The Splendid Body
by Rebecca Lindenberg

The splendid body is meat, flexor
and flesh pumping, pulling, anti-
gravity maverick just standing
upright all over museums and
in line for the bus and in the laundry
aisle where it’s just standing there
smelling all the detergent like
it’s no big deal. So what if a couple
of its squishy parts are suspended
within, like beach-bungled jellyfish
in a shelved jar, not doing anything?
Nothing on this side of the quantum
tunnel is perfect. The splendid body,
though, is splendid in the way
it keeps its steamy blood in, no matter
how bad it blushes. And splendid
in how it opens its mouth and
these invisible vibrations come
rippling out—if you put your wrist
right up to it when that happens
it feels somewhat like the feet
of many bees. The splendid body
loves the juniper smell of gin, loves
the warmth of printer-fresh paper,
and the sound fallen leaves make
under the wheel of a turning car.
If you touch it between the legs,
the splendid body will quicken
like bubbles in a just-on teakettle.
It knows it can’t exist forever, so
it’s collecting as many flavors as it can—
saffron, rainwater, fish-skin, chive.
Do not distract it from its purpose,
which is to feel everything it can find.

This is one of my favorite poems that I shared with the group of women I led last May on a hiking and writing retreat in the Highlands of Scotland. I partnered with WHOA Travel to build the itinerary of my dreams, and when they suggested adding a wild swim in one of Scotland’s iconic lochs, I agreed. While I hate cold water, I’ve learned the most surprising joy often comes as a result of pushing myself outside my comfort zone.

When we arrived for our swim, we donned giant puffy robes and walked down to Loch Alvie’s naked shore. Nothing but trees and mountains to bear witness to a gaggle of shivering women. The ambient temperature was 35 degrees Fahrenheit, the temperature of the water slightly above 50. Several of us were certain we would spend the entire time in the sauna on the beach instead of the water.

Our guide, Alice, a professional wild swimmer who has swum the English Channel, showed us how to breathe as we entered the water and encouraged us to jump and curse and scream to work through the discomfort. I can’t speak for everyone, but after hearing this woman talk about being stung by jellyfish while she swam 21 miles from England to France, I figured I could try to get at least up to my knees. One woman, who shared she didn’t curse in front of other people, let out a long string of expletives in a gorgeous Tennessee drawl. She couldn’t stop smiling. She glowed beneath the slate gray sky.

I was certain I’d only go to my knees. Instead I screamed and waded up to my shoulders. Despite our trepidation, we all lasted in the water longer than we thought possible. We breathed through the pain and tingling and emerged reinvigorated. In between swims, we warmed up in the sauna. Every single one of us swam at least twice.

Regardless of shape or size, I have yet to meet any woman unaffected by the propaganda we hear from childhood that our bodies need fixing. From adolescence through puberty through childbearing through perimenopause and menopause, our bodies shift and morph, yet we are encouraged to smooth and shrink and tighten. Somehow the privilege of aging has become something we’re told to conceal.

Three years into eating disorder recovery and my relationship to my body is still an invisible battle I fight almost daily. Slowly I am rewiring my brain through movement that is joyful rather than punitive, writing to excavate instead of bury my grief and rage, and food that feels nourishing and fun.

Part of bringing women out into the wild to hike and write is to give them the chance to connect to their minds and bodies through writing and movement without screens or mirrors. There’s nothing like the gift of a week to strip away the internalized voices that criticize how we look and focus on what we feel.

This swim peeled back an additional layer as we donned swimsuits and exposed dimpled thighs and soft bellies. Our laughter echoed across the landscape. I remembered the girl I was at eleven before I paid any attention to how my body looked. When all I thought about was climbing trees, swimming for hours at the neighborhood pool, running around the neighborhood collecting fireflies, and sustaining my energy with pizza and vanilla ice cream coated in rainbow sprinkles.

I am forever trying to return to that young girl whose wild imagination was unimpeded by patriarchal beauty standards.

On the final day, when I asked everyone about their favorite part of the trip, almost everyone shared that it was the wild swim—the unexpected exhilaration of feeling cold and alive.

Writing Prompts:

• Write a letter from the perspective of your body. What does it want to experience or feel that you haven’t allowed it to?

• Make a list poem of flavors your body has collected in your lifetime. What has your body allowed you to experience? Be as specific, quirky, and granular as possible. Make it ugly and beautiful.

  I share poems, essays, and writing prompts meant to preserve the art of slowing down and connecting to our inner worlds.

Opportunities for Community & Connection

Upcoming Poetry Apothecary Events (open to all paid subscribers and recorded if you cannot attend live)

August

• The Poetry of Victoria Chang (Sunday, August 23rd, 10 - 11:30 AM CST)

• How to Write a Cento (Thursday, August 27th, 7 - 8:15 PM CST)

September

• Golden Shovel Poems (Thursday, September 10th, 7 - 8:15 PM CST)

• The Poetry of Carrie Fountain (Wednesday, September 16th, 7 - 8:30 PM CST)

• Small Group Poetry Feedback & Editing (Sunday, September 27th, 11 AM - 12 PM CST)

October

• Elegies & Poems of Grief (Thursday, October 15th, 7 - 8: 15 PM CST)

• The Poetry of Kevin Young (Sunday, October 25th, 11 AM - 12:30 PM CST)

• Bridging the Thin Veil: A Samhain Circle for Ancestral Writing (Thursday, October 29th, 7 - 8:30 PM CST)

  Writing circle is such a fun and meaningful place. I’ve come to know incredible people and expand my perspectives with incredible poets. Danielle is a fabulous leader who cultivates warm and creative space. - Katie

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New Opportunities to Write & Slow Down

In addition to workshops, classes, prompts, and subscriber-only content, Poetry Apothecary members will now have access to:

• Group feedback and editing sessions every two months

• Quarterly community open mics

• Opportunities for quarterly 1:1 editing with me (Poetry Patrons only)

All classes and workshops are recorded, and I offer a mix of evening and weekend daytime gatherings to accommodate different schedules and time zones.

Upcoming Events

August

• The Poetry of Victoria Chang

• Centos

September

• Golden Shovel Poems

• The Poetry of Carrie Fountain

• Small Group Poetry Feedback & Editing

October

• Elegies & Poems of Grief

• The Poetry of Kevin Young

• Bridging the Thin Veil: A Samhain Circle for Ancestral Writing

November

• The Poetry of Kelly Grace Thomas

• Small Group Poetry Feedback & Editing

• Open Mic

December

• The Poetry of Sharon Olds

• Winter Solstice Writing Circle

What People Are Saying

To sustain this work and continue offering these gatherings, the membership price will increase on August 1 to reflect those additions. On August 1, the price of paid subscriptions will increase from $75/year to $125/year and from $8/month to $14/month. Anyone who joins before then will be grandfathered into the rate they sign up at for as long as they remain a member.

If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to reach out. I am on the other side of every e-mail I send out. I look forward to writing together.

How to Summer 

Imagine you are a cicada 
with only weeks to live. 
How lucky to have this 
body—loud-mouthed 
& ugly with desire. 
Winter is always coming. 
I hope you let joy run 
sticky down your elbows. 

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Even when we lived in Belgium, we came back to Kansas to visit my grandparents each summer. This means the symphony of cicadas in July and August is inextricably interwoven with my idea of summer. The times I’ve visited other places where these tiny insects don’t sing, I find the quiet haunting.

There are over 3,000 species of cicadas worldwide, and they don’t all sound the same, so if you’ve never heard how cicadas sound in the United States Midwest, you can listen here: Midwest Summer Cicadas.

Each summer we came to the United States, my friends and I would run around collecting cicada shells. They were everywhere, clinging to trunks, branches, and the siding on my grandmother’s house. We made large nests for our collection. I loved the way you could see through them when you held them up to the sun.

