It doesn’t solely exist in the world of short-form videos, it can also be found in every platform and medium. On Substack there are deep-dives into the artistic liberties of The Odyssey, think-pieces on women’s bodies and op-eds that always seem to be about all the things we “should” be doing—financially, romantically, politically, and all the other ‘callys. Not to mention the never-ending-and-forever-exhausting news cycle that includes war, catastrophic weather, the removal of inherent rights, and more discourse about AI than we ever asked for.

Today, as I started my day slowly, watching the first light peek through my window shade, I was aching for something more positive.

I realized what I was looking for is this: I want to hear what you love. I’m tired of people anchoring themselves to hot-takes and the myriad of things they don’t enjoy. I want to hear what inspires you. That feeling when you’re so stimulated by an article, a book, a movie, a piece of art, that you can’t help but share it with someone. What made you feel something recently? What’s lighting you up inside? I want to be reminded that we are much more interesting as the sum of the things we love rather than the sum of the things we hate.

Here is mine:

I love when the air is crisp and cool on a bright, sunny day.

I love when someone’s art is so unique and beautiful that it makes me wonder how their brain works.

I love a toasted everything bagel with whipped cream cheese.

I love when a friend says “this made me think of you” and the warm tingle of being seen.

I love how many ways there are to express ourselves, like art and clothing and writing and decor and the list goes on.

I love when my husband and I are laughing so hard there’s no sound as tears run down our faces.

I love the sound of waves crashing.

I love the feeling of getting into bed with a fresh set of washed linen sheets.

I love the little fire I feel when I try something new.

I love when you find a childhood picture you’ve never seen before.

I love the feeling when you finish a book and you hold it to you chest while the characters and themes swirl in your mind.

I love the smell of fresh pines and how it reminds me of home.

I love sleeping in and getting up early and how both make me feel like I’m taking care of myself.

I love when British people say they fancy someone.

I love when a new album is released and I set out on a long walk with it pulsing in my headphones.

I love cats and the incomparable feeling when they choose your lap to nap in.

I love being on vacation somewhere far away and how lucky I am to be excited to go home when it’s over.

I love when the breeze floats through my open window.

I love reading someone’s else’s words and getting lost in their images and ideas. I love how that inspires me to try to articulate my own.

What do you love? Let that be what you lead with.

However, I have never been happier about something not going to plan.

Setting the Scene

Why did you want to go on a retreat and what made you pick this over other retreat options?

I decided to go on a retreat because I felt stuck with my draft. I had worked through multiple rounds of edits and received beta reader feedback, but I still felt like it was missing something I couldn’t put my finger on. I thought about this retreat as an investment in myself as a writer and my book.

The retreat was hosted by Kevin Anderson & Associates. I found them while researching developmental editing services. Ultimately I chose not to work with them for editing at this stage of my project, but I joined their email list, which is where I found out about their retreats.

I was drawn to the one I went to in particular because it was a women’s-only memoir masterclass. I liked the idea that everyone attending was working on the same type of project. There are other retreats that mix genres, but I felt strongly that being in this focused memoir group would allow us each to share openly and hone our craft together.

Where was it hosted?

KAA hosts many retreats throughout the year, all hosted at the Poggio Alle Corti Villa in Tuscany just outside of Florence. I can’t say enough about the accommodations—the rooms, the food, the property—everything was better than I could have imagined. The property is only occupied by the retreat, so it’s a private and quiet place to focus on writing.

How much did it cost?

The cost of the retreat is based on your room choice. Costs vary from $7,900-$14,000. That cost includes:

• Accommodations at the villa (6 nights)

• Transport to and from the airport

• All meals, including two at offsite restaurants

• Sessions/writing workshops

• 1:1 mentorship

• An Italian cooking class

• Wine and olive oil from the estate

• 6 month check-in with an editor

What it does not include:

Flights. I used miles to book my travel, which means I didn’t pay anything other than the initial cost to attend the retreat.

Worth noting: I was quoted ~$10K for developmental editing for my 100K word manuscript. I decided to go to the retreat instead because it was a way to get similar feedback, while also building a writing community and getting the opportunity to visit Italy (twist my arm).

How was the food?

The villa had the most incredible staff that made food I’ll never forget. Each meal, including lunch, was at least three courses. There was ample homemade pasta, a lot of flowing wine, and some of the most delicious bites I’ve ever had!

Who were the mentors/teachers? What context did they have going into the retreat?

• : Bestselling author of The Mother Code: My Story of Love, Loss, and the Myths That Shape Us and award-winning journalist.

• Jennifer Kasius: Executive Editor at KAA. #1 New York Times-bestselling editor and former Editorial Director at Running Press (Hachette).

• Jane von Mehren: Senior Partner/Literary Agent, AEVITAS. Agent for numerous New York Times-bestselling authors.

• We also got a bonus mentor in Anna Burtt who was the coordinator of the retreat. She’s worked in publishing her whole career and is the author of The Little Book of Ick.

The mentors read 50 pages of our project before the retreat, which means they had a great sense of our stories and they came ready to dive in and give feedback.

The Daily Reality

What did a typical day actually look like?

Each day looked something like this:

• 9-10am: Breakfast

• 10am-12:30pm: Writing class/session (with different focus/theme each day)

• 1:00pm: Lunch

• 2:00pm - 4:00pm: 1:1 time with mentors

• 5:30pm: Happy hour learning session (typically about the process of publishing a book)

• 7:00pm-bed: Dinner + social time with the group

There were a couple nights where we had dinner outside the villa, including dinner at a Michelin star restaurant on a vineyard.

Who else was there? Did the other writers shape your experience?

There were six writer attendees of the retreat. Each woman was in a different stage with their project, but everyone had a significant portion of the book complete (although I know some attendees have come to previous retreats with only an idea or outline). Everyone had an incredibly unique story—our projects covered everything from parent loss to relationship dynamics to tracking family lineages. The sessions provided a place where we could wrestle with writing challenges together and give each other invaluable feedback. We cried and laughed and even sang together! I learned as much from my fellow attendees as I did from the mentors.

The Work

What did the sessions teach you—about your writing, your process, or your thinking?

The sessions were my favorite part of the whole retreat. We were lucky to be taught by Ruthie Ackerman, who is an author, writing coach, and all-around bad-ass! She understands the craft of writing deeply and has published her own memoir as well.

She had us spend time analyzing how memoirists write—using examples from the greats to better understand how we can replicate what they did. We worked on honing our narratives to ensure we’re being deliberate about how we want people to feel as they read.

My biggest takeaway is that the books we love may make it seem easy, but every chapter, paragraph, sentence and word choice is intentional. Great memoirists know exactly what emotion/takeaway they are trying to elicit through their writing and they steer the reader toward it.

Ruthie encouraged us to not just get our stories on the page, but identify the best possible way to tell the story. The goal is to bring the reader through a meaningful transformation and provide clear takeaways (aka, it’s not just saying what happened, but rather, telling the reading why it matters).

These were the fives sessions we covered:

• Getting To Know Your Narrator + Finding Your Voice

  • Joan Didion wrote that “we are well-advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be” — and in this workshop we’ll do just that. We’ll explore our past selves and allow them to collide on the page with the people we are today. Through that process, we’ll reacquaint ourselves with the fires we’ve walked through and how we’ve come out the other side. We’ll also use the questions “What if?” and “What now?” to push and prod us to deepen our stories.

• The Point of No Return + Scene Craft

  • Everyone has at least one line that divides their life into before and after — a demarcation line when nothing was ever the same again. We’ll discuss how identifying the demarcation line builds tension and momentum in the story. We’ll also discuss how to put the reader in the room with you so your scenes come to life.

• The Big Lie

  • The midpoint of an essay or a book is when the lies the narrator believed are finally revealed to them and they try to start living the truth. What are the lies your narrator once believed? Are any of them based on family mythologies? Societal expectations? Your own limiting beliefs?

• Mapping Your Transformation + The “So What”

  • Every memoir makes an implicit argument about what it means to be human. Not just a lesson, but a larger truth that your particular story illuminates. How will you show your transformation on the page? The material you’ve generated this week — your narrator, your demarcation line, your Big Lie, your transformation — is the raw material to answer the question “so what?”that all agents will ask you.

• Endings

  • How do we write about our lives — and those of others — when life keeps on changing? How do we preserve, as if in amber, the moments that make up the people we love? How do we provide closure for the reader without wrapping everything up with a pretty bow? What is an ending anyway — the last time you see a person? The last conversation? The last time you thought of them?

