Humans were made for walking.

This was the premise of a book1 I picked up about a year ago. Unfortunately, life got ahead of me (read: I got pregnant and spent the next 25 weeks languishing on the couch) and I had to return it to the library unfinished, but I do remember the gist of the few chapters I managed to read. We were made to walk, and walking has many benefits beyond just the general benefits of exercise. It can impact balance, longevity, even can slow cognitive decline.

Last week, I got a walking pad and the day following its installment in my house, I walked for almost an hour while one child slept and the other child went on an adventure with the Octonauts2. I felt great after. I did the same the next day. My step counts easily hit 10,000, a welcome change during a month of trying and too often failing to hit this goal. And now that we’re on vacation, I’m looking forward to getting home and starting up my walking routine again! I’m imagining binge watching my shows and not even feeling guilty about it because I’m walking while I do it. This isn’t to say it’s better than walking outside. In fact, I prefer walking outside. But my daily walks have grown fewer and further between as the temperature ticked up and surpassed triple digits. Even with a stroller fan on full blast, I worry that the baby is melting.

But this attempt at justifying my walking pad utilization reveals the true message of this essay. It isn’t really about the walking pad, it is about not being my own enemy. I wrote earlier this year about loving my kindle. For years, I eschewed the kindle, preferring my hands on a physical book. I still do, but both of my kids so far have been barnacle babies (and toddlers…) so the first thing to go postpartum is any activity requiring both hands. Last postpartum, I did a lot of reading on my phone but didn’t love it because of the easy access to, well, everything else on my phone. Still, I avoided the kindle because I wanted to get back to physical books. But in the meantime…I just didn’t read much.

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When I finally got my kindle, I surprised myself with how many books I blew through during my recovery, how many moments I filled with reading instead of scrolling simply because it was so much more accessible than trying to juggle a book (or find my spot after the toddler pulled out my bookmark, again3). I feel this now about my walking pad. For some time I scoffed at them. “I’ll just get outside,” I told myself. I wanted to be the person who constantly walked the neighborhood. And sometimes I managed it. Other times, it was raining or a kid was throwing a fit, or it was almost nap time, or or or…

There were always reasons. While there is merit in learning how to overcome obstacles and make things happen in spite of everything else going on, there’s also seasons in which the obstacle pile up and something often ends up on the wayside. For me, it often ended up being my own exercise time. But now that I have my walking pad, my walking goals seem more attainable4. I have always been the kind of person that desires to do something perfectly. I am guilty of postponing many an activity, hobby, or pursuit because something feels off or I think I’ll do it wrong (even if there isn’t necessarily a wrong way to do it). Maybe I need to do more research or maybe I need better equipment or the right clothes, etc. And none of those things are true, it’s just my brain’s way of procrastinating something difficult or different.

There remains many benefits to walking outside or reading physical books, or whatever your particular hang up may be. But here’s my encouragement to be okay with the slightly lesser thing if it’s what gets you to actually do the thing! Walking on a walking pad is better than not walking at all. To be honest, I’m writing this to myself more than anything. To remind myself to stop standing in my own way, to stop holding myself to nonsensical standards. This is a lesson I should apply more broadly to my own life, I’m sure.

Recently, I read A Mother’s Rule of Life with a study group. I admired so many of the rhythms and routines described within its pages, but also felt somewhat discouraged. That level of order in life seemed so far beyond what I currently have. I read similar articles on Substack, and follow all sorts of instagram accounts on motherhood, home organization, cleaning, and more. I hear from more experienced women about how they run their homes, and I crave that rhythm, routine, and order. I know they didn’t start perfectly, and I shouldn’t expect to. But, too often, I tell myself I’ll start tomorrow, or after I get this thing, that piece of furniture, reorganize this space. There’s certainly tools and tricks that can help, but I also know, deep down, I need to just start. I need the metaphorical walking pad in these other areas of my life, a starting place that may be imperfect or less than ideal, but that gets me to do the damn thing. I need to get out of my own way and stop letting the perfect be the enemy of the good.

I need to try things and be willing to scrap them if they don’t work. And then I need to try something else until I find what works. But I struggle to plan for things that might not work out. I hate making plans when I don’t know all the variables. But in life, especially in this season of motherhood, I will never know all the variables. I might as well get the steps in while I figure things out!

Books have long been my constant companions. I don’t remember when I began to love reading, mostly because I can’t remember a time before I could read1. I do remember reading voraciously through much of elementary school, so much so that I often looked up from the book I was surreptitiously reading under my desk to find that we were midway through a spelling test. Growing up, I always had a book on me. My parents laugh about having to tell my sister and I to put down our books and look out the window on car rides. In college, I lost my love of reading for a bit due to burnout from taking too many classes at once, always rushing just to get the assigned reading done rather than having time to truly savor it. The last few years, however, I have been trying to read more intentionally and it feels like reconnecting with an old love. I find myself eagerly picking up my book in a spare moment, remembering the thrill of having a book you are loathe to put down.

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Every time I visit someone else’s house, I find myself perusing their bookshelves. I love to see others’ taste in book and there’s always an easy conversation starter to be found on a bookshelf. I also love asking people about their favorite books, and I really take to heart people’s recommendations, mostly because I know how much I love a book when I recommend it. There’s something about a book that really impacts me that makes me want to pass it on to someone else, exhort them to read it and be impacted in the same way. I’ve found myself buying extra copies of these books to keep on hand because I lend them out so much. While this certainly isn’t an exhaustive list, here are five of the books I find myself bringing up and handing out most often.