Cicadas spend the majority of their lives underground. Annual cicadas appear every summer and have a two- to five-year life cycle. Periodical cicadas emerge less frequently and have a thirteen- to seventeen-year life cycle. A few years ago, both kinds overlapped and the Midwest was swarmed with cicadas everywhere. Most people found it horrifying. I found it incredible.

Adult cicadas spend only four to six weeks above ground. Males spend half that time singing to attract mates. That’s the ear-piercing sound we hear each summer, which can be as loud as a passing subway. They are ugly creatures by our standards, but they are loud and hungry, and I’ve always loved how something so small can create so much noise.

My childhood summers were wild and sticky and wonderful. I climbed trees, swam all day with my friends, played in creeks. My imagination knew no bounds. We ate whatever we wanted when we were hungry and never once thought about how we looked in a swimsuit or worried about our complexion. Our appearance had no bearing on our joy.

Three full years into eating disorder recovery, I still have days when body dysmorphia makes going to the pool difficult, or when I’d rather curl up in a sweatshirt and sweatpants despite it being 100 degrees.

Earlier this month, I had a healthcare scare when I requested an early colonoscopy (I’m forty, and in the U.S. insurance won’t cover colonoscopies until you’re forty-five). They found four large precancerous polyps. They were removed, and fortunately the biopsy indicated they were benign, but it reminded me how truly little we know about what can befall us at any moment.

I’ve always been aware of death. I was exposed to it very young. I’ve locked eyes with it up close numerous times in my life, and yet, this result scared me.

My natural inclination is to wait for when things feel “right.” To go swimming when I feel good in my body. To share and submit poems only when I believe they are perfect. But as this poem says, winter is always coming. We cannot escape aging or the inevitability of death. We are never promised next summer.

I remind myself constantly how lucky I am to have this body, even on the days it frustrates me most. How I have this in common with the cicada—a loud desire for the brief season on this earth I am given.

If these essays, poems, and reflections have become a meaningful part of your week, I’d love to invite you to become a paid subscriber and join our growing community.

Starting August 1, subscription rates will be increasing to reflect everything that’s been added to The Poetry Apothecary. Paid members now receive access to our monthly Writing Circle, a small-group editing session every other month, quarterly community open mics and poetry showcases, along with subscriber-only essays, poems, prompts, and other resources designed to help us read more deeply, write more honestly, and stay connected to one another.

If you’ve been thinking about joining, subscribing before August 1 will lock in the current rate for as long as you remain a paid member.

Thank you for being here and for helping make this community what it is. I’m so grateful we get to build it together.

Join the Poetry Apothecary Community

Writing circle is such a fun and meaningful place. I’ve come to know incredible people and expand my perspectives with incredible poets. It is supportive and has real depth which we all need in our lives. Danielle is a fabulous leader who cultivates warm and creative space. — Katie

I’ve been thinking about the impact a single human can have on the life of another. How a teacher or mentor or kind stranger can have an unexpected positive influence when they enter our lives at the right time.

Children have very little agency in their early years. Some are fortunate to have family and loved ones who are supportive and nurturing and encourage them to be their most authentic selves. Others grow up in environments where they learn quickly to mask and conceal the parts of themselves they’ve been taught to be ashamed of.

This extends far beyond gender-identity and who we love, but June is PRIDE month, and I wanted to write a poem celebrating the LGBTQ community while also underscoring the importance of this month.

There are still children and adults all over the world who do not feel safe expressing who they are and who they love. Fewer than 40% of LGBTQ young people find their home to be LGBTQ-affirming. Anxiety, depression, eating disorders, risk of suicide are all much higher for those who do not have the support of those around them.

The current administration in the United States continues to push back on progress for the LGBTQ community with a particular focus on attacking trans men and women, members of the LGBTQ community who are often most at risk of discrimination and harassment.

To this day, people ask why we need PRIDE. There are many reasons, but the one I focus on most is that visibility of others leading full, robust lives filled with friends and chosen family who love and support who you are is literally life saving.

The following poem is for anyone who has ever felt like they didn’t fit in. Who was made to feel like they were “wrong” or “broken.” Know you are not alone. There are millions just like you ready to welcome you just as you are.

Thank you so much for reading. Feel free to share this poem with anyone who might enjoy it.

The Understory is a reader-supported publication. To receive new poems and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

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All paid subscriptions support this free offering, and paid subscribers have access to monthly Poetry Apothecary generative writing sessions, a space where we gather to write, reflect, and return to ourselves.

Upcoming Poetry Apothecary Community Events

Poetry Apothecary writing circles are open to all paid subscribers. Each month, we explore the work of a single poet, discuss themes and craft, and spend time writing from prompts I provide. Anyone who wishes can share at the end. Meetings alternate between Wednesday evenings (7 PM CST) and Sunday mornings (11 AM CST). If you are unable to attend live, recordings are available for every session.

Upcoming sessions:

• Jun 14 — Franny Choi, Jul 22 — Jericho Brown, Aug 23 — Victoria Chang, Sep 16 — Carrie Fountain, Oct 25 — Kevin Young

Additional pop-up sessions:

• Jun 24, 7 PM CST - Friendship Poetry, Sep 10, 7 PM CST - Golden Shovel Poems, Oct 15, 7 PM CST - Elegies & Poems of Grief

“These gatherings are enlightening and deeply connecting at a time when we need community most.” — Lyndsey B.

Learn more + join here

Don’t Wait

You will want to be taller, shorter, thinner, 
curvier. You will disappoint your mother 
& yourself. Your boss won’t care how you 
performed on high school exams. You will 
believe you lost the love of your life. Instead 
you will meet them a year from now 
on a Tuesday. Tulips will bloom the day 
of your father’s funeral. It will storm 
on your wedding day. Marriage will feel 
both lonely & suffocating. You will adore 
& resent your children. You will wish 
for more time. You will promise to be better. 
You will not be better. Winter will return 
uninvited. You will be a sad cinnamon roll. 
You will miss your green bones, regret 
the unkindness you showed them. Your friends 
will be your soulmates. You will bury your dog 
& your sister. Your skin will wrinkle gorgeous 
like hydrangea petals. Your war-ravaged heart 
will keep beating. Before the end you will realize 
all of it mattered. Don’t wait until then to fall 
in love with your life. 

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As long as I can remember, I’ve loved walking in cemeteries. Not at night, as I’m easily spooked and prone to nightmares, but by day when I can read the inscriptions on the tombstones and imagine the lives of those who left this Earth before me. During the pandemic as my son’s father and I grappled with a newborn, lockdown, and the recognition that we were not compatible longterm, I often found myself seeking solace alone or with my baby strapped to my chest in a cemetery nearby.

Perhaps it sounds morbid to seek out the dead when you’re questioning your own life decisions and have a history of suicidal ideation, but walking among those whose time with the living has ended reminds me of every reason I want to stay tethered to this life. On days my brain is cruelest, a walk among tombstones, wildflowers, and captions written by those grieving loss of their beloved, I remember how temporary and fragile our time with one another is.

I wrote this poem as a reminder to myself. Some days, life feels difficult to love. I spent many years believing I needed to become a specific version of myself before my life would be of value, but my forty years have looked nothing as I imagined. I’ve tried many times to mold myself into the kind of woman I thought I should be, to be less messy and conventional, but the truth is my life has been interesting.

I’m not grateful for all of it. I wish certain traumatic experiences in childhood and in relationships had never taken place. I wish I could prevent the self-sabotage of my youth—take back the pain I caused through words and actions to people I loved. Those of you who have read my work long enough know I detest a forced silver lining. I do not believe everyone is required to spin joy out of pain. However, even in the moments living felt most unbearable, there were pinpricks of joy.

At my father’s funeral, I held his newborn grand-niece, and she couldn’t stop smiling. During my divorce, my friends fed me pasta carbonara and warm blueberry muffins to ensure I ate. When I was separated from my seventeen-month old son for fifty percent of the time, my girlfriends came over to help organize my new house to make it feel like home. During all of these moments, even when I wished my circumstances were different, looking back, I realize how love and joy persisted even in the dark.

