I get asked two questions on repeat.

1. Why are you still single? I’ve discussed this ad nauseam… supply chain issues.

2. Why don’t you have children? The latter is what I’m opening up about today.

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I would have been a good mom. I don’t think, I know. I’m an incredible dog mom, catering to Harper’s every whim and need. I’m a great friend, the person who everyone comes to to unload their stresses and grievances, which is partially a maternal role. And kids love me—always have. I pride myself on my ability to get down to their level and get my hands dirty, so to speak. Need a birthday party trick to make your kid laugh? I’m your girl. In fact, many of my friends tell me that I’m their kids’ favorite grown up.

It’s partially financial, partially sleep deprivation and mood destabilization, partially anxiety that something horrible will happen to my child, but never once was the answer that I wouldn’t be a good mom.

The deeper fear is more nuanced.

I worry about having to be completely responsible for another life without so much as a safety net to catch us. I fear my life would entirely change, that I wouldn’t have the ability to quit the soul-sucking job because I don’t like the work environment. I wouldn’t be able to move to London on a whim because L.A. has lost its allure, the dream I keep circling back to. And I certainly wouldn’t be able to retreat into my coveted alone time where I can decompress, recite my mantras, practice my box breathing, draw the curtains on the outside world and recalibrate.

I wonder how others do it. Not the ones with full-time help or an active co-parent—I mean the select few brave enough to go at it alone, to embark on this lonely, difficult, exhilarating journey of solo parenthood. To put their life on pause for the next eighteen years, if not forever. How does one date? Bathe? Work out? Sleep? Get a damn facial?

I understand priorities shift once you become a parent and life reorganizes itself around someone else’s needs… which makes me wonder: am I too selfish? Perhaps. Too analytical? I have a compulsive need to future-trip and problem-solve every non-existing problem before it ever happens, so I’d say this is definitely a culprit.

But more than anything, I’m terrified.

I’m scared of losing myself, whatever semblance of a self I’ve finally felt content enough to like, even love. Of losing my peace, that very fragile tightrope my nervous system walks every second of every day. I have worked endlessly to reach some version of equilibrium and motherhood would undoubtedly destabilize it.

I’m afraid of change, of chaos, of discomfort. And thirty-plus years of therapy hasn’t eased it.

I’ve always felt like I’m navigating life on a boat built for one. The reality is that whatever happens, I’m the one responsible for figuring it out. The one certainty I hold dear is that I am wholly capable of taking care of myself. And what I don’t know, I learn. I am a high-functioning, self-sufficient human being, perks of growing up with feuding parents and the vague but persistent fear that one day I’d be left with nobody to call my own. You adapt quickly in those environments; survival of the fittest.

Even my dog triggers my guilt. I work from home and spend endless hours with her, but on those rare occasions that I am gone for longer than a pilates class and matcha, I am met with unyielding guilt. Harper’s learned the lay of the land—she gives me space when I come upstairs and follows me like a shadow when I’m downstairs—and I’m confident it would be the same with a child.

But the thought of doing it alone overwhelms me to the point that I can’t even see past the decision paralysis. Because I already do everything on my own, from financially supporting myself to figuring out how to get to the emergency room when I faint in the middle of the night and split my lip open. There isn’t an emergency contact waiting in the wings to save me, and while I may resent that reality at times, I still keep going.

The idea of being the only parent, the one responsible for every decision, from nap schedules to education feels like suffocation, not empowerment. I can’t imagine how isolating that heaviness would be.

I’ve spent four decades learning how to calm the constant hum of survival mode, to self-soothe enough to lighten the weight that catches in my chest, and I fear that solo motherhood, as meaningful as the experience would be, would make survival mode permanent.

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I’ve been MIA as of late, and I don’t have a very good excuse. A friend of mine—a paying subscriber and certified patron of my spiraling—asked me if I was finished with this newsletter. I said no (obviously) and scoffed at why he’d even ask that. “Because you haven’t published a new piece recently,” he deadpanned. I responded with, “I’ve been busy. I doubt anyone cares that much.” To which he said, “what about your paying subscribers?”

