You are the lights of my life. I was so ecstatic to bring you into this world. You have both taught me so much about love and life. You have seen me at my worst. For that I am sorry. I know that things were hard on you as I navigated my journey with bipolar disorder, borderline personality, and fibromyalgia. I should never have tried to commit suicide in front of you. It is the biggest regret of my life. The looks in your eyes as you both looked in on me in the kitchen have been etched into my soul. Forever.

I cannot ask you to forgive me for that. I have yet to forgive myself. I am just so sorry that you watched me navigate my own trauma. I put it on display and was constantly activated. I made your childhood more about me and my needs than your own.

I never, not once, did not love you, however. I tried to do the best I could. I know it wasn’t always enough. I caused you pain. I validate it. I acknowledge it and will do my best to make up for it for the rest of my life. You deserve a mother who is as whole as both of you are. Your kindness, compassion and wisdom astound me. You are both beautiful, kind, sensitive and intelligent people. You’re also amazingly gifted in the arts as a musician/audio engineer and the family artist/baker.

I was not given great role models, but that is no excuse. I knew what happened to me wasn’t right but then I did some of the same things to you. I parentified you both in different ways. I tried not to take your childhood away, but, in some ways, I absolutely did. I made you my confidantes and that was not okay. You should not have had to manage my emotions and take care of me. I did give you some nurturing and care, but not as much as you deserved.

I want you to know that I am so proud to be your mom. I have always been your biggest cheerleader. You have instilled so much pride in me – and you both still do. I love every hair on your head just as when you were babies. The first time I held each of you, I truly felt complete. I do miss the baby toes and bedtime stories and Veggie Tales or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles VHS tapes sometimes, but I really like where our relationship is at this moment in time. We’ve worked so hard to get here. Thank you for allowing me to make amends. I will continue to do so.

I hope you remember the good times too. Like summer vacations in the pool at the condo on Shoal Creek. We’d spend hours there. You both got so tan. I hope you enjoyed our ‘Baby Wars’ with paper towel rolls and holiday stuffed animals we’d put on display in our living room, much to dad’s annoyance. I do. We had some wonderful times despite not having much money.

However, I also regret that my obesity kept me from being as playful with you as I would’ve liked. Sometimes, it was hard for me to sit at the playground and watch you play. I so wished I could’ve joined you but cursed my too big body for not letting me. I felt like a prisoner in my skin.

I am sorry for the unhealthy eating habits I instilled in you. We didn’t eat healthier until you were much older. However, I firmly maintain that you are beautiful no matter what your size is and you are worthy of love and affection, which was not the message I got growing up. Your worth is not your weight. You, my children, have amazing hearts and solid character. That is and always will be more important to me.

I am so enchanted and in awe of you. You amaze me on a regular basis. I am so happy that you have found the partners you have. They are wonderful, supportive and solid human beings. It is a pleasure to know that you have chosen well – and so have they. I look forward to many years of enjoying our family as it expands.

I deeply love and respect your friends (most of the time - hehe). We’ve brought them on family vacations, had loads of sleepovers (and parties) and done some cool stuff together despite not having a lot of money.

We didn’t get financially stable until you were both older – and we hope that you are okay with sharing in the fruits of that labor now. Giving you the ability to live your lives and have a few extras here and there is one of the greatest joys of my life.

Sometimes, we didn’t have money for the things you wanted, but I hope we were able to give you all that you needed. We tried anyway. It was hard sometimes. I wish you didn’t know how hard it had been. You should’ve been spared that stress.

I am sorry for the health problems you’ve inherited and know that the trauma you went through doesn’t make things easier for you in that area. Know that I support you and will fight tooth and nail to make sure you get the medical care and attention you deserve. You both know I will still go all “Mama Bear” if you need me to. I’m sorry for doing that when you didn’t ask or need me to, though. I have embarrassed you sometimes. I am an imperfect mama, but I will always try.

I love that we have seen countless movies together, enjoyed creating new holiday traditions, used Helium balloons to play “Sing Star” and many other silly things that make my heart happy when I remember them. Dad and I tried to inject fun and frivolity into your lives. I know you both have amazing senses of humor. I’d like to think we played a part in helping you cultivate that. I sure hope it wasn’t SpongeBob, Family Guy or South Park that did that. I know I let you watch some ‘inappropriate’ stuff, but you are no worse the wear for it.

I also do not regret bringing you up without formal religion. I had religion shoved down my throat as a kid. As an adult, I didn’t want a traditional path in our lives although I did flirt with several different types of faith. I apologize for dragging you to Church on occasion – sometimes, my ‘Catholic guilt’ got the better of me, but I am proud that you are moral people and have come to terms with your own spirituality. I trust you to make your own decisions regarding faith. You’ve both been baptized but any additional steps you take in faith will be fully up to you – and supported by me and your dad.

Sometimes, I wish we did more things as a family while you both lived at home, but we were all so busy with the ins and outs of daily life that we didn’t always get that precious time together. We tried to eat dinner as a family because I wanted us to share that part of our day together. I am happy that you guys always had activities like bowling, soccer, acting camps, golfing and so on and so forth. I didn’t truly mind driving Dora the Explorer around. However, I will admit that when I could downsize my car, I didn’t mind that either.

You guys know how much I hate to drive so I’m so happy that you offer to do it now. I realize it’s because I’m not the best driver, but I also know you honestly want to spare me from doing something I dislike. You are so thoughtful like that. Hopefully, I am thoughtful back. I try to make sure that you guys get what you need to survive in this fucked up world. No matter what, I feel that the world is so much richer because you both are in it.

Sometimes, I wish I appreciated you more when you were little. Sometimes, I wished you’d hurry up and grow up. Damn – was that a mistake. What once seemed so far away is now here. You are wonderful humans and responsible adults. I couldn’t ask for better kids. I wish I had been a better mom. Thanks for giving me so many chances to redeem myself. I hope I’ve repaid your trust even if it’s only a little and I am grateful that you still want me in your lives.

To paraphrase one of our favorite books: “I will love you forever. I will like you for always. As long as I am living, my babies you will be.”

Recently, I had an interaction with a sibling that was uncomfortable. My mother called him to ask what I thought of her as a parent and wanted confirmation that she was a good mother. She was trying to reach me but couldn’t because I have blocked her – and deleted her contact. I’ve chosen to go “No Contact” with her. It was NOT an easy decision, but one I felt was necessary.

I’ve been called ‘fake’ in my relationships with my family of origin. Last year, I decided I couldn’t continue the farce of trying to force a relationship that will never be satisfying – or fulfilling. I don’t think that’s the case just for me, but also for her. I am not a traditional Italian Portuguese daughter. I do not think family is everything. Blood is not thicker than water when that blood makes you feel like you’re bleeding to death. It’s hard to explain. Hopefully, you’ve never had to live that experience.

I don’t feel that my mother and I ever truly saw eye to eye. We are very different people. It doesn’t make her bad – or me, although some people may disagree with that. I honestly don’t care anymore. I used to – and it kept me chasing relationships that were unsatisfying for each of us and validation that was never going to come.

No one’s childhood is perfect. I have learned that. There were things I wanted from my parents that I was never going to get. It’s okay – they did their best. They tried to be good parents. I hold no anger towards them. They really had good intentions. The follow-through left something to be desired.

As a parent myself now, I cannot understand some of the choices my parents made, but I appreciate having the experiences that I had with them. Sometimes, it taught me a lot about what I did not want to be as a person or a parent. I know the same is true for my children. I’ve made my share of mistakes in this life. I’m sure I’ll make even more in the days, months, and years to come. None of us is perfect.

I am too hard on my mother. I do not know for sure. I have tried to give her the benefit of the doubt and understand her. I haven’t tried hard enough, but, somewhere along the way, I feel like I outgrew our relationship. Our world views are completely different.

When I was little, I clung to her. I had horrible separation anxiety and was a nightmare in school for the first couple of years. My preschool teacher told my mom that had I not been so intelligent, she would’ve suggested I stay home for an additional year. I was that disruptive.

I was a very anxious child who grew up to be an anxious adult. I was a holy terror as a kid. I was angry all the time. I hated having so many responsibilities as a child. I did – and I still do. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it truly. It’s woven into the fabric of my life – and my story.

The situation is complicated because I love them and appreciate the good things they did for me. I received an excellent education and had advantages that were not extended to my siblings. It’s not that I’m ungrateful. I am unwilling to contort myself for crumbs of affection or attention. It’s not worth it anymore.

Over the years, I did try to discuss the concerns I had about my relationship with my mother with her to no avail. I know I will not get the validation or acknowledgement I want or need from her, so I walked away. I do not regret that choice. Rather, I regret all the wasted years I spent trying to fit in. I am not a good daughter by society’s standards. I accept that.

To be fair, I’m also a crappy sibling. I know that. I am trying to make amends to the siblings that I want to have a relationship with. Sometimes, there’s too much anger and sadness between siblings that they can’t bridge the gap between them or find their way back to each other. That makes me sad, but not sad enough to try and fix things on my end. It’s just not a priority for me at this point in my life. I may regret that later, but it will be my regret to carry.

I have accepted that I will never speak to my mother again. I do not wish bad things for her, but I do not want her in my life. I should be allowed to make that choice for myself. I have my reasons and they are valid to me.

My ‘issues’ with my father were very different. He and I had come to an agreement before he died, and I enjoyed the brief conversations that we had before the cancer claimed him. I regret that I didn’t arrive sooner to say a proper good-bye to him, but I know that was entirely my fault. Not going to his funeral was a safety concern. Despite being labeled dramatic, I honestly felt my presence there would have been problematic. I spent most of that day in tears and second-guessed my decision a million times over despite my husband’s assurances that I made the best decision I could at the time.

Over time, I just couldn’t deal with the anxiety I’d have when my mother would call me. I dreaded the days I’d talk to her and could only cope with very short and superficial conversations. A woman who once said she knew me like a book honestly did not know me at all.

I could not handle supporting her emotionally when I don’t feel she did it for me. There were times, to be fair, that she was very kind and sweet. Other people always say that about her. My experience of her was different. I can’t speak for anyone else, but she has caused me a world of hurt.

It’s not my place to soothe her wounds. She must come to terms with her choices as I have with mine. I’d love to see her take some accountability for her mistakes, but she never will. That is the reason I can’t continue to have her in my life.

Despite what people think, I am not trying to cause her pain. I am just done. She owes me nothing. I owe her nothing. I know it sounds cold – and it is. I am what people think about me, but that’s okay. I don’t mind being the villain in someone else’s story because I wore that hat for a very long time. I was awful to live with for most of my life. I’ve spent almost thirty years working on myself in therapy, support groups and even a brief stint in an outpatient program in a hospital. I have said and done things I am not proud of, but I am working on making amends to the people who matter most to me.

When my mother dies, I do not know how I will feel. I know for a fact I will not go to her funeral. I have no desire to see most people who would go to it. I have made peace with my lack of a relationship with my mother. If this gets back to her, I hope it provides her with the closure I had to get for myself.

Almost a week after the finals of the World Cup (Viva Espana), I am feeling a little lost. I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s how I feel. I love how the World Cup brings us together. I love following the ‘stories’ of the World Cup. This time around it was Ronaldo, the great Portuguese soccer player (I’m half-Portuguese so I get to “claim him”) and Messi with their swan songs. It truly is the end of an era.

However, I am happy to report that the state of soccer is in capable hands with the likes of Bellingham, Haaland and Mbappe, who still has at least one, maybe two more World Cups in him.

Like you, I cheered on Cabo Verde and their indomitable spirit. We were all Vozinha after his impressive goalkeeping against Spain and Argentina. I think we all felt pride that this underdog team held their own in the tournament, making it out of the Group Stage for the first time in the small African archipelago’s history.