Recently, while leading a hiking and writing retreat in the Scottish Highlands, I visited Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh. I kept seeing tombstones with “Memento Mori” inscribed over a skull and crossbones. For those unfamiliar, “Memento Mori” is Latin for “Remember [that you have to] die,” which sounds grim but historically has served as a reminder to the living of the impermanence of life, a reminder during our brief time on Earth to live in accordance with our values.

And I want to remember to savor this life. To stay present even when my child is melting down in a restaurant, when my partner and I are out of sync, when I’m overwhelmed by chores and bills because one day I will miss these things. My son won’t need me as he does now, my love and I will be parted when we take our final breaths, and I’ll miss the dishes and dog hair left by the creatures I love most.

Life is beautiful and messy and chaotic and heartbreakingly unfair. I don’t want to wait until the end to delight in all of it.

If you enjoy these free poems and essays, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. All paid subscriptions support this free offering, and paid subscribers have access to monthly Poetry Apothecary generative writing sessions, a space where we gather to write, reflect, and return to ourselves.

Join the Community

Upcoming Poetry Apothecary Community Events

Poetry Apothecary writing circles are open to all paid subscribers. Each month, we explore the work of a single poet, discuss themes and craft, and spend time writing from prompts I provide. Anyone who wishes can share at the end. Meetings alternate between Wednesday evenings (7 PM CST) and Sunday mornings (11 AM CST). If you are unable to attend live, recordings are available for every session.

Upcoming sessions:

• May 27 — Beth Ann Fennelly, Jun 14 — Franny Choi, Jul 22 — Jericho Brown, Aug 23 — Victoria Chang, Sep 16 — Carrie Fountain, Oct 25 — Kevin Young

Additional pop-up sessions:

• Jun 24, 7 PM CST - Friendship Poetry, Sep 10, 7 PM CST - Golden Shovel Poems, Oct 15, 7 PM CST - Elegies & Poems of Grief

“These gatherings are enlightening and deeply connecting at a time when we need community most.” — Lyndsey B.

Learn more + join here

Summer

As a child my friends and I wove flower crowns,
made wishes on the seeds of ripened dandelions,
returned home each evening with bouquets
of feather white and pink, happy yellow—
the only flowers we could afford to bring our 
mamas.All spring and summer, constant color

These days, my overgrown garden entices bees
and butterflies. I watch the neighbors pluck,
spray, toil—determined to remove every weed, 
every wild plant growing unwanted.
Beautiful intolerable blight on their curated 
lawns. Adults create problems where there are none.

We have so little time, and who am I
to stop anything determined to flower?

This is one of my favorite poems from If Adam Picked the Apple.. I hear people complain about yard work all the time, and I always think: so much of it isn’t necessary. Dandelions and wild violets are often the first food bees find in spring. I love the bright yellow suns scattered across a lawn.

This past year has humbled me. I can no longer push my body the way I did in my twenties. At forty, I need more rest than I want to admit. When I ignore that, my body doesn’t negotiate, it shuts down.

It’s forced me to examine how I spend my time. There are things I cannot remove from my plate. And then there’s everything else, the long list of tasks that feel urgent but aren’t essential.

In many ways, I fail at being a “proper” adult. There are piles of unsorted mail on my desk. I’m late scheduling an oil change. My son’s pants are stained with grass. But the bills are paid. The appointments eventually get made. My son is safe, loved, and fed.

I’m learning that prioritizing joy—real joy, not performative productivity—means letting other things slide. It means releasing the expectations I’ve outgrown but still carry.

Recently, a beloved friend who survived a blood clot last year sent me photos and said she was spending the weekend in aggressive pursuit of joy. I asked if I could borrow the phrase for a poem. I needed it for myself because joy, I’m realizing, is rarely passive.

Some days it feels impossible to access, especially when I’m just trying to get through the day, or after reading the news, but those are the moments it matters most. Pain and grief are inevitable. Joy is not.

So I’m committing to it even on the darkest days—to dancing every opportunity I can, to baking birthday cakes for my son’s teddy bear, to banana bread pancakes for dinner. We have so little time, and I don’t want to spend mine waiting to feel alive.

If you’ve been struggling with joy lately, this is the poem I wrote for my friend. I hope it reminds you joy isn’t a luxury, it’s a necessity.

In Aggressive Pursuit of Joy 
for Lesley

Andrea Gibson once said joy is a muscle 
you build by dancing when you’re inclined 
to stay in bed. My friend survives a blood clot 
& falls in love with living. Welcomes wrinkles 
& silver strands. Bench presses sunshine, 
azalea, stargazing in the desert. Some seasons 
you cannot escape biopsy results, bad bosses 
& unpaid bills, sobbing every morning 
in the shower. Pain is the currency of existence.
If each new day is unknown, why not spend 
your time in aggressive pursuit of joy? 

How are you pursuing joy in your own life? I’d love to hear where you're finding it. Join me in the comments.

If you enjoy these free poems and essays, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. All paid subscriptions support this free offering, and paid subscribers have access to our monthly Poetry Apothecary generative writing sessions, a space where we gather to write, reflect, and return to ourselves.

Join the Community

Opportunities for Community & Connection

Writing Our Rage

This session needed to be rescheduled for personal reasons. The new date is Sunday, May 3rd from 11 AM - 12:30 PM CST. If you find yourself burying anger instead of processing it, join me for a 90-minute generative writing circle where we’ll examine poems with teeth, use prompts to metabolize our own buried anger through writing, and have time at the end for anyone who would like to share aloud.

50% of all proceeds from this session go to the National Sexual Violence Resource Center.

Get Your Ticket

Join the Poetry Apothecary Writing Community

Poetry Apothecary writing circles are open to all tiers of paid subscribers. Each month, we’ll explore the work of a single poet, discuss themes and craft, and spend time writing from prompts I provide. Anyone who wishes can share at the end. Meetings alternate between Wednesday evenings (7 PM CST) and Sunday mornings (11 AM CST). If you are unable to attend live, recordings are available for every session.

Upcoming sessions:

• May 27 — Beth Ann Fennelly

• Jun 14 — Franny Choi

• Jul 22 — Jericho Brown

• Aug 23 — Victoria Chang

• Sep 16 — Carrie Fountain

• Oct 25 — Kevin Young

Additional pop-up sessions:

• Apr 30, 7 PM CST - The Art of Haiku

• Jun 24, 7 PM CST - Friendship Poetry

• Sep 10, 7 PM CST - Golden Shovel Poems

• Oct 15, 7 PM CST - Elegies & Poems of Grief

“These gatherings are enlightening and deeply connecting at a time when we need community most.” — Lyndsey B.

Subscribe now

On April 26th I’m hosting a generative writing circle dedicated to writing our rage. In this session, we’ll discuss the mental and physical health benefits of writing rage, read and discuss poems, write, and share (optional). This is also a fundraiser for The National Sexual Violence Resource Center. This session will be recorded if you cannot attend live. If you’ve been feeling rage burning beneath the surface, this session is for you. I hope you’ll join us.

Ticket Info Here

“I Am Angry Nearly Every Day Of My Life”
- Marmee from Little Women

And for too long, I tempered this rage.
Built a dam forged of productivity
and disorder—working, serving, pleasing.
All in an attempt to subdue my fury.
Be grateful. Be humble. Be sweet.

I self-lobotomized as a hobby.
After each procedure I hoped—
Maybe this time, I’ll stay good.

But I remain a woman in this world,
my body one of millions of battlefields
where war has raged for generations.
Silence is no longer an option.

Not when women are forced to bear 
children. Not when girls are taught to starve 
to stay small. Not when kindergartners 
practice active shooter drills. 

