps me stuck.

So imagine her reaction when I told my therapist that my ex-husband still takes up more space in my head than I want. She throws out the comments I know my super close friends and family are thinking but never say aloud: Let it go. Move on. He doesn’t deserve any space. You’re better off.

She’s super smart, so she can take a concept like IFS and connect the emotion to the circumstance, and, phew, now she feels so much better. But intellectualizing isn’t the goal. And, she’s very annoyed these days.

She can’t, no matter how much she thinks and thinks, make sense of why her ex-husband did what he did. She can’t understand or accept that he won’t talk to her. That he never asks about her. That there’s no co-parenting. No – anything. That maybe (read: most likely) he doesn’t care about her or the 25-year relationship.

She’s exhausting to live with because she will not rest until she figures out the why why why. But she will never know why, so she must make peace with not knowing. And that’s not how she operates. She screams in frustration. She insists if she just thinks more and harder, she’ll come up with an answer, so she can rest the case. But this one is open-ended.

This is when I want to quit therapy. But if I want badass Amy to stop taking up headspace, she needs something to chew on.

So, we talk about patterns and (duh) childhood wounds. We talk about when badass Amy showed up to protect me and how to get her to retreat. Most of all, we give badass Amy the opportunity to be heard. Then we give her grace and compassion. We thank her. Without her, I’d be sobbing in a corner of my bedroom.

When I understand why I do what I do and think what I think, I’m able to catch myself when I default to an old narrative that no longer holds truth. When I accept that maybe I always knew I was being deceived but lived with it because I had so much going on with the girls post-cancer and only so much bandwidth. Focusing on my marriage would have risked my girls’ wellbeing. I wasn’t willing to do that. Not after everything they’d been through. Badass Amy told me it was the best way – the only way.

I never leave therapy feeling cured. But I do leave therapy feeling understood and able to make connections.

Yesterday, I left with a profound respect for badass Amy. She raised her eyebrows and smirked. She loves to be seen.

My homework is to catch myself when I go down the why why why road. To be comfortable not knowing. To accept maybe I never knew the guy I was married to the way I thought. To surrender to the fact that I’ll never have closure.

And yesterday, badass Amy stomped her feet and let out a scream. She smashed a few pint glasses. She rolled her eyes and huffed and puffed. And then, after a lot of digging and associating she said, Fine. I’ll stop.

We all know this isn’t true. She’ll pop up soon, sword in hand, ready to fight, ready to rationalize. I’m lucky to have her. Hard situations aren’t going anywhere. But, I’m also lucky to know how to get her to stand down, so I can enjoy what’s in front of me and not be distracted by her continuous quest for answers that don’t exist.

For a year, I promised myself I’d jump on Instagram and create reels or posts or stories. Partly to build a bigger following to interest an agent. Partly because I enjoy verbal connection much more than written connection. Writing is solitary and I already spend a lot of time by myself – by choice.

Without a plan other than to post a reel every day, I didn’t have a plan. My girls told me to edit my videos and content on Canva, but I didn’t want posting videos to become another thing to do – another job.

The first few weeks were scary and exciting. What will I talk about today?

The internet is weird and unpredictable. Some days, I’d post something and think, That’s dumb, but it did really well.

Other days, I’d think, The internet will like this! And it only did meh.

There are influencers who do it well, like @bigtimeadulting, who’s smart and funny and reminds followers that parenting is a game of failure. There are other accounts with 4M followers who balance oranges on their heads – and I just don’t get it.

Most people who post edit out the seconds of dead space between thoughts or words. Followers (people in general now) have the attention span of a puppy, so a two-minute video, which is about how long mine track, is not ideal. I thought about editing. But again, I wanted posting to be something fun, so I resisted.

From the start, I didn’t look at my metrics for fear I’d get discouraged and quit. I made the video. Posted. And walked away. I could tell how well a post did by how many comments kept popping up on my phone. My post about how sad it was to lose Chatham’s magic when I became a year-round resident blew up. Who would’ve thought?

Posting for the past 10 weeks has challenged me in ways I didn’t anticipate. I’ve received hurtful messages. I’ve had to be okay looking tired or puffy or like a 50-year-old woman on a given day. Do I put on mascara or wear sunglasses? Some days, I don’t feel like presenting myself to the world. Other days, I struggle to find something valuable to say. Most of the time, social media feels like a popularity contest and one I’m losing.

But I’m not a quitter, so I keep going, even on the days it feels futile.

I could throw in the clichés: it takes time, steady growth, be patient, it only takes one (one post, one share from an influencer, one comment). All true. I could be unattached to the outcome (my therapist’s advice).

I could keep going because I’m having fun – which I am, and isn’t that the point of everything we choose to do with our “free” time?

As the summer and my social experiment come to a close, I’ve gained 1,000 followers, most of whom followed (my guess) because of the algorithm and Chatham content, which wasn’t what I originally intended to talk about, but I went with it because it tracked.

For now, I’m going to continue posting and shielding myself from the metrics. I’m going to remind myself that no one cares about my skin except for the three people who have DM’d me that they’re very concerned about my skin damage and do I have a dermatologist? (Rest easy, internet strangers, I do.)

Putting ourselves “out there” is scary – in real life and on the internet. Scary isn’t bad, it’s just uncomfortable. But we change and grow when we’re uncomfortable. It’s the reward for enduring the icky feeling.

After years and years of being uncomfortable, I’m used to discomfort. Most days, I’m a very uncomfortable 50-year-old woman who’s reinventing herself and not sure what will stick and what won’t. Social media posts included.

I have a thick skin when it comes to rejection – every writer must. Maybe that thick skin is what stood out and compelled a few people to DM me about it.

It’s all part of being comfortable being uncomfortable. I don’t dictate the conditions of social media or being human. I only know that both are unpredictable.

Last week, I took a memoir class in Truro on permission. Truth be told, I signed up for the instructor, not the content of the class.

I didn’t think I needed permission to write. I’ve published very intimate pieces. I own what I write. I own my story. I was hoping the pro memoirist instructor would add a little on structure and best practices. Instead, I learned something more important.

Every morning for five days, ten middle-aged women and one millennial met in a classic old Cape Cod building with no air conditioning and the ripe smell of mold that brought me back to my grandparents’ cottage.