So, to my paying subscribers, please forgive my absence (this post is for you). I’d like to blame it on something fun (like travel or a damehood) but the truth is I’ve been busy surviving… and several moments of thriving. It was my birthday at the end of October, which seems to put me in a reflective mood ever since I turned 30. Then there’s the novel I finished… and the rewrite I did, getting an agent (yay), and dealing with my dog’s late-summer IVDD flare-up (boo).

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I’ve also taken up cooking as a hobby which, for anyone that really knows me, is quite likely the most insane part of this confession. I’m quite enjoying the silence it brings to my mind, the way I go into student mode, needing desperately to follow each instruction with precision, and the genuine excitement I get when I taste my creation and actually enjoy it. I now understand why people say there are few better feelings than watching someone devour your food. So far I’ve perfected baked coconut cod, the most delicious almond butter matcha latte, and I’ve even dabbled with homemade cinnamon pecan butter (truly unhinged behavior… it was so fucking good).

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There’s equality in the action—both people using the same body part to evoke pleasure—yet personal preference too. Will he (she) devour or be delicate? Trace the lips, press against the teeth, open wide or subtly? The variations are endless, which is why kissing can tell you so much about your partner.

Is he a thruster? Or a tease? Does he linger? Does he appease?

When done right, when in sync, French kissing is both intensely passionate and fiercely intimate. It combines four of the five senses: taste, touch, smell, and hearing. The taste of his lips, his mouth, his tongue. The way his lips press against yours. The smell of his breath. The sounds of tongues and saliva swooshing around.

Sure, one can argue that sex is where true intimacy lies. But there’s something less personal about intercourse; more primitive. Kissing is more deliberate, at least the open-mouthed kissing I’m speaking of. It’s an immediate explosion of yearning, emotion, hunger, and desire—all at once. Lips meeting and suddenly you’re there. Some may say that the kiss is the buildup, but I say it’s the peak.

Imagine our ancestors discovering tongue kissing. What must have been going through their minds? If someone explained it to you without prior knowledge, would you find it intriguing or repulsive?

“You’re going to put your mouth on the mouth of another, all quick and hot breaths. And you’re going to let them stick their tongue in your mouth while you stick yours in theirs. Then whirl it around a few times—you’ll taste whatever they just ate or drank—then pull away.”

I would have asked why. Then I would have likely retched a bit in my mouth. Then again, I’m a germaphobe, so…

The thought of two people standing mere inches apart, breathing heavily on each other, merging their mouths and tongues into a tangled mess of saliva has me thinking of very unromantic things.

But when done right, when complemented by attraction—both physical and sexual—a kiss is the ultimate bonding experience. Like intercourse, it can be slow and calm, or fast and aggressive. Unlike intercourse, a kiss can be had anytime, anywhere. It is a quick gesture of affection, laced with the nuance of love, devotion, appreciation, and sensuality.

But a kiss is so much more. A kiss evokes pheromones; a kiss evaluates genetic suitability. Every time we choose to embark on a new kiss with a new mouth, a new tongue, a new set of salivary glands, we are subconsciously gauging compatibility. Do our smells mesh with theirs? Are our tastes in tandem? This is how our ancestors deduced if a potential partner would be worthy of procreation. And every time we initiate the age-old quest of a kiss, we are doing the same thing.

Dating—apps or otherwise—only gives us so much. We can evaluate physical attraction. We can check off the boxes of height, profession, location. But chemistry, pheromones, affinity? That’s the part that makes our chests tighten and our stomachs clench. It’s the part we can’t predict. It demands hands-on experimentation. It blows our checklist right up, for better or worse. It’s what makes the prospect of dating remotely bearable. Sure, there are countless contemptible dates, but then there’s that one when all things align… and the goodnight kiss hints at what lies ahead.

Do you remember your last first kiss? Would you have believed someone if they told you that would be it—no more tongue-kissing with any new tongues for eternity? Would you have held onto it longer, let it linger, let your tongue dance with the tongues of more?

I wonder if my partnered-up friends find comfort or boredom in the mouths of their significant others. To know every taste, every smell, every gapped tooth, every tongue thrust. I see it as both a redundancy and the foundation of utmost intimacy. Together to inhabit that mouth for eternity.