We wept when his mother wasn’t let into the United States due to passport issues – and cheered when she was able to be in the stands for Cabo Verde’s second game. The immigration problems in the US were a backdrop – and not a good one – to this World Cup. Iranian players were detained. Like many residents of the United States, I felt shame in my government at their less than welcoming attitude towards the world. I hope things here change soon.

I saw some incredible games and incredible relationships. None more so sweet than Lamine Yamal’s (Spain) relationship with his brother, Keyne. Keyne may be the best thing about the World Cup. His excitement and joy were so infectious as were Erling Haaland’s. Haaland, the Norwegian striker, became a household name during the festivities this year. I can’t tell you how many Haaland memes I had in my Instagram feed. I watched most of them – and loved every, single one.

He’s such a goofy and gentle giant with an incredible ability to find the goal. I am contemplating watching the Premier League to see how he and his buddy, Jude Bellingham, get on with Manchester United. Their ‘bromance’ was so fun to watch even though they played for different teams – Haaland for Norway and Bellingham for England. The hotly contested battle between the two countries was a heartbreaker for Norway, who I hope will continue to be a rising soccer power with Haaland front and center.

We watched Africa emerge this time around. It was so good to see despite messing up my bracket. They rose to incredible heights and exceeded everyone’s expectations, including mine. They prove that the future of soccer may lie in a different continent (sorry Europe and Latin America.) However, one European country won all our hearts and drank all the beer out of Boston, which takes some doing. The Scots were such a big hit in Beantown that Boston and Glasgow are now sister cities. We expect the Scottish/Bostonian boom in about nine months.

On a darker note, we had controversies. Argentina seemed to be favored by the gods (or the referees, depending on who you talk to). Every time they hit the pitch, something questionable happened. In the final against Spain, their goalie was even more impressive than Vozinha. Despite that, they still lost. I cheered Spain on although I had Argentina to win the whole thing.

The biggest controversy of the tournament was the rescinded red card for US player Folarin Balogun. President Trump is rumored to have reached out to FIFA’s chairman, Infantino, to get the decision reversed. The move was so upsetting that Belgium, their next opponent, was mobilized and left the pitch with a 4-1 goal. Calls for Infantino’s ouster were made. I kind of hope that happens. I, like many other soccer fans, don’t have a lot of respect for FIFA’s head honcho, who appears to cater to President Trump at every turn, even going so far as to create a FIFA ‘peace prize’ for him.

I was happy to see Frances’ Kylian Mbappe take the golden boot. Many thought it would go to Messi, who scored a record number of goals, overtaking the all-time leader, Brazil’s Marta (can’t wait to see what she does in the Women’s World Cup next summer). I was sad that France lost to England, but it was nice to see a shirtless Jude Bellingham. I think he is supposed to take his shirt off once per game. If he doesn’t, he should.

Again, the final between Spain and Argentina was a cracker of a match. It was 0-0 into extra time. Everyone was talking about Messi passing the torch to Yamal. Funnily enough, there’ s a picture of Messi with baby Yamal. Neither Yamal nor Messi scored in that final game.

Overall, what I loved most about the World Cup is that for a few weeks, we were more unified than divided. We weren’t nations – we were all human beings who were enjoying a shared experience through sports. It’s an important reminder that we are all just people. We are not our leaders, and we crave connection to each other.

He’s my age. 53.

Our son Is 29 and will be heading to California to see him soon. I am encouraging this – not that my son needs my permission – because I want him to be able to say what he needs to say. I hope there’s a bit of closure for him. I hope that my ex will listen to him with kindness, compassion, and love.

I don’t know if he will. He is at a place in his life where he has alienated most of the people who love(d) him.

This is hard to type. I find myself shaking as I reread my words so far. Am I being kind or honest? Am I showing compassion to him knowing that, if the situation were reversed, he’d probably not give me a second thought?

It’s okay if he wouldn’t. We divorced in the year 2000 after only living together for about eighteen months.

We both maintain that we didn’t want to get married. I won’t speak for him, but I felt forced into the union by my Catholic family because I was pregnant. It was a double-shotgun wedding.

After the divorce, there were child support issues. I eventually moved to Texas with our son, in part, because I wanted to get him away from his dad. My ex wasn’t very mature. He had issues, including bipolar disorder and the loss of a parent when he was in his late teens. His mother was his everything, and he admittedly (by his own admission, not mine) struggled after her heartbreaking death. She had cystic fibrosis and, after a lung transplant on Christmas Eve, died three days later.

I felt compassion for him, but, at times, I had wished he would get help. When we were contemplating divorce, we went to couples’ therapy together. My ex was not happy with something the therapist said and walked out, telling the therapist that, “I was not worth it.”

He may have been right at the time. I was a holy terror to deal with due to my own undiagnosed bipolar disorder. I sure didn’t make it easy to love me. (Don’t believe me – ask my siblings.)

The therapist responded by talking to me alone and telling me that I could, with a clear conscience, file for divorce.

So, I did.

The divorce took longer to get than the marriage lasted in part because I had to pay for it on my own. He refused to help in any way. He asked me to forgive him in back child support. Figuring I wasn’t going to get it anyway despite desperately needing it, I did. At that time, I just wanted to be through for my sake and my son’s. I figured $5,000 was a bargain to be rid of the headache that our relationship had become.

I got full custody of our son. It was hard to watch my son wait on weekends for his father to show. Many times, he’d call hours later and say he couldn’t make it for some reason or other. My son would inevitably be disappointed in part because he waited on the front steps for hours to see his ‘daddy.’

My heart would break for my little boy. When I met my current husband, I saw our chance for a way out. I had fallen deeply in love with John. We decided that moving to Texas would be best for all involved. My ex and I amended our custody agreement so we could go. I don’t remember all the details, it’s so long ago, but we did our best to adhere to it. We weren’t always perfect if I’m honest.

It was hard to send my son back to Massachusetts each summer. Most of the time, he had to fly as an unaccompanied minor. Due to the ‘trauma’ related to that, my son doesn’t like to fly to this day.

When he’d get there, on more than one occasion, he’d call me in desperation, asking for money so he could eat. His dad would leave him alone while he worked – I never could understand why he didn’t take some of his vacation time to be with our son.

I’d wire the money and cry for hours after. I had trouble sleeping when my son was up there and would often feel relief when his grandparents (my mom and dad) took him back to their house for a few days before he’d fly back home to my waiting and worried arms.

I would send him every year despite my misgivings. Although others may see it differently, I wanted him to have a relationship with his dad. I tried not to speak ill of my ex, but I know my son knew that he wasn’t my favorite person. I made the mistake of telling my mother-in-law some of the details and she made a significant error in telling my son, while he was still in single digits, that his father was not the man he built him up to be.

It destroyed his relationship with her. They didn’t even reconcile before her death. My son was going to see her, but she died before he had the chance to do so. I know it hurt him. I wish it didn’t because my mother-in-law knew he loved her, but to be fair, she did play favorites between him and my daughter, her grandchild by blood.

My family did the opposite. They favored my son probably because he had lived with them after I split with his dad. We had to move back in with them. It was far from an ideal situation, but I needed cheap rent and even cheaper childcare.

As the years passed, I would see my son get more and more disillusioned with his dad. He internalized his father’s emotional distance. He blamed himself for his father’s sins.

That weighed heavy on my heart. However, when my son turned eighteen, I was happy to give him his dad’s number and extricated myself completely from their relationship. I deleted the contact “Sperm Donor” on my phone and went on with my life.

I no longer disliked my ex. In fact, I didn’t feel anything for him one way or the other.

That is – until he got this sick.

Now, I don’t know how to feel. I believe I loved him once. I loved him enough to have a child with him and attempt to co-parent our son throughout the years. I loved my ex enough to marry him, even if I was reluctant to do so.

I was happy for him when he got remarried to a wonderful and kind woman. I was happy when they adopted their children. They have three together – and they all love their ‘big brother.’ My son will be spending time with them when he goes to visit his dad. I’m glad he has this extended family in California and love how he has a good relationship with his bonus mom despite a tinge of jealousy on a rare occasion.

I had hoped that he’d do right by his adopted children and his wife. Stories I have heard through my son’s telling indicate otherwise.

I feel incredibly sad that he couldn’t make a happy life for himself. I wonder if the trauma from our relationship had anything to do with his difficulties. If it did, I want to apologize wholeheartedly to his current wife and kids. From what I have heard, he has not made things easy on them.

He has also allowed his health to deteriorate to the point where he’s in this position, near-death in his early fifties. I really had wished the best for him. I’m sad he’s dying. I’m sadder still that he will probably do so alone.

I had spent so long denying that I cared about him to realize that I always had and always will. I will remember the sweet boy who asked for my permission before kissing me for the first time. I will remember the man who begged me to reconsider the divorce, asking if it wouldn’t make sense to have another kid together and try to make it work (after a few years in separation limbo, of course).

I fear that my son will unleash his anger and disappointment on him. It’s not that I don’t want my son to have closure. I just don’t think he’ll get it – and I’m not sure that my ex is able to hear our son’s pain and acknowledge it in any way.

As you can see, I have some very complicated – and conflicting – feelings about all of this. Above all else, it makes me wonder what my end will look like. Will I be alone too? Will my children need to see me to get closure because our relationship was not always easy? Will my husband be with me, or will he have already passed? I hope not because I don’t know if I want to live in a world without him. It didn’t work so well for my mother-in-law or my own mother, with whom I no longer have contact for several reasons that would require an entirely different post.

I wish for peace for my ex and that his suffering will not be long. I want him to know that I did love him once and will always thank him for giving me one of the greatest gifts of my life, our son. I want him to know that I forgive him for any problems we ever had. We were both younger, more stupid and very immature. We were friends first. Perhaps, we should’ve stayed that way, but, if we didn’t, I wouldn’t have my son. (And life without him would be unimaginable.)

I can pity the man my ex has become. I can be sad that he never became the man I had hoped he would be for his son, his wife and his adopted children. I can miss the sweet boy I remembered, the one who missed his mom and couldn’t ever please his dad (or stepdad).

I wish him safe passage into the next life and more joy there than he had in this one. I can be scared for my own mortality – death is not so far off for me as it used to be. I can wish and hope and pray that my son is able to cope with the complicated feelings that will come with his father’s passing.

I can do all of that and more as I prepare, in my own way, to say goodbye to a chapter of my life that I have long since closed.

I am not a fan of the Fourth of July. It’s weird because I grew up in the cradle of colonial America, Boston. There’s so much history there. The early days of this country were shoved down my throat. I was not a fan.

Some may call me unpatriotic. If your definition is guns, big trucks, and country music, yes, I don’t fit that bill. However, I love this country. I have a good life here. I realize it’s better here than about anywhere else in the world. Just about.

As the daughter of an immigrant - my mom emigrated from Italy when she was a child because my Nonno wanted his children to have more opportunities than he could provide for them in Italy as a fisherman – and a first-gen dad (Family from Portugal and the Azores), I appreciate what this country represented for people I loved fiercely. America was the land of the free and home of the brave. It was rife with opportunity then. Now, not so much, and that saddens me.

Both my parents passionately believed in “The American Dream” as did my grandparents. They loved America fiercely and were proud to call it home. A little bit of rebellion caused me to feel indifferent to this holiday. They were so gung-ho about this country. Through my education, I learned that we weren’t always the good guys. In fact, we often have done questionable, if not downright deplorable, things to others in the name of “America.”

The truth is I always felt more Latin in sensibility. In part, my collegiate deep dive into the history of Latin America sharpened my love of all things Latino and soured me on some of our dirty dealings there. I don’t think I can, nor should we, as a nation, applaud ourselves for our interference in Latin American countries throughout the 20^th century. We rarely made things better. I don’t see that trend changing with our policies towards Venezuela and Mexico if I’m being honest.