Around a long wooden table, we shared our stories and our fears. Fear of what our family and friends might think when our stories are in the world. Will people think less of us for telling our truths? What if we disappointed our siblings, parents, or strangers who leave bad reviews?

Every day on my car ride home, I thought about the concept of permission in all its forms: consent, authorization, approval. I thought about how permission has dictated my behavior for decades — maybe forever.

A strict rule follower, I began almost every sentence of my childhood with “Can I…?”

Have a cookie? Go to Harvard Square? Borrow the car? Go to Jessica’s?

I sought approval from my parents, but also teachers, coaches, friends, bosses, a husband, and often, my kids.

Asking first was essential. Good girls don’t risk being bad. We’re people pleasers, and permission is how we navigate the world and ourselves in it.

As a 50-year-old woman, I know this isn’t true. And yet, I still wait for it. Wait for someone to tell me I write well and must write a book. That I’m good enough to put myself on stage and speak. That I’m doing a good job on Instagram and not to stop even though it feels futile.

Permission holds us back from doing what we know we need to do. What we’ve been put on earth to do. We wait for someone’s “yes, you can.” Who are we to give ourselves permission?

Well, we’re grown-ups who carry an old narrative that our behavior and desires must be approved before we act on them. Dismantling that default is difficult. It runs through our DNA (Irish Catholic rule-followers I see your hand up).

We give the power of our dreams and goals to someone else — to confirm what we already know.

Amy, you’re meant to write, to speak, to use your gift of communication so others feel seen and heard, less alone, more connected.

I’ve waited a lifetime for permission. Permission to be myself. To make mistakes. To be human.

As much as I thought I didn’t need a five-day class on permission, it lifted a boulder I wasn’t aware I was carrying. One keeping me small and “in my lane” for fear of being bad.

Today, I give you permission. Permission to do all the things you’re waiting for someone to approve. From the smallest acts — going to the movies instead of cleaning your house — to the biggest leaps — switching jobs, or opting out of the thing that might make someone upset. They’ll get over it or not. Your wellbeing is at stake.

Start small if you’re afraid. Once you feel the freedom of giving yourself permission, you’ll want to do it more and more. The cage door is open. I give you permission to fly.

Let me know how it goes. My guess is you won’t look back.

Emily, let’s go to P-town, out for drinks, see a movie at the drive-in, catch a show, try that new restaurant…

I talk a good game. The excitement in my voice sounds legit — like I’m in – committed. Give me the time and the place and I’ll be there.

But then, there’s little (more likely, no) follow-through.

My closest people are smiling reading this. They’re on the receiving end of my empty “Let’s…”

In my head, I love making plans, especially in the summer. Cocktails with an ocean view. Lobster rolls on a picnic table. A late afternoon get-together with friends. I could commit to fun every day in July and August. But I don’t.

What’s my problem? I think. Very rarely do I regret going out in the wild. I come home and say, That was fun! I’m happy I went. Let’s do it again!

But then time passes and it takes a bit to get me out again.

For me, it’s a head game.

Future plans leave me analyzing a million scenarios. And my mind loves to challenge a good plan with a reason to cancel: I don’t want to spend the money. Ugh, the traffic. The wait will be hours.

I question if it’s the “right” day to do it. Maybe another day when it’s not as sunny, or cloudy, or so much of a Tuesday.

Then, I justify cancelling plans because I’m allowed to do what’s right for me. (Please girl….)

But the thing is – often what’s right for me is to follow through on the thing I don’t want to do, the thing Future Amy will thank me for: connection, conversation, laughing, a memory.

If I’m going to preach that we only change when we’re uncomfortable, I need to accept that I might not be comfortable for the blip of time leading up to it.

Last week, Emily and I went out for oysters. We made the plan that morning. Two reasons this worked well for me. One, last-minute plans don’t scare me. Two, I’m a little afraid of Emily and wouldn’t dare back out.

I want to say that this summer I’ve turned a corner and no longer hem and haw over future plans. But that would be false. Yet, I’m aware that I need to nudge the part of me that would rot in her house if given permission.

So I nudge. Over and over. And not once do I regret it.

I’m still a novice at saying yes. There’s a part of me that doesn’t trust it. But I watch my millennial sister say yes to everything and enjoy herself in a way I haven’t in a very long time – concerts at Fenway, brunching, spontaneous ice cream runs. The girl knows how to do summer. I’m studying her.

Here’s what I know:

We’re here to connect with one another. To have fun. To make memories that sustain us through the long, cold winter.

We think we have time. We don’t.

So, this summer, I’m aware that talking a good game isn’t the same as playing a good game.

This weekend, I’m hosting a dinner party! And, in a few days, a coffee date with an old friend. Next week, I’m taking a five-day class in Truro. Who wants to join me for a lobster roll at Sesuit Harbor? I see you waving your hand!

But do me a favor. If you want to meet, wait until noon to ask me. Overthinking Amy doesn’t have time to convince me the line will be way too long and to wait until “later.”

Because my mind has a habit of convincing me of things that just aren’t true. Like there’s an endless amount of summertime left — and there isn’t.

So, go do the thing the summer thing. The one you’ve been postponing. You won’t regret it. I promise.

I love television. If you’re the “I don’t really watch tv” person, I’m not sure we can be friends.

Let it be known that I can’t remember a time growing up when the television wasn’t on – usually a sports game. My father monopolized the tv – still does. My grandfather did too, but he preferred John Wayne westerns. If you didn’t like what he was watching, too bad.

My mother rarely watched television (except Oprah while she made dinner, a little television attached to the bottom of the kitchen cabinet). She loved Hill Street Blues. Recently, I heard the intro, and was transported back to being nine, unable to sleep, and cuddling with her on the couch. It’s one of my favorite memories with my mother.

I’ll take a subpar plot to great characters any day. My favorite characters are deeply flawed – imperfect – not good or bad – undeniably human. Nothing makes me happier than a story of redemption – Cousin Richie from The Bear and Jamie from Ted Lasso, my current favorites.

Television saved me during the divorce. I immersed myself inside the characters’ lives. My life was too real, too hard, too painful to live in 24 hours a day, so I latched on to Call the Midwives, Shrinking, Bad Sisters, and TASK.

