She was born with nothing
but a gift of love
and the hope to share it
harmony and verse
spinning around her
like butterflies 

flitting
              floating 
                             freeing

the smoky mountain air
hanging on her fingers
plucking gold
from the sun
and silver 
from the clouds
sprinkling a trail of diamonds

       planting them like dreams
                       under children’s pillows
waking them 
to a future
where anything is possible

because 
she was born with nothing 
but a gift of love
and the hope to share it
long after she rests

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My months faking fine during my PPD were so fucking hard. I cannot imagine what it would be like to handle the dread, panic, exhaustion, and disassociation I experienced with much of the world watching and judging, when I was already judging myself. And failing, badly.

PPD is not a character flaw and it doesn’t mean we don’t love our children. It is one of a variety of responses to progesterone and estrogen levels dropping sharply, and may be exacerbated by factors like

• having had a difficult birth or pregnancy,

• bringing the baby into a stressful situation,

• trouble nursing, or

• history of pre-menstrual dysmorphic disorder*

• family history of depression or anxiety.

As a lifetime overachiever, I checked every single one of those boxes!

I wish I had known going in that I was at such a high risk coming out. I would for sure have still had my baby, but I would have vastly changed my expectations of who and how I would be after she was born, and had more support lined up so I wouldn’t always feel like such a guilty failure.

Instead, I was vastly ill prepared to have so much trouble regaining my body’s shape, size and function, which made it hard to return to work as a leader in the fitness and mind/body industry. That led me to more feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness. I was ill-prepared to regain my mental capacity so the fog, distraction and anxiety made it very hard to manage my business. Yup, more worthlessness, purposelessness and hopelessness. I was ill-prepared to be dark and brooding and anxious and in pain, rather than my usual rainbow unicorn cotton candy sprinkle self, and my daughter deserved rainbows and unicorns. So, yet more worthlessness and hopelessness. The only thing I felt I was doing well was being a good illustration of a downward spiral.

I was afraid to ask for help because of my belief that I had to be the magazine mom - the one who looked put together, well accessorized, well-slept, and had a quiet and clean baby from day one at home; the stigma of mental illness; and my family history with regard to the stigma, more than to the illness.

Fortunately, I mostly recovered my unicorns and sprinkles after about 10 months, but the guilt and anxiety over the effects of my depression still haunt me to this day:

Is my daughter’s General Anxiety Disorder and the separation anxiety we dealt with for a decade my fault because I was depressed? What about the speech delay she had? The night terrors, or the years of struggle to eat well? Yup, even as a baby she was an overachiever and checked off all of those signs of a child of a mom with PPD.

That is just one reason why we really need to talk about PPD as a society, and also in the practitioner’s offices prior to delivery. Because, when we are our non-depressed selves, all we want is what is best for our kids, and we will do anything for them to thrive.

So, here it is. Yes, our PPD can affect our children. But that does NOT make us bad parents or people. What it means is:

• we have to recognize that we need help;

• we have to ask for help;

• we have to receive and utilize the help; and

• we have to give ourselves grace for our challenges and respect for trying to work through them. When we see a mom struggling, we have to give her that grace and respect as well.

It means that when we see a mom struggling, we have to give her that grace and respect as well.

That is where we failed Hayden Panettiere. We can do better, and we must, for the moms, and for their kids who need them.

*Pre-Menstrual Dysmorphic Disorder (PMDD) is worse to experience than its unpleasant sister, PMS, and is comorbid with ADHD and other types of neurodivergeance. If anyone out there has a teenager who expresses symptoms worse than bloating and chocolate craving, please let them know there is help, and help them get to a women’s health specialist. There are many treatments, but left untreated, women and girls can start to feel hopeless, depressed and experience other forms of mental illness.

Yesterday, fold two suffered a direct hit when an executive order was signed by a businessman, against the advice of the American Academy of Pediatrics and decades of peer reviewed (actual gold-standard) science. To further this assault on children, the EO gives the Attorney General authority to challenge states who do not comply with the revised vaccine schedule.

Bare Arms strives to put policy over politics, but when a related event is politically driven and founded on debunked myths about a pretend relationship between the MMR and Autism, I need to call a spade a spade, and this move was to placate a base who is losing interest in a leader because of war and economics.

And the new EO does not need to be followed.

Hear me, please, parents. Patients and parents can still ask for the tried and true vaccine schedule, or a modification that suits their needs. The stripped down version only limits required vaccines, it does not take them off the market.