I may sometimes harbor anger towards my country, but I still love it. The Fourth, however, does not excite me. I am ambivalent about it at best.

Don’t get me wrong – I like having the day off. I enjoy watching fireworks (on TV). As a kid, I swear I could see remnants of the fireworks from the Esplanade in my bedroom window. My brother, Rob, and I would sit on top of my bed and pull ourselves up to peer out into the dark, looking for the inevitable flashes of colorful light. We would be sweating through our pajamas because we didn’t have A/C, but it was fun to sit there with him and share the experience.

Sometimes, we’d go to Trum Field to watch the local fireworks display. It was fun – and frightening. The loud noise scared me as did the possibility of being caught on fire, which my mother made me believe was a real possibility.

I am ambivalent about the Fourth of July because fireworks scare me. I honestly think it’s as simple as that.

The fear doesn’t just originate from my mother’s irrational but not impossible fear. Rather, it stems from a neighbor on our street who would shoot fireworks in the field across from his house while we watched. He scared me because he’d do it while he was drunk. I’d sit on his porch, praying that none of us would die. I didn’t want to be there, but my parents would make me go so I could watch my younger siblings. We didn’t go every year, of course, but there was a stretch of 5-6 years where we were a part of those ‘illegal’ festivities.

As a teenager, my friends and I would hop in a car and drive to Everett. You could see Boston’s firework display well from the other side of the Charles. It was a lot more fun to be there with my peers, drinking, laughing – and flirting. Oh, how I loved the flirting.

A few years later, I was working in Faneuil Hall Marketplace in Boston. I was on shift during the fireworks display. My boss laughed at me because I hid under the counter when the fireworks got intense. I was terrified. I thought we were in real danger.

This brought me back to the times my dad would hide behind the couch with his hands over his ears. He had PTSD due to his time in Vietnam. Part of my ‘trauma’ related to fireworks comes from this. (BTW – I also hate thunderstorms. I’m worse than my dogs when they occur.)

If the fireworks weren’t bad enough, I’m not a huge fan of cookouts. In Texas, barbecue is a religion, like football. What I remember as barbecues – Italian sausage, steak tips, burgers, and dogs – are not what I see here (brisket, beans, and ribs). Ever since becoming vegetarian (not entirely by choice but due to gastrointestinal difficulties), the idea of an “All-American” meat-forward holiday is not super exciting.

I prefer to spend the Fourth of July watching Wimbledon matches on TV. This year, I’ll also be watching the World Cup. I’m rooting for so many nations – the US is not one for several reasons. I’m not anti-American. Just anti-Trump’s America. This year I don’t really want to be reminded of the dysfunction in our system. I want to hunker down, lay-low, surrounded by my dogs and kids (unless they have other plans. While I don’t like to celebrate, I have never stopped anyone else from doing so). I’ll take a Benadryl after watching the Boston Pops, on TV, the only way I can enjoy a fireworks display.

I was just a teenager when I was first prescribed an antidepressant. It was Prozac. I didn’t like the way it made me feel, or the fact that I would have blackouts. After one at school where I hit my head on my locker, I took myself off of it, cold turkey.

I know now that’s not a good idea. At the time, I had no clue. I just wanted the medication out of my body..

As a senior in college, I took to my bed for almost a month, just getting up to go to work or school. I had what I think was a nervous breakdown. I was crippled by panic attacks, but I white knuckled it.

When I was a young adult – my son was a few years old (I had him when I was 23) – I was put on Effexor by my new doctor. My previous doctor wanted to prescribe me weight loss medication because, according to him, I couldn’t be depressed. I was pretty and just needed to lose weight to find a man.

As if that would fix my problems

So, at the ripe old age of 25, I began taking antidepressant medication regularly because I couldn’t white-knuckle it anymore. The Effexor helped, but it also made me nauseous. I had little appetite at first, which I was thrilled about. I thought it would help me lose weight.

I was wrong.

I went off Effexor because my health insurance lapsed when I moved from Massachusetts to Texas. Again, I went off of it cold turkey. I didn’t see another option. I sure as hell couldn’t afford the price of the medication on my own. I also had the cojones to think I didn’t need the medication. I wasn’t ‘mentally ill’. I was just weak like my father always said of folks with mental health concerns.

I was about to be married for the second time, and I was away from my family of origin. I figured I could cope on my own, without the medication.

I was wrong – again. Almost immediately, my mental health declined significantly. I began seeing a therapist through my now-husband’s Employee Assistance Program (EAP). My therapist had me make a to-do list of the smallest things I could do in a day (wake up, take a shower, brush my teeth and take care of my son). The psychiatrist affiliated with that practice wanted me to take an anti-psychotic med which I opted not to take because I was pregnant with my second child at the time and read online that it could negatively impact the baby. I would rather struggle with depression than harm my baby.

I walked away from therapy at the time.

Cut to a few years post-that. I was barely holding on. My primary care doctor diagnosed me with ‘malaise’ and started experimenting with antidepressants. I tried Zoloft (it made me more depressed – and tired) and Lexapro (extremely nauseous and irritable). Finally, I asked him to put me back on Effexor, which he did. It was familiar and I began to feel better, or so I thought.

Little did I know at the time that Effexor was the worst antidepressant I could take. I hadn’t been diagnosed as bipolar yet. Effexor, I would learn many years later, actually elevates mood and can lead to rapid cycling.

I literally felt like I was on a roller coaster. Around this time, I also began having PTSD-style flashbacks to my childhood that would leave me weeping on the floor. One day, they were so bad that I took a kitchen knife and pressed it to my wrists. I am not proud of this in part because I saw two pairs of eyes peeking out from the kitchen wall. It was my children. They were terrified.

Before I could drop the knife, my husband came in the house and grabbed it. He told me that if I didn’t get help, he would take the kids and divorce me because I was harming them. (I’m crying as I type this. Almost twenty years later, this memory haunts me. I have yet to forgive myself for doing that to my children, one of whom needed significant therapy afterwards.)

The next day I contacted the local mental health facility and got enrolled in an intensive outpatient IOP program in Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT). DBT, for those of you who are not familiar with it, is a skills-based training therapeutic approach with assistance in emotion regulation, distress tolerance, mindfulness and interpersonal effectiveness. I was also diagnosed as Bipolar at the time. I began taking the mood stabilizer, Geodon, in addition to the Effexor.

Eventually, Xanax and Clonazepam (Klonopin) were added to my medicine regimen. At various times, I have tried multiple types of sleeping pills and a dream suppressant, PTSD-related medication (Prazosin) that caused me to walk into walls and faint. One time, I banged my face against my nightside table trying to get to the bathroom.

Soon after, I came off that medication. My psychiatrist at the time was very helpful in getting me regulated with meds while I worked on my skills and other coping strategies in therapy.

When I became stabilized, I remained in a holding pattern with my meds. Occasionally, we’d play with dosages, but after an illness and gall bladder removal, I felt I was overmedicated or wrongly medicated. My antidepressant, Effexor, was causing me to rapid cycle. Sometimes I could be extremely happy and severely depressed within the same hour. My struggles didn’t just affect me but also my husband and my youngest child who was still living at home at the time.

After a long discussion with my psychiatrist, we decided that I needed to come off the Effexor. My psychiatrist suggested that I titrate down from the 300 mg I was on by 37.5 mg at a time. I began the process and each time I went down, I felt depressed, angry and suicidal. I also had some unpleasant physical side effects like nausea and fatigue.

I would start and stop the titration down process periodically with psychiatric supervision, of course. Once I successfully did so, my psychiatrist told me that most folks come off this medication in the hospital under doctor supervision because of the side effects. I was so relieved to be off this medication. We added Prozac in as my antidepressant and Lamotrigine (Lamictal) to help bump up the mood stabilizer.

Eventually, my psychiatrist and I parted ways. Honestly, I don’t know what happened to him. He seems to have dropped off the face of the Earth. I struggled to find a new psych professional. During that time, I was terrified that if my prescriptions lapsed, I’d be in a world of hurt.

I desperately looked for a new psychiatrist – and I found her. She was working with a friend of mine. That same friend recommended her highly. She’s actually a psychiatric nurse practitioner (PNP). My daughter has had one for years, and I found them both to be extremely knowledgeable about pharmacology. The goal with my PNP is to get me down to a therapeutic dose on my mood stabilizers. At my age, I have to worry about the load that these meds put on my organs.

We started with Xanax. That was incredibly hard. Xanax is addictive and I was taking multiple pills a day after being diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD). I didn’t think I’d make it through the titration process, especially after having several panic attacks. Eventually, against my psychiatrist’s advice, I went quickly down to none. I suffered, mind you, but I detoxed quickly.

I used my skills from DBT and Cognitive Behavior Therapy (CBT) – replacing negative self-talk with something more positive yet still believable to the mind – to help me ride through it. My therapist applauded me on my ability to build capacity and sit in discomfort.

I knew it was a win, but I know at what cost it came.

Most people would’ve said – no, I don’t want to go down on anything else for a while. I decided to tackle Geodon next, one of my mood stabilizers. It’s an antipsychotic often used to treat schizophrenia (Bipolar disorder is considered an off-label use of the product). I am currently still titrating down on this medication. I was taking 160 mg at night.

In two iterations of the titration, I have struggled with depression, suicidal ideation (no plan – and my therapist and PNP are fully aware), fatigue, nausea and difficulties sleeping.

I wonder if it’s worth it sometimes. In weak moments, anyway. I would not wish the side effects on anyone, but I know that they are bringing me to a healthier state where I will use the minimum therapeutic dose to manage conditions that I was over medicated for but didn’t have the skills or knowledge to handle without it.

Note: This post is my personal experience. Please DO NOT come off psychiatric medications (any medication really) without the guidance of a qualified medical practitioner. Some side effects can be very dangerous – even life-threatening. Always seek medical advice for these types of situations. I am not giving suggestions or advice.

I will be 53 on June 23^rd. Sometimes, I really feel my age. I was fine up until 52. I didn’t feel ‘old’. This past year, I feel there have been constant reminders that I am no longer young.

· The AARP membership

· Enjoying going out for ‘linner’ between 2 and 4pm on weekends

· Complaining about ‘kids today’

· My ‘kids’ are 23 and 29

· Contemplating what it would be to be a grandmother

· My knees predict the weather

· When I get up from a chair, I creak and ache

· Discovering a slew of wrinkles on my forehead

· Noticing a few gray hairs (which I had my hairdresser cover up almost immediately)

· Relating way too strongly with Patton Oswalt and other late middle-aged comedians

· 60 and 70 don’t seem so ‘old’ anymore

· Thinking men in their late 50s and early 60s more attractive

· Athletes and younger entertainers look like children to me

· My ‘music’ from the 70s, 80s and 90s is now played on the ‘oldies’ stations or at department and grocery stores

· And a few other things I will not mention because, believe it or not, I do maintain some semblance of modesty.

Generally, I don’t love birthdays. I don’t have great memories of them. I also feel uncomfortable with being the center of attention, even though a part of me craves it. I am actually an extroverted introvert. I like people but being around too many of them is so draining. I treasure my ‘alone’ time.

When I was a kid, I only had two birthday parties – one when I was five and my friends and I ruined the family pool by jumping from the swing set into it. It was fun, but my parents didn’t find it funny. Honestly, I was pissed at my mom for cutting off my Princess Leia braids because my brother put gum in my hair. I figured this would show her.

My reward – no more birthday parties for me or my siblings. Sorry for ruining it for y’all, guys. Turns out it was my fault. This time.

At the age of 16, my friend Kathy and her mom planned a sweet sixteen for me. My friends came over to Kathy’s house. We went into Boston to eat lunch at the Hard Rock Café – I had never been before. After, we went back and had cake – my favorite (white cake, white frosting and strawberry filling.) It was one of the best days of my young life.