I live alone and eat dinner alone. My shows keep me company. I leave the television on all the time – even when writing (muted). It makes me feel like someone’s with me. Weird, I know.

Growing up my favorites were Care Bears, Strawberry Shortcake, Sesame Street, Fraggle Rock and The Muppet Show. I was forced to watch Transformers and GI Joe (my mother made us vote, two brothers always outvoted me).

Every Thursday night in college, we crammed into my dorm room or apartment and watched Friends and Seinfeld. We bought huge frozen yogurts and watched tv live – something Gen Zers can’t quite grasp. It wasn’t the show that I loved so much as spending time laughing with my friends who were way better than the ones we watched on tv.

As an adult, I loved The Sopranos, Six Feet Under (which has the best series ending of ANY series I’ve ever watched), and This is Us. My favorite memories with Isabelle living at home were watching Downton Abbey, Schitt’s Creek, The Crown, and The Gilded Age. Gah, we wept when Downton ended. We still miss our Downton friends.

But sometimes I have to be careful. One summer I spent too many beautiful sunny days binging The Affair. Several years ago, I had to stop watching Handmaid’s Tale because it gave me nightmares (but I LOVED it!).

Right now, I’m almost done with season five of The Bear. I love it. Sure, for the kitchen chaos, but more for the flawed characters who I’ve grown to adore. I liked The Pitt but hospitals make me cringe. I loved The Good Wife and wish Alicia Florrick had been my divorce lawyer. And, not a series, a movie, Promising Young Woman. My girls hounded me to watch it and I did during the blizzard. Afterwards, Emily and I talked about it for hours.

Emily’s home this summer and we’re watching The Great British Baking Show. We keep it light. She claims she cannot watch a (real) series (characters, plot) and not be doing something else at the same time, which would drive me crazy.

So, when you tell me you don’t watch tv, I think you’re missing out. As a writer and librarian, I love books. But I love television more. Maybe I’m lazy. Maybe obsessive television watching is in my DNA. But television has saved me on so many nights.

Characters give me hope. Hope of finding love. Of redemption. Of people liking and loving me even though I am deeply flawed. For 30 or 60 minutes, shows pacify the wild thoughts that consume my energy all day long.

If you’re not watching something, I hope you’re reading a really good book. Either way, I’d love to know what your favorite(s) are (okay, fine, include books) because I have weeks left of my summer and nothing is jumping out.

"I suffer from anxiety and dread." – Cousin Richie

"Who doesn't?" – Carmy, The Bear

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I’ve spent a gazillion hours writing, editing, and rewriting.

Often I think, This could all be for nothing.

After I finish the proposal, I’ll submit it to agents I’d love to work with and hope one of them bites.

Memoirs are very hard to sell unless you’re a celebrity.

The first thing an agent will do if they like your material is look at your social media following – ick. Mine is unimpressive.

I’ve been told ad nauseam, you can be an amazing writer, but, if you don’t have a big following, your chances of getting an agent is meh. The reverse holds true, as well. You can be a mediocre writer with a huge following and get an agent. Publishing books is a business.

So, I need all the help I can get. If you can’t beat them, join them.

I’m 50 and really not comfortable putting myself in front of the camera. I love to talk but there are unwritten rules to a social media presence. I’m supposed to have a niche, ideas about my audience, my purpose, what I offer, a takeaway, and/or provide a little entertainment.

It’s exhausting.

As an aging woman I already have a lot to do – eat tons of protein, lift heavy things, take my HRT, remember why I stormed into the garage, and, maybe most importantly, go to Boston and find myself an adorable Scotsman.

But I need to jump on social and try to muster up a few more followers. If I don’t, I’ll wonder “what if?” So, I’ll squirm through the discomfort.

The good news? Over the past three years, I’ve become very comfortable being uncomfortable.

I’d love for you to follow me on Instagram. I need numbers to point to (barf emoji here).

I keep saying to myself, Next week I will….and then I don’t. So, when I hit the publish button here in a second, I hold myself accountable.

Here it is: https://www.instagram.com/amymargaretmchugh/

Tuesday, I went to the cute, overly-priced grocery store in town for chicken. I hemmed and hawed over whether I could afford the $8 piece of chicken or the bunk $5 piece. I settled on the $5. I’d marinate it.

Because I am the spokesperson for girl math, I popped into the thrift store across the street. I found a barely used $3 Pottery Barn pillow.

When I went to pay, my wallet wasn’t in my pocketbook. I’d used it less than 10 minutes before in the grocery store. I checked my car, the store, the parking lots. Nothing.

I never carry cash but had a chunk of it because I’d been to the hairdresser earlier in the day. My heart pounded. I put a freeze on my credit card and bank card.

I sat in my driveway, annoyed, wishing I’d just gone home after the market.

And then a voice cut through the chatter. Aim, this is a test. Take a deep breath. It’s a wallet. It can be replaced.

I write a lot about my old behavior patterns — ones that made me and everyone around me miserable.

Former Amy would’ve spiraled, called my dad and yelled at him, and let what was a good day become a bad one.

Instead, I listened to the voice. A test from the universe. An opportunity to use what I’ve learned over the past three years.

I did call my dad — but didn’t expect him to fix it.

It’s a bummer, I said. But not the end of the world.

I marveled that I wasn’t freaking out. Wow, Aim. Look at you.

Within fifteen minutes, my dad was in my driveway searching my car, then over at the grocery store combing the parking lot. The thrift store was already closed.

He gave me a big hug. I have money, he said.

When he left, I thought about how lucky I am to have someone who loves me like that. Who’d jump through hoops of fire. Who’d give me his last cent. Who cares about a dumb wallet? I have so much more.

On Wednesday, I was at work. At 10:10 my dad called.

Who’s the man?! He exclaimed.

You found my wallet?!

Of course I did. Because I’m the man!

When the thrift store opened at 10, he was first in line. The day before, I’d told him I was going to buy a pillow, so he searched that section – nothing. But behind that section, on a shelf, next to a bowl, was my wallet. (Don’t even ask – I’m on my own planet lately.)

Here’s the thing — I think I passed the test.

My default is to freak out. To catastrophize. But I have tools now. Ones that work. But only if I use them.

In moments of crisis, it’s easy to fall back into old patterns. To let the ego run the show. But Tuesday, I stopped the old narrative. Focused on the good, not the bad.