Not while our world remains ensnared 
in the grip of violent, power-hungry men.

(This is essay is a compilation of several essays from prior years along with updated reflections)

This poem is from my poetry collection If Adam Picked the Apple, and lately I find myself returning to it, particularly this week after learning about the CNN expose on the global rape academy with tens of millions of visits teaching men how to drug and assault their partners.

I still have to force myself at times to remember I’m allowed not only to feel, but to express my anger. I learned early that angry girls are unattractive, unlikable shrews. As a child and adolescent, I felt rage seeping from my pores. I was a tinderbox, always at risk of exploding and setting everything around me on fire.

I remember the fear I felt when my body filled with rage. I was engulfed by its flame, an all-consuming energy I did not know how to bridle. There wasn’t anyone in my life who channeled their anger productively, so for much of my childhood, I was explosive. I slammed doors. I yelled. I threw things. At times, I took it out on my younger sister.

I was able to mask it in public spaces, to tuck it away, zip up the unruly bits because I desperately wanted to be a good girl, and good girls don’t get angry. But I couldn’t control it constantly, so at home, I erupted. Eventually, I became afraid of my rage, hated who I was when it took over.

Like most children, I was observant. I watched and learned how women tempered their fury to remain likable. Drinking, exercising, starving, crying behind closed doors–perpetually repressing what refused to go away. There are countless tropes of the angry, belligerent woman, and I knew I didn’t want to be her—unlikable, maligned for her lack of self-control. So like my foremothers, I learned to internalize it, to martyr myself for the higher cause of being likable.

Intellectually, I know the archetypes of angry women are just as distorted as the valuing of thin over fat bodies. But knowing it doesn’t unlearn it. I grew up with this propaganda. Pop culture has long glorified the sad, quiet, self-sacrificing woman, the one who grieves but doesn’t rage, who breaks down but never burns through. When women do express fury, they are punished or pathologized.

Take Sinéad O’Connor, vilified for tearing up a photo of the Pope. Britney Spears, ridiculed and institutionalized for cracking under impossible pressure. Fleabag, a fictional woman punished by the narrative itself for her messiness and rage.

Go further back and you find Medusa, who was punished for being violated. The “angry Black woman.” The witch. The suffragette. The woman who dared to demand more and was branded too much, too loud, too dangerous. These stories taught me that rage makes a woman monstrous, and I believed them, even as I felt the heat rising in my own throat.

Even now, I find it easier to hold my own anger at arm’s length. I can be angry on behalf of others, but not for myself. In my personal life, I suppress my rage until it leaks sideways. For years, I relied on an eating disorder to numb it. I cut the angry girl out of me because it felt safer to be sad. Sad women are palatable, angry women are dangerous. Even now I struggle to think back on how many years I watered myself down for other people’s comfort.

In her brilliant TED Talk, The Power of Women’s Anger, Soraya Chemaly asks the audience, “What if we don’t sever anger from femininity?” Rather than viewing an angry girl as “rude and unlikable,” what if we viewed anger for what it is: “a signal emotion that warns us of indignity, threat, insult, and harm?” She explains how girls learn to be deferential as children, and anger isn’t compatible with deference.

Because women are taught to ruminate and internalize our rage, we experience more sustained anger. She goes on to share how anger has been implicated in a variety of illnesses that are often dismissed as “women’s illnesses” such as higher rates of chronic pain, autoimmune disorders, mental distress, disordered eating, anxiety, self-harm, and depression. Yet research indicates that those who “process their anger and make meaning from it are more creative, more optimistic, have more intimacy, are better problem solvers, and have more political efficacy.”

I accepted these illnesses for years—disordered eating, anxiety, depression—convinced my own shortcomings were the cause, but as I began to allow myself to feel and express my anger, to pause and reflect on what my rage was trying to tell me, I found they consumed me far less often.

The Guardian published and article titled ‘Lift the Lid and There’s a Well of Rage’: Why Women Are Mad As Hell And Not Afraid To Show It where they cited how “female wrath can be a powerful catalyst for change, channeled into movements such as #MeToo, the protests against sexual violence in India and Pakistan, and the Iranian women’s uprising against the regime’s ‘morality police’. But not all anger is so productive. It’s harder to know what to do with the blind fury that often accompanies grief, hot menopausal rage, or the everyday stresses of work and parenting.”

My partner reminds me that I’m allowed to feel angry, that it’s okay to be angry with him, with our children, with the world. But there are moments I’m afraid of my rage. I’m afraid of the damage it might cause if I don’t contain it. I’ve been on the receiving end of that kind of unchecked anger—where someone explodes and apologizes and explodes again—I know how hollow those “I’m sorrys” can feel.

Recent data from the Gallup World Poll (an annual snapshot of emotional reactions across 100 countries) found a widening gap between men’s and women’s anger over the last decade. While Gen Z is more likely to embrace their rage, those of us who are older and who grew up with demonized depictions of angry women, it’s more challenging to accept.

We’re encouraged to express anger gently, in quiet, unabrasive forms such as meditation or yoga, but in my experience, when I feel anger coursing in my veins, slowing down isn’t always helpful. Sometimes I need to scream into a pillow, to run, to write, to dance. I need to move the energy through my body so it doesn’t remain trapped.

Bringing my rage to the page has helped me find discover that rage is rarely solitary. It almost always arrives braided with something else: grief, fear, overwhelm, powerlessness. Writing my rage helps me to hold red-hot anger without burning the people I love. On the page, I don’t flinch. Writing is a controlled burn.

And when writing isn’t enough and I feel the need to explode physically, I try to find safe ways to do it. I’ve taught my son that when we’re both feeling frustrated in our bodies, we canyell as loud as we can to get out the energy, or jump up and down, or, in my case occasionally go out with a group of girlfriends to a rage room to smash the shit out of old electronics after brunch.

In The Uses of Anger: Women Responding to Racism, Audre Lorde writes:

Every woman has a well-stocked arsenal of anger potentially useful against those oppressions, personal and institutional, which brought that anger into being.

Though Lorde was speaking specifically to the experience of Black women, her reflections on the transformative power of anger resonate across identities—especially in relation to gendered emotional suppression. Anger is not a failure. It is a signal, information, energy we can harness.

I’m still learning to see my anger as purposeful instead of poisonous. I’m trying to channel it in ways that clarify instead of destroy, and in the moments where I fall short, I’m committed to repair. I’m still learning how to be angry without apology.

But I’m learning, maybe I don’t need to be less angry, maybe I need to stop pretending I’m not on fire.

I’d love to hear how you’ve navigated your own relationship to anger. Join me in the comments.

Thank you for being here, for reading, for making space for these words. If this essay resonates, I’d be honored if you shared it with someone who might need it too.

If you’re able, I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid subscriber. It’s one of the most powerful ways to support my work, and it opens the door to our monthly Poetry Apothecary generative writing sessions, a space where we gather to write, reflect, and return to ourselves.

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Opportunities for Community & Connection

Writing Our Rage

Whether you're feeling angry about your ex-boyfriend, the absurdity of your job, the mental load of parenting, powerful men not being held accountable, or the political and economic hellscape we're facing, this session is for you.

​We'll spend our time together examining poems with teeth, use prompts to metabolize our own buried anger through writing, and have time at the end for anyone who would like to share aloud.

50% of all proceeds from this session go to the National Sexual Violence Resource Center.

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Join the Poetry Apothecary Writing Community

Poetry Apothecary writing circles are open to all tiers of paid subscribers. Each month, we’ll explore the work of a single poet, discuss themes and craft, and spend time writing from prompts I provide. Anyone who wishes can share at the end. Meetings alternate between Wednesday evenings (7 PM CST) and Sunday mornings (11 AM CST). If you are unable to attend live, recordings are available for every session.