I, on the other hand, still have the pleasure of first kisses. Of that moment when my eyes close, my lips part, and my mouth attaches onto another. The way senses collide; that flush of heat; the thrill of possibility. The seduction of both mind and heart.

And when we share a mutual rhythm, when a kiss commands my heart to skip a beat, I can see my future flash before my closed eyes. When done right, a first kiss has the power to make time stop. To make the inevitable feel evitable. To render us powerless. It makes us believers in love.

And in a world tormented by war, famine, hatred… love and its eternal possibilities are what keep us going. It’s been this way since the beginning of time.

That is why a kiss is so much more than just a kiss. It’s the meaning that it holds in between those four lips.

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I was the last of my friends to get a smartphone and somehow I’ve become just as addicted, if not more. I wouldn’t say I have an addictive personality, save for nicotine (nobody’s perfect), but I am highly OCD with anxious tendencies so basically I live with addiction of a looping brain. So having everything at my fingertips is… kryptonite for me. Dopamine fix after dopamine fix from a six-inch device.

Every week when I'm notified of my screen time, I crinkle my nose and snap my eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable: the flashing reminder that my phone and I have the most toxic relationship of my life. It gives me comfort—podcasts, games, guided YouTube meditations—and chaos—social media, breaking news, work emails, dreaded dating apps—in equal measure, and I keep coming back for more.

Stimulation is a hack. We use it so we don't have to be uncomfortable. So we don't have to sit in stillness and go inward. So we don't have to feel anything besides the spike, the jolt of input, urgency, relevance, accomplishment. It tricks us into thinking we've done something.

That we've mattered today. That we've moved, even if we haven't even left our house.

Half the time, I hardly notice my thumb scrolling through whatever app has captured my attention, chasing a quick fix like it's a hit of nicotine or a line of cocaine.

I never had a Sidekick, withstood pressure to upgrade my flip phone for a BlackBerry, and fought even harder against leaving the comfort of the keyboard for the iPhone. I must have subconsciously known how addicted I'd become, how unhealthy this relationship would be.

There was never really a time I wasn't transfixed by the need to know if someone was reaching out. As a teenager on vacation, I'd use pay phones to call my home answering machine, just to see if my crush had left a message. In high school, our pagers would vibrate during class, and I'd glance down to see 143, the code for "I love you, I'm thinking about you," and I'd feel important.

When I first got a cell phone, I'd turn it off just so I could turn it back on again and feel the rush of seeing what I'd missed. Who'd thought about me for the hour I'd disappeared?

Now, if I don't respond to a text within 30 seconds, it's as if I've lost the will to live. Or been kidnapped.

Before smartphones, we had school carpool with our favorite disc jockeys and radio stations, mixed CDs (yes, I'm aging myself), subway commutes where we might actually make eye contact with strangers. There were micro-connections throughout the day; brief moments of being present with the world around us.

Now that commute time is spent on political podcasts, Duolingo lessons, and audiobooks. These aren't inherently bad things, but they eliminate our ability to simply exist in silence. We can't just commute; we have to commute while listening to our favorite podcast while also responding to emails. Can’t we ever just stop to notice the damn roses? Hardly, we’d need to Instagram that.

Even when we're physically present with other people, half the time we're all glued to our screens. We're there in body but not in connection.

I feel less connected to people now than I did in my formative years. Maybe that's because I live alone and my entire life revolves around me, for better or worse (I like to think for better). But I can't imagine others don't feel this emptiness too, even those who are mothers and wives. How much of their time is spent furiously tapping away instead of putting down devices and being present?

Having everything at our fingertips means we never have to look up… or leave. We're all in the comfort of our "pods," getting information, connection, and that dopamine hit of being wanted while staying in our insular lives.

There's a reason kids growing up with social media feel more bullied and isolated. It's not just happening at school anymore, it's happening in this vast, relentless online world. Our defense mechanisms stay up, our nervous systems always on, and fight-or-flight becomes our default.

And what is that costing us? Peace? Joy? Pleasure?

Or maybe the cost is that we'll become more dependent, more addicted, and dumber. Less able to connect with actual humans.

I don't know, but while I sit and write this, my phone is in the other room and I can hear the faint sound of vibrations against wood, and I feel like somehow I'm missing out.