It feels so much better to shift perspective. It took me a very long time to buy into this. A very long time.

I’m guessing a few of you are thinking: That’s nice, but also — Come on, really? Yes, really. Shifting works, but only if you actually shift. The ego will scream with entitlement. You can let it hijack your mind, or you can focus on the good. The ego hates being dismissed.

Dismiss it anyway.

Keep shifting the narrative. I promise, you’ll feel better.

And yes. My dad is the man. Always.

Today is Emily’s 21st birthday. A day that meets me with wild emotion.

We celebrated Emily’s 4th and 5th birthdays in the hospital. Nurses decorated her room. A friend brought cupcakes. Cards and gifts from family and friends arrived at the hospital.

All day I thought, Please, God, give her 6, 10, 12……But 21? That felt like asking too much — it also felt scary.

So, I didn’t think too much about Emily’s future. And yet, I obsessed over Emily’s future.

She’s legally deaf, has stage three kidney disease, a compromised endocrine system, stunted growth, and hair that didn’t grow back well.

Instead of allowing myself to grieve the body and life Emily was born with — I put my head down and micromanaged everything I could to make her life better.

I sent emails to teachers and coaches reminding them she couldn’t hear well in a noisy classroom or on a field without her hearing aids. I orchestrated friend groups. I tried to control what she ate. When she asked for French braids, I scoured the house for two tiny elastics and hair-sprayed them into submission. I bought organic sunscreen and spent hours researching best car cushions for petite drivers.

All along, every year, every day, every hour, I worried about Emily’s future. My inability to live in the moment made me edgy, angry, and exhausted. I didn’t consider there was an alternative.

Because, don’t all moms with sick kids worry — incessantly?

On the night before her 4th birthday, while I watched the Citgo sign for hours, I wish someone could’ve whispered in my ear:

Hey, here’s a peek at Emily’s 21st birthday.

She just arrived home after studying at Trinity College in Dublin for a year. She’s heading into her senior year at Holy Cross with a near-perfect grade point average. She has an army of friends who adore how funny, smart, and adventurous she is. She’s embraced her hearing loss and is interning at a transition center for deaf adolescents this summer, as well as working at a coffee shop — because she’s a hustler who throws it down six days a week. She loves literature and reads the classics for fun (Emily Dickinson her favorite). She’s an artist, but don’t call her that; it annoys her.

In 17 years, you’ll stare into her big blue eyes and marvel at how it all happened. All that worrying, futile. All that controlling, an illusion. All that anger, wasted energy.

You’ll realize that despite your best efforts to mess her up, she turns out really well. She’s your best teacher. The love of your life. She drives you crazy. And never ceases to amaze you.

Please stop worrying. She will — and you will — be more than okay.

I wanted the spoiler so I could relax — breathe — enjoy. But life doesn’t work like that. The practice is to relax, breathe and enjoy our lives without the need to know how it turns out. So simple. And yet, the challenge of my lifetime.

Happy 21st Birthday, Emily Sarah. May you forgive my nonsense. And always know how much you are adored. Even when you’re dropping popcorn all over the house.

"‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers — That perches in the soul — And sings the tune without the words — And never stops — at all —"

Emily Dickinson, Emily’s favorite poet and writer

In the middle of a conversation with my lawyer, he said, “Yah, the rejection will kill you before anything else does.”

Oh.

Several months into divorcing, I was working hard to feel all the feelings – not numb out or distract myself with alcohol, dating, compulsive exercise, mindless scrolling or online shopping.

Feeling the feelings was uncomfortable, some days I thought it might kill me. But rejection – that feeling hadn’t surfaced, yet. Hurt, yes. Heartbroken, yes. Grief stricken and filled with regret? Yes and yes.

The rejection looked like not getting a job I really wanted. Or pitching a publication and not hearing back. It was fighting for my marriage and hearing: “I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

The rejection translated: You’re not good enough, Amy. A failure, really. That narrative was the default to everything I wanted but couldn’t have.

But what if these scenarios weren’t rejections but redirections?

What if a higher power has a better plan?

In the moment of rejection, it’s easy to blame ourselves and our shortcomings. For a long time, I believed I needed to fix “it” –to fix me. If I’d done better, been better, and sparkled more, I’d be wanted. I’d belong and be desired.

But guess what? We think we know how “it” turns out. We don’t. In the moment of rejection, we feel as though we’ve lost. That our future isn’t as desirable without the “thing” – the job, the husband, the house you bid on.

Yet, in hindsight, we often say, “Can you imagine if…[fill in what we thought you wanted with what happened and was better than you could have imagined]?”

We marvel that the universe, god, or whoever you put your faith in, took care of us in a way we didn’t even consider in that moment of rejection.

It happens all – the – time.

So, not rejected – redirected. Trusting that something better awaits us. Because it does – even if we don’t know what or when. It’s coming. I promise.

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Sunday, I timed how long it took to change the sheets on my bed.

The thought of tucking a fitted sheet, smoothing a flat one and wrestling a duvet cover, consumed way too much of my mental energy that’s in high demand these days.

My mind convinced me it would take hours, basically, my whole afternoon.

But, this week, some rational part of me, called foul. I fired up the stopwatch on my phone and went to work.

Total bed change time: 5:38.

The length of a song. Or writing a thoughtful text or two. Hours of energy drain for five minutes.

It left me thinking: Why have I allowed something so small, both in time and importance, preoccupy my mind?

Maybe it’s because changing the sheets is extra. Extra in a day that’s already filled with so many to-dos it’s overwhelming. Adding one more things feels impossible.

Some weeks, I’ve given myself permission not to change the sheets on my bed. When I do, every muscle in my body has relaxed. Gross? Who cares? My mental well being is far more important than clean sheets (though there’s something that feels really good about getting into a bed with clean sheets, right?).

On Sunday, I listened to my current favorite song while I made the bed. Guess what? I bee-bopped, tugging one sheet corner to another. I blowdried my hair with the tv volume up 100 percent and finished watching my show. God, I love television.

Small acts yield big results in how we feel and navigate through our day. Our minds convince us that “it” will take all day. Call its foul.

Nothing is more important than your mental well being. Everything can wait – even the mold in your bathroom shower. What’s another day?