When I left my teens, I went into a depression. From the time my Grandpa Gus died when I was ten, I felt the sting of mortality. I didn’t – and still don’t – want to die. Well, at least not when my bipolar disorder is in check. Then, I obsess over death.

I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, contemplating death.

· Will it hurt?

· Will I feel like I’m ‘choking’ when I can’t take my last breath?

· Will I die alone or surrounded by loved ones?

· Will my soul cease to be?

· Will I go to heaven or am I destined for hell (if either even exists)?

A part of me wants to live forever. I wonder what my legacy will be. Am I leaving the world a little bit better because I was in it, or does that even matter?

I don’t know the answer to any of these questions, and I will probably never know. By the time, some of them will be answered, I’ll be past the point of caring. My husband wonders why I worry so much about it. It’s not like I can sidestep death.

As my dad used to say, I’m “morbid” and “morose” sometimes. I prefer “goth”, however. Birthdays are times of celebration – supposedly – but this year, I am caught in a dilemma. Should I celebrate getting one year closer to death?

I really can’t get this thought out of my head – how many more birthdays will I have? Is it 20? 30? More or less? Have I wasted my life in fear and crippling self-doubt? Have I squandered my potential? Do I have to settle into old age – and what does that mean?

Can I still be considered attractive or is that part of my life over? Yes, appearances are more important to me than I care to admit. (Ironically, I just admitted it.) I admit to using Korean face creams to get that glassy glow. I have a very strict skin care routine – ask my esthetician.

I work out every day and am frustrated because I’m not thin. I work hard at it, but I’ll probably always be plus size.

I am worried about being mobile as I get older in part because my mother didn’t take care of herself. She’s 78 and basically chair-ridden, watching FOX News. I want to do everything I can to ensure that I can take care of myself for as long as possible. I don’t want to go into a nursing home, but I will. I am contemplating what end of life decisions look like so my kids don’t have to wonder what my wishes are because my dad (who passed away in July 2023) didn’t do any of that.

Perhaps I shouldn’t equate birth with death, but I guess I have since I was a child. That’s not going to stop as I get closer to the end of my life. Hopefully, I can make peace with birthdays (and death). This year, I’m trying to celebrate more and enjoy the people around me who love me and show up for me every day. I am going to take in their love while doing fun things and eating yummy food and watching the World Cup.

Life may be complicated, but it’s still beautiful. Happy (almost) Birthday to me!

Throughout my life, I have wanted to do and be many different things. I have always been a big dreamer. Sometimes, I’ve dreamt too big, but don’t we all to some degree or other?

The first thing I can remember wanting to be was a teacher. I was in kindergarten and thought it’d be neat to teach kids how to read and write. I would also be kind and compassionate. I would understand if the kids were sad and help them feel better because I was a very anxious child (separation anxiety) and would often cry in class. I didn’t get a lot of compassion from my teacher. I didn’t like that, so I vowed to be better.

Being a teacher was something I explored in college with an internship in a K-1 class. This dream did not die well into adulthood. At one point, I wanted to be a college professor or high school history teacher. Elementary school was nice, but I feared I would get too attached to the kids and want to adopt all of them.

As a young child, I used to draw dresses in my composition notebooks. When I was about eight, my mom told me my dresses were just ordinary. I cried and stopped designing them in front of her. I still held onto the hope that I could try and go to the Rhode Island School of Fashion Design when I graduated high school. Unfortunately, I never had the patience to learn how to sew. My mom tried to teach me but said it was too hard because I was left-handed. I never pushed because sewing didn’t seem that fun anyway. It requires too much patience – which I do not have.

For a bit, probably because I went to Catholic school, I thought about being a nun or a missionary. I read so many books about the lives of saints. I thought if I could be good enough or believe enough, I could be revered as part of this elite canon someday. Being a missionary appealed to my sense of social justice. In eighth grade, we watched a documentary about Jean Donovan, who went to El Salvador and was murdered during the war. I thought that martyrdom would be a noble way to go – and it would support my desire of sainthood. The Pope would have to canonize me, right? By that time, however, I’d given up on being a nun mostly because I liked boys way too much.

Writing has probably been the thing I’ve loved doing since I was a girl. I spent hours crafting stories. I was good at it too – winning competitions in elementary and high school. Teachers complimented me on my work. That is until my ninth grade English teacher told me my work was pedantic. It took a lot of courage to share my work with her. I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t had a friend who truly believed in my talent.

I was so heartbroken that I melodramatically tossed all my poems up to that point into the trash never to be seen again.

I am mad at myself for letting this person dissuade me from a dream I still hold. I have held myself back because of the limiting belief that arose from this encounter – the thing I loved to do the most wasn’t deemed good enough by a so-called expert.

Periodically, I have made forays into traditional writing circles by entering competitions (mostly poetry initially), writing for literary magazines in school and out and creating several books (one of which I am ashamed to admit is erotica – it’s under my pen name and I doubt you could find it even if you tried, but please don’t. It’s really bad in part because it was inspired by E.L. James’ Fifty Shades of Grey). To date these books haven’t sold more than a few units at best. I also have several books, a slew of short stories and hundreds of poems in various stages of completeness. I’m still flirting with failure, but it’s not something that bothers me as much as it used to.

Other things I thought about doing included, but were not limited to:

· Astronaut

· Geologist

· Paleontologist

· Cartographer

· Calligraphist

· President of the United States or Benevolent Dictator of the World

· Supreme Court Justice

· Olympian

· Tennis Player

· Roller Derby Girl

· Actress

· Dancer/Choreographer

· and so on and so forth.

My parents wanted me to be a lawyer for many years. It’s an immigrant parent thing I think, or an 80s parent thing. I blame L.A. Law. They said I was good at arguing so I’d make a great lawyer. That backhanded compliment led me to be a paralegal for a bit with the intent to go to law school. Well, that intention never materialized because the lawyers I worked with were not very good people. I didn’t want to be dishonest or degrading to my clientele. (Now, I know not all lawyers are like that. I just had the misfortune for working for some bad ones.)

After graduating from college, I really wanted to go to graduate school, but I was afraid of the GREs. I never wound up going and the fact that I don’t have a masters of Ph.D. still bothers me but I don’t intend to ever go to formal graduate school because, to be fair, I don’t want to spend that kind of money. I’d rather save it for my kids’ futures or travel with my husband.

I also thought hard about becoming a social worker. I thought I’d be a good one. My dad, however, tossed the brochures I received after graduating college in the trash, telling me that no child of his would work in the mental health field.

Years later, after some marketing jobs, customer service and entry-level tech work, I became a certified and credentialed life coach. I have received further certifications in nutrition, emotional eating psychology, hormone health, and spiritual coaching. I am currently working on a certification in CBC (cognitive behavioral coaching.) I love working on helping high-functioning individuals reach their goals in various areas of their lives.

My dad told me, before he died, that he was not proud of me for the work I had come to do. I told him I didn’t need his approval. I loved him, but I wanted to do what made my heart happy. I didn’t let his disapproval stop me like I let roadblocks stop me in the past.

I know I will end my career as a mental health coach who also writes books for fun (and hopefully profit). I am currently at work on a memoir that combines humor and trauma because why not?

Deanna, is currently at work on her humorous and traumatic memoir called The Butterfly Effect. Let’s see if she actually makes it to publication this time (fingers crossed).

Tennis is my favorite sport. I dreamed of being like Martina Navratilova. I would practice my serves against the small concrete wall beneath my neighbors’ porch. If that avenue was not available to me because my some-time friend, Mary Ann, was not in the mood to let me do that, I would hit the ball against the side of the canteen fulfillment center that closed off part of my backyard. I didn’t like doing that as much because there were grooves that created some interesting ball bounces. I couldn’t control the ball - and, for those who know me - control is something I crave.

When I was very young, we would go visit my dad’s aunt, my bisatia, TiTi. Her name was Aldina, but everyone called her Titi. She was the closest thing I had to a grandmother. Nana died when I was five, and we had never been particularly close. TiTi loved me unconditionally. To this day, I am grateful for her love. I never questioned it. She saw something in me I didn’t. My therapist calls her an empathetic witness. I like that.

At Titi’s house, I got to watch the Wimbledon finals for many years. I saw Martina make her impressive run at the All England Club. She and Chrissy Evert always seemed to be facing each other. I loved their respectful rivalry.

Martina glided over the grass. It looked so effortless, but I knew how difficult it was. Great athletes make it look easy when it’s not. Later on, I feel in love with Steffi Graf. She was a powerhouse. That is until Monica Seles came to challenge her. After that, it was Martina Hingis. On the men’s side, I saw Ivan Lendl dominate. Later on, I’d watch the legend himself coach another legend, Andy Murray.

I’ve lived through a lot of tennis history – Rafa’s fourteen French Opens, Pete Sampras’ domination of the sport, Andre Agassi’s mullet and much more.

I fell in love with the Venus sisters. I remember when Venus had more accolades than Serena. However, I watched Serena overshadow her. To witness the Williams’ sisters play doubles is miraculous. They’re near-perfection. Their grand slam and Olympic victories made history. Besides, they came from such humble beginnings that they gave me hope that I could rise above my circumstances someday outside of tennis.

Novak Djokovic, in his heyday, was like a robot. He, Rafa and Roger Federer, the Maestro with the most Wimbledon tournament wins (on the men’s side), had some epic battles during the glory days of the Big Three. They were so dominant that it was almost unfair to everyone else. Almost.

In this current iteration of tennis, I have watched Carlos Alcaraz rise. He’s an impressive talent – maybe the best I’ve ever seen. Sinner, although he’s not my favorite, is always a huge favorite to win any tournament he’s in. I love it when he and Alcaraz play each other. I know I am not alone.

When my friends and I played doubles at the tennis courts near Tufts University (where I wound up going to college but, sadly, not playing on their tennis team), we would dream of tennis glory. For me, I knew it was a pipe dream. My family didn’t have the money for lessons. I was so jealous that my friend, Christine, and her brother, Stephen, got to play on the local junior circuit. Besides that, I was on the chubby side and not a good runner.

I became content to watch hours of tennis. I don’t know how many tournaments I followed to their completion. For a long time, I thought the Grand Slams were the only game in town. I learned differently and watched everything I could when we had the Tennis Channel at my home as an adult, with my husband and my children, who could care less about the game.

At least they indulge me in my love of it. They are vaguely aware of the rivalries because I’m so obsessed. Yes, my love of tennis borders on obsession. The game requires so much skill and so much endurance. It’s an unforgiving sport, but there are moments of perfection – like the 6-0, 6-0 matches Serena was famous for. I live for them. Those seemingly superhuman feats are just so amazing to witness.

As someone who has tried – and unsuccessfully – sought perfection in her life, it’s nice to see it in action. I love the tenacity and grit of these players. I love their dedication to the sport. It’s not an easy life. I admire them for these qualities and more.

I also am grateful to them for many hours of entertainment, joy and heartache. It’s a game that Titi gave to me as a gift when I could just be alone in her room with no one to bother me. Tennis signified freedom to me then. It also signified connection. My dad and I would bond over it.

Dad loved all sports. When it came to tennis, I understood the stats and the records. We’d sit and watch matches together as armchair umpires, sharing the joy of pronouncing how we could’ve done better.

As the French Open this year draws to a close, I am reminded how much joy tennis has brought me. It gave me a sense of camaraderie with my dad. It gave me some wonderful moments of exercise alone and with friends. It gave me something I can share with my husband and friends. I love the game and always will. It’s been an important part of my life and I am so glad it has been.

When I was six years old, almost seven, my middle sister was born. I was excited to have a sister – finally. I had a brother, and he was rather annoying in my mind. It happens - siblings fight, and our rivalry was strong. He was the miracle child and I was the cast-off. For a long time, I blamed him, but I was wrong.

That, of course, is fodder for another story.