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Some people love dating; others despise it. I fall into the latter category. Dating feels like a job interview meets a cavity extraction, while simultaneously getting a manicure and waiting for a car wash. All of my least favorite activities.

But then, on those rare occasions, you have a decent date. Witty banter, flirtatious exchanges, a genuine laugh… chemistry. You go home feeling lighter, more hopeful and optimistic. Colors are more vivid, scents more pronounced, even bleak lighting turns transcendent. You fall asleep to the lingering possibility that this person might be the one, which inevitably leads to a 30-year montage at a vineyard in Tuscany with barefoot grape-smashing, passionate daytime sex on every countertop, naked happy hour at sunset. Entirely, deliriously, happy.

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You envision the proposal, a photographic masterpiece that will make every friend shutter with envy, and you already have the caption planned on your collaborative Instagram reel: From a first date to forever: we said yes. You leave the comments on, naturally.

And when you wake up, you glance at your phone, buzzing with excitement for the inevitable text that is waiting: I had a great time last night. Can I take you out again this evening? (Not a proposal yet, you’re not certifiable.) Only to discover that the lone text on your phone is from the gynecologist’s office, informing you that your annual lady check-up is in 24 hours. Joy.

When it comes to dating, how do you balance hope with reality? When are you allowed to let your mind wander into the depths of what could be without becoming delusional, or allowing the expectations to turn into resentments?

Do you remember that feeling when you start to fall for a guy and your stomach flips at the sight of his name flashing on your screen? When you’re scrolling through Instagram, see a meme that reminds you of a conversation the two of you had, and all you want to do is send it his way? When every hour brings a hit of excitement, a flash of your future, just you and him?

Is there a better feeling in the world? Maybe the day you find out you’ll be a mother (if that’s your thing), or the one when you make your union official. But hope, combined with contentment, is the most essential fuel for human thriving.

To me, this is the reason to be alive. These moments, however fleeting—the optimism, the clarity that comes with the possibility of love. This is why you do it. This is why you endure countless bad dates and lousy lays… for this moment right here, when the future looks bright and partnership seems inevitable, when you finally feel like you’ve met your person.

It makes the bad, the sad, the fear, the pain lighter. It gives you a reason to wake up in the morning, hopeful and euphoric. When you notice flowers you swear weren’t there yesterday, explosions of color that someone should write poetry about and you think, maybe I should. When every piece of food is the most mouthwatering thing you’ve ever put into your body. And this man, this absolute manifestation of all your dreams, feels like vindication for every unanswered text, every heartbreak, every spiral. This is you: deliriously open to the prospect of romance and the relief of never again having to play the game.

This is why we do it: why we put ourselves out there to be judged and demonized and objectified. Because we believe, despite our history, despite statistics, that soul-shattering, all-encompassing love exists. We hold onto the hope that our soulmate is waiting—and praying—for us, as we are for them. Without this optimism, what’s the point? So we allow ourselves to get lost in the fantasy, to let our minds roam into the dangerous but irresistible what if.

Because why not? Why not us? Why not me?

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I read this powerful essay about the pursuit of sex where the author mused about whether you can truly feel sexy if you aren't pursuing the act of sex. From a linguistic standpoint, I don't see a problem with it. I am breezy, but I am not in pursuit of a breeze. I am cheesy, but I am not in pursuit of cheese. Although I would love to be… but I'm currently dairy-free.

The semantics aren't really the point though. What fascinates me is how we've confused our rituals of sensuality with sexiness itself.

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I haven't had sex since pre-Trump (this season, not last), yet I maintain all these sensual practices: sleeping on silk pillowcases (non-negotiable, like morning green tea or late night overthinking), keeping my legs smooth (laser), applying expensive body lotions. I wash my face twice a day, tend to my skin, choose between silk or fleece pajamas depending on my mood. But these aren't sexy…they're sensual acts of self-care. They connect me to my…

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Here are the things I’m reading, watching, wearing, and doing when I’m not spiraling (although, to be fair, many of the items on this list made it here because of a spiral).

Watchlist:

My Mom Jayne on Max – Absolutely loved this documentary by Mariska Hargitay about her mom, 1950s actress and sex symbol Jayne Mansfield. It’s got family secrets, heart, and ultimately redemption. Highly recommend.