And when you’re ready, you’ll take a deep breath, and just do it. Afterwards you’ll think, “That wasn’t a big deal.”

Our minds – so brilliant, so deceptive and so moldable. A force of good or bad depending on how we choose to use it. Decide what you can manage on a given day and a way to make it less dreadful.

What’s your weekly dread, win, or song on repeat? The last one, arguably the most important.

I’ve been working on my book proposal. I want to quit every day. Every. Damn. Day.

I won’t, Instead, I’ll share an excerpt.

Wednesday, the 6th, was Emily’s diagnosis day in 2009. I am a different woman than the one in this piece. In some ways, a better version. In other ways, I miss the gift of ignorance she had about how hard life can be.

***

On the afternoon of Emily’s diagnosis, May 2009, Shane and I waited in the common area room. It was more of a small kitchen than a place to have a meeting. There was a toaster and a basket of Keurig pods on the countertop, a refrigerator, and a round table with four chairs.

For two days, a hematology doctor at Boston Children’s Hospital had asked me every question possible about Emily. What color was her poop? What did she eat? When did she say her first word? How many hours did she sleep? Did I take her for her annual check-ups? When did she say her first word? Had she been sick in the past? Medications? Had she taken any falls? Lost teeth? Was she a happy kid?

Emily was admitted to the hospital. We just want to make sure we’re not missing anything, the doctors said. I convinced myself that whatever was wrong would be easy to fix. We’d pick up a prescription at CVS on our way home and she’d be fine.

I’d made a daily practice of worrying about things that never happened. One of my girls drowning in the tub because I left them alone for two minutes to swap over the laundry. One of them slipping on the stairs in a pair of plastic princess slippers and cracking their head open. Feeding them too many dino nuggets for dinner. Letting Emily eat too many red Swedish fish. But being in a hospital, waiting to see if Emily had cancer, had never been on my radar.

Shane and I didn’t talk while we waited for the doctors. There was nothing to talk about. My Danskos were dirty. Shane was tapping his foot.

The hematology team and the oncology team filled the room in their white coats with embroidered red names. I counted seven doctors but recognized only two from answering the questions about Emily.

“We’re handing over Emily’s case to oncology,” the head hematology doctor said. The day before, he had joked with Emily so she’d let him poke and prod her. His calm energy had made me feel like she was going to be okay. He told me which places close by had the best take-out food. We had shared a mutual hatred of Caillou on PBS.

But in the common room, his energy was different. He pulled at the ends of his stethoscope around his neck. He was apologetic and looked defeated, as if he were responsible for not being able to find and diagnose something less devastating.

“I wish we had better news, he said. Emily has a form of cancer called neuroblastoma.” I immediately thought brain cancer. “Dr. Diller and her team are the best. She’s going to be well cared for.”

The room was floating — or maybe I was.

Dr. Diller eased herself onto the table across from us. Her sensible rubber-soled shoes told me she was a busy woman who didn’t want her feet to ache. She was in her forties, calm but assertive. She was a pro at telling parents their kid had cancer.

My mind couldn’t register what Dr. Diller was saying, so I thought about what was in the refrigerator. Maybe nurses’ lunches, coffee creamer, yogurts, and a leftover Subway sandwich. Or maybe there was a roll-up from the cafeteria. Shane had said they weren’t bad. The turkey was better than the tuna.

Shane shifted his weight from one side of the chair to the other. I wanted to stop Dr. Diller and ask Shane if we were hearing the same thing. Emily had cancer?

Emily’s pediatrician had called me a few days earlier after I insisted on a follow-up appointment. After two weeks on an antibiotic for what her doctor thought was Lyme disease, Emily still couldn’t walk up the stairs. A second round of blood work had suggested leukemia, a death sentence when I was growing up in the eighties. But as Dr. Diller talked about neuroblastoma, it sounded worse.

The odds of survival for neuroblastoma were 50/50. There was no cure if she relapsed. Emily might be eligible for a trial. We’d discuss the details the next day when Emily was admitted to the Jimmy Fund Clinic, a world-renowned children’s oncology center. What was unsure for days was now urgent – neuroblastoma moved fast – We need to move faster, Dr. Diller said.

How did this happen? I did all the right things. I didn’t drink, smoke or eat tuna or deli meat when I was pregnant. I took her to the park, to swimming lessons, and to birthday parties. I read her books every night and rubbed her back until she fell asleep. I sang silly songs in the car and made sure she was dressed well and her hair wasn’t a tangled mess. We were too normal to have a kid with cancer. This happened to other people, not to us. A better woman was meant to mother a kid through cancer.

Shane pressed his hands against his thighs. I didn’t look at his face — I didn’t want him to look at mine. There had to be a mistake. Emily hadn’t had cancer that morning, so she couldn’t have it a few hours later.

Dr. Diller paused long enough to get my attention. Every face in the room looked at me for a reaction. That must have been when parents cried or screamed or asked questions. But I just wanted to leave.

I’d get Isabelle and Emily in the hospital room and drive home where she was safe. Things would be the same as when we left.

But nothing was ever the same again — not my family, not my marriage, not me.

“They” say that healing isn’t linear. Blah, blah, blah.

But, it turns out, they’re right.

For the past two and a half years, I’ve done a lot of work on myself. My coping toolbox is so full, sometimes it’s hard to choose which one to try when I’m spiraling.

For months, I’ve been so proud of myself. Look at me, getting my mojo back. Look at me doing all of the things – traveling, being social, not canceling appointments. Look at me, I feel better – so much better.

But something happened this week.

What was the thing? I have no idea. But it sucked me back to the beginning.

Maybe it was Emily coming home from Dublin after spending her junior year at Trinity. Me trying to ease back into co-habitation with her. Having to hide everything that’s sacred to me, like my favorite spoon, balsamic vinegar, and heirloom tomatoes. Maybe it’s knowing that when I’m not home she goes through my clothes, my bathroom and the basement to claim anything that appeals to her as her own.

Maybe it’s pre-grieving Isabelle who’s moving to NYC in the fall.

Or maybe it’s a connection to my ex in some way when they’re both home.

Likely, it’s writing my memoir that transports me back to moments that were hard then and hard now – hard to relive – but harder to acknowledge that I lack the ability to stop the scene and change my reaction or behavior.