What surprised you most about the experience?

First, I was shocked by how stunning the villa was! I had seen pictures before, but somehow they did not do it justice. The grounds were immaculate—full of olive trees, citrus plants and blooming flowers at every turn. The veranda overlooked the rolling Tuscan hills, which was the perfect backdrop to inspire creativity. We spent most of our days outside and were lucky that the weather was perfect.

Second, I was surprised by how much I learned and how practical those learnings were to implement. I had a fear that the sessions would be too broad to apply directly to my project, but it was the exact opposite! Within the first day I was making changes to my manuscript that made the story more intentional, clear and impactful.

The Outcome

Did you leave with a finished or polished piece?

My goal was to leave the retreat with an even more polished version of my manuscript. I left with a much messier version that needs to be completely restructured. Am I disappointed? Absolutely not! My goal is to write the best possible book and the advice I got during this retreat is going to help elevate my manuscript to the next level. I believe in the sentiment that things get worse before they get better!

What are you carrying forward — habits, questions, a new direction?

I took about eleven pages of notes from the sessions and also walked away with an updated timeline that will be my guide for the next draft. I plan to implement structural changes and deepen the scenes throughout the book. One bit of feedback I received is my draft over-indexes in expository writing and needs more sensory details. I’m excited to fix that!

One of the great aspects of this retreat is it includes a developmental check-in. The editor who attended the retreat will read our revised manuscript in six months and give feedback. That by itself is worth the price of the retreat! It also provides a concrete deadline for me to work toward having an updated draft.

I’m also taking some Italian cooking skills home with me!

What did you picture a writing retreat would be like before you went, and how did reality differ?

I thought we would have more dedicated writing time, but the schedule was packed! In the end, I’m glad we spent most of our time diving into the craft of writing and connecting with each other.

If I could go back and do anything different, I would likely stay in Italy for 2-3 more days after the retreat. A few of my fellow attendees did that and I was jealous that they were getting to spend time digging into their draft changes with such a scenic backdrop. There’s never enough Italy!

Was it worth it?

Yes! For the cost of attending the retreat, you get an incredible amount of value. Plus, I am leaving with connections in the publishing industry, a community of female memoirists, and incredible memories from a beautiful trip to Italy. I know this type of retreat isn’t possible for everyone, but if it’s something you can swing, I highly recommend.

If you have any questions I didn’t cover, please feel free to comment!

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There was a time when the waves crashed so hard it, all I could do was try to find something to cling onto as my body scraped across the rocks. I’d only have enough time to fill my lungs halfway with air before the next surge was pulling me under.

When you’re in those days—the deepest, darkest grief days—you can’t see an end in sight. I remember thinking to myself, how are other people doing this? Because you truly can’t imagine living the rest of your life with that much intensity, that much pain.

The truth is, you won’t live in that state forever. First, the improvements are so microscopic, the untrained eye wouldn’t notice them; You were able to watch a show you used to like. You had lunch without feeling sick. You went a whole hour without crying. They add up—those little wins—and suddenly your day feels one percent lighter than the one before.

Then, eventually, you have more good days than bad. Your life doesn’t return to normal, but it becomes a new thing—something that you can enjoy even though you still wish your loved one was part of it.

Grief isn’t at my doorstep every day anymore, and for that, I’m grateful. It pops up on random days in unassuming weeks, for no reason at all. However, it always comes to visit, without fail, during the month of May.

Every April I’m swept up in the magic of Spring. The weather is giving us sprinkles of rain to support the growth of new plants. We’re officially out of the chaos of the new year and signs of summer start to show. It’s butterflies and warm afternoons and the smell of fresh rain.

Then something happens toward the end of the month—I feel a fog roll in. I’m still doing all the things that I love, but everything has lost its flavor. My feet are like concrete. The whole world feels heavier. My body knows it’s coming, even when my mind does not. May is my grief month.

Mother’s Day, when my mom was alive, was a reminder that we were estranged. It was a day I worried about her. Where is she? Is she okay? Is she upset? The best I could do was hope that she wasn’t in pain. Then I’d log onto instagram and see countless odes to mothers—I’d look at all of their teethy pictures, smiling from ear to ear, and wonder how God decides which moms go to whom. Then, after she passed, the date became a reminder that she’s gone—and with her left any hope of reconciliation.

May 16th is my brother’s birthday. The last one he had was in 2019 when he turned 31. Now that I’m 35, it’s a painful reminder that I’m getting older and he is not. He’s my big brother, so how is it possible that I’ve passed him in age?

May 27th is the day my brother died. The day I received a call that altered my entire life forever.

Needless to say, May has been challenging to navigate over the years. What’s different now is I’ve built a toolkit for myself. When grief comes, I know what to do. Here are three things I do to ease the pain:

I invite the sadness in.

It took me a long time to learn that grief and sadness want to be acknowledged. Often it’s the resisting, the avoiding, the pretending it’s not there, that actually prolongs the pain. Like a child calling to you at the playground saying “watch this, watch this!” over and over—it will not stop until you pay attention.

I welcome the grief with a hello and I let it be what it is. I don’t require myself to be optimistic. I don’t tell myself that everything is fine. It’s okay to have a moment where you don’t see a silver lining or have anything to add to your gratitude journal. You have permission to be sad—full stop.

I keep reminders around me.

I have lots of items around my house that represent my loved ones. A painting, a shirt, a picture, a book—small reminders in the form of physical objects. Sometimes it’s nice to touch something that makes you think about a loved one. The act of wearing a necklace you got in their honor, holding a key to their house in your palm, or draping their sweater over your shoulders.

Those can be physical representations of their love and a reminder that it’s not gone.

I asked my (deceased) loved ones to help.

Maybe this sounds crazy (as grievers often do), but I love asking my brother to help me. When I feel intense grief, it seems like he’s closer to me than usual. Since he’s already by my side, I ask him to help with the small tasks throughout the day that are harder because of the sadness.

“Can you help me with this work meeting?”

“Can you help me go on a walk?”

It’s a request for support when I need it, but it’s also an invitation for him to be part of my life now. I’m helping to create a world where we still do things together.

I hope this helps you in some way, but if not, that’s okay too. In the early days of my losses, I found most advice to be unhelpful, cliche or nauseatingly optimistic.

Grief, I’ve learned, takes many shapes, forms, sizes and intensities. When I first experienced loss, I felt like an oak tree that had to stand strong amidst wild, unyielding wind gusts. Every branch that snapped off felt like a failure, like I hadn’t properly weathered the storm. Now, I’ve realized how beautiful and resilient bamboo is in contrast—bending with the wind, rather than resisting against it. It adapts to its environment and finds a way to thrive, even under imperfect circumstances.

As you navigate grief, my wish for you is that everyday you feel more and more like bamboo.

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I grew up in a household that was anything but calm. Addiction, conflict, unpredictability—the anxiety was palpable and it needed somewhere to go. I couldn’t scream or cry or lash out, so one day I bit my nail for the first time. It wasn’t something I saw on TV, no one else around me had the habit—it was something I knew to do innately.

Rough edges or imperfect lines on my nails drove me to bite them. I would fixate on making them perfect. Inherently, biting your nails creates more imperfections, which then need to be fixed by more biting. The cycle never ends. The process of trying to find that perfection was calming.

I wasn’t aware of that when I was young—it wasn’t conscious. But later in life I would come to realize I was soothing myself. I was creating control in a situation where there was none. I was regulating my emotions each time I did it. It gave me a temporary sense of relief, distracting me from the chaos around me.

When I got into high school, I became suddenly aware and embarrassed of my habit. I was older and it didn’t feel cute anymore. People made comments about it. I realized many found it gross. Even one of my friends snapped at me once, saying how annoying it was that I was always biting my nails. The shame felt hot on my cheeks.

I tried many tactics to get myself to stop. I painted my nails. I would sit on my hands. I dipped my fingers in vinegar. Sometimes it would work. I would start to string days together without biting my nails and feel proud of the progress.

But then something stressful would happen. Suddenly my tactics to stop were no match for my anxiety and within ten minutes flat I would have bit my nails back down to the stubs. It felt like I couldn’t get out of the cycle no matter how hard I tried.