Parental freedom is one of the purported reasons for this proposed change. So parents, for the sake of your child and community, please, exercise your freedom and choose the old vaccine schedule.

glacial surface
gray - blue eyes 
betraying nothing 
of the tumultuous fire
cracking beneath
where no one can see
anything but flashes
of the passion
when steam blows
from small bowls
harmlessly to join the rain
that deters no one 
from trying
to learn  
of the fire 
burning within 

In Nashville, a fallen tree - an act of god - was resting on another tree when a camper touched the unstable one, causing it to fall on Camden Callihan.

In Seattle, there were no fallen trees, no natural disasters, just too many kids with access to too many guns. According to the mayor of Seattle, that was the third mass shooting in the city in a week. The same week that the Twin Cities saw three mass shootings. Nationwide, there were nine mass shootings in the US in one week.

Nine mass shootings in a week.

Why are we not marching for relief from this tyranny? Why are we not demanding tougher gun laws and electing gunsense candidates? Why are we so flipping immune to gun violence that we are more worried about a stock falling than the next mass shooting?

The tree was an accident. A horrible and incredibly sad accident that took the life of a teenager.

The Seattle food fest shooting committed by a teenager could not have happened if guns were not available, accessible and allowed everywhere.

It is impossible to legislate against a tree falling in the woods.

It is very possible to require universal background checks, close loopholes, require safety lock - ups and parental oversight and re-instate the assault rifle ban.

Why do we just let our kids die? WTF, people!?

Come join me on my Bare Arms initiative where we work to reduce childhood death by gun violence and increase childhood vaccination rates to prevent death by previously eradicated illnesses. DM me to learn more.

I am old enough to know that even law wasn’t perfect and didn’t prevent Columbine. I remember thinking, in the wake of that tragedy, that the shooting was the worst thing that could ever happen, and of course we would do to all we could to prevent anything like that from ever happening again. Even after 5 years working in the federal government at that point, I was still naive enough to think that the government would do more to protect innocent born children.

Today, gun violence is the number one cause of death of kids and teens in the U.S.

I am old enough to have had school age children when the Sandy Hook massacre happened in 2012. Surely, the senseless deaths of 20 first graders, right before Christmas no less, would be enough to make “them” do something.

The violence continued. I raged to my echo chamber.

Parkland was about an hour away from us; we occasionally visited a skating rink near there. When the survivors “called BS” and we marched with them in the early days of Students Demand Action, I cried for days, and didn’t leave my children anywhere without me for at least a year (we homeschooled by then) because I knew I was the only person who would throw my body over theirs if we were ever in a shooting.

The Violence continued. I raged to my echo chamber and donated to Everytown For Gun Safety.

Covenant School is about 15 minutes from where we lived at the time of the mass shooting there. My daughter had an acquaintance that went to church with Hallie Scruggs, one of the six children killed there. Our commute took us through Hallie’s neighborhood for much of the next few months. There is a huge heart on a gate post with her name on it. Hallie had a church and a street and we knew people who knew her. Our next door neighbor, Marsha, was friends with Katherine Koonce, the Head of School. Marsha went to six funerals in a week.

The violence continued. I raged to my echo chamber, brought Marsha flowers and dinner one night, and made a peace memorial with our skating community.

I am so guilty of saying “enough is enough” but never doing anything beyond comforting the grieving at best.

Then, I started writing poetry after massive acts of violence or political turmoil.

And then came Annunciation. And I lost it completely. The neighborhood I grew up near; went to school in, a pin on the cork board of my safety net, was violated.

Friends on Substack asked me to write a poem about the victims. Harper & Fletcher moved me to tears so much I couldn’t even edit it. Murder of children had reached epidemic proportions; this was a real public health crisis, like a reduction in vaccine rates.

And I raged to my echo chamber, wrote more, joined Moms Demand Action and Everytown For Gun Safety, and started Bare Arms to #protecttheborn from preventable death and serious illness.

I am not waiting for an act of congress or wisdom on the part of the government to read the second amendment in context. “Enough is enough” only means something if we the people act to protect the children in our communities.