1. What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty

   Most people I know have heard me recommend this book, and I know I’ve mentioned it in Substack comments a time or two, but I apologize for nothing. What Alice Forgot is probably my favorite fiction book of all time, and I reread it regularly. I love the vast majority of Liane Moriarty’s books and own all but one2. But What Alice Forgot is the first of her books that I picked up and has maintained its spot as my favorite throughout the years. At face value, it’s a fun story about a woman who hits her head and loses her memory, waking up to a world that is 10 years older than she thinks it is. There are plenty of other stories that use amnesia as a plot device, but this one does it best. It’s a very down to earth story and yet it still manages to convey such meaningful insights into family life, especially parenthood and marriage, to the point where I think it’s probably more helpful than many marriage books on the market. My only warning is, if you are anything like me, you will definitely cry. But you’ll still love it, I promise.

2. Tribe by Sebastian Junger

   I got this book upon recommendation from a college professor. To this day, both his class and his book recommendation continue to influence my life on a regular basis3. Tribe contains a wealth of wisdom from journalist, Sebastian Junger, who spent many years reporting from conflict zones and even embedded with US soldiers in Afghanistan. While much of Tribe speaks to the experience of veterans reintegrating into American society, he also explores other communities and time periods, such as London during the Blitz or Sarajevo under siege in the 1990s. Junger also draws wisdom from these various experiences that he then applies to modern life as a whole, whether or not one has been anywhere close to combat. It is a book about the necessity of community and its impact on building resilience in people, a lesson much needed for our time. It’s also a relatively quick and engaging read, and my husband swears by the audiobook as well.

3. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

   Another fiction novel, this one from my childhood. Markus Zusak writes all his books in a way that has always enchanted me, and The Book Thief is no exception. Written from the point of view of Death, it tells the story of a young girl in Germany in the years leading up to World War 2. It’s one of those books that is completely appropriate for (older) children, but still resonates with me as an adult. Zusak weaves together a story that captures the innocence of childhood along with the gravity of life before and during the war — Nazism, propaganda, government surveillance, loss, death. That the whole thing is narrated by the character of Death only magnifies the poetic nature of the whole story. Writing this is reminding me how much I love Zusak’s writing and how much I need to go reread The Book Thief.

4. Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

   There exists many a dystopian novel, but I will die on the hill that Fahrenheit 451 is the most prescient. I recently reread it and found myself continually struck by how much Bradbury accurately predicted. The fast paced world, the constant distractions, and, most of all, how much of it the people welcomed with open arms. Sure, there is an oppressive and controlling government, but most of the characters are unbothered by this because they are content to live their lives in a perpetual state of distraction and entertainment. I have been saying that Fahrenheit 451 is the most accurate dystopian novel for years, but with the rise of AI and the tik-tokification of so much of our media, it is only getting more relatable.

5. Into the Deep by Abigail Favale

   I first read Into the Deep in 2022, immediately postpartum with my first daughter and in the midst of a journey of faith. My husband and I had been Catholic-curious4 for some time, but were attending an Anglican Church5 in the meantime. And let me tell you, I was nice and comfortable at this lovely, little church and quite content to stay. It was my husband6 who insisted we keep exploring Catholicism (it’s only fair to give him this credit) but Into the Deep gave me confidence as we took the leap. Abigail’s memoir touched on many themes that felt personally relatable from where I had found myself, comfortably camped in Anglicanism. We had the aesthetic without the commitment, the incense without the intensity, you could say. Favale also came from a similar evangelical background to mine; she wrestled with many of the same issues I found myself facing, especially regarding womanhood and faith. Conversion stories resonate with different people for different (and often personal) reasons, and Abigail’s was the one I needed. Not to mention, Abigail Favale has a gift for writing and her prose is a delight to read, no matter the topic.

Now that you’ve heard from me, let me know what you think! And tell me what books you find yourself handing to others on a regular basis.

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I spent a lot of time this past week thinking about death. Not because there was one in the family but because I flew on multiple planes and I think about death a lot when I fly. Why? Because I’m afraid of flying.

Now, before you come at me in the comments with your explanations about how safe flying is and how planes are built to handle turbulence, etc etc, I’ll assure you that I know it all. I’ve researched as much as I possibly can short of actually just getting a pilot license. I practically grew up flying. My dad worked for an airline and plane rides were an almost monthly occurrence. I handled airport security lines with the confidence of a well-traveled businessman and knew the layout of DFW airport like the back of my hand. I felt at home on airplanes and was an expert at wooing flight attendants and fellow passengers alike with the charm that came from being a well-behaved child in public. Obviously, the charm wore off as I grew up and people, you know, just expected me to act properly, but I maintained the feeling of superiority and ease that came from being someone who flew all the time. But I digress…

As I was saying, I am afraid of flying. I could psychoanalyze myself and say it started in college following a car accident in which I was not the driver. I came face to face with my own mortality and did so while I had zero control1. I could reminisce about how I used to board a plane, promptly fall asleep2, and then wake up as we finished our descent, not a care in the world. It’s not that I’m entirely risk averse; I joined the Army, I’ve been skydiving 3 times, I’ve rappelled from 200 ft cliffs, I’ve done plenty of mildly risky activities like rock-climbing, horse-back riding, or campaigning in sketchy neighborhoods. I just always have been afflicted with a fear of dying doing something dumb. I also do a lot better when the risk occurs while I’m in control, and in the big, metal tube hurtling through the sky, I have no control.