As I got older and started my career, I was embarrassed that I still couldn’t stop. I was no longer in an anxiety-filled environment, but the habit has been so long-standing that it felt impossible to break. It frustrated me. It embarrassed me. What did it say about my willpower? How could I be taken seriously as a leader at work? Why couldn’t I just stop? Every time I would reprimand myself—repeating the same comments in my mind that I heard other people say over the years. That’s childish. That’s gross. The shame would only drive me to bite my nails more.

But recently, something has changed. I’ve had a lot of healing experiences that have made me softer—grief, therapy, and a lot of self-compassion work. Suddenly, the need to change this habit overnight doesn’t feel so urgent. I look back at the little version of me who started biting her nails and I see something completely different. I don’t feel shame anymore. I feel pride. She found a way to take care of herself in a really tough environment. She was incredibly resilient. I’m so glad she had something to make herself feel better.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’ve had to clip my nails multiple weeks in a row. My nails have been growing, untouched, unbitten. There’s something about acknowledging the habit for what it was—a beautiful and helpful comfort —that has released me from it.

Do I think I’ll bite my nails again at some point when I get stressed? Absolutely. But that won’t mean all the progress is thrown out the window. I’ll acknowledge that I’m trying to find comfort. Then I’ll gently remind myself that I don’t need that anymore. I’m okay. I’m safe. I’m loved.

I’m grateful for my worst habit. And I’m thankful for that I don’t need it anymore.

Our hair, a matching brown color,
rich and dark like the Fall.
But then you dyed yours blonde.
So it wasn’t pretty, after all?

The same large, noticeable front teeth—
you swore when I smiled they’d shine.
But when you said you hated yours,
I heard what that said about mine.

Our frames were the same—short and small,
but you wanted yours to be thinner, new.
Sometimes you hated your body so much,
I wondered if you hated mine too.

You told me I was pretty,
but how could that be?
Because how you saw you,
was how I saw me.

You’re hard to please.

You’re a tough nut to crack.

Those statements would have filled me with pride in my 20’s. I wanted to be mysterious. I intentionally kept secrets. I took pride in deciding who was allowed to get to know me and limiting that pool significantly.

I loved the feeling when someone would learn something about me and it would surprise them. That’s right—if you think you know me, think again.

It was all a method of control: I’m in charge of what people know. I dictate how I’m viewed. I am the ruler of my world.

Now, I realize how much energy I was wasting on something that’s incredibly futile. I would spin my wheels, trying to control the uncontrollable. No matter how much effort you put in, you can never truly control how people perceived you. None of us can. The irony is that it was the constant attempts to be in control that actually impacted how people saw me.

One time a casual friend invited me to lunch with a friends of hers I hadn’t met. She told me she thought we would get along well. Although I wasn’t necessarily in the market for new friends, I agreed to go. We sat down together and my friend said, “I brought you both here because you’re a lot alike. You’re both bitchy.”

Ouch. Was that how I was coming off? It was a real eye-opening moment for me to understand that I wasn’t being guarded in a fun, mysterious way—I was being guarded in a rude and off-putting way. When I drove home that day, her words continued to echo in my mind.

I didn’t want to come off poorly to everyone around me, but how do you change the way you’ve been operating since you were a child? My guarded nature wasn’t created overnight. I come from a family that was anything but open. We kept secrets—about addiction, about money, about things that happened behind closed doors. I was taught to protect the family image above all else. That image was the most important thing—much more important than the reality. In that environment, you start focusing on how you can look good, rather than how you can be good.

I carried that core belief through grade school, high school, college, young adulthood, and my career. Everyday I was worried more about how I was perceived than who I actually was. Everything was shaped by that perfect image I had created: my decisions, my relationships, my entire life.

It wasn’t until I was completely exhausted by the weight of grief that my mask slipped. The deaths of my mom and brother had shattered the curated image I had made for myself. I felt like my family secrets were spilled out for everyone to see. I was too tired to clean up the mess and keep up the facade. Grief, it seems, is a terrible secret-keeper. I accepted the fact that people were getting a view of my complicated family history. I let go of control.

What was amazing about that experience was that nothing catastrophic happened. I wasn’t suddenly rejected or cast aside for my humanness. If anything, it was the opposite: I started opening up to a few close friends and the impact was immediate—we got closer and became more connected. I thought people would respect me less for my messy history, and they actually admired me because of it. I realized that all this time I never needed to be perfect after all—I just needed to be honest. Turns out, people are much more drawn to authenticity than perfection.

Recently, I was sharing something vulnerable with a friend who said, “I feel such a lightness from you right now.”

It made my heart swell. That is the compliment I wish I had been chasing all along. I want to be easy to talk to. I want to be someone who shares freely. I want to be someone who makes mistakes openly. I want to makes people feel less alone. I want to be welcoming and warm. I want to be all the things I used to take pride in not being.

Every woman and girl knows that feeling—another jarring story, another example of violence against women, another confirmation that we aren’t safe. Her case is particularly unsettling because the closest person in her life—her husband—was the perpetrator. He had been drugging her, raping her while she was unconscious and inviting other men to do the same. For years she had no idea it was happening. It’s hard to wrap your brain around that level of evil.

The part that has really been nagging at me is the silence that made it all possible. There was a whole community of men who knew what was happening and were actively participating in horrific abuse, and no one said a word. Over fifty men were identified in videos of the rapes. There were more that were never identified. I imagine there were countless additional men who were invited to participate and declined. It’s safe to bet over a hundred men could have been aware that some level of abuse was happening. All it would take was one of those men to reach out to authorities. One man to say it was wrong. But no one ever did. It was their little secret. A club of sick men. It begs the question, if we are to believe that most men would never do such horrific things, then how is it possible that no one spoke out?

The abuse was not discovered because a man blew the whistle. It came to light because Gisèle’s husband committed another crime and his computer was searched by police. There, they found the video evidence of her abuse, which spanned ten years. A decade of her husband telling other men about his crimes. A decade of men joining in to abuse her. A decade of men choosing to rape when they knew no one was looking. A decade of all of their complicit silence.

As women, we hear the stories and it doesn’t feel distant. It’s not something that happens to others. We see ourselves. We see our friends. We see our daughters. We see every woman we have ever known.

Why? Because we all know women who have had these experiences. Many of us are those women ourselves.

Gisèle’s story has been swirling in my brain for over a year. Sometimes I don’t know what I can add to the discussion that would actually make a difference. I feel defeated because we have had this conversation so many times—Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby, Woody Allen, Larry Nassar, Brock Turner—the list goes on.

Every time we all feel our hearts sink as we watch the news cycle cover yet another tragic story. And every time we cry out. Sometimes we take to the streets. But what changes, in a world where the leader of our country said you can grab a woman “by the pussy” if you want? When thousands of men would fly to an island to openly abuse children. Not “underaged girls,” a term that minimizes the crimes. They were children. How many people were aware of what was happening on that evil island before it came to light? The records span over twenty years. Two decades of people (primarily men) being aware of what was happening and saying nothing.

And what are the repercussions? So far, very little for anyone involved. We protect their identities with more care than we have ever protected women’s lives. Each redacted name communicates a clear message: their reputation is more important than justice for the girls who were abused.

I still want to believe that every year we’re making progress to be a better society and a better world. But I’m not sure that’s true. It’s no wonder so many Millennial and Gen Z women don’t want to have children. To bring a child into the world, you have to fundamentally believe they will have a good place to grow up in. Not a world where fathers openly say they’re scared to have daughters. It’s a common joke: “I’m not going to let my daughter date until she’s 30.” Why? Perhaps because they know how men behave, and suddenly the responsibility of protecting their daughter’s safety feels overwhelming knowing what they’re up against.

And let me address the “not all men” narrative. To the men reading this: If this genuinely sickens you, then we need you in this conversation—not defending yourself, but asking what you missed, what you looked away from, what you could do differently.

Men might feel like they have been under attack, but they will never understand the scrutiny women have always been under. When men are victims of crimes, we punish the culprit. When women are victims of crimes, we ask what they could have done to prevent it. From the time we are old enough to speak, women are taught what to do and not to do to avoid being a victim. But I never hear anyone telling young boys not to be perpetrators. It’s very clear who we hold accountable and who gets a pass. There’s a conscious effort to keep the responsibility in the hands of women regardless of the circumstances. Women are the ones that have to take action, men are allowed to stand by, silent.