He is everywhere
he shouldn't be 
smell the pinecone
hug the tree
he is everywhere 
and he shouldn’t be
Like dust in my corners,
webs in long halls 
crumbs in the sofa
tears in waterfalls
He is everywhere
he shouldn't be
every rock bears his name
the waves hitting shore
building and building 
making me look for more
He's everywhere. 
He shouldn't be. 
Smell the pinecone 
hug the tree
He's everywhere
still loving me

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She wears the cloud
solemnly
a sugar shroud
surfing her moods
lifting when she 
splashes the treetops
laughing when the spray
catches rainbows 
falling back to shore

then

lowering
suddenly
a curtain 
calling for intermission
in the middle of the scene

She wears the cloud
reverently
a tear filled shroud
lifting with her waves
floating above her 
diamond filled surface
mind watching body
meditating
floating higher with each breath
releasing her spirit 
from the depths

then

lowering again
covering her soul
so no one 
will ever see 
her hit 
rock bottom 	

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They call me invasive  
like a stray zircon thought
in a mind of diamonds 
so why do I flourish
if I am not meant to be?`
I withstand the weight of January
and burn not 
in the fires of July 
I live with the grasses
and befriend the trees
humming along
to the waves’ beat
and whistle with the thistle
when wind blows from the east
that is how I got here
wings of air in a desert storm
landing on the shore
planting seeds
growing roots
raising colorful petals
standing tall against the sky 
If this is not home now
where do I belong 

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Puzzle pieces
sitting round the table 
looking for a place to fit
settings
Pencil
Napkin
Pen
surround an empty plate 
drawing on experience 
no one else can fathom 
Deep scars 
receding 
filling in with light and love 
spread like butter 
smooth 
soft side of the knife 
no slices
melting 
with laughter 
coloring connections 

Gertrude 
steady and stout
watches me 
watching her
through my bedroom window
her entire reason for existing
is to guard the eggs
she lay 
on my air conditioner
and she does just fine
whether it’s high cool 
or only fan
she just stays there
watching me
watching her
guarding her nest
rain or shine
she is living her purpose
while I question mine 

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I have been stressed before, but never like this.  Never like the tight rope I am walking is going boing boing boing and could snap at any moment.  Never like walled off from my feelings.  Never incapable of listening.  And I didn’t even realize I had become a Zombie Shell, I just went with it because I was getting by.

Then, a few days ago, I read a note by one of my favorite Sub Stackers, Craig Sefa, and my shell cracked just a tiny bit.  The sliver of light hurt when it illuminated what the trauma of the desecration of my country was doing to me, and how I was numb; stuck on autopilot, with uninspired reactions reactions reactions in the echo chamber.

So yesterday, I forced myself out of my routine, and walked the dogs at a different park; a lovely island of sanity between a freeway and 12 South, a bustling hub of the Nashville scene.

The freeway noise was loud. Very, very loud.

But the birds were loud, too.  And, while scooping up a fresh, hot mess from my older dog, I realized that I had a choice.

I could choose to hear the cars and trucks fuming by below me, or, I could choose to listen to the birdsongs drifting through the trees beside me.  

It is more work to choose the birds.  They, even en mass, are quieter than the traffic, and more dispersed, so it is more challenging both to block out the traffic noise and to let in the sounds of nature.  But is doable, and so much more worthwhile.

While listening to the traffic, I feel slow, unproductive and like I, too, should be rushing somewhere.  While listening to the birds, I feel relaxed, connected and purposeful.

Craig shone his light on the path I was walking; the shiny paved path of least resistance, while what I intended to be doing was resisting.

It turns out, if I am going to be an effective voice of resistance , I need to travel on the hiking trail.  The messy gnarly one.  The one that the birds sing on, the squirrels chomp on, the deer scurry over.  That loud, muddy path that I have to work to traverse is the one that inspires me, relaxes me, focuses me, and allows me to do what needs to be done.

We all have a choice.  I choose the hard way.  Feel free to join me and the wildlife as we fight for free speech, science and the rule of law.

Thanks, Craig.  

Motherhood
is a treasure chest
of the lost and found
sitting on the side
of the school playground
dusted with crumbs and dreams

Sense-of-self and boundaries
lie tangled in the straps of baby carriers
closed bathroom doors
Sleep, and gym time 
are buried in there, too
covered by stretch marks and eye bags

Chaos and alphabet soup - 
ASD, ADHD, SPD, GAD, ARFID -
spell out a vast well of patience
discovered wholly by accident
while scouring the box
for topics of conversation 
unrelated to exploded diapers

Resilience bounces out
in the search for jeans that still fit,
flexibility 
arranging variations of Warrior Pose
ready to battle principals on principles
and ableist on everything else

Love - a weakness -
is scattered throughout
like pastel Easter eggs 
calm, gentle and ready to crack