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But regardless, I think about death a lot while flying. I spend a lot of time talking with God, where I ask for miraculously smooth flights that go by in the blink of an eye, overly-talkative pilots, or even just the miracle of me somehow forgetting that I could die and it could happen on a plane, this plane, and there’s nothing I can do about it. But mostly He ignores me and I don’t take this personally because he is God, and I know He knows me. And He and I both know my issue isn’t whether or not I believe in Him but whether or not I can get over myself. I’ve seen the quote, “My parents didn’t raise a quitter, but they did raise a complainer” going around social media, and it feels applicable to my spiritual journey as well. I’ve never been tempted to quit on God, but all too often I want nothing to do with the trials (minor as they may be, in this case) that He has given me. God certainly could take this fear away from me, He could answer any number of the prayers I have felt were unanswered throughout my life. But I suppose He trusts that not answering them will not shake my faith too much and I suppose I trust that He knows best when he decides I don’t need a reprieve, I need to stop being a little bitch.

I read in an interview recently that JD Vance3 says he doesn’t fear death. Well, I sure as Hell do. I tell myself that, on a plane, it would be quick. It’s not comforting. I tell myself I have made peace with death4 but at the slightest bump it becomes obvious that I have not. When literally any turbulence occurs, I try to imagine I am on a boat. I know I am not. Do I have to be at peace with death to really trust God? To be a good Catholic? My fellow passengers remain engrossed in their movies, unaware that I am having an existential crisis in row 325

.Now that I’ve rambled, it becomes obvious that my point isn’t really about death but rather about God and our unique struggles. Or maybe that God loves you even when you’re a little bitch, and the plane will land even if you relax for zero minutes of the flight so you may as well keep getting on planes and getting ignored by God.

I keep getting on planes knowing I will spend the flight in a state of suspense, I will not breathe easy until the wheels hit the ground, no matter how smooth we fly or how many times I tell myself I’m good. I used to be embarrassed to tell people I had this fear6. But I realized that it would only be embarrassing if I let it cripple my life. Admittedly, I don’t do much flying these days for practical reasons, but even after I developed my fear, I flew quite regularly for many years. It didn’t get easier but I also didn’t stop doing it. My self-imposed exposure therapy has not rid me of my anxieties while in flight, but it has taught me some coping mechanisms. For one, I always get the window seat. The plane obviously can’t go down while I maintain eye contact with the ground, however far below. Also, when I’m anxious, I imagine myself on the other end, happily driving away from the airport, relaxing in another state, my feet firmly on solid ground, as God intended. I’m sure there’s some lessons in these you could impart on other areas of life, if you so desired.

I’ve also come to appreciate certain moments that only occur in flight. One of my least favorite experiences on a flight is when we are enveloped in clouds and I lose my frame of reference to the ground. There’s a feeling of relief when you burst through the clouds, more magnificent the longer you spent bouncing around in a shroud of white mist. It’s something I could never experience unless I got on a plane, it would be less beautiful if I hadn’t been so unmoored without the view. I would never know this feeling if I closed my eyes, shut my window, and slept the flight away.

There is also the feeling of wonder that I still have during every takeoff- my nerves jangling with every lurch or overly mechanical sound, my mind nonetheless still in awe of the fact that we are flying! How many things do we do these days that awe us, that thrill us? Life is fairly safe (aside from highways, where most of us have a false sense of security considering how dangerous they really are), fairly predictable in many ways. Even though I know thousands of planes take off and land every day, I still find myself taken in by the view from my window, by the very fact that we are in a metal tube that has taken flight! It is both amazing and mundane. I prefer to focus on the amazing.

This is what I hope my children think about when flying. I don’t want to pass my fear to them, only the awe. I want them to giggle with each bump and rock. I want them to be braver than I. At the same time, I don’t necessarily want them to close their window, put on a neck pillow, and snooze the whole flight either. They would miss out on the whole awe and wonder part! But it will be up to them and to God what kind of flyers they become. Perhaps they will inherit whatever it is in me that decided at age 21 to abscond with whatever comfort I used to have on airplanes. I can’t stop that anymore than I can stop them from inheriting my husband’s flair for the dramatic7 and my own propensity to be a wee bit overly emotional, which is an exciting combination, as I’m sure you can imagine. I can only pray that if they do, they keep getting on the plane. Just as I plan to do.

One year ago, I sat glued to my computer and phone as news updates came in. I was at my parents’ house in South Austin, intending to celebrate 4^th of July with them while my husband flew back from a work trip. Our plans were waylaid because of the rain, though for us, it was merely inconvenience. Just a couple hours away, tragedy was unfolding.

I couldn’t look away.

The first mention of the Camp Mystic girls I saw that day was an update that all were accounted for. It didn’t take long for that to be proven false. Meanwhile, there were bits of information coming in gradually; a video from a boys’ camp of kids on a floating roof, pictures of people clinging to trees above rushing water, first-hand accounts from out-of-town visitors who had fled RV parks in the dead of night, trying desperately to warn those around them as the rivers rose.

And among it all, constant updates about Camp Mystic. Ultimately, the truth would be unbearable. 25 young girls and 2 teenage counselors gone, taken by the river. One little girl hasn’t been found even to this day. I was safe in a comfortable house, hours away. Even when the river just minutes away from my house flooded a couple days later, claiming even more lives, my home and loved ones were never in danger.

As a mother, especially of a young daughter and (at the time) pregnant with a second, I couldn’t fathom the pain of these parents, waiting in agony to hear news of their children. So many of us prayed for miracles. Stories surfaced of campers being found alive; unfortunately, most of them proved to be fake. A month later, I bawled my way through Texas Monthly’s feature article from one of their journalists who survived the flood- “The River House Broke, We Rushed in the River.” I decided to reread it last night and I was undone.

In 2015, the Hill Country also experienced massive flooding, even closer to my hometown. At the time, I was particularly struck by the story of a man whose vacation home was carried away when the Blanco river rose overnight. He lost his wife and two young children that night; his daughter’s remains have still not been found. Even as a teenager, this story haunted me. After I married and started having children, it became almost impossible to dwell on. You know how you sometimes have to choose not to think too much about a tragedy or you will be overcome? I still don’t know the balance between bearing witness to others’ suffering and avoiding spiraling into a pit of darkness, but that’s maybe a thought for another day.