And when women do speak up, it’s not welcomed. Someone I know was severely sexually abused by her father. She was described as “heartless” when she came forward to reveal the abuse because it meant he would go to jail. She was encouraged to deal with it privately. But who does that protect? Certainly not her. In her own family system, she was suddenly painted as the problem—not the grown man who was committing a crime against an innocent child. She didn’t listen and she did, ultimately, hold him accountable. Yet, she still carries guilt. It’s not hers to bear, but she was made to believe that it was.

It’s no wonder so many women stay silent about abuse they’ve suffered. When they speak up, the reaction can traumatize them just as much as abuse—they are met with doubt, criticism, and dismissal. I don’t have a solution. I just know I feel heartbroken, scared and defeated.

I ordered Gisèle’s book today—she wrote a memoir to share openly about her experience, saying, “It’s not bravery, it’s will and determination to change society.”

Truthfully, I’ve been putting off getting the book because I know it’s going to be crushing to read. But in a world where I have very little control, what I can do is support a woman who’s telling her story.

So I will read it. I will cry for her. I will cry for women. Maybe that’s what the solution is—a promise from all of us, especially men, to refuse to look away.

I wanted to share what the timeline has looked like for writing my 101,000 word memoir manuscript.

Throughout the process, I kept wondering if my timeline was normal. Should it be taking me this long? How much should I be writing a week? How come everyone else seems to have a draft in 5 months?? My experience felt a lot like this:

I wished I had been able to see someone’s full writing timeline and understood their writing schedule—it would have helped me realize that these projects take a long time, and that’s okay. I think of my book like a child: I’m nurturing it, helping it grow, giving it the tools to be successful on its own. If I send it out into the world too soon, it’s going to fail. It’s my job to make sure it’s ready and knows how to tie its shoes. I’m trying my best not to raise a little hellion that’s a menace to society.

Now, onto my writing circumstances: I work full-time, so most of my writing took place in the early morning before work or on the weekends (my brain is mush in the evenings, I’ve learned). I had one or two hour-long writing sessions a week during the core portion of my book drafting. Obviously, I would have been able to finish my first draft sooner if I was writing eight hours a week, but that wasn’t my reality. I also took some weekends off because sometimes you just need a margarita.

If anything, it should give you hope that if you have limited time to write during the week, that’s okay! Write during the time you have and you’ll be surprised how much your draft grows.

Writing Timeline

January 2024

• The idea of writing a book had been bouncing around in my mind for about a year, but I finally decided I wanted to give it a try.

• I started by creating a page in my Notes app (love you bb) dedicated to ideas that popped up. I thought I knew what the theme of the book would be, so I focused on that and started jotting things down (Narrator: she did not know the theme yet and she’s still actively changing it as we speak). I created a bulleted list of life experiences I wanted to cover in the book, but had no idea what the structure would be.

June 2024 (5 months since start of project)

• My ideas took some time to develop in my notes app and they were ready finally for the silver screen (my macbook). I created a google doc to start turning my ideas into actual paragraphs.

• I wrote whatever I felt like tackling that day—if there was a memory that was top-of-mind, I focused on that. I tried not to overthink it because it was so early in the process and I still had no idea what the structure of the book would be.

September 2024 (7 months since start of project)

• I started organizing the random paragraphs I had written into chronological order, which was the format I thought would be best.

• I also created an outline for the first time which…I didn’t end up finding very helpful. But if that’s something you think you would benefit from, I recommend doing it early in the project.

November 2024 (11 months since start of project)

• I took a 2 month break from writing. I share this because the writing process can be exhausting—especially in the memoir category. I was scratching old wounds, drudging up the past, and I needed a pause. The holidays can be hard enough without the added stress of writing, so I decided to give myself some space.

February 2025 (13 months since start of project)

• I joined a writing club that helped me get back into writing weekly—shout out ! Having an accountability group was instrumental in getting me get to the next phase of the project. The group helped me create a consistent schedule—Saturday mornings became my time to write. As you can see below in my page growth over the next eight months, I wrote the bulk of the book during this time:

  • March: 24 total pages

  • April: 33 total pages

  • May: 48 total pages

  • June: 62 total pages

  • July: 80 total pages

  • August: 94 total pages

  • September: 115 total pages

  • October: 145 total pages

October 2025 (21 months since start of project)

• I created a Substack account! I wanted a place to share about the process and connect with other writers. I’m so glad I did! I learned so much about every step of writing a book from this platform (and continue to).

• Toward the end of this month, I finished my first draft!! It was ~90,000 words and I knew it needed a lot of edits, but it was a full manuscript. It had a beginning and middle and end. This feeling was electric!

November 2025 (22 months since start of project)

• Following advice I'd seen on Substack, I printed out my first draft to edit with a pen. It’s so fun to hold your book in your hands, even if it’s a sloppy, unedited version. I started taking myself to coffee shops a couple times a week and edited as I read through the draft. Some parts of the book were terrible. Some parts weren’t so bad. This edit was hard for me, so I gave myself a three week deadline and made myself stick to it.

January 2026 (24 months since start of project)

• I finished my first full read-through and edit. I then went and implemented those changes in the google doc. This was tedious and probably my least favorite part of the process so far. Some people say they love the editing process and that is not me. I love click-clacking on my keyboard and hate going back to turn it into something coherent. And apparently, I like using the same adjectives over and over—everything is always “exciting.”

• I finished my second read-through and structural edits. I cut a couple whole chapters and added new ones where I needed more detail or to improve the flow. At that point, I hit an editing wall—I'd been staring at it for so long I couldn't see what else it needed. I was going into an editing psychosis, so I decided to hire beta readers.

February 2026 (25 months since start of project)

• I ultimately chose to hire two beta readers on Fiverr that had great reviews.

• I let the book rest while it was with them, which gave me a few weeks to not write/edit the manuscript. It was a nice and needed break!

• Within a couple weeks, I received feedback—which, sadly, was not super helpful. One gave generic AI feedback (please don’t say you’re a beta reader and then use AI….). The other beta reader recommended I work with an editor on grammar-related changes (which I will definitely do at some point) but had no other meaningful suggestions. I was hoping for more feedback on the pace, the strength of the themes, which stories felt unresolved, etc.

  • Lesson learned: Be very specific about what kind of feedback you're looking for when hiring beta readers and vet them carefully.

• I also drafted a query letter this month. I have no plans to send it out yet, but I wanted to practice pitching the book. You should be able to answer the question “What is your book about?” in a couple tight sentences, which I’m still trying to develop. I wrote a blurb too!

Still left to do:

1. One more large self-edit: I want to go through the manuscript another time with fresh eyes. I’m just waiting for the fresh eyes to arrive.

2. Get writer feedback: I’m looking for writing partners to exchange edits with, and I’m exploring writing workshops. I want the book to be as compelling as possible before I try to secure an agent.

3. Start querying agents: Once the above is done, I’ll be ready to pitch.

The takeaway? Writing a memoir takes time—and that's okay. Keep showing up, even if it's just an hour a week. I swear it adds up.

If you would be open to being a beta reader or doing a memoir swap, let me know!

I'm sharing my work-in-progress memoir summary and a mock-up cover today—which means you'll also get to see the working title for the first time!

I’m sharing this for a few reasons:

1. I love and trust this community. I’m someone who likes to keep things tucked away in the dark until they’re perfect. It’s out of my comfort zone to share these details without knowing if they’re complete or final. However, the community of Substack has shown me how thoughtful, supportive and helpful it can be. I love this place for that! I know if anyone has feedback to share, it will come from good intent and will only help me as I try to make my book as compelling as possible.

2. To ask for your support. I’m getting closer and closer to querying agents. As a non-celebrity memoir author, agents love to see that you have some sort of built-in audience. Substack is that for me. If you like what you see and you want to support my journey to get published, becoming a subscriber to my Substack would make a huge difference. It’s free and all you have to do is enter your email here:

   Subscribe now

3. For fun. The path to publishing is long—years of writing and editing, months of querying agents, more edits if you land one, then pitching to publishers, then potentially another year until publication. There’s a lot of delayed gratification. It will be a long time before I have a real cover that’s publish-ready. So in the meantime, why not create one and get to experience a small taste of that joy?

Without further ado, here is summary for my debut book, ROOT ROT:

Growing up in rural Oregon, Olivia learned that rot is a death sentence—if the core is poisoned, the whole plant is doomed. She spent her childhood unnoticed in a family system polluted by addiction and abuse, so she did what any good farmer would do: she tried to cut herself off from her roots entirely. Achievement became her escape, success her proof that she could outgrow where she came from. But when her brother and mother died suddenly within two years of each other, she couldn’t run anymore.