Healing is a game of Chutes and Ladders. Feeling like you’re crushing it, spinning “good deed” spots only to land on a “mischief square” and get sent back to the beginning.

All of that work – the tears, therapy, pauses, walking, friends, family, and digging so deep you’re certain there’s no place deeper to go – for nothing? Nothing?

The frustration is enough to make me want to chuck the board game across the room.

But just when I’m ready to rip the positive affirmation post-it notes from my mirrors, I catch myself in the micro second between the cause and my reaction. The opportunity is quick – really quick.

In that second, I observe. I let angry Amy do her thing. She kicks and screams and says, Ugh, I told you this is a waste! See? See?

I wait.

I visualize her kicking dirty laundry on the bathroom floor. Smashing pint glasses. Ripping a cabinet door off its hinges. Are you done? I ask her.

After a minute, sometimes five, she’s winded, nods her head, and sits.

Then, a wiser Amy says, Let’s go for a walk, Let’s call my calmest, bestie Kathy, or Let’s dance. Once in a Lifetime makes me smile every time.

And then, I know that healing isn’t linear. But I also know that my hard work is not lost.

Because two and half years ago, I would have spiraled with no idea of what to do otherwise. I wallowed in despair, sobbed in the shower, smashed a picture frame.

Now, I allow the feelings to take up space. I don’t shove them down deep where they’ll rot. The Amys have their say. The recovery is quicker.

And then I ask myself, What do you need?

This week, I needed Trader Joe’s Pirate’s Bootie. Butler’s chocolate that Emmy brought home from Dublin. My face in the sunshine and a clean garage.

And the reminder that healing isn’t linear.

Because sometimes, the player who gets sent back to the starting square, still wins the game — their game.

But if you quit, you’ll never know. So, be gentle, patient, and ready.

Nothing is lost when you begin again. You’ve been playing the game a long time and know how it works. How you work.

And that’s progress, albeit not linear. But true. I promise.

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Some people are good at making decisions. I’m not one of them.

My dad reminds me: Not making a decision, Amy, is making a decision. He’s right.

I hem and haw and kick the can down the road, because some decisions are high stakes:

Do I allow Emily to participate in a trial that could save her life – but also, could kill her?

Do I switch divorce lawyers?

Do I keep the house?

But even small decisions require consideration and make me think too hard:

Do I trade in my ole’ girl 2013 Pilot for something shiny?

Chicken or fish for dinner?

Botox or no Botox?

I long believed that there was a right and a wrong choice to these decisions — and I was terrified of making the wrong one.

I’d pole everyone – my sister, a friend or co-worker, and the guy behind me in the grocery line. I didn’t want to be solely responsible if it didn’t work out.

But recently, after listening to Harvard Professor and Scientist, Dr. Ellen Langer, on a podcast, my perspective about decision making shifted.

Langer says:

Mind blowing! She goes on to say:

This one minute clip will be the best thing you watch all week, all month, heck, maybe all year. It alleviated my fear and empowered me to trust my gut and pour my energy into making the decision work for me.

It will do the same for you. I promise.

Tell me! What’s the best or worst decision you’ve made? Or, my favorite, the hardest one you’ve had to made?

My daughters tell me that I’m “townie-famous.”

You know the people – the ones whose name you don’t know but have a defining characteristic that makes them stand out in a small town. The guy who drives the beat-up white truck with the Trump flags. The woman who wears a winter coat in the summer. The guy who hoses his lawn while his irrigation system is running.

Mine? “You know, the woman who walks really fast, and is out there no matter what.” That’s me.

Most days, I’m out there before it gets light out. I go regardless of the weather. My walks are non-negotiable, maybe more so than brushing my teeth.

When my husband left, walking became my lifeline. I wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t eating. I didn’t know my name. Anxiety and panic took over my mind and body. The only time I felt relief, and the possibility that I might feel better someday, was when I was walking.

In Latin, solvitur ambulando means: it is solved by walking.

Maybe the magic is being in nature. Maybe it’s the chemicals our bodies release. Maybe putting one foot in front of the other tricks us into believing we’re moving forward, especially when we feel like we’re stuck. I’m not sure what is it, maybe a combination of them all, but walking provides clarity when we’re wrestling with tough things.

On my walks, I’ve sorted through emotions, decoded emails, belted out 90s tunes, brainstormed writing pitches, and chatted with my daughters, parents, and besties.

I don’t always want to walk. Most of the year, it’s cold and dark when I leave the house. Add a whipping wind off the water and it’s tempting to stay inside. But I don’t. I head out and take space with the deer, turkeys, coyotes, birds, and rabbits.

I never regret going on a walk – even on the days I really don’t want to – they’re the days I need one most. For me, walking isn’t about exercise, it’s about relief.

When I walk and walk and walk, I heal and heal and heal. More than once, including during Emily’s treatment, walking reminded me to breathe and shifted my perspective. I covered a gazillion miles during the divorce days.

If you’re wrestling with something big or small, walk. You can go fast or slow. You can go for an hour or 10 minutes. You don’t need anything fancy to do it.

Whatever problem is taking up head space – solvitur ambulando — it will be solved by walking.

I promise.

Tell me in the comments your favorite place to walk!

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A few weeks ago, I went to Portsmouth, New Hampshire to tell a story for NPR. The topic was “hot mess.”

Oh, I have one hundred stories on this topic, I thought.

In the moment, they weren’t funny. In hindsight, they are very funny.

A hot mess is a person or thing that is spectacularly unsuccessful or disordered, especially one that is a source of peculiar fascination.

Maybe it’s living in a small town where my behavior is more on display, but I pretty much nailed the definition.

Early divorce Amy was so sad, wildly irrational, and doing the best she could. I’m proud of her. Her world collapsed. The guy she trusted with her well-being, financial security and all things important – left her high and dry.

And yet, as the great Maya Angelou said, “And still I rise.”

This is a link to the stream. I’m at minute 36. It aired live last night and today at 4 o’clock. It was so much fun. So, much, fun!!!

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Maybe you’re afraid of being judged.

Maybe it’s stigmatic.

Maybe it’s bad, but not that bad, and you’re gonna deal with it soon – once life slows down – once you catch your breath.