When my baby sister was born, I don’t know if my mom was prepared for it. She liked having babies but taking care of them – not so much. One day, the baby was crying a lot. I tried to wake my mom – a notoriously deep sleeper – but she wouldn’t budge. I don’t know where my dad was. He worked nights so he may have been resting or at work. The time of day isn’t the important part of this tale, however.

Neither parent was there to take care of the baby. I didn’t know what to do. She was in a crib in my parents’ room. In a house as small as ours, there wasn’t room for a nursery, and I was grateful that the baby wasn’t sleeping with me – yet. However, on this day, I decided that I needed to take action.

I tried to figure out what was bothering the baby. I played peek-a-boo with her. I checked her diaper. I had seen mom do that. I was ecstatic that she hadn’t pooped or peed. I don’t know what I’d have done at that point. I certainly didn’t pay close enough attention to mom when she changed the baby’s diaper. Eventually I’d learn – way too young I’d endeavor.

Regardless, I saw some bottles of formula up on the shelf near the crib. I was too small to reach them, but I was determined. The baby needed to calm down. The sounds of her cries was too much for my little ears to take. She was being so loud. I didn’t understand why mom hadn’t woken up yet. Couldn’t she hear her?

I grabbed a chair and hoisted myself up. Success. I grabbed a bottle and fed the baby. I held her just like mom taught me to and made sure the formula flowed. Unfortunately, it was a little chunky. I thought that was weird, but I didn’t spend too much effort worrying about it because I had no real reference point. I was also relieved that I had stopped the baby’s crying. I felt so accomplished.

After she ate, I burped her and somehow managed to put her back in the crib. Thankfully, she was asleep.

Satisfied, I went back into my room.

A few hours later, my mom woke up. The baby was vomiting and pooping. She couldn’t understand what was going on until she found the empty formula bottle in the crib. My mom yelled for me. I was in the next room, so I came scurrying in.

She said, “Did you feed the baby?”

I looked down at my feet. I wasn’t sure how to answer. I honestly thought I did a good thing, but now I wasn’t so sure. I responded, “Yes.”

“With what bottle? The one in the crib?” She waved it in front of my face. I couldn’t understand why she seemed so upset.

“Yes.” I reverted to one-word answers because I was afraid to give more information. I didn’t want anything I said to be held against me. Already, at the tender age of six, I knew when I was being interrogated, tried and convicted of a crime I didn’t realize I’d committed. I didn’t like it, but what could I do?

Mom stooped down and raised my chin so I could look her in the face. It was red. I knew now that she was really upset. I didn’t think she’d hit me. However, I worried that she’d tell dad, and he would. You could get smacked for the smallest indiscretion. My brother usually got it worse, but I wasn’t immune to dad’s rage.

She let my chin go, stood up and raised her hands in the air, “How could you? You got the baby sick.”

“How?” I asked and immediately regretted it. I closed my mouth quickly, hoping she didn’t take note of my curiosity.

Unfortunately, she did. She remarked. “How? Hmmm. The formula you fed her was old and had gone sour. She has a stomachache now because you didn’t feed her a fresh bottle.”

Now it was my turn to be upset. “How was I supposed to know? I shouldn’t have been feeding her in the first place.”

Her face turned into a rictus of contempt. My mother truly hated it when I called her out with logic. It’s weird that I was able to do so that young, but my circumstances were hardly normal.

I don’t remember what happened after that. I just know I was pretty upset with her for getting upset at me for feeding the baby bad formula. Later on in my life, she’d joke with her friends about the time I got my baby sister sick with bad milk. She thought it was funny.

It always made me mad, because I didn’t intend to make my sister sick. She was acting as if it were such a cute story, illustrating how inept I was with household chores. It made me angry because I saw things differently. I should not have been put in that situation. If my mother did her job as a parent, I would not have been feeding my baby sister at the age of six.

That kind of stuff pissed me off so much as a kid. I was often angry and frustrated. I wasn’t my best self as a kid or a teen – or a young adult. I’m being honest. I wasn’t my best self living at home with my parents. I felt put upon. I had more responsibilities than I wanted and probably should have had.

However, I look back with kinder eyes and realize that my parents were struggling too. They tried the best they could. Unfortunately, it was not what I needed. It never would be. I forgive them, but forgetting is another thing entirely.

In speaking with some friends the other night, I told the story of why I didn’t want a dog. When my son was 7 – he’s 29 now – he wanted a dog more than anything. It terrified me, and I asked my therapist to help me come to terms with the narrative I told myself about having a dog.

When I was six months old, my parents said that the family dog, Rocky, tried to attack me. Soon after, they had him put down. As a result, the family legend became that I killed the family dog.

When my siblings would ask for a dog, my parents would tell them that we couldn’t have one because of me. I had ruined the family’s prospects for having a dog before I was even a year old.

In therapy - and the help of my husband and the dogs we eventually had and have – I learned that this narrative was not true. There was no way I was responsible for Rocky’s death. My parents were. They didn’t prepare him for me. He was their ‘baby’ for seven years before I came around. He went from having run of the house to being relegated to the back yard. I took his spot.

He didn’t know better. He saw me as a threat and, while my mother was not watching me, he took his chance. He attacked. Or almost attacked. I was six months old, so I don’t actually remember.

I didn’t know what happened to him. To be fair, I was barely aware that we had a dog. Apparently, though, it broke my father’s heart to put him down. I am not sure why he had to be put down as a result of the attack. Couldn’t they have gotten him some training? Couldn’t they have re-homed him if they thought he was such a danger to me?

Yes, yes they could. The dog didn’t have to die – and, even if he did, it was not my fucking fault.

As the family scapegoat, I got used to being the bad guy in every scenario. I was too dramatic. Too morose. Too much. I hated it – and I’m still not thrilled about it but what are you going to do? Move on – that’s what.

My therapist helped me see that I wasn’t the problem. I did not cause Rocky to die. I was a baby. My parents were wrong for ‘blaming’ me. However, because of that family legend, I felt I had special powers that would make any dog in my home unsafe. My son wanting a dog caused me so much stress and oh so many tears.

I wanted to give him what he wanted. He didn’t ask for much. So, we bit the bullet and got our Charlotte for his seventh birthday. Charlotte was so healing for me. I learned that I could care for and love a dog. I also learned that a dog was safe around me and a safe space for me. When Charlotte passed away, my heart broke in a million pieces, but she paved the way for our Ellie.

Ellie was a joy from the start. She slept between my legs and cuddled up to me on the couch. She’d watch nature documentaries with my daughter – her person – and burrow under the blankets when it was cold. When she died, I thought I’d never get another dog.

Enter Yogurt. Yogurt, aka the Yog-ster, is such a delight. I fell in love with her at first sight. My daughter knew I needed a new dog, but I wasn’t ready. When I saw her picture on the Austin Pug Rescue website, I was a goner. Yogurt loved being a solo dog but she now shares the house with my exceptional grand-puppy Bunk (I didn’t name her).

I am happiest when surrounded by my pups. I only fear them around dinnertime. They are quite ferocious about their food. (LOL). The family legend that was told over and over again no longer has power over me. I have reclaimed my truth and now understand that the story needed to be told that way for some to keep a certain narrative.

It’s okay. I am not defined by the stories my family of origin tells about me and I am definitely not a dog killer.

Deanna is currently working on her memoir, The Butterfly Effect: Stories or Surviving and Thriving (working title). She swears she’ll have the complete edit to her publisher by the end of the month.

I’m a writer in my heart but a mental health coach by day. The reason I have not made writing my living is because I struggle with crippling self-doubt. What a shock, right? A creative who doubts herself – that never happens.

Of course, I know it happens. Every writer at some point doubts themselves. Some of us do it every day. Our inner critic is strong. Mine gets activated when I fear the judgment of others.

· What if my writing isn’t good enough?

· What if I’m not as talented as my fourth-grade English teacher believed me to be?

· What if no one reads my stuff?

Now, the last one is something that even my writing coach would tell me not to worry about. My husband says that’s not the point of writing, but, to me, if no one reads my writing, how can I validate myself as a writer – and why do I need external validation to feel internally validated?

We all want an audience. We want people to read what we write – and, even more importantly, we want them to think that what we’ve written is worthwhile. Worthy enough to spend money on.

For me being a ‘wealthy’ author means that people resonate with my work. It’s an indication of approval, not necessarily of a healthy bank account. (Although I wouldn’t mind that).

I guess after all I said and done, I’m that insecure poor girl from Somerville, who doesn’t think she’s good enough or believe that she deserves good things. To say I didn’t get the validation I needed as a kid would be a gross understatement.

However, I’m not that little girl anymore. Don’t worry – I’m working through it in therapy. Still.

I have written a novel that I put up on Amazon (and took down to rework it) in 2013. To say it barely sold is not an understatement. I also have an erotic fiction novel – I was inspired by E.L. James’ Fifty Shades of Gray – if she could do it, anyone could – somewhere on Amazon, under my pen name. I didn’t want to embarrass the kids after all.

In addition to that, I have multiple novels in various stages of completion. I’m great at starting things but bad at finishing them. The doubt gets the best of me, and I procrastinate. Right now, I’m procrastinating editing my memoir by writing this article. I get easily overwhelmed, and I think I am afraid of success as much as I am failure if not more so.

Why?

I don’t know, but if I had to hazard a guess – succeeding would mean that I wasted a good portion of my life on being a wanna-be ‘published’ author. I’m not seeking a traditional publishing route – and I already have an independent publisher interested in my work.

But – that’s not enough sometimes. I want a guarantee that this will be a worthy book. I want people to read my story and be inspired by it. I want them to see hope and encouragement.

However, the big problem is that if this work gets ‘rejected’, I don’t know if I can separate it from my being rejected. It’s got so much of me and my life in it, that it would sure feel personal.

I tried entering competitions in the past year and haven’t won one. Never made it to the final stage. I’ve tried submitting to literary magazines. I’ve been rejected by all of them. I decided to give up on competitions – it’s kind of like hitting the lottery anyway. Besides, I’d rather get feedback from my writing coach or writing group. (Although I can’t remember when the last time I went to my Tuesday writing group was).

That’s not to say that I don’t have a blessed life. I do and I am proud of the life I’ve built especially given my inauspicious upbringing. Writing this memoir has exorcised some demons that even therapy couldn’t. I feel exposed and vulnerable by this work, but writing is like that for me.

It’s the ultimate in intimacy – and I am not good at that. So, my self-doubt is really a fear of being rejected. I know I am crippling myself and will regret not finishing this book (and the fifteen others I want to write for myself mostly). I guess it’s time to get back to the memoir and stop procrastinating.

Well, maybe.

Thanks for reading this. I know I am sporadic at best. I plan to share more about the writing journey and be vulnerable here as a way to practice for the book launch, which is expected in January 2027.

I am so sorry – life has gotten away from me. I have been having a rough few months. Well, few years, but that’s a longer story than I will share with y’all today. Earlier this year, I tried semaglutide (Ozempic) for weight loss. I had the vertical gastric sleeve in 2017 and lost almost 200 pounds but am still trying to get under a certain BMI so I can have knee surgery and get rid of some of this loose. Skin. I hate it.

I’ve been to multiple plastic surgeons and the most they’ve accomplished is to make me cry and hate my body even more than I do.

But the semaglutide, which was supposed to help, became a big problem. I was drinking a bottle of Mylanta a day and having horrific chest pains. Sometimes, at night, I’d have coughing fits and it would sound like I was choking. This was despite the fact that I very rarely eat less than two hours before bedtime.

I thought I was going to die. So did my husband. He admitted that, some nights, he’d just stay awake and watch me sleep. He’d do that until I stopped coughing. He was worried but, in true John fashion, he didn’t tell me how concerned until I had some answers.