In the wreckage of grief, she sought closure anywhere she could find it—a therapist, a medium, and even psychedelic drugs. Her exploration unearthed a disturbing family history of sexual abuse, which had unknowingly plagued her since she was young. The path to freedom ran straight through the thing she’d been avoiding. Root Rot is a memoir about the cost of running from trauma, the courage it takes to finally turn around, and the surprising resilience of roots that refuse to die.

What do you think? I’d love to hear your thoughts/feedback in the comments. And if you’re not already subscribed, I’d be incredibly grateful for your support.

Subscribe now

Despite how open I am on this platform, it’s hard for me to share about the people I love. If you’re someone who is always waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know the deep-seated feeling that makes you hold things close to the vest. As if declaring my love out loud will make them disappear like smoke in the air, leaving me standing there, calling out to the abyss.

That’s a belief our mind conjures up—that if you admit you want something, it will cease to exist. To combat that pesky thought, I’ve always told myself I’m independent. I love doing things on my own. That way if no one shows up for me, it will sting less (spoiler: it does not sting less). But I’m trying to operate differently now. I want to be able to share without fear that it will have consequences. So, I’m going to write about the thing I care about most—my husband.

Despite my independent nature, I have not been charting life's waters alone. In fact, I have been deeply in love since I was seventeen years old. People are always shocked to hear that my husband and I met in our home town as teenagers and have been together ever since. Our meeting was happenstance—a combination of great timing and a whole lot of luck.

Brock and I went to rival high schools—him, the quarterback of his football team. Me, the homecoming queen of mine. Saying that actually makes me feel ill because it’s so cliché, but how could I not? In our small town that revolved around football games and school pride, getting together with someone from the rival school might as well have been treason. It was off the table.

I met him at Roaring Rapids Pizza Company in 2008. I worked there while I was in high school, taking evening and weekend shifts. He came into the pizza parlor as I was clocking out for the night. I was still in my work uniform, which consisted of non-slip clunky black shoes, Arizona jeans and a three-sizes-too-big green polo that was covered in smears of ranch dressing. Cute, right? I was in an ornery mood that day, slinging sarcasm over to him, and he was happily volleying back. We had a brief, chance encounter that left me thinking about him over the next couple weeks. Who was this guy that was so unrattled by me? I got his number from a friend at work and sent him a text, not telling him who it was. When my shift ended and I checked my phone, I smiled at his response: “Hi Olivia :)”

From then on, we were inseparable. We would get together after school and work, sometimes just to drive around because no establishments were open that late. We found any excuse to be together. There were whispers about our relationship from people from both of our schools, but that only made him more intriguing to me (forbidden love is a trope for a reason!). We had our first kiss in a Barnes and Noble parking lot. We both knew it was coming, but we acted like we didn’t—walking around, looking at CDs, flipping through books. I doubt either of us were thinking about literature at all. Finally, in the parking lot as he walked me to my car, I had the last first kiss of my life.

Fast forward to now, and we have been married for thirteen years and together for over seventeen. In 2026, I’ll hit a milestone: I will have been with Brock longer than I was alive without him. At seventeen I was obsessed with him, and not much has changed.

Brock is the charisma of our relationship. He’s easy to like and fun to love. I have never met anyone more thoughtful, always remembering the small things people share with him. He makes people feel seen. The kind of partner you’re proud to stand next to.

We have been through all kinds of life together—the big monumental times, along with thousands of small moments. We’ve moved around the country pursuing our passions, working to build our dream life. There have been so many firsts together: moving out of state, traveling internationally, buying a home, getting pets. We’ve weathered the less fun parts too—layoffs, mistakes, heartbreak, death. If I’ve learned anything over the years it’s that you can’t circumvent suffering—it’s as much a part of life as love and happiness. But it’s so much easier to endure with someone steady by your side, a daily reminder that the pain subsides and the joy always returns.

My favorite moments are always the seemingly inconsequential ones. It’s brushing our teeth together. How he makes coffee for me every morning. Laughing until we cry in bed at night. The way he looks at me sternly when he realizes I haven’t been drinking enough water. Sending each other 100 pictures and memes with just the word “you.” Our Wednesday night dates because we love staying home and being cozy on a Friday night. How he can never remember where he put anything and I can never remember restaurants, so we rely on each other for both. It’s the thousands of little things that you can only know about someone after thirteen years of marriage. It’s a privilege to know those details and to get to love him. That’s what marriage feels like to me—a privilege.

I share this because today is Valentine’s Day. It’s never been my favorite holiday. The hokey gifts, the expensive prix-fixe meals (can I order a regular entree please?), the pressure to perform your love on social media or risk breakup speculation. It’s always felt like I’m forced to celebrate on everyone else’s schedule. Something about that doesn’t feel right to me, because our love isn’t the same as everyone else’s. That’s why I love our anniversary; that date belongs to us. It reminds me of when we saw each other for the first time that day—me in a white dress, him in a tan suit—the sand beneath our feet and our whole lives ahead of us. July 21st is a day worth celebrating.

Today’s forecast says it’s going to be a cold and rainy Valentine’s Day, but we won’t mind. We’ve learned to enjoy all the moments together—not just the bright, sunny ones.

As you see lots of examples of exaggerated love today, I hope you feel peace knowing it doesn’t have to be loud to be real. I wish you a love that’s grounded. One that makes you feel like yourself. One that stands the test of time. And maybe, if you're lucky, one that you're reminded of every time you smell ranch dressing.

To end, I’ll share a poem I wrote about the person I love the most:

Some love is rowdy,
a raucous passion.
It crashes in like the tide—
and all at once it sweeps out,
never the same twice.

Some love is the sharp edge of a cliff,
echoing the danger below—
will you feel the overwhelming thrill,
or will you crash against the rocks?

When you’re young it’s exciting,
dancing with the mystery.
Unsure what you’ll get,
but happy to take the chance.

Until you reach for the fire
and the heat licks you fiercely—
a reminder that the other side of passion is pain,
and it does not discriminate.

He is not a cliff or ocean or fire.
He is the Earth, in all its sturdiness.
As solid as stone—
steady in the face of all.

This love is two feet on the ground.
It’s unmoved by the wind,
unshaken in the worst of conditions—
firm in its place.

As the seasons pass,
and the lines on our faces deepen,
so does the love—
time only strengthening its hold.

There can be exhilaration in safety,
in quiet comfort,
in solid trust,
in the faith that it will last.

Now, my favorite thrill
is the flutter in my chest
when I wake up next to him
for the thousandth time.

I saw a medium and the session clip went viral. Let’s get into it.

Before this experience, the closest thing I had ever come to seeing a medium was the time I went to a “psychic” in Silverlake. She told me that I come from a long line of witches. Badass, right? Despite the high I got from that comment, nothing else she said was particularly specific. She spoke in broad strokes and was clearly gauging my reaction, ready to pivot if needed.

Oh you aren’t struggling with your love life? What I meant was people around you struggle and you’re their source of advice.

Riiiiight. It was successful in giving my friends and me a good laugh, but certainly didn’t make me a believer.

I would have told you I’d never speak to any sort of clairvoyant again, but then my mom and brother died. All previous declarations went out the window. When you’re suddenly in the throes of grief, you’re willing to try just about anything.

I went searching for a medium on Instagram, the only rational place to turn to when looking for someone who can talk to the dead. It wasn’t long until I found someone that seemed legit. At least, as legit as I could possibly verify. Her name was Melissa Sparrow, and from what I could tell, she seemed kind and empathetic. Her Instagram feed was packed with clips from her sessions (with client permission, of course) and I scrolled through them, inspecting for evidence that she was a fraud. The videos showed her giving very specific information to her clients—things that only their deceased loved ones could know. The reactions from her clients seemed real, and even emotional. After watching at least 100 of them, I was convinced enough to book my own appointment.

As a skeptical person in general, I went into it pretty guarded. I didn’t share any unnecessary information—no location, no social media, nothing that would make me overly identifiable. I wanted to know if this was the real deal.

Then, I waited. Her next available appointment was three months out, which I took as a good sign. She’s not just a medium, she’s a sought-after medium.