Love - a shield - 
shiny and hard, 
reflective 
mirrored Ray-Bans
Motherhood

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not again
yes, again 

twisted
another soul
shot out of her body
while strolling 
past a pretzel stand

twisted
this world 
assault rifles
more common 
than sugar and spice
twisted 
this world
where futures erupt
through the barrel of a volcano
pouring lava hot blood
through the streets
that should be paved with dreams
twisted 
this world
fight like hell 
for the unborn
who the fuck cares 
about them once they aren’t carried
in a vessel 
but tote a backpack full of promises
broken 
in this 
twisted world
yes, again

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No one should have to die alone 
my thighs stick 
to the inhospitable asphalt
maybe I’m not so glad
it’s finally shorts weather after all 
the cardinals are waiting, 
respectful,
on the few intact teeth
of the  broken back fence’s smile
while the bluebirds sing a hymn
and blades of grass wave goodbye
no one should have to die alone
my eyes stick
gummy from pollen and pain
yellow wings try in vain
to flutter through this phase
but
wing veins no longer pulse
and the clover has no honey 
no one should have to die alone
I’m here, little one
your spirit is safe with me
I know my shadow
blocked your last rays of light
I’m sorry
I was just trying to make you 
a bed of leaves
to cushion your passage
I am not here to scare you
I am here
because no one 
should have to die alone 
so I’ll water your grave
with my tears 

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I was soft, 
warm tears
sailing down
the valleys 
stenciled on her face
soft, warm tears
puddling at the fjord
of her heart 

I was time
deepening the 
canyons on her face
softening her contours
slowing her pace 

I was ice
hardening those tears
slowly forming a glacier 
where her heart once beat
now a monument
to the pain 
you caused your mother

I am heat from deep within
the scars she bears 
from your rape
of her bounty 

I will melt the ice 
you will hear only echoes 
of my laughter
as the tides roll in
and drown out
your futile cries for mercy

She is no more
and you
with your hubris
you 
are an orphan 
crushed to infinity 

NaPoWriMo Day 7 prompt from Alex Dawson “Think about something hard that has happened to you recently. Write a ‘persona poem’ from the perspective of another person or even an object involved.”

They call it “Pillow Talk” 
but mostly, I listen
to her self-esteem shrinking 
her into the shape of a shrimp
when he says 
“it’s not you,” and pats her on the head
before rolling over 
to pick up his iPhone 
and swipe left 

Few tears are left
after she swipes her eyes
with make up remover
so I stay fresh and bright - 
a reflection of the woman she was
until she wasn’t 

They call it “pillow talk”
but mostly, I listen
to the disappointment she swallows
like shots of tequila -
the only salty burn she gets
dabbing her lips at my corner 
daintily faking perfection
as if it would make a difference 

Perfectly faking indifference 
while trying to be different
scrolling through TikTok
lookIng for a her he might prefer

She clings to me 
like the hope she has lost
laying her dreams on my down
I hold on to her sobs
to cushion her loneliness 
 
They call it “pillow talk”
but mostly I watch 
his dismissal 
making her someone 
she wasn’t meant to be

I’ll never forget 
the wails of agony
trees losing limbs
bowing to the weight of ice
silencing their bark in 
just minutes of rapid rain

I’ll never forget their pain
and shock
as their roots were lifted 
from the same earth 
that nourished them
for decades
braying like litter pups
torn from the teat  
the earth gaping
aghast at the damage
wrought by the freeze
until the fires started
downed lines
strangling the trunks 
left guarding their dead

I’ll never forget the marvel
these forces 
nature and nurture
burning and freezing
together as one 

Some nights

he gets so full of himself

the big man

blocking everyone else's light

riding the tides of worship

howling with the pack

hiding from his dark side

deflecting the truth -

most nights

a million other sparks

outshine him -

they light the captain's waves

and wink behind his back

some nights

have teeth

and they devour him

in the void

She thought the shower 
would contain her emotions
that the stall
would trap her ambivalence
in droplets of condensation
on the steamed door
Yet her meltdown 
sluiced through the pipes
with vanilla shower gel
and gnarled clumps of hair
running through 
the stream
louder, hotter than the 
jetted water itself
Tile and glass
amplifying her sobs
bringing a torrent
of anxiety 
down the pipes
mixing with 
my own salty
tequila laden 
emptiness 
Our tears
her hopes
my fears
her dreams
at the confluence
of moving day