Anyway, as flooding once again devastated my home state, I read a story of this same man, remarried and with a young daughter, volunteering with search and rescue teams on the ground in the area. The story broke my heart even as it inspired me. Can you imagine coming back from such a loss to serve others in this way? Saints really do walk among us. Amongst the despair, this became obvious. We are surrounded by hurt and loss, and we are also surrounded by heroism, sacrifice, love, and amazing people.

Now, a year later, reminders of the disaster fill my news feed. Pictures of the devastation, pictures of the girls. A green ribbon was wrapped around a tree on my walk yesterday morning, reminiscent of the ribbons that were everywhere in the aftermath last year. While most of the country thinks of American flags and fireworks, I know there are so many here in Texas that are thinking of that early morning, before the sun even rose, when everything changed. Their 4^th of July will never be a simple day of celebration again.

As I remembered last year, I revisited something I wrote but never published. I had spent a lot of time glued to the internet after the floods, I guess hoping that the next post or article would make everything better. Amidst all of the news of heroic rescues and tragic discoveries, there were social media personalities and political pundits making it about their pet grievances and finding ways to make political points. What follows is what I wrote at the time, edited and updated as needed:

The internet is a horrible place after a tragedy, especially when it’s a tragedy that has hit close to home. On one extreme, I saw people suggesting Texans deserved this because of our state’s politics1. On the other, conspiracy theorists couldn’t help but suggest this was deliberate, caused by weather manipulation.

Even the less conspiratorial, “this will only keep getting worse if we don’t stop climate change” posts were distasteful as parents still waited to hear if their children were alive. There is an insinuation in them that their favored environmental policies could have prevented something as natural as a flood in a floodplain. Do these people think natural disasters didn’t occur until humans started affecting the environment?

But why is this how we are after a tragedy? Why do we flock to the internet to shout at others and find someone to blame? What grieving family do we think is heartened by seeing a tweet about who is at fault? There is certainly a time for investigating and solving problems. As destruction and horror unfolds in front of us is maybe not the time. I think it is because we have no idea how to grieve. We believe we live in a world where everything can be controlled, so we demand answers from those who are supposed to be doing the controlling2.

We cannot fathom tragedy, so we react and immediately default to something we know. Politics. Anger. Blame. Anger is easier to accept than profound grief. Anger allows us to yell and scream in a culture where grief is so often expected to be silent, tucked away. It’s also a desperate grasping for security when we are faced with the instability of the world. If I can point the finger, I can keep it from happening to me. If I can vote correctly, my family will never face rising floodwaters with no way out. If someone evil is manipulating the weather, we can stop them. Fires, earthquakes, tornadoes. We have to blame so that we don’t feel powerless.

This is a common thread I have seen in acquaintances who ascribe to a host of conspiracy theories. I’ve often shaken my head at the things that they cook up, at the confidence they have in people’s ability to organize effectively and then shut up about it. They’ve clearly never worked in a bureaucracy. Or read a Navy SEAL memoir. But when I think more charitably, I see that their attempt at constructing a vast web of manipulation is really just an attempt to explain an otherwise messy and confusing world. A “deep state” may sound scary, but it’s an obvious target and certainly much easier to fix than layers of entrenched incompetence, red tape, selfishness, and apathy that *actually* explains much of the failings of our government. A deep state is also easier to fix. Just find the bad guys and throw them out. Much quicker than the realistic answer that is “spend years chipping away at bad policies and slowly restore function and trust while often taking two steps back”. That’s boring. That’s exhausting. That’s unsexy. That’s real life3.

But if it’s weather modification, we can stop it. If people are conspiring to make you sin, you can blame them instead of yourself. If you can blame one president or policy for a disaster, deep down you think that a different president will ensure the disasters won’t happen.

I understand. My mind did all it could to make sense of this tragedy. I read every piece of news, searched for updates and explanations, donated to every organization I could think of. I just wanted it to be better. I didn’t want to exist in the reality of these little girls, swept away by walls of water. As a parent, I can’t fathom the pain of not knowing where your child might be, not knowing what she went through in her last minutes. I don’t want to think of such things.

But blaming someone does not make it better. It gives us something to do, maybe, but that’s just distracting us, numbing the pain for a time. I wish I had an alternative answer to the conspiracies that was equally satisfying, but that’s not how the world works. At the end of the day, all I can say is a prayer. Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy.

I’ll end simply by sharing a piece that brought me great comfort last year, and expressed some feelings I shared in a much more eloquent way. Say a prayer for the departed and their loved ones left behind today. Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.

Gathering Light

There are only stories

All I’ve been thinking about for days on end is the Texas floods and the children who were swept away. This particular tragedy hits hard personally for many reasons, but such devastating events always challenge my faith and make me react bitterly to people who type out things like “they’re in a better place” because I want to scream: but what about thei…

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a year ago · 73 likes · Dominika

There are many organizations that contributed in the aftermath of the flooding last year. TEXSAR is one that sent many volunteers and spent countless hours on the ground. They continue to serve our state in various capacities. Consider donating here if you feel so called.

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But now I have expanded my vision. Part of this is practicality. Even as I formulated the pro-living-near-family essay in my mind, I could anticipate the protestations. Many people are simply unable to move close to family; the distance too far, the local industries and job availabilities too incompatible. Others do not have supportive, or even safe, family, so moving closer would not actually make parenting and life easier in any measurable way. Finally, some people simply do not have much extended family at all!