A few months later, I was sitting in my office, counting down the minutes until it was time to log onto Zoom and start our call. I felt weirdly nervous. What if this is really disappointing? What if I could tell immediately she’s not actually connecting with my family members? For the first time, I considered that if it wasn’t real it might actually crush me. Grief had been bashing me against the rocks and I wasn’t sure I could take another wave. But it was too late to back out and, in fact, it was time for the appointment to begin.

Below is an 5 minute edited video of my hour-long session. Some helpful context: My brother died from an accidental poisoning from workout supplements. You’ll see that Melissa jumps right into talking about that without me having told her. My mom passed away due to alcoholism, which again, Melissa somehow knew immediately. Throughout the appointment, there were so many specific tidbits that she shared, including details about how my brother passed away, his interests, and she referenced a necklace I got in his honor. Then she asked if I was writing a book about my life, to which I was pretty speechless (I am!). There’s no way she could have known half of what she said without talking to my mom and my brother. I can’t even begin to break down each of the details she provided (you’ll have to wait for my memoir to get the long-form version), so you’ll just have to trust me—the woman has a gift!

Also, don’t be alarmed, but I cry a lot in the video. This experience was exactly what I needed to get to the other side of a wall of grief that had been blocking my path. Half of those tears were happy because I couldn’t believe my mom and brother were talking to me! The other half were a mix of sadness, release, and what the hell is happening??

I walked away from the session with three profound realizations:

1. I learned that my mom and brother are happy. As simple as that sounds, it was monumental for me. I could more easily deal with my grief knowing that they were okay. It took away the pain of the unknown and replaced it with peace.

2. I learned that they’re with me daily. It was healing to hear that they’re present in my day-to-day. They even knew about the book I’m writing! I’m not living my life without them, we are just together in a different way than before.

3. I learned that they see me now. During our lives together we had quite a few challenges and I often felt misunderstood. They both acknowledged that in the reading—they saw the bigger picture and how our dynamic was unhealthy. In fact, it seems that crossing to the other side, whatever you want to call that, gave them great perspective on their lives. It was the apology I thought I’d never get.

Later that day, Melissa sent me an email with my recorded session. She also asked if I was open to her posting clips of my session on her Instagram. I didn’t even hesitate—I had used social media to find her and I was happy to contribute to that same discovery for someone else.

A few days later, she posted a video from the session. I wasn’t tagged because I never shared my full information with Melissa or gave any indication that I followed her. She had chosen a clip where my brother said he was sorry for leaving me. She specifically said, “He just keeps saying, ‘What a stupid stupid thing to do.’”

What she didn’t know was that it had been the first thing I ever said to my brother after he died. I was angry, and I looked up to the sky and said, “How could you be so stupid?” For a while, that was the only thing I could say to him. So when he came through and said those words exactly, it gave me the chills.

I didn’t think much of the Instagram video until later that day when I realized it was blowing up. In fact, it was going viral. Like, millions of views kind of viral.

Something about me crying my eyes out and my brother apologizing really struck a chord with people. I was keeping tabs on the post as the numbers continued to climb, and the comments section quickly became a battlefield. Skeptics versus believers. My mental health versus Melissa’s legitimacy. Here were some of my favorites:

“You’re a demonic person for scamming this poor girl while she’s at her lowest.”

“This isn’t going to help her. The pain runs too deep.”

“Fake! Both actors.”

Within 24 hours, Melissa had turned off the comments, explaining on her story that the commentary was becoming increasingly negative and she didn’t want that on her page. Which is fair enough, but I was a little disappointed. I found the discourse in the comments to be both interesting and hilarious. I had no idea a tiny clip from my session could be so divisive. Half the people were making sweeping assumptions about my mental health based on a fifteen second clip (which, to be fair, my eyes were like leaky faucets so I sort of get it) and the other half were condemning Melissa for what they assumed to be a scam or witchcraft. As someone who (allegedly) comes from a long line of witches, I know witchcraft when I see it! This was not that.

I went to book another appointment with Melissa a few days later. After processing everything that I had heard, I wanted more. I was shocked to see she was booked out for the next ten months. I couldn’t help but wonder if the viral video had generated quite a few bookings. If I am an actor, I must be a great one! Call me, Spielberg.

Still, I’m happy to have (hopefully) contributed to other people getting some peace and healing like I did. Maybe I wasn’t a woo-woo person before, but a lot has changed. Now, apparently, I’m a witch who believes in mediums, accidentally went viral, and still has to wait in line like everyone else for my next appointment.

I asked this at a work meeting and got blank stares, followed by polite laughter.

“No, that sounds exhausting,” one colleague said.

Apparently, I’m the only one.

It is a sentiment I have always felt at my core. It started in school—I had a hard time picking my favorite subject. I loved literature, but I also really enjoyed science and social studies and the challenge of math.

Don’t get me started on how challenging it was to pick a major in college. What if I want to study it all?? What’s the major that touches business, law, medicine, economics and the arts? I’m still waiting for the answer on that one.

You won’t be surprised to hear that I have worked in many different industries. I started my career in fashion, working in the PR office at Dolce & Gabbana. We did fittings with celebrities and stylists for the largest red-carpet events, like the Oscars and Emmys. Then I worked in higher education, trying to meet the needs of faculty and students at the administrative level. After that, I went into tech, sure that an innovation-focused role would satisfy the craving I had for something new and different. Within the tech world, I have worked across dating, mental health, events and financial products—never wanting to pick just one category.

Each role I’ve had has scratched an itch I couldn’t quite name. And that’s just career stuff—my hobbies are even more scattered: writing, art, interior design, fitness, and the list goes on.

Recently, I’ve been looking at my writing more seriously. I finished the first draft of my memoir and started researching traditional publishing. Every article says the same thing: build an audience, find your niche, grow your Substack. Publishers love writers who come with a built-in platform—5K+ subscribers proves people want to read what you write.

There are countless articles with titles like “Grow Your Substack in Three Months” or “How I Used Notes to Get Subscribers.” Many of the articles regurgitate similar advice. First, be consistent. Second, pick a niche and focus on that. The data is pretty compelling—you’re likely to grow faster with a targeted niche. It makes sense: readers know exactly what to expect when they subscribe.

The advice doesn’t stop there. I’ve also seen tons of content about personal brands. As someone who’s spent much of my career working on brand strategy, I get why it’s beneficial. Layering your niche content with recognizable branding, color schemes, imagery—it all adds to your appeal and lets your audience know what they can expect from you.

But here’s the problem: I don’t think we were meant to be wrapped into neat personal brand packages.

I think about myself as a kid; I loved soccer, country music, and art. I could often be found in my room, surrounded by colored pencils and paper, drawing whatever vision I had in my mind. There was such a freedom in the fact that I had no sort of online persona. It was complete creative expression, without any other thought. I picked my hobbies and interests based on passion alone—it didn’t matter if they fit together or told a compelling story.

Now, I worry that niches and personal brands are taking all the joy out of the things we love. We’re carving ourselves down until we fit into clean boxes. With each cut, we lose a little piece of who we are. We are denying ourselves enjoyment—for what? The potential to grow online faster?

Imagine you post corporate HR advice but find a passion for pottery. Can you not share that, simply because it doesn’t fit into the brand you’ve created? Or perhaps you write poetry, and your new hobby of boxing doesn’t align with the gentle persona your audience has come to know you for. Now what?

We were meant to explore—without consideration of how our hobbies and interests will land online. They are for us, for our own enjoyment. We weren’t meant to wonder if a new interest fits into “our brand.”

The internet promised us connection and creativity. Instead, we got algorithms that reward sameness. We’ve turned ourselves into content machines, optimizing for engagement instead of for real, human exploration. We’ve forgotten that the most interesting people throughout history refused to stay in their lane.

So here’s my declaration: I’m not creating a niche. I’m not limiting myself to some constructed personal brand. Having my hands in many pots has always been authentic to me. At any given moment, I’m contemplating five different creative ideas, projects, and businesses. I refuse to see that as a flaw.

Maybe I’ll grow slower on Substack. Maybe publishers will be less interested. But I’d rather build something honest than something marketable. I’d rather spend my days on things that light me up inside, regardless of whether or not they will land with an audience.

You don’t need to pick a lane. The world needs people who refuse to fit into boxes.

I have a dress, but I’ll be cold if I wear that. I don’t want to be cold. My eyes shift to a pair of sweats, which call to me with their comfort and warmth. How I wish I could choose them, but they aren’t right for this.