Until then, the thing remains. Because you don’t have the bandwidth to get through the day AND address what needs to be addressed. It can wait.

A piece I wrote for Vogue just went live.

For days, I’ve gone back and forth about whether or not to share it. Strangers reading about me is a lot less scary than people I know reading about me.

It might be the best thing I’ve written (my dad would argue that point – he reads all of my work but not sharing this one with him).

I poured my heart into this piece. I wanted it to be the truest version of something that broke my heart, made me wail with regret, and think about my state of being during the years that led up to my husband leaving.

I sent a draft of the piece to a writer friend. “How many years had you not had sex?” she asked in the Google doc.

Ugh, I knew I had to include it, readers would want to know the same thing. But I felt dumb. Dumb that it had been so long. Dumb that I didn’t address it sooner. Dumb because, Amy, what were you thinking?!

Truth be told, I wasn’t thinking, I was surviving.

Emily’s last two years of high school had me in a tailspin of meeting her needs and panic about sending her to college.

Normal moms freak out over sending their kid away, never mind a kid with a million issues. My husband was opening a business. I was teaching, mom-ing, and desperate to write, already feeling that the opportunity to be successful at it had passed me by. My hormones were up and down. My mental health needed attention but I’d get to it soon, once Emily left.

I was laser-focused on what was in front of me. I was also blind to what was in front of me.

It’s easy to see the big picture now. To see all the ways I could’ve done better – been better – a better wife, a better partner. To realize that I needed connection too.

For a long time, I believed that if I thought about that moment long enough, I could change it. Change me. And maybe everyone would’ve lived happily ever after….

But I’m human and make mistakes. And a marriage is a union. Mine was riddled with miscommunication.

Readers, I only write about things I’ve made peace with. This is one of them.

So, yes, three years. I hope you’re mindful of your thing when you read about my thing.

Every morning from my writing desk I watch turkeys, birds, coyotes, deer, and squirrels do their thing.

For years, a squirrel has captivated my attention (they live 3-10 years!). He darts from tree to tree. Leaps from one branch to another. Goes up and down, down and up. He digs, collects, and stands on his back leg, on alert, ready.

He’s busy preparing for his future – a winter with little to no resources. He’s a quick-thinker and adaptable.

His life is one of constant motion and concern for the unknown. The uncertainty leaves him anxious and scattered – so scattered that he often forgets where he’s buried the acorns in his frenzy to get the job done.

Before my husband left, I wasn’t concerned about my future. I had a partner, someone who’d age with me. We’d figure out life’s challenges together.

But now I think about my future all the time. If I’ll be alone, if I’ll be capable to run a house, if I’ll have to eat Kraft mac and cheese every day because it’s all I can afford.

When I allow myself to spiral into thoughts about the unknown, my anxiety peaks. It darts up and down the tree. It buries nuts and forgets where. Panic sets in: work harder, faster, we need to be prepared!

Yet, I’m reminded that the squirrel is resilient and spontaneous.

Intuitively, he strikes a balance between work and play, embodies the dynamic of a changing nature, and adapts.

In some cultures, the squirrel is seen as a messenger between the physical and spiritual realms. Grounded while it buries nuts. Spiritual while it leaps through the air trusting it will land safely.

As much as I’d like the deer to be my spirit animal – gentle and intentional with heightened intuition – it’s not.

The preparedness, focus, and determination of the squirrel speaks to me. But really it’s his balance of joy and play in between his hard work that resonates with me – you can do and have both.

The squirrel’s downtime refills his proverbial cup, and reminds him of life’s pleasures – like chasing that cute female squirrel with the extra puffy tail. And, of course, munching those tasty nuts until his belly hurts.

As I race from thing to thing and chore to chore to prepare for life as 80-year-old Amy, the squirrel reminds me of the importance of cultivating the joy in between. A walk with a friend, FaceTime with my girls, reading a book, and baking treats to share with my neighbors.

Productivity and preparedness matter. But play, time-outs, and tending to our deep desires matter more.

Fellow squirrels, we will prepare as best as we can. And then, we will trust that all will be well. Because it always is.

I promise.

What I’m Loving:

Watching: Love Story: JFK Jr. & Carolyn Bessette on Hulu. I got sucked in. I love a Kennedy story. Sure, a lot of it is fictionalized but I don’t care.

Listening: On the same note, the soundtrack of Love Story transports me back to the late 90s when I was in college and life was simple and fun.

Eating: This brownies recipe that uses sourdough discard. I bake a lot and this recipe delivers the best brownies I’ve eaten — maybe in my life.

Reading: The memoir, Camouflage by Heather Sweeney is fantastic. She is a wonderful writer and person. Buy it.

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​During a polar vortex a few years ago, I dipped in the ocean.

For five minutes, I marveled at my ability to endure 34-degree water and below zero air temperature. Chunks of ice floated around me. Seagulls huddled behind beach grass. I kept my back to the wind and my feet buried into the ocean floor for traction.

For hours afterwards, I couldn’t get warm, but I also couldn’t help but think, Wow, how did I do that?

I started dipping when a friend said it had helped her mental health more than anything she’d tried. That was enough for me to push through the discomfort of unforgiving water temperatures and do it.

At the time of the polar vortex, I’d been dipping daily for two years. Like most things at the time, I did it religiously — compulsively — as if my life depended on it. The polar vortex wasn’t an excuse to take the day off, it was a challenge to see what I was made of.

Since my early 20s, I’ve been driven by things I can point to at the end of the day for worth and validation. And boy, oh boy, going into frigid ocean water made everyone, including myself, say, Wow, you’re amazing!

Until a year ago, my daily dips were saving me. They rebooted my mind and body. I felt alive, which was big, because I spent most of the day feeling kinda dead inside.

Science backs up the benefits of cold plunging — the euphoria afterwards, the physical ways it “helps” your body. I loved it. And hated it.

Last winter, I’d long lost the ability to differentiate between what I was doing because I wanted to and what I was doing out of duty.

I dreaded getting in from January through March. Thinking about it consumed so much mental energy.

I dipped to help my mental health, not make me edgy with anticipation.

A little voice — my internal Knowing — whispered, You don’t have to go today. But Mean Amy lashed out, Yes you do! Don’t be a wimp!

I didn’t want to disappoint the people who asked, “Are you still dipping every day?” So every single day I dragged myself to the water, most of the time kicking and screaming.