I am blessed to have two living, still married parents, as well as two sisters who have decided to reside in generally the same region of Texas. For years, my husband and I were the outliers, following the Army hither and thither1, while the rest of the family slowly congregated in the Austin metroplex. I watched it happen from afar, longing for the joys of meeting up for dinner on a whim or getting together for holidays and family birthdays. When my husband made the decision to get out of the Army instead of pursuing the high intensity career we had been expecting2, my wishes came true. His job was remote, we could live anywhere. We both knew we wanted to live near family, and now that my whole family was in one place, that place beckoned us as well. I got to come home.

After renting for a short time, we opted to buy a house even closer to my (twin) sister than we had been before and turn our 45 minute commute between houses into 15. My daughter got to see her cousins regularly3, and I had a place to go when I needed to get out of the house or wanted company while my husband traveled for work. My husband, who for so long was wary of the idea of living too close to family, started to chafe at even the 15 minute drive, saying it would make much more sense if the whole family lived within walking distance. Then, last summer, even that wish came true. My sister and her husband had no intention of moving, but came across a house listing in the neighborhood attached to ours that ticked all the right boxes. Cue frantic prepping of their house to sell and a whirlwind moving day amidst some of the worst flooding central Texas has seen in years. It was tiring, it was stressful.

It was so worth it.

I knew being walking distance would be nice, but boy did I underestimate just how nice. I thought driving 15 minutes was a breeze, but popping the baby in the stroller and meandering over is even easier, and the older kids enjoy it more!4 Being this close saved my sanity while I endured constant, unrelenting nausea from pregnancy during the same summer that my husband’s job had him traveling so much that a week at home felt like a nice reprieve. I even labored for a bit at my sister’s house after being sent home from the hospital, but that’s a story for another time. The benefits will only grow as the kids get older; I can imagine texting to say my oldest is on her way over on her bike or inviting my sister to just send the big kids my way when she needs a break. Hopefully, they’ll roam the neighborhood with a pack of other kids they’ve picked up through the years and our houses can be places to land as they wander to and fro.

I could go on and on about how much I have loved having my sister close. But the things is, you don’t need a twin sister (or any kind of sister, though they are great) to achieve this. Yes, something about family will always be special, but we weren’t meant to rely on family alone. Since my sister moved in to the neighborhood, a funny thing has started to happen. We met another family from our church that lived in the neighborhood,5 and then the family who lives in the historic square just a few minutes’ drive away pitched the idea of doing weekend meetups at a local coffee shop. This has helped everyone get to know each other and has grown to include several more families who live in the general area. Later, my sister posted a listing for a rental house on their street on our church message board…and a family from church rented it! Just a few weeks ago, a family we have been close with for some time found and moved into a house in an adjacent neighborhood, once again walking distance. Suddenly, we found ourselves running into each other on walks and hosting spur of the moment playdates.

What spurred me to finally write this essay, however, was a text from one of these moms, saying, “Can’t believe how much lighter the duties of motherhood feel after moving closer to you all!”

Most of us are young, relatively new moms6. We are in a stage of life that involves carseats and nap times and days that can often get incredibly lonely at home. Multiple of us have husbands who travel regularly for work, others have husbands who do shift work and are gone at odd hours. When you live close by, it’s so much easier to drop in on a whim or send out a last minute invite to dinner that doesn’t feel overwhelming to an already busy family7. Resources become shared; for example, my family’s garage gym has already been put to use by multiple neighbors, sometimes even when we aren’t home! This is also a season where our own commitments and the reality of managing small kids can diminish our capacity to show up for others8. Physical proximity (and walkability in particular) has lessened some of those limitations. I feel more able to offer a helping hand despite the demands of my own life, because of this proximity. I have been able to offer moments of respite to other young moms simply by giving them a place to drop off their kids, knowing that they won’t spend half of the time driving to and from my house. I can swing by with a coffee on my way home from the coffee shop, I can walk over with an extra serving for dinner.

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And the same can (and has) been offered to me. Our friends in the square have offered to watch our kids while we do a date at a nearby restaurant- easy access if a meltdown occurs and minimal commute time. I now have multiple houses I can walk when the walls are closing in at home, I can join others for dinner when my husband is out of town knowing that the quick walk home won’t postpone our normal bedtime the way a car ride might. I can’t stress enough how taking the car (and the buckling, unbuckling, loading and unloading of baby stuff, etc) out of the equation has changed these experiences. Being a 15 minute drive from my sister and friends got me through early motherhood, and even that closeness is more than many people have. But being walking distance has improved my quality of life astronomically, and because of this I am compelled to pen this exhortation. I know that moving near family isn’t feasible for everyone. Maybe you can’t move to your parents or convince them to move to you. But could you and some friends find houses in the same neighborhood?

I don’t say this flippantly. I know moving is a huge hassle and could potentially come with some sacrifice of location or amenities. I’m just here to say that the sacrifice may be worth it. Many have written about how we all want the village, and some have also written about how we don’t act like we want the village. Maybe some reading this will decide that the benefits of their current circumstances outweigh the village. But maybe some of you have been longing for the village and don’t know where to start. People move for job and educational opportunities. Why aren’t we willing to move for the opportunities that physical proximity to family and friends can bring? Most often, community is something we forge, not fall into.

Sure, you can always get to know your neighbors and build the village that way. I’m always a big proponent of turning your neighbors into your friends. But we all have different lives, we go to different churches and schools, we already have circles of friends. Instead of just balancing those different commitments, combine them! Turn your friends into your neighbors! Yes, this is no small thing, but it’s worth it. When we bought our current house, I saw it as a place to be for a few years. A blip in our journey. Ultimately my husband and I both still desire to build our dream house on land9, but with our current set-up, we are in no hurry. When the perfect opportunity arises, maybe we’ll take it (and then start our campaign to get all our friends to join us), but for now, the community we have built in suburbia is unmatched. But it’s not a fluke, it came into being because of intentional choices. So go forth and move down the street from your friends! Or, you know, you’re always welcome to move to my neighborhood!