I settle on a black silk top, one that I purchased from All Saints a couple years ago. It was one of those expensive purchases I wouldn’t normally make, but I’d just been promoted and bought it as a gift to myself. I’ve only worn it a handful of times, like I’m saving it for special occasions. It’s sleeveless, which makes me pause. Is it inappropriate to show your shoulders at a funeral? I have no idea.

I grab a grey blazer to go over the top, my nicest pair of black jeans, and a pair of dressy boots. I can’t decide if I look too much like I’m going to a business meeting, but it’s all I have—this will have to do.

No matter what I pick, it will feel wrong. Because this is wrong. How the hell am I picking an outfit for my brother’s funeral?

I curl my hair and do my makeup. This feels strange too, because do grieving people have perfectly curled hair? Do they wear makeup? I want to look nice, but not too nice. All I know is there’s no covering the deep, dark crevasses that have formed under my eyes anyway.

These are the moments they don’t prepare you for in loss—when you’re forced to make a thousand small decisions and none of them feel right.

When I get home, I immediately change. I can’t rip the shirt off fast enough, the heaviness of the day and my grief feels attached to it. I put on a large Star Wars t-shirt instead, something my brother would have loved.

A few months later, I realized the shirt was gone. It was strange—I remembered exactly where I’d left it, and yet it was nowhere to be found. It had disappeared into thin air. I felt panicked, like I’d lost something incredibly important. I searched and searched, determined to find it.

But as time passed, I started to accept it was gone. I stopped looking for it. Maybe it disappeared on purpose—whether by my hand or his, I’m not sure it matters. Some things are too heavy to keep.

How do I know what it feels like
to have what I never had?

I am a bird with no nest,
yet I still scan the trees,
looking for my place—
a memory I never made.

I am sand washed to shore,
waiting for the wave to pull me back.
Aching to be claimed
by the tide that left me.

But if it never belonged to me,
how can I yearn for it?

It lives in my bones somehow,
like it was my birthright—
The bird knows the nest.
The sand knows the sea.

Even if I never walked by your side,
was never held by your hand,
was never protected by your love,
I still miss it all the same.

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They’re in a better place
Everything happens for a reason
Time heals all wounds

During my biggest grief moments, I heard these countless times. People are well-intended, for the most part; they’re trying to comfort you. They want to help you find a silver lining, a bit of relief. The reality is, there’s no comfort to be found in the throes of grief. You must travel through the storm—there is no short cut, there is no consolation.

However, there’s a specific question that always lingers heavy in the air. Curious minds wonder: how did they die?

When my brother passed, I could sense the whispers of my coworkers when I returned to work. He was a healthy 31-year-old, and people wanted to understand how he died so suddenly. Suicide was a common assumption. As a sister drowning in grief, I had no energy or desire to correct anyone.

It’s a common theme: when someone announces a death on Instagram, the comments become flooded with the question everyone else is thinking: “what happened?” Some people are less public with their curiosity, asking mutual friends and family members for specifics—trying to mine the details.

What drives the need to know? For one, we use those details as a measurement of the severity of the experience. People view the death of a 90-year-old woman from natural causes as “expected”—but tell that to her children and grandchildren, who mourn her all the same. The most fervent compassion is given when a young person dies, cutting their life short. Was it cancer? A car accident? Suicide? A drug overdose? Each of those carries its own implications and assumptions. How someone died determines the amount of sympathy we give, whether intentional or not.

When Taylor Swift released the song “How Did It End?”, I felt like the lyrics described the experience after someone dies perfectly (despite being about a breakup):

The empathetic hunger descends
We’ll tell no one
Except all of our friends
We must know
How did it end?

That phrase—the empathetic hunger descends—perfectly captures how everyone’s curiosity and desire to know the salacious details can become all-encompassing. We must know.

Am I offended by people asking how my loved ones died? Typically, no. I understand the human need to examine tragedy. We are all trying to avoid our own misfortune, and understanding the details of another person’s gives us a guide for what we should steer clear of:

She died of cancer—a reminder to get your yearly checkup.
He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt—a reminder to never skip it, even on a short drive.
They committed suicide—a reminder to prioritize mental health and check on your friends.

It may be nosey, but it doesn’t come from a place of malice.

I’ve talked with other grievers who hate being asked how their loved one died because it feels invasive. For some, the answer isn’t simple—it requires an explanation of family dynamics, addiction, or mental health issues. For others, like in the case of an accident, recounting it can be triggering, especially if you’re still trying to wrap your head around what happened. No matter the circumstance, it can feel abrasive.

But here’s what I’ll say: Even for those who are happy to share, the question can feel like it reduces their loved one to their manner of death. A whole, beautiful life lived cannot be summarized by the way in which someone left this Earth. In fact, sometimes those two things are completely misaligned.

When you lead with “how did they die,” you’re starting the story at the end. You’re asking about the last five minutes of a life that spanned decades. My brother lived 31 years—11,000 days of jokes and saxophone solos and travel and love—and you want to know about the moment he stopped breathing?

As grievers, we want to be asked anything else: what hobbies they loved, their favorite music, how they liked their coffee in the morning. We want to keep who they were alive in every way possible, and it can feel like death makes that really difficult to do.

Before my brother died, people used to ask me all the time if I had any siblings, what he was like, what he did for a living. Upon hearing he died, people stopped being curious, like those little details no longer matter. They’re afraid of what they’re allowed to say or ask, so they opt to say nothing at all—changing the subject or simply saying “sorry.”

But I want to share about Tommy. I want you to know that he was so smart he skipped grades, he studied music before switching to nuclear physics, he loved video games, and was sarcastic as hell. If people no longer ask about him, I don’t just grieve his death and the loss of future memories with him. I also grieve the loss of being able to talk about him. He’s left this earth, but he doesn’t have to leave my conversations.

The little details—the things that made your loved one unique, the things that show they lived and they were important—those things matter so deeply to the people who cared for them most.

Can you ask how someone died? Sure, if you must. But here are some other things you should ask:

• What’s your earliest memory with them?

• When were they the happiest?

• What did they value most?

• How would you describe them in 5 words?

• What’s something they used to always say?

• What did they teach you?

You’ll find the answers to these questions are so much richer than how someone died. And you’ll watch the griever light up at the chance to talk about the person they loved. That’s much more valuable than comfort—it’s the gift of remembering.

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When I was young I wore out the floorboards
waiting by the door,
staring at the phone.
Silence so loud I could scream.

I was waiting for you
to arrive, to help, to care.
But you were too busy,
too tired, too something.

So I made my own path,
told myself I didn’t need help—
because the truth that I wouldn’t get it if I asked
was too much to bear.

We have never fought
and how could we?
We never dive below the surface,
just the same mundane words year after year.

I wonder if this will be the time our dinner has warmth,
but then you say something
that shows me you don’t know me at all,
that you never did.

Each comment is like a paper cut
and over the years they have accumulated
until I became a shredded tapestry
trying to keep my parts together.

I say nothing,
fidget my feet, looking away,
growing more and more silent—
but you don’t even notice.

We have so much we could connect about—
grief, hardship, the way we laugh.
You could ask me what you missed,
but you never have.

Why?
Are you afraid of what I might say
if I decide to be honest,
if I let truths slide across the table?

Then you would have to face
all the small and monumental moments
when you were a ghost
and in your absence, I was haunted.

But I never do it,
and I don’t know exactly why.
I let you make me feel unseen,
like I’m still that small child.

And even though our time together is rare,
you always say it first:
"I better get going”
and I watch you leave once again.

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That’s when the thought hit me: “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

It’s a thought I have had many times in my life. I have always been a person who's skeptical when things are going well. When life finally gives me a good hand, I fear what’s next. This means something bad is coming.

I started reflecting on that sentiment, since it’s been so pervasive in my life. What’s the purpose of that thought?

In theory, it’s protection. If I brace myself for something bad, maybe it won’t hurt as much when it comes. If I don’t get too happy, I won’t be caught off guard when everything falls apart. If I stress about everything that could go wrong, I won’t be shocked when it comes to fruition. It’s emotional insurance.

But here’s the thing—it doesn’t work.

I have never had a time where anticipating something bad has made that experience less painful. I spent years afraid of getting that call—the one that tells you someone you love is gone. And when it came (twice), it split me in half anyway. There was no emotional credit for having worried about it all those years. Bracing for impact didn’t save me from the pain.