“Why do you continue to do it?” my therapist asked when we started sifting through the rubble after my husband left.

“I like it,” I said. “Sometimes.”

It took months for me to stop lying to myself and give myself permission to be human — to respect and honor that my mind and body needed a rest sometimes.

Again and again, I had to remind myself that I’m worthy of admiration simply by being myself, which felt very risky at first.

The first day I chose not to dip, I found myself at the ocean just in case my insatiable will took over and squashed the promise I’d made to myself not to go in.

The voices in my head went wild. Just go in already. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.

I closed my eyes and became very still. I drove home unsure I was doing the “right” thing. I let the voices throw a fit as I pulled away from the snow-covered shore.

And guess what? The world didn’t collapse. I was more than okay. Better yet, I knew I’d made progress.

The world rewards the hustlers and the do-ers. The ones who go to extremes. We praise them and believe they’re stronger than we are. This is just not true. Often, they’re the ones with the loudest internal demons.

To all my type-A, people-pleasing perfectionists who’ve disconnected from their Knowing and lost their ability to decipher what they want and need: stop doing things because you should or can. Ask yourself: why am I doing this?

There’s no gold medal for pushing through something that doesn’t serve you. You’ve been sold a bill of goods about being “better.”

Being the onlooker, bundled up on the shore, listening to the seagulls squawk, and admiring the soft glow of a winter sun, makes you just as worthy of love as the wild woman running into the sea.

Now, the days I want to go in, I do. And on the days I don’t, I don’t. It’s a no-brainer – but took me a long time to fully embrace that I had jurisdiction over my decisions.

The voices have settled. Yours will too. Honoring our Knowing takes practice. We’ve been conditioned to disconnect from it. But when you dial in, you’ll be more content. You’ll enjoy the days you (proverbially) go in. And the days you don’t.

I promise.

In the depths of my heartbreak, divorced women told me, “Your life will be so much better.”

I wanted to believe them. But I didn’t.

I sobbed all day. Binged television all night. And was convinced that everything was my fault.

Shame and guilt are part of my Irish Catholic DNA. I deserved to be sad and alone — forever.

Yet, every day, without knowing it, my world was shifting. New ways of living were emerging.

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I was intrigued watching ice float on the ocean. I enjoyed long phone calls with my bestie. I was thrilled to nail a new chocolate chip cookie recipe. Things I would’ve dismissed as time killers before my world imploded.

About a year ago, while I sifted through what I was keeping and kicking out of my life, I read a post by Elise Loehnen about felix culpa. She wrote:

“Felix culpa“ is a Latin phrase that comes from the words felix, meaning ‘happy,’ ‘lucky,’ or ‘blessed,’ and culpa, meaning ‘fault’ or ‘fall.’

In the Catholic tradition, it’s most often translated as ‘happy fault.’ Other translations include ‘blessed fall’ or ‘fortunate fall.’”

More broadly, per Oxford Languages: “an apparent error or disaster with happy consequences.”

At the time I read it, I smiled as only a woman who’s done some deep soul searching can do. Clarity had begun to surface from the muck I swore I’d be stuck in forever.

It turns out, time really does heal. I know — a real bummer for impatient people (hand raised) to accept. There’s no way to hack the process of time and perspective.

Time allows us to see where and how the bad thing has brought blessings.

Like:

The tightest connection I’ve had with my girls.

The opportunity to reconnect with old friends who fill my soul and remind me of a version of myself I miss — the one who loved to laugh and was kinda funny.

A schooling in adult things like finances and preparing for snow.

The reminder that my siblings love me so much. Kind of a given, but kind of not.

The end of epic battles in my head.

The awareness that I’m responsible for my own wellbeing and happiness.

The empowerment to navigate the dump, fix my television, and lug heavy stuff around the garage.

The courage to change the things that were making me miserable — mainly the bad thoughts I had about myself.

All of these (and more) took time. There was no hack. There was no epiphany. But there have been so many felix culpas.

For those of you stuck in muck, you will not sink. You might not have the energy to get out yet, but you will. Inch by inch, day by day. In the meantime, good things are building momentum all around you.

Soon, when you’re ready to look up, you’ll marvel at the golden nuggets that were born out of your struggle. And you’ll hold on to those nuggets so tightly because they’re the ones that remind you of how amazing you are — and that so much good can come from so much bad.

Because the bad offers us a new way to live and love if we trust it’s possible.

I promise.

Think of your favorite person in the world. Got them in your head? Good.

For a moment, imagine you control their wellbeing. You’re responsible for their thoughts, actions, and behavior.

This is big. You love this person fiercely. You want to do your best to protect them and shower them with love.

You’re aware that daily life presents some big obstacles to our wellbeing – to your person’s wellbeing. You’ll do anything to keep your human feeling good, whole, loved.

So…

Would you convince them that applying for the job, taking on the project, or going back to school is silly?

Would you examine all the wrinkles on their face (that seem to be multiplying every day) and say, Girl, you look so freaking old…

Would you deny them nachos for dinner because, Ummmm, girl, your resolutions?

Would you have them declining lunch with a friend because they should really clean their house? It’s filthy.

Would you call them stupid for leaving the garage door open and allowing a robin to fly into the house and create quite a scene of broken pictures, bird poop and more?

Nope, you wouldn’t.

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You love your person so damn much you’d never deny them what brings them comfort and joy.

You’d never come down on them for imperfectly navigating life.

You wouldn’t deprive them of food they’re craving, television that “needs” binging, and the occasional mindless scrolling.

You’d show your person grace because there’s no one you love more. You’d talk kindly. You’d forgive. You’d have a sense of humor about big and little mistakes.

So, why don’t we extend this practice and grace to ourselves?

We know how to love. We’ve just been programmed by society, culture, religion, and family that it’s risky to love ourselves – that external validation is more important than internal wellbeing.

But showing ourselves compassion is essential. We’d never talk to our favorite person the way we talk to ourselves.

So, start talking to the love of your life (YOU!) in the same way you would your favorite person.

Because you’re human. And being human is very hard. But also very joyful when we love ourselves without conditions.

Happy Valentine’s Day from the person who holds your wellbeing in my mind, and is practicing the best ways to love you—and me.