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1. One color coloring books

   I’ve been wanting something to do with my hands during downtime (not that I have much of that with aforementioned velcro baby!) but have not had the mental energy to learn a new skill like knitting that could fill that role. I got myself a regular, adult coloring book a few months ago, but my 3 year old commandeered the colored pencils and I found myself overthinking what colors to use anyway2. But my sister-in-law recommended this one to me and it’s been just what I needed. No mental energy, just coloring where it tells you with one color. It’s helped me cut down on my mindless scrolling and it’s been unexpectedly soothing.

   

2. My new Kindle

   Postpartum with my first daughter, I spent a lot of time nap trapped and wanted something to do other than scroll social media. Unfortunately, books were hard to manage with one hand, so I ended up doing a lot of reading on my phone3. This time around, I wanted to again avoid too much social media, but reading on my phone always had the challenge of distraction being just a swipe away. Luckily, I have an amazing husband and he gifted me a Kindle for my birthday and it is both easy to manage one handed and helps me put my phone down during nursing or nap sessions.

3. The show “All Creatures Great and Small”

   I’ve been hearing recommendations for this show from so many people and I finally watched the first season by myself while resting in bed. But I enjoyed it so much that I convinced my husband we needed to watch it together and we are now in the midst of season 2! It’s well-made, funny, and so wholesome. Which is perfect for how often I find myself echoing my mother by saying, “can’t we just watch something nice?”4

4. Shower steamers

   I’ve used them on and off before, especially the Vicks ones when respiratory bugs are going around. Then my sister-in-law sent me some more in my third trimester and they were heavenly. I don’t have a big bathtub in our primary bedroom (a fact I have mourned all through this pregnancy and postpartum, we might have to move because of this) so I can’t experience the full luxury of a nightly bath, but popping one of these in the shower is an easy way to feel like you’re getting a little spa time. It’s the little things, you know?

5. My women’s group hosting a “Favorite Things” night

   I admit, this get together also semi-inspired this post. But in honor of Valentine’s day, and since we had just ended one bible study and had not started our Lenten study, one friend hosted a “Favorite Things” night. We each brought one of our favorites items, shared with the group why we loved it, and then drew a name to see who got to take it home. So everyone got to share something they enjoy and we all went home with a new gift! It felt like grown-up show and tell, honestly. We had a range of items, from craft supplies to skin care to fancy pesto. I brought tourniquets, which was probably not what the host had in mind, but there are few things I love to share with others more than tourniquets. 5

6. Having two kids

   This is not really an item, obviously, but on January 7th, we welcomed our second daughter into the world, and it has just been so fun to watch my older daughter love her. I have kids now, not just a kid! My husband regularly imitates Gru from Despicable Me (“the gorls!)

7. My parish

   I grew up in mega-church and never really developed a close community at any church I attended. The first time I really found that was at the Anglican Church we started attending when we first moved back to Texas. One reason I was so hesitant to continue exploring Catholicism (even though I had originally been the one driving that train) was because I didn’t want to lose the community we had found at that church. Luckily, any community we gave up by taking that leap to catholicism was given back to us in spades by the parish we found. It is such a blessing to be a part of this parish family and truly feel like we are involved in building something.

8. Living walking distance from my sister

   This summer, my twin sister (go check out her substack ) and her family moved into the neighborhood next to ours and now we can walk to each other’s houses! I highly recommend moving down the street from as many family members as you can. It makes popping over for dinner, dropping kids off for a quick errand, and stealing borrowing each other’s stuff such a breeze. Now we’re just trying to figure out how we convince our parents to buy some land and build the family compound, because let’s be honest, being next door to each other would be even more convenient.

9. 70 degrees and sunny weather in February

   Many people in my home state of Texas find themselves lamenting their choice to live here as we endure in the summer months. The sweltering days are enough to make anyone grumble that familiar phrase, “I wish I could live somewhere with seasons!”

   Well friends, I am here to tell you that seasons are overrated. Even as I dragged myself through the days of non-stop sweat and steering wheels that will burn you, I did not once wish to live further north. Because I have done that, and I will never again! A couple winters in upstate New York were enough to cure me of any desire to see snow for the rest of my life.

   

   Luckily, this is the time of year where we really reap the rewards of settling in the Lone Star State. Earlier this week, I did a nature walk playdate while wearing shorts. There was a nice breeze, the sun was out, the birds were chirping, etc. I know the inferno awaits us in just a few more months, but for now we enjoy the fruits of living in central Texas.

10. Having roots

    Earlier this week, my friend Tsh6 published an essay on why places matter. In it, she speaks about the wonderful things we get from traveling and exploring new and meaningful places, but it was her reflection on settling down that has stuck with me. She wrote,

    But there was something in the pair of our bones that finally settled, when we admitted how much knowing and being known mattered, and that there really is adventure also to be found in growing backyard tomatoes, taking kids to tae kwon do and gymnastics practice, and joining local book clubs.

    While I certainly did not have nearly as adventurous as an early adulthood as Tsh did, my husband and I did spend the first several years of our marriage following his Army career wherever it took us. At first, the novelty of going somewhere new every year or so was exciting. I experienced my first blizzard, we met lots of new people (and said goodbye really soon after, thank you Army), we explored places we had never seen before. But it didn’t take long for the novelty to wear off. While I wouldn’t change those years, they did teach me how much I value putting down roots. Every now and then I still get the itch to go somewhere new, but I’m at a point where I truly feel like we have a home that goes just beyond our four walls. I’ve never felt that way anywhere other than the greater Austin area, and I’m just so thankful to be here.