I got a referral from my primary care doctor. She wanted me to see a doctor at an old gastroenterology practice that I went to years ago. The doctor I was seeing there, who has since retired – thank Goddess – was quite an asshole. I actually wrote a complaint to the Texas State Medical Board. He was a nightmare.

Long story short – he refused to help me and blamed everything on my weight. He actually did more harm than good so, as you can well imagine, I was not excited to go back to this practice. I stopped taking the semaglutide and felt a little better, not much. A few months lapsed and I finally decided that I was uncomfortable enough to seek out this new doctor at the old practice.

I met with him in October and he told me that there was documented proof that I had a stricture and some esophageal problems. I was floored. We discussed revision surgery from a vertical gastric sleeve to the bypass. I was terrified but the only other treatment was the medication the previous doctor gave me which caused me to have seizures. Yes, that’s right – seizures.

We decided surgery would be the best option and scheduled an endoscopy/colonoscopy for November. That happened and then I was told, by his PA, at an appointment in early December that I needed to eat ‘sitting up’ and not eat before bed. She also ‘wisely’ suggested I chew my food more thoroughly and slowly. She has never seen me eat. I did not appreciate her attitude, so I asked her to send the results of the procedures to my bariatric surgeon.

The medicine the gastroenterologist prescribed me is helping to reduce the stomach acid – in fact, it’s supposed to stop production of acid entirely – so it’s not a long-term solution and it’s an imperfect one anyway.

I saw my previous surgeon on December 29^th. He immediately agreed I needed the revision and he apologized that I was suffering so much. He referred me to the insurance department of the practice who helped me get approved by my insurance provider. I had a psych eval, a nutritional consultation and got a letter of support from my primary care doctor. The gastroenterologist declined to provide a support letter, punting it off to my primary. It was frustrating, but it handled itself. (I’m not sure I’m going back to him at this point. I may be better served by a different practice.)

Once I jumped through those hopes and got insurance approval, I had to do some lab work and an EKG. Today, I met with my new surgeon and got the go ahead for surgery. He explained the procedure in-depth. My life will change significantly – and hopefully for the better – with the surgery. I plan to do whatever I need to do to recover quickly and get back to good health.

I should hear from the scheduler later this week and hopefully be good to go soon after. I am terrified about the invasiveness of the procedure – I’ll need to stay in the hospital over night – but I know it’s for the best and I need it.

I’m ready for this next chapter of my life to begin.

Thanks so much for continuing to read my Substack. I’ve just begun a new endeavor called Social Justice 4 All. Feel free to subscribe there or share with others if you wish.

Some 4,000 years ago, the ancient Babylonians were considered to be the first people to make New Year’s resolutions. Their “new year” wasn’t in winter but rather with the coming of the spring – and the planting of the first crops – in mid-March. During this time, they held a massive 12-day religious festival known as Akitu. The Babylonians would crown a new king or reconfirm their commitment to the current reigning one. Folks would make promises to pay their debts and return any objects they had borrowed. If they were to do this, then the gods would be satisfied and bestow good tidings on them for the year to come.

Ancient Romans had a similar practice. Romans would make sacrifices to Janus, who January is named after. Janus was the god who oversaw doorways and arches. The Romans thought that he looked back on the previous year while simultaneously looking to the one to come. Janus recorded the past and foretold the future. Ancient Romans made sacrifices to him and promised to practice proper conduct in the year to come.

John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist Church, took this ancient idea of promising to do better in the year to come than one did in the year previously. He created the Covenant Renewal Service which occurred either on December 31^st or January 1^st. Many Christian sects offer this in modern times as an alternative to more raucous ‘holiday’ celebrations.

New Year’s Resolutions historically have had a religious bent. However, now they are treated as more of a personal development ‘reckoning’. Some of the most popular New Year’s Resolutions are:

· Weight Loss

· Exercise More

· Quit Smoking (sugar, alcohol, etc.)

· Spend more time with friends, family, etc.

A New Year’s Resolution stems from a desire to do better in an area of life that we feel we failed in the previous year or need to pay more attention to in the coming one. Now, as a mental health coach, I can tell you that these types of traditional New Year’s resolutions are usually too lofty to work. Behavior change happens in a slow and steady manner. For example, when I have a client who tells me that they want to exercise for an hour a day, 6 days a week in the coming year, I ask them how often they exercised in the previous year. Usually, it’s nowhere near that. Often times, it’s not at all.

People are setting themselves up to fail in this way. There’s a reason why most people abandon their New Year’s Resolutions by the middle of February (if they even make it that long). We need to reconsider how ‘lofty’ our resolutions are and set ourselves up for success. If you do, to use the example of exercising 6 days a week for an hour at a time, set up a lofty resolution, you will feel bad about yourself for not being able to do it and give up. We humans have a strong tendency to avoid pain. Why not try a smaller, more measurable goal like I will do cardio for 20 minutes twice a week. Then, after a few weeks of consistency, then add another day or add 10 additional minutes to the two days you are doing it. Who knows – by the end of the year – you could be doing cardio six days a week for an hour, but you will have built up to it. Your body won’t be hurting so much. You will be much more able to manage this pace, and you are more likely to succeed.

For me, resolutions have changed significantly in the past few years in part due to my training as a mental health coach. I was tired of setting myself up for failure. This year, I have two very simple ‘resolutions’. They are:

· Try one new restaurant once a month with my husband and friends or kids (whoever wants to come. We can go alone too so we’re not dependent upon other people’s schedule)

· See my brothers, nephew and lovely sisters-in-law at least once every six weeks (this is more than I see them now and I’ve committed to making the trip up there even if I have to go alone)

· Go to the gym to do weight training at least once a week and when I’ve done that consistently for four weeks in a row, add in a second day.

These are all do-able and manageable and I’ve thought long and hard about what is most important to me. This year, these are things that are most important for me to work on. Last year, I vowed to make more plans with friends – once or twice a month and I worked on making more of an effort to text and call people I care about and who care about me. I’ve had lunches with more people. I’ve seen friends more often if they live close by and, if they don’t, we’ve had more phone conversations, FaceTimes and Zoom meetings than ever before.

Of course, I still have weight to lose. I’d love to drop a significant amount – I’d rather not say here because it’s an ongoing source of shame and aggravation for me – but I will go slow and start making small changes like drinking eight more ounces of water for three weeks and, once that feels as natural as breathing, I’ll add eight more until I get to my goal of 100 ounces of water a day. That’s where I feel best and I’m currently at about 32 ounces so it’s doable, but, by going slow I take out the pressure of performance and the complaint that I don’t have the time or the ability to do something.

I’m not saying, by any means, that I am amazing and you are not. If you want to make the resolution to lose weight, exercise or quit smoking, I applaud you. I am asking you to make it a SMART goal – specific, measurable, achievable (attainable), realistic and timely. This will help guide you in creating goals you can stick to and see some success with.

I hope this article has given you some insight into New Year’s Resolutions and some ideas as to how to set up some for yourself. If you find this information helpful, please feel free to restack this piece, share it on social media or let your friends and/or family know about it. I’m trying to grow my ‘fan base’. I’ve got some cool stuff coming up for 2026. As always, I appreciate your readership. Have a blessed New Year and a great 2026!

When I was a little girl, I thought the Twelve Days of Christmas were the twelve days before Christmas. I didn’t understand it – and I realize I am not alone in that. However, as I got older – and more of a history snob – I learned that the twelve days of Christmas are a Northern European tradition – most celebrated in England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, aka the British Isles.

As you may or may not be aware, most Christmas traditions have more to do with pagan elements like Yule (a multi-day winter solstice celebration) and Saturnalia, also a multi-day celebration Romans used to honor Sol Invictus, the Sun God. Other people talk more in depth about it – and they do a better job than I ever can. What I want you to take away from this is that Christmas is not really about Christ. If you read the Bible, you’ll see there is NO DATE given for Jesus’ birth. Nope, it’s not in any of the Gospels. I’ll wait while you look.

Some scholars believe that Jesus was a spring baby, born closer to Passover than to “Christmas.” Whether that’s true or not, I believe it more than a December day that so closely matches pagan festivals and Roman holidays. That’s just the skeptic (and scholar) in me. Once a history major, always a history major, I guess.

So, the twelve days of Christmas begin on Christmas Day, the official first day of Christmas, and end on January 6^th. In England, which used to be a huge celebration known as Twelfth Night. Most of us Catholics, lapsed or otherwise, refer to it as Epiphany. In some countries, like Italy, presents are given that day – La Befana, the Italian “Christmas Witch” who was offered the opportunity to go to Bethlehem with the Three Wise Men but opted not to and regretted it so she gave toys to kids hoping that someday she’d give the Christ child a gift, left goodies in children’s shoes. This tradition is continued to this day in Italy and Italian-heavy areas of immigration like the Northeast of the United States, where I am from. We may not have left our shoes out, but my mother told us about Befana, and we would open our ‘last present’ on Epiphany after going to Church, of course.

We’d also keep our decorations up – tree included unless it was a real tree – until after Epiphany. I still hold to that tradition to this day. My husband is okay with it because he’s half-Mexican and they celebrate El Dia de Los Tres Reyes (Three Kings Day).

You may have heard of the Christmas song, “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” It’s not meant to be taken literally. I read somewhere that the gifts given in the song were code for Catholic beliefs. Jesus was the ‘partridge in a pear tree’ for example. It was a way to protect Catholic doctrine during the bloody era of Protestantism in England. Protestants and Catholics had major beef in part because of the shitty way Henry VIII ‘annulled’ his marriage to Catherine of Aragon. Depending upon who had power, the alternate religion was treated as anathema. It was not a pretty period in history and some of that vitriol remains in Northern Ireland to this day.

Why does the Christmas season end on Twelfth Night or Epiphany? Well, that’s simple. That’s the date that the three kings (Magi) brought baby Jesus his gifts. This was not the case, and we don’t really know if the Magi existed. I’d like to think they did; however, I wish they would’ve brought some more appropriate gifts. I mean – gold (that’s okay) but frankincense and myrrh. Babies don’t need that stuff even if they are holy. Poor Mary would’ve preferred diapers, or whatever they used as such at the time, and some additional swaddling clothes for her precious newborn. I’ve heard some of my female friends joke that if it were “Three Wise Women” instead, they’d have given more practical gifts.

Whether that’s true or not, I do not know. However, I think that we can all agree that, when it comes to Christ’s birth, there is a lot of creative license taken. However, the truth remains that Christmas does not end on December 25^th. We can extend the season. For me, this has been extremely helpful because I usually struggle with a deep holiday depression the day after Christmas that extends well into January. To try and prevent that, or stave it off as long as I can, I give myself gifts for every day of the 12 days of Christmas. It helps.

Whatever you do or need to do to get through the holiday season, do it. Christmas is a joyful time, but it is not the only time we get to enjoy our lives. If you need to or want to truly celebrate the season, let it linger until twelfth night.

Happy holidays, y’all. I hope you enjoyed this article as much as I enjoyed bringing it to you. If you found the information fun or useful, please share it with others – you can restack or post to your social media. Whatever feels right to you. Know that no matter what you do, I appreciate your readership and always look forward to writing for you.

I am a Christmas classics nut. I love all the Christmas specials. I looked forward to them when I was a kid. The holidays were not here until “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” made his appearance. I watched as many as I could as a kid. Rankin & Bass ruled the holidays along with the Grinch and Charlie Brown. Some of my best holiday memories are in front of the TV in our living room.

When I had my own kids, I watched these specials with them. They were an important part of our holiday traditions. The kids would laugh at me when I’d sob over Nestor’s mother’s sacrifice in the snow or Frosty melting in the greenhouse. My youngest would say, “Mama, it’s okay. Frosty will come back again some other day.”