Waterfront on Netflix – Highly entertaining and utterly bingeable. Created by Kevin Williamson of Dawson’s Creek fame, this family drama is like a soap opera meets Bloodline and Ozark.

The Survivors on Netflix – I’m shocked that more people aren’t talking about this Australian true crime miniseries. It’s definitely worth the watch.

The Bold Type on Hulu – I didn’t watch this when it first premiered in 2017, but binged all five seasons last year and already want to do it again. Such a cute show about friendship, first jobs, loves, and heartbreaks, living in NYC, and fashion. Think Gossip Girl without the scheming. Also an early Meghann Fahy role.

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Beauty and Style:

Bought this chic polka dot dress after my dear friend Juliet wore it in some swanky European city. Couldn’t believe it’s under $100.

The perfect white tee doesn’t ex— just kidding, I found it in this LNA scoop neck. Floaty, thin, slightly see-through, hitting all the right parts. I wear it on repeat.

These low-rise, wide-leg a+o jeans are my go-to for summer nights out. They’re light and sexy and perfectly perk the butt. They’re also obscenely long so you can wear your highest heel and add some serious length to your legs.

I’m obsessed with this red light décolletage mask (tech neck, no thanks). I notice such a glow after using it, and my skin is absurdly soft.

This vitamin C is giving collagen synthesis. This is the only L-ascorbic acid vit C I can use that doesn’t irritate my skin (otherwise I use the weaker form of vit C which sadly doesn’t stimulate collagen). It has minimal ingredients and maximum antioxidant levels. The glow-up is real.

I love an eye mask, and this one by Clearstem gives me moisture without breakouts. I’ve been using them twice a week, usually before a dinner, and I see such a difference in my hydration and glow, and the way my concealer doesn’t cake under my eyes.

Reads and Listens:

Malibu Rising by the same author of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo (loved) is my current beach read. It’s a fun and effortless story set in Malibu circa the early eighties (a welcome distraction considering the current state of the world).

I sent this article to my group chats and we were quoting it for days. Also the title is chef’s kiss: Soft Girls in Fascist Times. So worth the read.

I just discovered Good Hang, Amy Poehler’s new podcast, and it’s putting me in a great mood. She’s such a natural—and funny—interviewer. The Tina Fey episode had me laughing so hard I almost cried. Literal LOL. Katherine Hahn and Dakota Johnson are close runner-ups and definitely worth the listen.

Shoe Dog is in my top five favorite audiobooks… I love a good biography, and the story of Phil Knight and the genesis of Nike is incredible. No notes. I still think about it often.

Randoms:

I’ve been really into nervous system regulation lately, and this device emits vibrations that are supposed to stimulate the vagus nerve. It syncs with an app on your phone that lets you choose different “vibes”—from energy to unwind.

I’ve been storing berries wrong (and you likely have too). This gadget gives me crunchier fruit that actually lasts, and I’ve sent it to at least a dozen friends. The elevated basket lets water pool underneath instead of making everything mushy, and there’s a vent for airflow. Genius.

I’m a little late to the infrared sauna game. I use this dome one from Heat Healer, and I’m obsessed. I’ve never been a sauna enthusiast because I hated what the heat did to my face (melasma), but the dome gives me all the benefits (plus red light and PEMF), without ever having my face inside. Yes, it’s an investment (well, well worth it IMO), but if you want to start with baby steps, I LOVE their belt too. It’s helped relieve my aches and pains, and every single one of my friends who comes over always asks to use it.

I went into depth about my current supp stack (read here if you’re interested), but these gummies are worth repeating, especially if you struggle with sleep. I take two and my entire body relaxes, allowing me to fall asleep before eleven (which is quite a feat for me).

These organic fruit snacks by Solely hit the sweet tooth spot. Just fruit, nothing else. I’m a sucker for the mango fruit jerky and the fruit gummies (that seriously rival gummy bears and processed sugar crap)

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These days, we supplement because what other choice do we have? We’re showing up tired after eight hours, we’re bloated after eating “clean,” our skin’s dull even after sleep and skincare, and thanks to scientific progress, many of us are living into our eighties and beyond… so yes, I’d like to prepare my mind and body for an epic and sharp octogenarian decade.