11. Small, Catholic Etsy shops

    Before my conversion, I used to joke with my sister that the Catholic Etsy shops were going to make me Catholic. Maybe if the Anglicans had stepped up their game, I wouldn’t have been as compelled to swim the Tiber7. I have so much gorgeous, handmade artwork in my home from shops like Just Love Prints, Nicole Lanthier, Baritus Catholic, and The Living Heart Co, just to name a few! Anyway, this isn’t sponsored or anything, I just was looking around my living room and realizing how much of an Etsy addiction I have.

12. The Brick

    This was a Christmas gift and has been the most effective tool for lowering my screen time that I have found (short of getting a dumb phone, which isn’t super feasible right now for a variety of reasons). The physicality of it really helps and the fact that not wanting to walk downstairs to unbrick my phone is enough to keep me off social media shows me how much I turn to those apps simply out of habit. I also try to make a habit of bricking my phone anytime I leave the house so I can find other ways to occupy my time in the little moments during errands, like waiting in line or in a waiting room.

13. Jamba Juice smoothie bowls

    What can I say, I got a craving in my immediate postpartum (like literally a few hours after we got wheeled into the postpartum room) for smoothie bowls and it hasn’t gone away. The Jamba Juice ones in particular just scratch an itch, which isn’t super convenient because the closest one is still a ways a way and has no drive thru8. So maybe I’ll have to just start making my own, but for my now my midwives’ office is nearby and I can still use that as my excuse to swing by.

14. My husband

    Obviously this list is not in order of how much I love each thing, but if it was, I would have saved the best for last! I would be remiss if I let Valentine’s Day pass without a shoutout to the man who makes so many of the list above possible and who loves me so well. Any man who wants to woo our daughters will have quite a time measuring up to the example their dada sets for them each day! This past December, we celebrated 7 years of marriage and it’s been over 10 years since we sat on a rock in the middle of the Potomac river and decided to give this long distance relationship thing a go. I thought I was lovestruck back then as a 19 year old, but now that we’ve been through so many years9, multiple moves, both of us joining the military, a deployment, two miscarriages, two difficult pregnancies, and now two beautiful little girls (one still very new) who keep us on our toes everyday. I could keep waxing on about this man, but maybe I’ll save that for an essay of its own one day! Anyway, I love him!

    

Honorable mentions include my instapot, the way 3 year olds pronounce things, flowers, nice pens and notebooks, putting stickers on everything, my daughter’s wonderful pre-school, and the Costco bakery. Have a happy St. Valentine’s Day, everyone, and share some things you have been loving in the comments!

And it is difficult to hold this in tension when “what is” is a little baby inside of me that would not exist if either of my other two had stuck around. I don’t have something meaningful or profound to say on that concept. All I can do is offer it up. Jesus knows what to do with it. I take the blessing of what is even along with the grief of what — of who — would have been.

I don’t really have a point to writing this. I thought that along the way some truth would come to me that I could communicate, but I remain here with simply my words and this disenfranchised sort of grief. I can’t pretend I have been grieving constantly. Most days are pretty normal. My husband travels a lot for work, and I have a toddler, so my headspace is largely focused on making it through each day. I mostly just wanted the world to know that my September baby was here, even if just for a short time. I doubt I will write a whole new post in November, since the feelings will be much the same. But my November baby was here too. My babies were here, and they were loved, and they remain loved even though we only shared the Earth for a short time.

This journey, not just of losing our babies but also the months before and in between my current pregnancy when we did everything “right” but got only one pink line, taught me about valuing children as blessings and not as givens. It was different with my first daughter. The pregnancy challenged me greatly, don’t get me wrong (HG is no joke), but I took for granted that I could even get pregnant (and then stay pregnant)! Things are not so straightforward or simplistic now, but such is life. As I saw someone point out in a Substack note recently, few older, wizened women speak with the same certainty of younger, first-time moms. I don’t pretend to be wizened by any means, nor do I pretend not to have plenty of my own strongly-held opinions. But if anything has taught me about things out of my hands, it’s pregnancy and childbearing.

Childbearing. I bear the child, if God grants me one. I cannot will the child into existence nor can I do much more than endure the circumstances that God asks me to endure. Obviously I have agency and we can all make choices that can impact our health and fitness, which can certainly impact our experiences. But with so many things— infertility, HG, poor diagnoses, etc. — we can only surrender ourselves to what the Lord asks and pray without ceasing. If I have any advice to offer it’s that: pray. As I was still bleeding from my second miscarriage, my husband and I found ourselves in St. Augustine, Florida for a wedding. I didn’t want to go. I cried in the bathroom at the get together the night before the wedding because everyone else was just so happy and all I felt was broken. But right near our Airbnb was the Shrine to our Lady of La Leche, the first shrine to the Blessed Virgin in the United States, established in the 1600s. Spanish settlers landed there in 1565 and celebrated the first mass in what is now the United States. It was a beautiful, historical site and the shrine itself even more so. Still, the thought of prayer felt somewhat futile. Hadn’t I prayed desperately for each of my previous babies, that I would get a miracle? That the bleeding would stop, that I would see a little heartbeat?

But I prayed, nonetheless. And now here we are, due in December. I will keep praying, both out of gratitude and petition. And I will remember my little saints in Heaven too.

Saints Sparrow Pax and Novi Clement, pray for us! We will meet you up above one day.

Our Lady of La Leche, pray for us!

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At the start of 2023, I wrote a list of goals.