Upcoming sessions:

• May 27 — Beth Ann Fennelly

• Jun 14 — Franny Choi

• Jul 22 — Jericho Brown

• Aug 23 — Victoria Chang

• Sep 16 — Carrie Fountain

• Oct 25 — Kevin Young

Additional pop-up sessions:

• Apr 30, 7 PM CST - The Art of Haiku

• Jun 24, 7 PM CST - Friendship Poetry

• Sep 10, 7 PM CST - Golden Shovel Poems

• Oct 15, 7 PM CST - Elegies & Poems of Grief

“These gatherings are enlightening and deeply connecting at a time when we need community most.” — Lyndsey B.

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I Don’t Want a ChatGPT Proposal 

or birthday toast. I don’t care about 
craftsmanship or poetry if the language 
isn’t yours. I understand the longing 
to outsource, to optimize, to spend 
only a moment on generic perfection. 

But I want your simple phrases, 
your fumbling mumbles. Give me 
your mid sentence umms and crossed 
out words on cheesy greeting cards. 
Give me messy apologies. Give me 
nonsensical love songs you wrote 
in the shower. 

Please, give me the gift of your trying. 

This poem went viral on Instagram back in March, and I’ve been thinking of it ever since. Every single person I know with a desk job is having AI thrust upon them, regardless of whether they have any desire to use it. Abstaining for ethical reasons is becoming increasingly difficult as companies slash their workforces and demand greater speed and productivity.

It’s disheartening, particularly when you realize that many people will acquiesce out of necessity. Most don’t have the privilege of quitting a job on principle. AI, unfortunately, is becoming increasingly difficult to avoid entirely. But what I find especially demoralizing is the use of ChatGPT and other AI platforms to generate writing that is personal—wedding toasts, birthday messages, love poems, etc.

I’ve written my fair share of cheesy birthday cards and love notes. I’m sure they could have been more polished, but had I used AI to help formulate them, the words wouldn’t have been mine. They would have been a whitewashed version, leveraging the stolen words of poets and writers whose work was used to train AI without their consent or compensation.

This nonstop striving for perfection in our writing means we are stripping ourselves of our own voices. In a world where productivity and hustle culture are lauded, I understand the temptation to use ChatGPT. It’s far more efficient than taking the time to find the words you want to say, and even then, after laboring for hours to write something AI could generate in 20 seconds, you might feel it was a waste of time.

But that time is spent creating something uniquely yours—something that celebrates or memorializes the relationships in your life.

I have a journal I write in for my son from time to time, one I plan to give him when he is eighteen. When I read back through some of the entries, I find run-on sentences and misspelled words. It’s tempting to fix them, but they are in the handwriting of a tired mama with a newborn, experiencing the joy and agony of holding her heart outside her chest. When he reads it, he will hear my voice.

A few years ago, I dated a man whose messages never sounded like how he spoke. I found it strange at the time, but ChatGPT was new, and I didn’t know anyone who used it. It was only after we broke up that I realized he’d been using AI to write me love notes. Perhaps the sentiments had been real, but the words weren’t his.

As a writer, I can’t even begin to tell you how many messy poems, speeches, and letters I’ve written. And while the temptation to outsource my thinking is real, the truth is there’s nothing like the satisfaction of writing something myself.

During my day job, there are times I use Microsoft Copilot because otherwise I would be working twelve-hour days. I’d love to do my job entirely without it, but the reality is that it’s becoming harder to avoid. Friends and I share our frustration and talk about how to use it without feeling like we’re losing our integrity entirely.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned over my forty years on this earth, it’s the impossibility of living your values 100% of the time, especially in a world that thrives on greed, corruption, and non-stop productivity. To maintain my sanity, I find small (and big) ways of rebelling within these systems.

Critical thinking and messy writing are part of what makes us human. Emails, birthday cards, marriage proposals, breakups, eulogies, love letters, poems, cinema, photography, art—these are all forms of human expression that are ours to protect. When we take the time to try, even if it’s messy or imperfect, it’s ours.

Looking for a community of readers and writers who embrace slow, messy writing?

Join the Poetry Apothecary Writing Community

Poetry Apothecary writing circles are open to all tiers of paid subscribers. Each month, we’ll explore the work of a single poet, discuss themes and craft, and spend time writing from prompts I provide. Anyone who wishes can share at the end. Meetings alternate between Wednesday evenings (7 PM CST) and Sunday mornings (11 AM CST). If you are unable to attend live, recordings are available for every session.

Subscribe now

Upcoming sessions:

• Apr 12 — Andrea Gibson

• May 27 — Beth Ann Fennelly

• Jun 14 — Franny Choi

• Jul 22 — Jericho Brown

• Aug 23 — Victoria Chang

• Sep 16 — Carrie Fountain

• Oct 25 — Kevin Young

Additional pop-up sessions:

• Apr 30, 7 PM CST - The Art of Haiku

• Jun 24, 7 PM CST - Friendship Poetry

• Sep 10, 7 PM CST - Golden Shovel Poems

• Oct 15, 7 PM CST - Elegies & Poems of Grief

“These gatherings are enlightening and deeply connecting at a time when we need community most.” — Lyndsey B.

Put Away the Anxiety, Honey

Even the egg white hearts of athletes 
sometimes stop beating. You do not want
a cauliflower and unseasoned chicken 
breast life. It’s okay you can’t afford 
organic blackberries. Buy generic. Savor 
the sweet, tart juice as each drupelet erupts 
between your teeth. Life is Vitamin C 
and pesticides— you cannot escape 
the fatality of living. 

This is a short poem I wrote over the weekend after conversations with friends about health scares, anxiety, and the impossibility of living a life devoid of danger. Somehow the conversation moved to how expensive blackberries have become, and even though there are recommendations to buy organic because they are part of the dirty dozen, we can’t afford to pay $9 for a small carton.

Most people I know struggle with anxiety of some form, and nonstop connection to devices that share all of the dangerous things we encounter on macro and micro levels inevitably exacerbates the collective levels we experience today. I believe much of that anxiety is completely understandable, and yet, it isn’t especially useful most of the time, particularly when many of the things that cause anxiety are outside our direct control.

I’ve found when I let anxiety take the wheel, my life becomes very small, so I wrote this for my friend who survived a terrifying health scare earlier this year and for myself as a reminder that life is, and always has been, a combination of light and dark, joy and grief, exhilaration and melancholy. You cannot experience one without the other.

Writing Prompt:

So often our fears are exacerbated when we don’t look at them head on. Make a list of where anxiety is popping up for you lately, and separate into two columns: what’s in your control and what isn’t. Then, write a letter (or poem) to yourself as you would to a friend or loved one with the insight you’ve gathered from your lists.

Opportunities for Community & Connection

Writing Our Rage - A Fundraiser

April is National Poetry Month which coincides with Sexual Assault Awareness Month, so I’ve decided to raise money for The National Sexual Violence Resource Center with this generative writing circle focused on writing our rage on the page. This session is for you if you’re angry for any reason and you want a safe outlet to express it while raising money for a cause that impacts us all. Every single person knows someone who has experienced sexual violence, even if you’re unaware you do. You can read the full details below. I hope you’ll join me.

Write Your Rage

Poetry Apothecary Writing Circles

These writing circles are open to all tiers of paid subscribers. Each month, we’ll explore the work of a single poet, discuss themes and craft, and spend time writing from prompts I provide. Anyone who wishes can share at the end. Meetings alternate between Wednesday evenings (7 PM CST) and Sunday mornings (11 AM CST). If you are unable to attend live, recordings are available for every session.

Upcoming sessions:

• Apr 12 — Andrea Gibson

• May 27 — Beth Ann Fennelly

• Jun 14 — Franny Choi

• Jul 22 — Jericho Brown

• Aug 23 — Victoria Chang

• Sep 16 — Carrie Fountain

• Oct 25 — Kevin Young

Additional pop-up sessions:

• Apr 30, 7 PM CST - The Art of Haiku

• Jun 24, 7 PM CST - Friendship Poetry

• Sep 10, 7 PM CST - Golden Shovel Poems

• Oct 15, 7 PM CST - Elegies & Poems of Grief

“These gatherings are enlightening and deeply connecting at a time when we need community most.” — Lyndsey B.