So, yes, I’ll admit, I need help, and I turn to my supp stack to offer health and wealth.

Here’s my full supplement stack, when and how I take them (click on each name to discover the exact ones I use—after copious research for correct format and dosing).

Morning

Empty Stomach:

Colostrum - The best supplement to repair gut lining IMO. It gives your body antibodies and growth factors that help strengthen and repair the gut lining but… semantics. I shoot a scoopful into my mouth first thing in the morning and don’t even chase it with water (Armra tastes great).

Glutathione - The ultimate detoxer. My liposomal glutathione comes with 20mg of PQQ, which is my latest supplement obsession. At the lower 150 mg dose I take (250-500mg is considered optimal), glutathione helps strengthen antioxidant defenses, supports skin clarity, and aids liver detox pathways. PQQ boosts mitochondrial growth (biogenesis = biohackers wet dream), supports brain performance, and helps reduce inflammation. Together, they’re a powerhouse for energy and cells. I cycle glutathione: one to three months on, then three off. I’ll start taking this PQQ solo every morning when I’m on an off month (and I want new, happy mitochondria).

Citicoline - I’m taking 250mg daily to support brain health, focus, and cell repair. It’s a nootropic that helps your brain make more acetylcholine, a neurotransmitter in charge of focus, memory, and learning. According to my research, this is a non-negotiable for cognitive support and long-term brain health, especially if you have a family history of dementia (like me).

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Let’s talk about the premium we put on wellness. The time it takes to actually live well and the cost of doing so. I’ve been really interested in optimizing my health and wellness lately and, in my slightly obsessive brain, I decided to research how much time it would actually take if I were to follow everything that biohackers consider optimal wellness practices.

Mind you, this is what we’re told to do to be our healthiest, it is in no way the entire list, nor is it—as you’ll see—actually sustainable.

Granted, I’m sure I left out a few things, but here’s the breakdown:

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- 10,000 steps a day - 1.5 hours

And don’t forget to track it with your Apple watch or Oura ring (you know you’re wearing it).

- Cardio or strength training (alternating days) - 45 minutes

Does sex count? (Asking for a friend)

- Sauna - 35 minutes

Because I want my mitochondria to still think I’m twenty. And I need to sweat out all the heavy metals I’ve absorbed from breathing city air.

- Cold plunge, red light, PEMF, etc. - 35 minutes

Because… aging, but also lymphatic drainage.

- Meditation, breathwork, journaling - 20 minutes

To regulate my nervous system because I don’t have the time for therapy.

- Circadian rhythm sun exposure - 30 minutes

Because apparently my eyeballs are still living in cavemen days.

- Rebounding (trampoline) - 15 minutes

Lymph flow and cardio… we love a multitasker (no longer than 15 min or your face will fall—you’re welcome).

- Skincare (10-step AM + PM) - 40 minutes

Because I’m not trying to actually look my age when I live to be 120.

- Shit, shower, shave - 45 minutes

Or dry brushing and magnesium bath. You know, the essentials, scheduled.

- Juicing - 20 minutes

Chewing your fruits and vegetables is so gen pop.

- Cooking clean, GF, DF, high-protein meals -1.5 hours

100 grams of protein a day doesn’t just happen. And God forbid you order takeout and subject yourself to a parcel of wheat or antibiotic-laden chicken.

- Grocery shopping (for organic ingredients) - 30 minutes

You aren’t living farm-to-table… yet (the organic garden is on your to-do list)

- Life admin and errands -1 hour

Shit happens, you schedule in the time to deal with it.

- Socializing - 1 hour

Because loneliness kills you faster than seed oils (and no, time with your kids doesn’t count as a social life).

- Work - 8 hours

Because you need money to fund your wellness era.

- Sleep - 8 hours

If you don’t hit an hour and a half of deep sleep a night, your collagen will disintegrate.

Total: 26 hours and 15 minutes a day

Last I checked, there’s only 24 hours in a day (unless some tech biohacker has figured out how to stretch time). Needless to say, the math isn’t mathing.