My kids are so sweet. We watched ABC’s 25 Days of Christmas and a lot of holiday movies (which I’ll get to in yet another holiday post – are you sick of me yet?). Some of these we still watch together. It’s nice to see them continue to enjoy these shows that meant so much to me as they navigate adulthood.

These holiday specials remind me of the joy of being a kid at Christmas. Your eyes are full of wonder. You’re excited for Santa to make his appearance even if he was mean to Rudolph. (Yeah, that Santa was a dick and so was everyone else who tried to dull his shine.) You look forward to spending time with family and friends. You are ecstatic that you get two weeks off of school – well, maybe me not so much. I was a weird child who enjoyed school. It was a safe haven from the craziness at home.

Being a kid or having a kid at Christmas is the best. I miss that sometimes, but hope that I can share holidays with my grandkids in the future if I am blessed enough to have them. (That is not my decision. It is my children’s and I will respect it no matter what.)

Who remembers Heat Miser and Cold Miser and their epic battle in the “Year without a Santa Claus”? I can completely relate to their sibling rivalry. I love how Mrs. Claus goes over both of their heads and intercedes with Mother Nature, who forces them to make it snow in the South so one boy can have his Christmas miracle and belief in Santa can be restored once more.

What about Charlie Brown getting reamed by the other kids for his Christmas tree choice. They were so mean to him – always. I felt bad for Charlie Brown, but somehow it all worked out and the kids used Snoopy’s holiday decorations – how a dog got them I will never know but Snoopy was not your regular pet – to give the tree some TLC. It was beautiful. I would smile through tears every time Linus spoke about the true meaning of Christmas even if, as an adult, I know that the stories related to the origins of Christmas, are much more complicated than the Nativity alone.

I adore Mickey Rooney as Kris Kringle and Keenan Wynn as Father Time in “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” The special attempts to answer kids’ key questions about the origin of Santa. It’s a nice story that has little to do with St. Nicholas, but it’s enjoyable all the same. I especially appreciate that Santa chose Jessica. She had some good junk in the trunk – and she was a willing accomplice in getting his presents to the kids of Sombertown. I do feel bad that they got married on Christmas Eve because that’s the one night Santa works. Bad Santa.

How about Brenda Vaccaro, an 80s icon, voicing the cherub, Tilly, in “Nestor, the Long-Eared Donkey”? Nestor was an outcast because of his big ears. He was made fun of. After an altercation with his owner, Nestor was sent out to die in the snow. His mother followed him and sacrificed herself so that he could live. She literally sheltered him from the storm with her own body. That’s an act of motherly love I couldn’t relate to until I had kids of my own. I would weep every time. It was wonderful to see Nestor, like Rudolph, save the day. Where Nestor saved Santa’s blizzard flight, Nestor saved Mary and Joseph on the road to Bethlehem so they could give birth to Baby Jesus.

There’s Jimmy Durante with “Frosty the Snowman” and Burl Ives with “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and don’t forget Frankenstein-himself, Boris Karloff, the narrator of Dr. Seuss’ “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” It always surprised me how many really great entertainers were a part of these holiday classics. My kids don’t know who any of them are really, but I do and I will always treasure memories of them as I do the specials that brighten up the holiday season.

I hope you enjoyed this walk down memory lane with me. I enjoy remembering my favorite holiday specials and sharing them with you. Please feel free to re-stack or post to your social media. I am always happy to welcome new readers to the fold. I appreciate the faithful ones here as well. Thank you – and Happy Holidays! One week and a day to go.

I love Christmas music so much, overall. There are definitely some songs that get on my nerves, but I don’t want to ruin the joy of this season with negativity even if it’s related to Paul McCartney’s stinker – “Having a Wonderful Christmas Time.” Ewww!

The holiday tunes I love can be put into 3 categories: Campy, Sappy and Nostalgic.

Campy Christmas Tunes

Campy songs are usually parodies like those from Bob Rivers such as “Teddy the Red-Nose Senator” (I love that one in part because I’m from Massachusetts), “The Twelve Pains of Christmas” and “Walking Around in Women’s Underwear.” All great songs that make me LOL.

I have a whole playlist devoted to campy Christmas songs. It’s ‘creatively’ listed as Christmas Camp in my Spotify. I also love Weird Al. I remember listening to his music on Dr. Dementor’s Sunday broadcast. Every holiday season, his “Christmas at Ground Zero” would make the ‘funny five.’ It totally belongs there.

I’m also a reluctant fan of “Dominick the Donkey”. As an Italian-American, a part of me find the song offensive, but it is pretty funny. My daughter used to love, “I Want a Hippotamus for Christmas” by Gayla Peevey (I’m flexing here. I know not a lot of people don’t know that. See how knowledgeable I am – Yes, I am patting self on back.)

She would look at me hopefully as if I’d buy her a hippopotamus for Christmas. Where the hell would we put it? I should get her a stuffed hippo as a joke. She’s 23 now but still appreciates a good stuffed animal. Ask her partner. He has requested that she not get any more stuffed animals. If they do, there will be no room on the bed. It’s a conundrum, but, for now, there’s no stuffed hippopotamus in my daughter’s future. Perhaps, I’ll wait until (hopefully) I become a grandmama.

Sappy Christmas Tunes

Like a Hallmark movie or a Christmas special, these sappy Christmas tunes are supposed to tug at the heart strings – or at least they do mine. I swear, at this time of the year, I cry at Kleenex commercials. I’m a soft touch. Don’t even ask me about all the tears I’ve shed over Nestor’s mom’s sacrifice in “Nestor, the Long-Eared Donkey”. My children tease me about that. My daughter used to tell me, when we watched “Frosty the Snowman” – it’s okay, mama. Frosty will come back another day. What can I say? I’m an emotional person.

The songs that just get me right in the feels are:

· Christmas Shoes – That poor, sweet boy who’s about to lose his momma. Aww. But, what really gets me is when those kids sing at the end. I’m a goner. Every time. I’ve had to pull the car over to the side of the street while driving. No lie. Ask my kids.

· Hard Candy Christmas – Dolly Parton is a treasure. This song deals with a broken-hearted woman at the holidays. I’ve been there. “Maybe, I’ll” cry like a baby, Dolly. Love you so much.

· Someday at Christmas – (The Stevie Wonder version). He can sing and squeeze out so much emotion with each word. He discusses how the maybe, someday, we will get the hint that we are all creatures on this planet trying to get by and that ‘there will be no more wars’ and people ‘will remember what Christmas is for’. I am tearing up as I type this. Dude gets me every time. He taps into my deepest desire, but I, too fear that “Someday will not be for you or me” – well, my husband and I, at least.

· Merry Christmas: War is Over – I love John Lennon’s and Sarah McLachlan’s equally as much. (Actually, her album Wintersong is incredible. If you haven’t heard it yet, do so today. It’s worth the listen. Trust me.) Again, a song hoping for happy times for the whole word and the absence of war. I love the utopian idealism of this song. I believe that we would do well to not use religion as a reason to fight each other. I have studied history to the point of understanding that so many major conflicts the world has witnessed have been due to differences in religion. It’s all the same Deity, folks. War is pointless. (Just my opinion so don’t lose your shit over it.)

· Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas – Judy Garland’s voice sends me over the edge into a puddle. I remember the scene in “Meet Me in St. Louis” where she signs the song. It was so poignant. Her voice slightly trembles and it just melts my Grinchy heart.

Nostalgic Christmas Songs

Pretty much any Christmas song can come under this heading. I love me some Bing, Dino and Frank. (I know – as an Italian-American – I do listen to both Martin and Sinatra. I do prefer Dino, however. My nonna would agree if she were still alive.) “Frosty the Snowman” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” remind me of two of my favorite holiday specials. I’ve watched them every year for as long as I can remember (and that’s a long time because, at 52, I’m no spring chicken anymore.)

My most-adored Christmas song is Peggy Lee’s “A Christmas Waltz.” Every time I hear, “Frosted windowpanes, candles gleaming…”, I drop whatever I’m done and sit and listen, often with my eyes closed. The song is sacred to me. I love every version, but Peggy Lee’s holds so much emotion for me. It doesn’t make me cry. It makes me more wistful. I also love Nat King Cole’s “Christmas Song”. Who doesn’t love ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire’? Makes me think of the Cratchit children eating their treats on Christmas Eve. (We also used to crack Chestnuts open with Nutcrackers at Nonna’s house on Christmas Eve, along with walnuts. Such a pain in the ass, but so worth the effort. Yum!)

“Rocking Around the Christmas Tree” by Peggy Lee makes me think of Miss Haas’s sixth grade class. We were the ‘big kids’ for the St. Clement’s Elementary School holiday extravaganza. This song was the hit of the event – every year. You waited to get into sixth grade just to sing this song (well, maybe that’s an exaggeration but not by much). We spent so much time learning the words that I was sick of it at the time, but now, I am rather fond of it. It’s also a lot of fun.

I even love “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”. Dean does a good version, but my favorite comes from the movie “Elf” with Zooey Dechanel. What a voice on her! I know a lot of people think it’s a bit inappropriate now, but it wasn’t for the time, and I like the back and forth between the couple. I have no doubt she’ll keep her virtue – and that is what I will cling to.

So many of these songs remind me of my childhood. My parents loved to listen to the Crooners. A newer favorite is Michael Buble. He’s got an incredible voice and is well-suited to Christmas music. I don’t even mind his version of “All I Want for Christmas Is You”. (I cannot stand the Mariah version. I won’t go into the songs I hate – at least not here – as this is meant to be a cheery post that gets you in the holiday spirit).

Bing will always be a favorite. He, to me, is the Christmas king. His version of “Adeste Fideles” – oh my God. It’s like a religious experience. He’s probably best-known for “White Christmas”. He knocked that one out of the park. Mad respect to Mr. Crosby for his talent if not his parenting.

Perhaps, my favorite nostalgic Christmas song comes to use from Band-Aid. Band-Aid, for those of you who do not know, was a group of British musicians who came together due to the efforts of one Sir Bob Geldof. “Do They Know It’s Christmas” raised money for Africa. It was a truly charitable endeavor and led to Live-Aid the following July which I watched almost the entire way through in my bedroom. I was afraid to go to the bathroom. I did not want to miss any of the artists. They were all great.

I was – and still am to an extent – an Anglophile. I loved 80s British bands and artists. That song was a who’s who of basically anybody I had a crush on or enjoyed listening to on my silver boom box. Simon Le Bon, George Michael, Bono and so many more appear on this track and it will always have a special place in my heart.

I could probably wax poetic on my love of Christmas music. I didn’t even delve into the religious music that sends me to heaven. So many of those songs remind me of ecstatic experiences I had in Church during the Christmas season. I was a girl who loved going to church, most of the time, anyway. Never more so than at Christmas. The choir would sing and I’d sing along. I never had the courage to join the choir. I still don’t let too many people hear me sing. I’m not bad, but I definitely am not Beyonce or Lady Gaga. That’s okay. I’m good with it.

Hey, I hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane. Which holiday songs are your favorites? Please feel free to share in the comments section. As you can tell, I kinda geek out on this. If you found this article fun or informative and want to share it, I’d be so excited. Happy Holidays, everyone! Enjoy this beautiful time of year and remember to tell the people you hold dear that you love them.

It’s the holidays. I love this time of year – from October to Twelfth Night – I am one happy once girl. There’s so much joy and people tend to be kinder to each other, as Scrooge’s nephew points out in my favorite holiday book and movie – “A Christmas Carol.” If you haven’t seen “The Man Who Invented Christmas” (on Amazon Prime, I think), give it a gander. It’s a great retelling of the story of how and why Dickens wrote this classic.

My family and I like to celebrate all the holidays that we can. Right now, the world is such a clusterfuck that it seems more important than ever to do this. We begin with Halloween and Dia De Los Muertos, naturally.