Subscribe now

As Long as the Sun Still Rises

When despair dances along the horizon 
& begs me to join, I remember the poppies. 

How during the First World War, 
the shell-shocked earth—dead 

as the moon—bloomed red. Taught 
my ancestors how to forage for seed 

in a landscape of ash. On mornings 
my mind feels like a beehive on fire, I look 

to the east. As long as the sun still rises, 
I can grow flowers here. 

for my family 

I am half Belgian and remember my father teaching me what most history books here in the United States left out. During World War I, much of my homeland along the Western Front became a desolate, alien landscape due to incessant bombing and trench warfare—the earth littered with bullets, bones, and barbed wire. For those of us who came after, who did not bear witness ourselves, it is impossible to imagine what days in the trenches must have been like, and yet, even there, soldiers found camaraderie and hope.

In 1915, while attempting to hold the line, bright red poppies erupted into bloom from the shell-shocked soil. The relentless shelling churned the earth, bringing dormant seeds to the surface and leading to a stunning superbloom in an otherwise barren landscape. It offered both hope and a remembrance of all the blood shed.

Lately, it’s been difficult to hold on to hope, and yet spring is erupting all around us. Yes, the temperatures are rising, but for now, the magnolias are blooming. Yes, our cities are sprawling further, but everywhere dandelions and wildflowers push through cracked concrete. Even in the most inhospitable climates, flowers find a way to bloom, and it reminds me that throughout our history—even during the most harrowing, heartbreaking times—humans have found ways to plant seeds of hope.

This poem is a reminder to myself and anyone else who might need it that hope can be unearthed in the most unexpected places.

Writing Prompt:

Write about the small ways you’re planting seeds of hope and resilience. If you’re struggling to do this yourself (we’ve all been there), where do you see others doing it? Where might there be an opportunity to emulate one small thing that brings a bit of color to the dark?

Opportunities for Community & Connection

Writing Our Rage - A Fundraiser

April is National Poetry Month which coincides with Sexual Assault Awareness Month, so I’ve decided to raise money for The National Sexual Violence Resource Center with this generative writing circle focused on writing our rage on the page. This session is for you if you’re angry for any reason and you want a safe outlet to express it while raising money for a cause that impacts us all. Every single person knows someone who has experienced sexual violence, even if you’re unaware you do. You can read the full details below. I hope you’ll join me.

Write Your Rage

Poetry Apothecary Writing Circles

These writing circles are open to all tiers of paid subscribers. Each month, we’ll explore the work of a single poet, discuss themes and craft, and spend time writing from prompts I provide. Anyone who wishes can share at the end. Meetings alternate between Wednesday evenings (7 PM CST) and Sunday mornings (11 AM CST). If you are unable to attend live, recordings are available for every session.

Upcoming sessions:

• Apr 12 — Andrea Gibson

• May 27 — Beth Ann Fennelly

• Jun 14 — Franny Choi

• Jul 22 — Jericho Brown

• Aug 23 — Victoria Chang

• Sep 16 — Carrie Fountain

• Oct 25 — Kevin Young

Additional pop-up sessions:

• Apr 30, 7 PM CST - The Art of Haiku

• Jun 24, 7 PM CST - Friendship Poetry

• Sep 10, 7 PM CST - Golden Shovel Poems

• Oct 15, 7 PM CST - Elegies & Poems of Grief

“These gatherings are enlightening and deeply connecting at a time when we need community most.” — Lyndsey B.

Subscribe now

Alix Klingenberg shared her gorgeous reflection on AWP, and it’s been lingering with me ever since. It’s been a full week since I attended my first AWP (Association of Writers & Writing Programs) Conference, and I needed that time to process the experience before writing about it here.

If you’re unfamiliar with the conference, imagine your childhood Scholastic Book Fair multiplied by a thousand—hundreds of literary journals, book presses, panels, readings, and ten thousand writers moving through enormous halls. It’s an extrovert’s dream and immensely overwhelming for a neurodivergent introvert.

Still, I was excited. I got to meet writers I’ve known online for years, to eat oysters and crab cakes while talking about poetry and the literary landscape, and to hug people I’d previously only known through screens. I was especially grateful for my friend Kristine, who had been before and spent the first twenty-four hours letting me cling to her like a barnacle until I felt comfortable enough venturing out on my own.

Once I found the dozen or so writers I knew from different writing communities, something shifted, and I was able to relax. I wandered on my own and met some of my literary heroes—true Goliaths of the poetry world. I was nervous and awkward in those moments, and afterwards I spent far too much time replaying my awkwardness in my head.

The literary world, especially the orbit of prestigious journals and MFA programs, can feel intimidating. Most people were friendly and kind, but there’s still an undercurrent you can sense: an awareness that writers who are less traditionally published are not viewed quite the same way. No one says this outright, but if you’re an outsider, you feel it.

Every writer I know wants something different. Some want a large audience and couldn’t care less whether they’re ever published in a literary journal. Others want publication in the most prestigious journals possible. They care deeply about the craft and the recognition within the literary world, but they’re less concerned with broad reach or connecting directly with readers.

And then there are writers like me who want a bit of both.

Over the last few years I’ve been working hard to grow and deepen my craft. The poems I’m currently submitting to literary journals are some of the most interesting, challenging writing I’ve ever done. At the same time, I love connecting with readers here and on social media. Instagram, in particular, has become a kind of playground for me, a space where I can share drafts and ideas directly with readers in a way literary publication alone rarely allows.

The writing I share online is different. It’s shorter, often more political. I originally began sharing my writing anonymously online simply to escape the perfectionism that kept me from sharing my work at all. It was a way of proving to myself that nothing terrible would happen if I failed. In many ways, that space has been deeply healing as I’ve recovered from an eating disorder and a lifetime of masking.

Because of that, I’m loath to give it up entirely. That small white square is where I let myself be messy, human, and unfiltered. Submitting to literary journals does not offer that same freedom.

I’m also not interested in retreating into an ivory tower. I’ve always struggled with intellectual elitism of any kind. I remember the honors program I attended in undergrad, where classmates seemed to compete over who could name the most obscure bands or artists as a way of proving how intelligent they were. It feels disingenuous to me. You can be well-read and still love something popular.

Over the last five years of sharing my work publicly, my goals as a writer have evolved. Initially I just wanted to connect, to confront my imposter syndrome and perfectionism and prove to myself it wouldn’t kill me to be seen. Over time I found myself getting bored. Not with the community I’d built, but with my writing. I felt trapped by the small white box where I’d first started sharing my work and connecting with others.

When I began writing work that existed beyond that format, I had to force myself out of the box I’d unconsciously built. I’d become so accustomed to writing for a small white square that I had to push myself to expand again.

Now I write from the perspective of mummies, periodic elements, the Virgin Mary. The most recent poem I had accepted by a literary journal, titled “I Turn Forty and Don’t Panic” is strange and surreal. It sounds nothing like my earlier work, and I love that. I’m not interested in staying stagnant.

What I come back to again and again is alignment. Everyone seems to have an opinion about how a writer should build a career. For a long time, there were significant barriers to publication. Social media and the internet have democratized access in ways that were unimaginable twenty years ago. Some writers have built enormous readerships online that they might never have been granted through traditional publishing channels alone.

Within the literary world, there’s also judgment around “accessible” writing. It’s rarely meant as a compliment, as if writing that many people can appreciate and understand is somehow less worthy than dense, heady language and ideas. I often hear critique of writers chasing likes online, and to be fair, that critique isn’t entirely wrong, but the truth is that chasing literary journal publication is simply another form of chasing validation.