And I haven’t even factored in kids—add at least another 3 hours a day between driving, feeding, homeworking, bed timing—and a significant other. Does a partner really need alone time? Fuck it, you two can juice and affirm together and call it bonding.

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The above also doesn’t include the Botox, fillers, lasers, facials, massages, acupuncture required to look as young as your mitochondria now feels. Or when the plank you held in your competitive-level Pilates class pinches your sciatica and you’re benched for a week while hauling ass to PT (true story). But seriously, where is that 30-minute block supposed to fit?

Don’t say it. I’ll swap it for Pilates. My brain is clear, thanks to my brain supplement stack.

Want me to calculate the cost of actually sustaining this optimized wellness life? I’m focused now, courtesy of Citicoline and L-theanine.

• Conservative, generalized estimate:

• Fancy gym, sauna, cold plunge access: $350–$800 a month

• Pilates classes or personal training: $300–$600 a month

• Supplements + powders + gummies: $200–$400 a month

• Skincare (10-step, mid-range): $300–$500 a month (I refuse to show how much mine is)

• Organic groceries + juicing: $1200–$1800

• Peptides + aesthetics (Botox, facials, lasers, filler): $1,000 a month, averaged out.

• Apps, wearables, tools: $200–$400

• Cleaning help, delivery fees, meal prep add-ons (because you don’t have time to do it all yourself, obvs): $200–$400

Estimated monthly spend: $5,000–$8,000

Annual: Over $60,000-$96,000

And none of it is tax deductible… unless you write it off as content research, which is exactly what I intend to do.

Meanwhile, over in the Blue Zones, people are living their best lives without the optimization and outliving us mere mortals by what… ten years? And they’re doing it all for maybe $10 a day—zero supplements, zero sleep trackers, just lots of nuts, seeds, laughs, and wine.

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Something isn’t right. And I always end up back here, in the place where I question what health and wellness optimization really costs us—not just time or money, but joy. And the space to do nothing. To scroll Instagram and watch your favorite influencer’s Prada haul while feeling, inexplicably, like you’re already behind.

Bryan Johnson is over there hacking his lifespan so he can outlive his loved ones, abstain from alcohol, wear earplugs when he allows himself to socialize, and refuse to eat or drink anything after 4 p.m.? That sounds like very expensive luxury torture.

This isn’t to say wellness is a scam. I love my supp stack, my red light, my Eight Sleep (the mattress cover that adjusts temperature based on my sleep cycles), my Pilates, my walking (even in LA, where people give me side glances like I’ve lost my mind). What I take issue with is how we’ve been conditioned to believe that if we don’t do all of it, then none of it counts.

And honestly, plugging in daily protein intake so you can time it with your cycle sucks the joy out of just… eating. Staying out late for a friend’s birthday and missing your 10 p.m. bedtime shouldn’t make you feel like a failure. And it definitely shouldn’t throw your entire system into chaos.

Yes, I live in Los Angeles, you can’t take the optimization out of me. I will double-cleanse while staring at my reflection and breathing with intention, telling myself I’m fucking awesome—at least ten times.

And then I’ll go outside and puff on my vape as I walk my four miles through the polluted streets of West Hollywood. Slathered in SPF, of course (I’m not a masochist).

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Let’s talk about the word lazy, or more specifically let’s talk about the stigma attached to the word. At some point, we collectively decided that “lazy” was an insult and rest was synonymous with failure. But we got it wrong, and I’m here to normalize laziness as a form of self-care, an active choice, a radical act of self-preservation. After all, doing absolutely nothing is peak luxury, and it deserves to be celebrated, not condemned.

Yet, even I, someone who has meticulously crafted a bedroom sanctuary and schedules at least one lazy day a month, still wrestle with the insidious guilt of doing nothing. My lazy day is a sacred ritual: I stay in bed, scrolling my phone, binge-watching my favorite show as the bright light of the sun streaks through my room (JK, I keep the curtains drawn and the room blacked out, my preferred bedroom preset), drifting in and out of sleep like I’m lounging on a white sand beach in Costa Rica. Around …

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If you received this twice, I apologize, but consider it your reminder to heart and comment on the post. Pls and thxxxxx.