Then, we careen into Thanksgiving and after, I immerse myself in holiday music and celebrations with friends and family. I’m currently listening to Sarah McLachlan’s album, “Wonderland” – “Wintersong” is also high on my holiday music rotation. It’s just such a beautiful time to be alive and the anticipation of the holiday is the best part of it, in my opinion.

We watch holiday movies. Staples like “It’s a Wonderful Life”, “A Christmas Carol” – I love the ones with Alistair Sim, Reginald Owen, George C. Scott and Patrick Stewarrt – “Elf” and “Scrooged” are among our family favorites.

We go to holiday-themed events like the Light Park at the Dell Diamond in Round Rock and The House of Torment’s Krampus haunted house. When I first “met” Krampus I lit up like a Christmas tree. My daughter said it looked like I saw Jesus. We still laugh about that night eight years later. Yeah – the picture came up as a memory on my Facebook feed the other day. It was a great reminder.

Unfortunately – and I was bummed about this one – I missed Krampusnacht. It’s held on the 5^th of December, mostly in Germany and other areas with a heavy German population. Krampus is the “Christmas Satan” – I’ll go more in depth on him in a subsequent article. He is the anti-St. Nicholas. He beats kids with birch rods for being bad.

I’ll take the coal please.

This weekend in St. Lucia’s Day, which is a Nordic tradition. The oldest daughter wears a wreath on her head and makes and delivers breakfast to the family in honor of the saint who is known as the ‘bringer of light’ in winter darkness. They even have St. Lucia Day parades in Sweden where girls march in their wreaths and white dresses. People traditionally eat lussekater (saffron buns) as a way to celebrate.

I just love the food traditions of the holidays. Food, fun and family are all around us at this time of year. This weekend my family will also honor Hanukkah, although we are not Jewish, we respect all traditions (or as many as we can fit into a holiday season) by eating potato latkes with sour cream and apple sauce. Maybe I’ll pick up a kugle, some ruggelach or sufganiyot (fried, filled yeasted donuts) that could accompany the meal. Hanukkah is the festival of Light and commemorates the eight days when the oil, which was only meant for one night burned bright as the Maccabees re-dedicated the Second Temple, overcoming the oppression of the Greek-Syrians.

We will also eat tamales on Sunday with my daughter’s boyfriend and his family. They are of Mexican descent, like my husband (he’s half. My mother-in-law’s name was Maria de Guadalupe Rodriguez Goodson). Tamales are a Tex-Mex tradition. They usually are eaten on Christmas Eve, but we have other plans for that night.

On the 21^st, we will honor my pagan beliefs with a celebration of Yule. I will light a candle and say a blessing over our ‘feast of dishes’. We make paella, one seafood and one vegetarian and bake lots of cookies, all the recipes were passed down to us by my mother-in-law. We usually have friends over and enjoy a charcuterie board. My husband loves to create those. He’s very much a Christmas-guy. You should see the number of lights and inflatables we have in our yard.

Christmas Eve is traditionally the “Feast of the Seven Fishes”. I am half-Italian. My mother was born in Terracina, Italy. The “Seven” fishes are more of an Italian-American celebration, but we enjoyed it when I was a kid. We’d start eating around noon and have seven fish dishes, along with pasta, cookies, Panettone (Italian, bready fruitcake which is the closest description I have for it – and no, I do not enjoy it by the way) and so much more. It was an all-day affair. We’d only stop eating to walk across the street from my Nonna’s and Nonno’s house to go to Christmas Eve Mass at St. Benedict’s.

Since it’s really just me, my husband and kids now – and their lovely partners – we do a much smaller version. My son’s partner is vegan and my daughter and her person are vegetarian so we’ll try to figure out everyone’s dietary needs. Usually, we eat gnocchi and Arancini. One year it took us so long to make gnocchi because my son wanted to be respectful to my dietary needs – I was gluten-free at the time – but the GF flour we used did not work out well.

We also still follow Santa’s journey using the NORAD Santa Tracker. It was the best way to get my daughter to bed before “Santa” came. It’s fun to see how it’s evolved since my kids were little. We cap off the evening with some eggnog and a viewing of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” We often open up one present, a tradition my parents started with me and my siblings. After the kids leave or go to bed – one lives at home; the other with their partner in an apartment not too far away – we stuff the stockings. Yes, we do still buy stocking stuffers. I won’t even tell you how expensive they were this year. Thanks, Trump, for all the economic wonders you’ve created. (and yes, I’m being sarcastic. Affordability, my ass).

On Christmas Day, we open presents and watch “A Christmas Story” at least once. Sometimes, I’ll persuade people to watch one of my Scrooge’s or “A Miracle on 34^th Street” with Natalie Wood. (I did not like the newer version with Mara Wilson back in the 90s). The past few years, we have really focused on our puppies (well, they’ll always be puppies to me) and even let them partake of the prime rib my son cooks special for us.

I celebrate the 12 Days of Christmas, which begin on December 26^th and end on 12^th Night. Look it up, okay. On January 6^th, we commemorate La Befana’s coming. She’s the Italian Christmas witch. She puts presents in children’s shoes. I will not entertain taking my tree or decorations down until that date has past.

Thank you so much for letting my share my family’s crazy holiday traditions with you. We love this time of year and want to ‘bless everyone.’

If you enjoyed this article, please consider sharing it with others. If you are so moved, I’d love it if you subscribed. Over the next few weeks, I’ll go more in depth about some of the holidays I mentioned here. I am a history geek after all. I look forward to sharing some of my knowledge with you. I appreciate you and am grateful for your readership. It means a lot.

I’ve been working on a book. I started it for Nov Nov (Novel November). I’m about 60,000 words into it and it is the book I’ve always been meant to write. I don’t want to turn this substack into just another writer’s blog. I have nothing to sell. I am not looking to coach you - although in my day job, I am a mental health coach. I’m not encouraging you to buy my book - hell, it’s not even been published yet.

What this book is doing for me creatively and why it’s different from the multiple books I have in various stages of completion is that it’s allowing me to be authentically me. Unsurprisingly, it’s part memoir, part self-help. It talks about my journey through life from a difficult childhood to a traumatic early adulthood to my current status - healed, happy individual. We’ll, I’ll always have bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder but I am a very high functioning mentally ‘ill’ person.

I love my life. I love what I do. I love who I spend time with. I have worked hard to earn my life as have many of you. I’m just about celebrating it now. I want this space to be where I share myself as authentically and vulnerably as I can. That’s my voice. That’s who I am.

I am hardly perfect. I’ve made lots of mistakes (read the book and you’ll find out - lol). I will continue to make mistakes. Hopefully they are new and different. I will also continue to suprise myself and others by my observations. If you’ve ever watched “Bob’s Burgers”, just know that I am the Louise. I am a big-time shit-starter and love to poke the beast.

It got me into a lot of trouble when I was younger, but now that I’m in my fifties I have more self-control. I don’t always have to make a snarky comment or have a caustic tone. Not always, but most of the time. I was raised in Boston and sarcasm is my native tongue, after all.

I am loving life and loving me (most of the time). I am going through some health challenges and will need surgery in the new year - stomach issues that have been going on for a long time. I am looking for a new psychiatrist. Mine just ghosted his patients. That was hard to cope with but after multiple attempts to reach his office with no reply, I’ve decided to meet with several providers and choose who I like best.

I decided to move into problem-solving mode. Life will create problems easily. When we can learn to problem solve rather than freak out it’s so much better. I wish younger me understood this. (And by younger, I mean yesterday me —- again, lol).

Expect my posts to be more ranting and raving. They don’t need to be about anything specific. Remember “Seinfeld” was literally a show about ‘nothing’ and people loved it. I hope you’ll love the new direction of this Substack and invite you to share your comments or experiences here and everywhere.

It’s the day before Thanksgiving here in the United States. 2025 has been a pretty rough year. Politically. Socially. Economically. Personally. I feel like every year I say that – and well, every year I mean it. Since 2015 things have seemed to consistently get worse.

I know – stop it, sunshine, you’re threatening to ruin our good time here!

Believe me, I’m getting to something good. For all that’s wrong in the world and in my personal life with health challenges, mine as well as those of people I love, an estrangement from my mother that was a long time yet still necessary in coming and so on and blah, blah blah, I have a great life. I am a mother of two children. My children are grown ass adults who are making their way in the world, getting their bearings in their careers and in their significant relationships. I’m so proud of them.

I may even get to be a grandmama someday, but I’m okay waiting and truly okay if it doesn’t happen. It’s their choice, not mine. I will not be that parent. That’s not really me anyway.

Honestly, I’m just grateful my kids wants to spend time with me still. We had a rough go. I wasn’t always in such a good mental state as I am now. I worked hard to get here. They’ve seen me at my worst as has my husband, who I also love dearly. The man may actually be a living saint, but don’t tell him I typed that.

Fortunately, they are getting to see me at my best. Now. It’s been a long road and I appreciate every painful step of the way. I have been forged in fire and flame and I own myself and my life. I have earned my happiness. I am grateful for it beyond all belief and treasure it even more because I know what true misery feels like.

I have a great career. I love my job as a mental health coach. I have rediscovered my lifelong love of writing and am about 60,000 words into the novel I was always meant to write. I have several other novels in various states of completion and, for the first time in my life, I know that they will get done. I have the energy, the passion and the stamina.

I have a beautiful house. I love it. We moved in in 2010 and it’s truly our home. Some parts of it need work – and my kitchen isn’t as big as I’d like it – but it keeps us warm in winter, cool in summer and has been the focal point of some of the best moments in my life and my families’ as well. It is truly a safe space.

I get to work from home. I love that. I am not an office person. Never have been. As I’ve said earlier, I love my job. That wasn’t always the case. When I was younger, my employment history was nothing to be proud of. I was inconsistent and unstable. I had a hard time holding down jobs and truly hated going to work sometimes. I would cry in the bathroom and have difficulty sleeping because I was so stressed out about work that meant nothing to me and nothing to the world. I am not a corporate person. I learned that the hard way, but I learned it nonetheless.

I came to coaching late in life but I think my experiences make me an excellent coach. I deeply care about my clients and do my best to give them a safe space where they can feel heard, supported and understood. That is vitally important to me. I have had feedback, over the years I’ve been doing this, that my work matters. I am so blessed and honored to know that I’ve made a difference in some people’s lives. It’s truly gratifying. I thank the universe for this gift. I have made something meaningful out of my pain.

That’s transformation and I am absolutely grateful for that.

I have excelled friends and a family of choice that cannot be beat. I have people who truly love me and have my back. I hope they know I have theirs. Forever and always. I am blessed to be surrounded by beautiful people, inside and out. These people have opened up my heart and my horizons. I couldn’t be more grateful to them for loving, seeing and putting up with me. Thank you. You know who you are.

Financially, my husband and I are pretty stable. That wasn’t always the case. We know we are fortunate, but we have had to ask his parents for money, sell items in a pawn shop for gas money to get to said parents. We even filed for bankruptcy as a couple. I had to do it twice, once during my first marriage and once with my current husband. It was demoralizing, but it helped restore our credit and help us build the life we have. I learned a lot about fiscal responsibility.

I try to use my good fortune to help my children and people I love. I would never want my children to go without anything and am grateful, ever so grateful, that we can take trips together, pay for their schooling and help them out here and there so that they can manage their debts better than I did.

I know this piece has been incredibly self-serving. I thank you, my reader, for hanging in there with me. I am so thankful for you. My Substack is small but mighty and I know it will grow in time as long as I continue to show up and put in the work. I’d love to know what you’re grateful for this year and every year. Please feel free to comment below.

If you are so moved, I would love it if you shared this piece with others. Send them to this Substack if you wish. Thank you and Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it. To those who don’t, I hope you take some time to think about what you have to be grateful for. It’s a beautiful and worthwhile exercise. You may be surprised at just how blessed you are.