Likes, shares, acceptances, book deals—these are all different currencies of validation. I don’t know a single writer who isn’t pursuing some form of it, except perhaps those who truly write only for themselves. Most of us want to connect, to be read, and for our words to matter.

Even if your ultimate goal is simply to become the best writer you can be, the moment you crave readers or publication you’re also reaching for something beyond yourself.

For me, writing has always been a form of service, a way of connecting with readers and with parts of myself I’m still learning how to understand, but there’s ego there too. I’ve accepted that I can’t fully separate myself from it, even if I sometimes wish I could.

My goals continue to evolve. I’m writing weird, surreal poems that look nothing like the work I first shared online. I’m slowly working on a second manuscript. I’m facilitating monthly Poetry Apothecary writing circles, which bring me more joy than anything else. Finally, I’m working on building out a monthly Poetry Apothecary Snail Mail subscription—think a lovely postcard poem, writing prompts, a monthly bookmark, a personal letter—think of it as a monthly dose of poetry from me to you. I can’t wait for it to launch!

All this to say, some of the writers I admire most followed traditional paths. Others bushwhacked their own. Every year I give myself permission to reevaluate what feels right. As I look ahead, I don’t know where this path will lead me. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating, but if recovery from an eating disorder and navigating my ADHD diagnosis has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t thrive when I try to emulate other people. Masking and forcing myself into spaces where I feel like I have to become someone else has never been good for my mental health, and it has never led to my best work.

On our final night at AWP, a small group of writer friends and I shared drinks and talked about this. At one point someone said something that stayed with me: that she would rather have readers, real connection with people who care about the work, than receive every prestigious literary award in the world.

And I know, for me, that’s still true.

Opportunities for Community & Connection

Poetry Apothecary Writing Circles

These writing circles are open to all tiers of paid subscribers. Each month, we’ll explore the work of a single poet, discuss themes and craft, and spend time writing from prompts I provide. Anyone who wishes can share at the end. Meetings alternate between Wednesday evenings (7 PM CST) and Sunday mornings (11 AM CST). If you are unable to attend live, recordings are available for every session.

Upcoming sessions:

• Mar 18 — Philip Larkin

• Apr 12 — Andrea Gibson

• May 27 — Beth Ann Fennelly

• Jun 14 — Franny Choi

• Jul 22 — Jericho Brown

• Aug 23 — Victoria Chang

• Sep 16 — Carrie Fountain

• Oct 25 — Kevin Young

Additional pop-up sessions:

• Apr 30, 7 PM CST - The Art of Haiku

• Jun 24, 7 PM CST - Friendship Poetry

• Sep 10, 7 PM CST - Golden Shovel Poems

• Oct 15, 7 PM CST - Elegies & Poems of Grief

  Subscribe now

Write with me

Last week I spent four days battling the stomach flu and contemplating my mortality. I turned 40 in January. I’m not particularly sentimental about aging. I love shedding layers and ripening, becoming more myself. But with every year that passes, I am more aware of how I spend my time. As Annie Dillard once wrote, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.”

And of course, our days are filled with the mundane—laundry, dishes, parking lots, to-do lists—alongside tender moments of connection. No one lives a highlight reel. Even the very privileged get the stomach flu and argue with their children about vegetables and homework. Still, more and more I’ve found myself examining my life. What is it I’m doing because of constraints I cannot escape, and what am I doing out of imagined obligation? Where do I have freedom to stretch?

For many years I stayed in a teaching job because I could not imagine an alternative. I have a high intolerance of uncertainty. Turns out, I’m not alone. We humans are wired to prefer safety and predictability, even if it’s making us miserable. We are less likely to fear what we already know. And so I didn’t push myself to do anything outside my comfort zone until I found myself living a small life where I kept myself quiet and hungry.

It wasn’t until my thirties that something began to shift and I started to push myself. I signed up for hiking trips with people I’d never met. I applied to a job in an industry where I never imagined myself so I could support my 17-month-old as a single parent. I started to share my writing publicly. I took three months of medical leave for an intensive eating disorder recovery program. Slowly, I felt myself becoming. The girl I locked away in adolescence was allowed to see the light of day.

Even now, that becoming is ongoing. Every day, I balance a day job completely unaligned with every aspect of who I am as a writer. The more I write, the more I feel it pulling at me, this yearning. Part of that tension comes from where I started. I grew up with creditors calling my house to collect on the debts of my father. I’ve been financially responsible since high school, working multiple part-time jobs, and as an adult balancing a full-time job alongside part-time work. There are few safety nets in the United States. I envy my writer friends in countries with socialized healthcare. The reality is, here it is difficult to jump off a cliff with your dream as a parachute. I need healthcare, a steady income for my share of the bills.

Because of that reality, I am slowly working to build an off-ramp so I can live predominantly as a full-time working writer. But even contemplating this is a privilege and only possible because in the future I will have access to my partner’s health insurance. When I see people sharing stories about how they quit their jobs to pursue a dream full time, I always want to know: what privileges did they have to make it possible? It isn’t an accessible reality for many. So you’ll never hear me tell you to quit everything to pursue a dream.

What I will ask is something different. I will ask you to take stock of your life. To hold it in your palm and examine it from every angle. Where are you playing it safe? What are you putting off that you could start now? What joy are you suppressing? Who are you keeping yourself from becoming?

This past week, after being so ill, I wrote this poem. I thought of the people I’ve known who spent years talking about what they wanted to do one day, only to be struck with the terrible luck of mortality. My father was one of them. After he died I found manuscripts and half-written thoughts scribbled in journals. His dreams relegated to the dark.

So this week, I leave you with this poem and this question:

What small thing can you do that brings you one tiny step closer to a dream or desire you’ve been suppressing?

Opportunities for Community & Connection

Poetry Apothecary Writing Circles

These writing circles are open to all tiers of paid subscribers. You can find the first six months of writing events below. Each month, we’ll explore the work of a single poet, discuss themes and craft, and spend time writing from prompts I provide. Anyone who wishes can share at the end. Meetings alternate between Wednesday evenings (7 PM CST) and Sunday mornings (11 AM CST). If you are unable to attend live, recordings are available for every session.

Upcoming sessions:

• Mar 18 — Philip Larkin

• Apr 12 — Andrea Gibson

• May 27 — Beth Ann Fennelly

• Jun 14 — Franny Choi

• Jul 22 — Jericho Brown

• Aug 23 — Victoria Chang

• Sep 16 — Carrie Fountain

• Oct 25 — Kevin Young

Additional pop-up sessions:

• Apr 30, 7 PM CST - The Art of Haiku

• Jun 24, 7 PM CST - Friendship Poetry

• Sep 10, 7 PM CST - Golden Shovel Poems

• Oct 15, 7 PM CST - Elegies & Poems of Grief

  “These gatherings are enlightening and deeply connecting at a time when we need community most.” — Lyndsey B.

  Subscribe

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been in love with love, especially romantic love and the idea of finding a partner who sees you clearly and loves you anyway. While I’ve had many beautiful seasons of romantic love, I’ve also had many seasons of heartbreak.

Our culture puts romantic love on a pedestal. When it’s healthy and mutual, it can be expansive and life-giving, but when it ends, it can be devastating, leaving us to gather ourselves from the wreckage and begin again. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to recognize that some of the greatest love stories aren’t romantic at all. They’re friendships.

We catch glimpses of this in books and movies — Thelma and Louise, A Man Called Ove, Bridge to Terabithia (I still remember sobbing during this one in fourth grade), Now and Then — but most stories still orbit romance as the ultimate happy ending, even though many of us know, deep down, that it’s rarely an ending at all.

I grew up with a mother who modeled what long, devoted friendship looks like, friendships she’s nurtured for decades. Now, in her seventies, she has relationships nearing fifty years. I’ve watched these women walk one another through divorce, dating, illness, grief, the loss of partners and children, and continue to show up and choose each other. It’s one of the most beautiful forms of love I know.