It reminds me of research on car accidents: people who see a crash coming and brace themselves can actually end up with worse injuries. When you tense up trying to protect yourself, your muscles lose their elasticity, their natural ability to absorb impact. The instinct to brace can make everything worse.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop is the emotional version of this. You don’t stop it from happening—you just rob yourself of the good moments.

Once you accept that life is a series of peaks and valleys, it becomes clear: yes, bad things will happen again. Which is exactly why you should savor the good while it’s here. Don’t temper joy out of fear it will somehow cause pain. That’s a trick your brain plays to protect you—but from what? Actually experiencing happiness??

As someone who’s had plenty of shoes drop, my subconscious pipes up every time things go well: This won’t last. I have to actively tell it to shut up. Things are going great right now, and I’m allowed to enjoy it. In fact, I’m going to, because I’ve learned that bracing for impact doesn’t work. The only thing it does is steal the good moments I have.

So I’ll be relaxing into happiness, even when it feels dangerous, and letting the good be just that—good. I hope you do the same.

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I lost my brother in an accident—
the shock of it
cutting right through me.

People say 
Time heals all wounds.
No one tells you
you will lose them over and over,
so many more times.

I lost him again that Christmas,
when I sat down and realized
there’d be no familiar laugh 
on the other side of the table.

I lost him again
when I bought my first house.
I walked through every room thinking,
I can’t wait to show him,
until I remembered
I never would.

I lost him again
when a friend talked about her niece
and I realized, suddenly
I would never be the aunt
to the children he won’t have.

I lost him again
when our mom died
and I had to grieve her
without the only person
who knew our childhood the way I did.

People ask me
What was it like to lose him?

And I tell them:
I’m still losing him.
In the small moments,
the ordinary ones
that take me by surprise.

I will lose him a thousand more times
for the rest of my life
and love him
every time it happens.

It started early—the first accomplishment I viscerally remember was in 3rd grade. A D.A.R.E. officer came to my classroom and asked each of us to write an essay about the harm of drugs. That evening, I slaved over my handwritten words, erasing the pencil sentences that didn’t land, reworking them until they became a compelling warning. No one would touch drugs after reading this! Upon turning it in, I was invited to read the essay to the whole school. I was incredibly proud, not because I was dissuading people from drugs (although that was a nice bonus), but because I was being told I was great.

In middle school, a teacher pulled me aside after class. “I showed this to the principal,” she said, holding up my historical fiction story on Joan of Arc. I remember the flush of pride—and how quickly I started thinking about what I’d write next to earn that feeling again.

Each accomplishment only fueled me to the next, creating a long list of accolades on my resume: Editor-in-Chief of the high school newspaper, bachelor’s degree graduating summa cum laude, PR internship at Dolce & Gabbana, Cannes Lions Young Marketer’s Academy, etc. etc. I could go on, but you get the idea. I would achieve, there would be a short-lived high, and within 24 hours I was onto the next thing. It was never enough. I had to do more, achieve more, be more.

Then, my whole world stopped when I got a call out of the blue on a random Monday in the middle of May that my 31 year old brother had died. It rocked me to my core because it was not part of my carefully constructed plan for my life. It highlighted something I had spent my entire life trying to disprove: I was not in control. At least, not in the way that I hoped.

I had spent my life truly believing I could control myself and everything around me by being perfect. My color-coded calendars, my flawlessly curated resume, my even-keeled demeanor. It was all part of a facade that I had created for myself when I was very young. It came from a place of pain—I felt ignored by the adults in my life and in order to try to get noticed, I decided to be as remarkable as possible. If I could just achieve enough, I would be worthy. I believed that behind the next accomplishment was the unconditional love I so desperately wanted. More, I didn’t believe I deserved that love inherently, just for being me. It had to be earned.

It wasn’t all bad—this mentality served me by creating a girl who was pretty impressive. I climbed the ranks at every job I had ever had. I loved being known for my brains and talent. Yes, it was a ploy for control over my life and earning love, but it was working for me.

But, back to the death of my brother. It made my whole world halt. Worse, it made me stop caring. I had relied on a deep want and need to impress others my whole life, and overnight, it disappeared. It was hard to care about accomplishments and perception when I didn’t care about getting out of bed.

I was exhausted—not just your typical burn-out, but a deep, deep tiredness. I had to change something and slow down for the first time in my life.

So I did all the things they tell you to do when your life turns upside down. I went to therapy. I began taking care of my body. I actually started paying attention to my mental health and worked on feeling my feelings (scary). I created wellness practices to turn to when I started to feel the ahh-I’m-not-in-control panic.

The first thing I had to let go of is control. It didn’t matter how much I white-knuckled life, it was not within my grips. In fact, my brother’s death opened up my eyes to how little we all have control over. Creating the facade of control wasn’t helping and I had to admit that how I was operating was no longer working.

Then letting go of accomplishments followed. Scary, because I wasn’t sure what I would be known for if not for my achievements. They had become synonymous with my identity and I wasn’t sure how I was going to untether them.

But my brother’s death had given me perspective I never had before: there’s more to life than your accolades. I couldn’t tell you what my brother’s job title was when he died, but I could tell you his favorite music, how much he loved his fiancé, and what his laugh sounded like. Which got me thinking about what I want to be known for—what I want people to remember about me.

The truth was, my whole life I had used pain as fuel. The belief that I was unworthy, unlovable—it made me an overachiever. The girl who always delivers. The one you can count on. The one who has her shit together.

Strip that away and I had no idea what was left.

I thought the little mean voice in my head that told me I wasn’t good enough is what made me achieve. It’s what kept me sharp. It’s what fueled me. I had grown an attachment to high expectations and worried that without it, I would become painfully ordinary. When your trauma becomes your identity, healing means you have to meet yourself for the first time. At thirty years old, I’m still learning to recognize myself.

But here’s what I’m learning: I love writing—not because someone asked me to, but because I have something to say. Long walks ground me in a way productivity hacks never did. I’m creative when I give myself space to think freely. I adore cats (obviously). I’m a loving partner and friend, not because I’m trying to earn it, but because that’s actually who I am.

Is it still a struggle sometimes? Of course, but over-achiever recovery takes time.

I had been so worried, but spoiler: My whole world didn’t stop because I stopped chasing achievements. I didn’t lose my job, my money, or all my loved ones like my anxious mind promised I would. Turns out, I’m quite intrinsically motivated—I didn’t need to be so hard on myself to get things done. Resting more and allowing space for creativity has actually helped me work toward my goals more meaningfully. And yes, I do still have goals. I just don’t tell myself I’m a failure for not reaching them on some made-up timeline.

I’ve learned that I’m so much more than my resume. I’ll probably always be someone who loves to achieve, but it’s not my everything anymore. Pain was my fuel for a long time, but there are better alternatives: purpose, love, community. I’ll be filling up on those for the foreseeable future.

Have you ever realized the thing driving you forward was actually holding you back?

Then trauma came, uninvited.
She entered without knocking.
I tried to shoo her away,
but soon she was everywhere—
in every room,
every wall echoing her footsteps.

I looked in the mirror
and hated this home I’d tended so carefully,
unable to see past the invasion.

Trauma lives in my teeth:
identical to my mother’s
a feature I once cherished,
until her addiction made me wish
I looked nothing like her.

Trauma lives in my eyes:
the same color as my grandmother’s.
Every morning they ask
if life might have been softer
had she stayed longer.

Trauma lives in my recoil from touch:
a whisper of boundaries crossed,
a language my muscles never forgot.

Trauma lives in my skin:
thinned by loss after my brother died
a deep tiredness I can’t shake.

Trauma lives in my back:
tense, twisted
braced for what’s to come.

Trauma lives in my mind:
scanning for danger,
anticipating grief,
whispering that I’m not enough.

For years I fought her
white-knuckled, relentless.
But the harder I resisted,
the more she settled in.

One day,
I decided I didn’t want to fight in my own house anymore.
So I offered her a chair.
We sat together in the quiet,
and I listened.
She became less frightening
almost familiar.
Sometimes, I didn’t mind her company.

When I acknowledged her,
she stopped being all I saw.

I looked again
and saw my teeth,
welcoming and warm when I smile.

My eyes,
a rare color,
a reflection of those who came before me.

The lines in my skin,
a map of time
and the privilege of aging.

My back,
strong enough to carry
what once felt unbearable.

And oh, my mind
still brimming with ideas,
with tenderness,
with wonder.

Although trauma wasn’t invited in,
she lives here now.

But she is not all of me.