I have actually checked off several so far: start nursing school, buy a house, read 20 books (cutting it close as I frantically finish my last one today). Others will certainly be unrealized by the time 2024 begins: run a spartan race run a 5k (I ran the last 100 yards of the Turkey Trot, so that’s something), complete 1000 hours outside (I think we hit maybe 400, which made me realize how little I spend time outside- something to work on next year), memorize 6 poems (didn’t even do one). There’s nothing I can do to meet those goals in the hours remaining of this year. But one unfinished goal remains attainable, hampered only by my inner critic and inability to function without a rapidly impending deadline: Start a Blog. I started this Substack back in July, fully believing it would spur me towards actually writing. But other than typing a few paragraphs on my phone during a free moment and restacking other people’s work, I have done nothing. Can I really say I started a blog in 2023 if I don’t actually make a blog post? I don’t think so. I have no more excuses. Finals are done, Christmas presents given, and I can’t unpack any boxes in our new house because we are out of town. With under a day left in the year, I present my first blog post, wherein I simply tell you why I am starting a blog.

1. Because my husband keeps telling me to start a blog

He graciously bears the brunt of my rants and ramblings. For years now, he has gently suggested that I start a blog as an outlet for my thoughts and to reclaim my love of writing. Since he knows me better than anyone in the world1 and is someone whose opinion I hold in very high regard, I should take his advice.

2. Because I have always wanted to be a writer

As a kid, I wrote constantly. I scribbled stories in notebooks and seemed to always have an idea in my head. Once I got to high school, most of the writing I did was mandatory. I still enjoyed it, don’t get me wrong, but I got used to having an essay prompt given to me. If you had asked little Hallie what she wanted to be when she grew up, I would have given a number of responses ranging from “wolf biologist” to paratrooper, but a constant along with each of those was that I also wanted to be a writer. The older I get the more I have to remind myself “if I want to be a writer, I probably need to do some writing!” But there’s always something else to do instead. Just as I started figuring out how to manage my time better in the fog of early motherhood, nursing school started and there was usually a homework assignment that needed finishing in any given free moment.

 Since joining Substack, however, I have read pieces by many busy people who still find time to write. Women in the same stages of early motherhood, often with more kids, show me that it’s possible to write amidst the chaos. Maybe time isn’t even the thing I am struggling with the most now, but rather motivation and discipline. As a kid, I wrote because I couldn’t help but write. Before I had a smart phone or social media or so many other meaningless distractions, I had more moments to just read and think and then write. I have never lost that desire to write, but my life and my brain got cluttered with distractions, to-do lists, and other obligations. I want to reclaim the ease of writing, which I know will only come by forcing myself to write.

3. Because I have something to say

Even as I have drifted away from long-form writing, I have found myself composing paragraphs of Instagram captions, adding too many slides to an Instagram story rant, jotting my thoughts in whatever notebook is present, and composing a collection of notes on my phone in spare moments. They sit there, waiting for me to expand upon them.  

The words used to flow so easily. I wrote all the time, so writing was easy. Now my writing muscles have atrophied. I talk myself out of an idea in the same amount of time it takes to put it on paper (or computer screen). Deep down, I’m afraid. My Instagram rants and pithy Facebook comments feel more temporary. But if I publish a Substack, then my words are out there permanently, for the whole world to see.
Who am I to comment on complex issues? Surely there’s someone with more experience or knowledge. What if I say something wrong? What if I publish something terribly written? What if someone I know in real life reads my writing??? And what if they don’t like it? 
The rational side of me says it’ll be a learning opportunity and I’ll grow, and people aren’t looking to just tear me down. The rational side of me is used to being ignored when it comes to my insecurities.

I want to find the thoughts trapped up in my brain that maybe I do have to offer to the world. I’m no expert on anything after all, and perhaps that’s okay. Perhaps God still gave me a perspective for the world to hear. And perhaps feeling uncertain about my thoughts is a good reason to write about them. In the book With All Her Mind: A Call to the Intellectual Life, one of my favorite writers, Tsh Oxenreider, wrote of her own start, “It felt like I had nothing to say, but I desperately wanted to say something, anything. Turns out I was both right and wrong- Because I had nothing to say until I started saying it.”2

For too long I have told myself that everyone else is writing because they know exactly what to say and how to say it, and I have been waiting to feel the same. But that’s not necessarily true, they’re just actually writing. We all have doubts and inner critics. Maybe I need to write in order to convince my own to quiet down a little.

Right now, I am calling this Substack “Writing in the Margins” because it is simply that: my attempt at fitting writing into the margins of my life. This is a busier season than normal. Once school is done, I like to think I’ll have more free time (and the baby will nap perfectly every day and I’ll have a peaceful writing corner and I’ll never have writer’s block…). I don’t have a niche yet, and maybe I’ll rebrand when I do. But for now, the goal is the writing.

Finally, a little about me:  

• I have been married for 5 years (celebrated our anniversary two days ago!) and we have a beautiful, adventurous little 15 month old girl, Zephyr Rose.

• I was born in Florida but spent most of my childhood in Texas.

• I am one of three girls, and we all share the same birthday.

• My husband spent almost five years in the Army and just got out last year, which allowed us to finally flee the frigid north (Fort Drum) and return to the promised land (the Texas Hill Country).

• My husband and I joined the Catholic Church on Christ the King Sunday this year!

• This past fall, I started an accelerated BSN program through Texas A&M and will graduate December 2024!

  

What I am Currently Reading:

• Adorning the Dark by Andrew Peterson (my 20^th book of the year)

• These Beautiful Bones by Emily Stimpson Chapman

• Essays on Women by Edith Stein

• Genesis of Gender by Abigail Favale

• Just completed The Bible vs Biblical Womanhood by Philip B. Payne

That’s all for this first post of mine! Hopefully my next post will come sooner than six months from now and I’ll have something you enjoy reading. Thank you for coming along this journey with me as we venture into 2024! If you feel so inclined, drop your advice on getting started in the comments!

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