I love Valentine’s Day not as a celebration of romance, but as a reclaimed holiday, a day for love in all its forms. My partner, my child, my friends, my family, my dog all get notes or cards or treats. I host a Galentine’s potluck with my girlfriends. It brings me so much joy to widen the circle.

So in that spirit, here are ten poems (along with writing prompts below to inspire your own poems/letters) to send to your friends. These poems are for the ones who show up, the ones you text after a terrible day or date, the ones who love you fiercely and make you snort with laughter. Share them. And I hope this week (and this year) you find beautiful ways to celebrate one another.

Ten Poems to Celebrate Friendship

1. “Love and Friendship” - Emily Brontë

   A meditation on how steady friendship can outlast even the most passionate forms of romantic love.

2. “In the Company of Women” - January Gill O’Neil

   A tribute to how women hold, witness, and carry one another through the years.

3. “A Blessing” - James Wright

   One of my absolute favorite poems that serves as a reminder that love can arrive in the smallest, most unexpected way.

4. “Red Brocade” - Naomi Shihab Nye

   A poem about slowing down and intentionally cultivating authentic space for one another.

5. “To the Woman Crying Uncontrollably in the Next Stall” - Kim Addonizio

   An offering of solidarity between strangers that feels very much like the comfort of friendship in our most difficult moments.

6. “Your Catfish Friend” - Richard Brautigan

   A delightfully whimsical poem about loyalty, companionship, and loving someone exactly for who they are. Who doesn’t want to compare themselves to a catfish?

7. “Dear Daughters” - Hannah Rosenberg

   Tender letter poems from a mother to her daughter about the fierce love that binds women across generations.

8. “On Friendship” - Kahlil Gibran

   A reflection on friendship as sacred and rooted in mutual becoming.

9. “Old Friends” - Freya Manfred

   A celebration of long friendships and the intimacy that comes from shared memory.

10. “The Bridesmaid’s Speech” - Kate Baer

    While this could be read as a toast, the sentiment of friendship as chosen family is universal.

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Writing Prompts for Notes/Poems to Send Your Most Beloved Friends

• Write a thank-you note for something your friend did casually that quietly changed your day or life.

• Write a letter to a friend you would want them to read on a difficult day.

• Write a poem or letter that begins with gratitude and ends with devotion.

• Make a list poem of all the wonderful things you associate with your friend—songs, smells, jokes, foods, places, etc.

• Write the story of your friendship as a love story. Include the beginning, middle, and present moment.

Your reading and sharing already means more than you know, and I know not everyone is in a position to pay for a subscription, but if you’d like an easy, one-time way to support this work, you can buy me a coffee below.

Fuel My Coffee Addiction

A week ago, I shared Ten Poems to Restore Your Faith in Humanity, and the response was overwhelming. So many of you wrote to say how much you needed it. In that same spirit, I felt compelled to gather a new collection: poems for the resistance.

Since Alex Pretti’s murder by ICE, resistance efforts in Minneapolis and across the country have surged. A year under this administration has left many of us exhausted and frightened and also more resolved than ever to fight back. People who once stayed apolitical are speaking out. Strikes and protests are growing. Solidarity actions are rising around the world.

Recently, I shared a reel pointing out that the two so-called “domestic terrorists” killed in Minneapolis in the last two weeks were a poet and an ICU healthcare worker. I rarely get traction on reels, but this one spread and found its way into corners of the internet where people see the world very differently than I do. The comments filled with racism, misogyny, and …

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In the northern hemisphere, January can be a hard month for those of us who crave sunlight and warmth. The trees are bare, the earth is dormant. Spring feels impossibly far away. We’re tasked with cultivating our own warmth and light, turning to cozy blankets and rich stews and chocolate and puzzles and poetry.

Over the last year, it’s become increasingly frightening to watch what’s unfolding in my country. Winter already narrows our worlds, then add the news, social media, and conversations with friends and family, and what I hear most often lately is rage and grief, and, beneath it, despair.

Still, I’m reminded of human resilience. I see communities organizing to support those most harmed by ICE. I see people giving financially when they can, amplifying resources when they can’t, finding creative ways to show up anyway. The possibilities for resistance are endless, but the fight is long, and there are moments when most of u…

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Hello friends!

We had such a wonderful group of new and familiar faces at our first Poetry Apothecary Writing Circle of 2026 last week, and it’s gotten me so excited for the rest of the year.

I’m still working out how to include a section only for paid subscribers within Substack itself, so for now, I’m sharing this as a post. Below are the links to all upcoming Poetry Apothecary Writing Circles for the first six months of 2026.

You can sign up via the registration link, and it will send you reminders ahead of time. As long as you’re signed up, you’ll receive the recording afterwards even if you cannot attend live.

We’re hosting our first Poetry Apothecary Open Mic on January 26th which is an informal way for us all to connect. Bring a piece of your own you’d like to share, a favorite poem from another writer, or just come and listen.

The world feels perpetually heavy at the moment, particularly if we just read the news or scroll through social media. Cultiv…

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The turn of the year always invites reflection. This past year, what became impossible to ignore was a strange and painful contradiction: I was constantly connected to others—through social media, DMs, text messages—and yet I often felt deeply lonely. Not alone. Lonely.

Recently, while driving to the grocery store, I listened to former U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy speak about the loneliness epidemic, how we are more isolated than ever despite the illusion of connection technology provides. Around the same time, I read about studies suggesting that the more people use ChatGPT, the lonelier they tend to feel. It seems counterintuitive. These tools promise companionship, efficiency, even understanding, and yet something essential is missing.

What we’re offered now is proximity without presence. Intimacy without risk. Conversation without being seen.

We want to be known, but our calendars are so full we’ve forgotten how to make time for one another. Busyness has become armor. Productiv…

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I’ve been working on a new series of poems that reexamines and reclaims the stories often left unwritten. This poem began as a meditation on what goes unrecorded—the labor, tenderness, and devotion that rarely make it into official histories. I found myself thinking about how many stories live only in bodies and memory. How much shaping happens quietly, outside the spotlight. How often what matters most is deemed “unremarkable.”

Winter is a season that honors this kind of unseen work. Roots deepen in the dark. Care continues even when no one is watching. The solstice reminds us that what is hidden is not absent, it is preparing.

Before you read the poem, I invite you to notice what feels unwritten in your own life. What care, grief, love, or endurance has shaped you without being named?

The Unwritten Pages 

I like to imagine the unrecorded years—
infant, toddler, child—the erased 
tenderness deemed unremarkable 
by men. Mary nursing her child 
from cracked, swollen nippl…

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Everywhere I go, I’m seeing women shrink—acquaintances online, coworkers, women in my workout classes. Many of them have always been strong and active, but suddenly they appear almost skeletal. I know better than to comment on individual women’s bodies. Social media is full of arguments about celebrity weight loss and whether concern is compassionate or intrusive. The truth is, we rarely know the reason behind someone’s weight change. Illness, grief, stress, medication, and a hundred other factors can make bodies shed weight.

So instead of scrutinizing individuals, I pay attention to the broader cultural patterns, and what we’re seeing is alarming.

Most people don’t realize that when someone with an eating disorder becomes visibly thin, they are the canaries in the coal mine. Fewer than 6% of peo…

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20% Thanksgiving Discount

Poems are like buoys in the sea. You swim from one to the next; in between, without them, you are lost. — Anselm Kiefer

For many of us, gratitude is complicated—especially when it’s expected during times such as Thanksgiving. Despite the research showing how powerful a daily gratitude practice can be, naming a few things each day can feel painful or hollow when your life is unraveling. How do you practice gratitude in the middle of divorce, layoffs, an unexpected diagnosis, the loss of a loved one, or the first holiday season without a parent, spouse, or child?

The first holiday season after my divorce, I found myself sob…

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