It all started with a run-in with Bryan Johnson, the anti-aging biohacker. It was innocent enough. We were out at a party and my friend Tina and I decided to ask him our most pressing anti-aging questions. Of course I asked about protein consumption since protein is clearly having a moment and he told me that, for my body weight, I should be eating 70 grams of protein a day.

He also told me that REM latency can be an early indicator of dementia, so I now study my sleep data like it’s got the code to unlock the blockchain, but I digress.

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About a year ago, I began breaking out like a teenager. Cystic, adult acne that was relentless, so I did the Face Reality program where they look at your skin from a topical perspective but also from an internal, dietary angle. One of their major pillars is increasing protein intake.

I started with adding bone broth into my diet, then graduated to actual animal protein and, as someone who desperately wanted to be a vegetarian, this was huge. I went from having fish every three months—holding my nose while eating it—to having fish once a week, sometimes more. I was proud of myself for expanding my palate. And yes, it took years to get here, but I never said I wasn’t a picky eater.

Anyway, getting back to the current situation. The acne boot camp also drilled into me the importance of removing gluten and dairy to help restore gut health and clear my skin. So I found these Maxine peanut butter and chocolate chunk gluten-free, dairy-free cookies that I actually enjoy. I have a massive sweet tooth, always have… I used to eat eight—yes, eight—Reese’s peanut butter sticks at night for a solid two years. They’re made with clean ingredients, a decent amount of fiber, and two grams of protein per cookie. I used to joke with friends that they were practically health food. I even put them in one of my early newsletters as a must-have.

Since my current protein obsession is still going strong, I wanted to add collagen into my diet too because, naturally I have to optimize everything, even dessert. So I had this genius idea: I’d make my own version of Maxine’s cookies, but with a boost of protein and collagen.

I turned to my trusty friend ChatGPT—who, from here on out, will be referred to exclusively as Chat—and told him he was now a Michelin-starred chef and my cooking teacher, a la Julia Child. He needed to recreate this cookie recipe for me, but with more protein, and give me detailed instructions to pull it off.

What followed was a two-day back-and-forth because Chat is incredibly high-maintenance and needs constant reassurance. At one point he told me to make a smoothie using vanilla plant-based protein and half a cup of almond milk, which turned into a paste because (surprise) there wasn’t enough liquid. So it’s all about micromanaging: Have you checked your work? Have you tested your ratios? Are you sure this makes sense? And then he comes back and contradicts himself. Typical.

Eventually, we landed on a recipe that sounded decent. At least, there weren’t any glaring red flags that this novice chef could see, but I wanted to abandon the entire experiment as I wasn’t feeling confident about my culinary aptitude.

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Still, I’d already bought all the ingredients, and I didn’t want them to go to waste. And honestly—fuck it—I also bought a baking pan, because I didn’t have one, and glass mixing bowls because I couldn’t find where mine were… that’s how little I cook.

So I get my ingredients out and start replicating the cookies, only now I’m shaping them into bars, and I’m nixing the collagen because—paste, barf. I go back to Chat and say, “Make it a little more indulgent.” So we increase the peanut butter and the dates which, by the way, I had to ask Chat for step-by-step instructions to make date paste (in one output he told me to just smash the dates against the side of a bowl, ummm… no).

We’ll start with the multiple flours. This was my first time opening almond flour and it burst everywhere. My dog, Harper, was right next to me, caught off-guard by her profound luck to have me finally using my kitchen, so she wagged her tail beside me, ready to scrape up the fallen rations from the floor. And unbeknownst to me, the exploding almond powder had landed smack on her shiny black coat, making her look like a street dog with a cocaine problem. Picture below.

As I’m transferring the chocolate chips from the package to a storage container, they spill everywhere. Mind you, these are dark chocolate chips—toxic to dogs, and I have a dog who is completely led by hunger. Thankfully, I was able to grab her and get her into the crate before she ingested any of them. Vet bill was not on my bingo card.

Let’s not forget I had to ask Chat how to melt coconut oil. I knew I should microwave it, I just wasn’t certain for how long, or whether I was supposed to measure the teaspoon as its melted liquid or solid. And trust me, if you haven’t compared, there’s a difference.

But the most ridiculous part of the whole experiment? Somehow, unbeknownst to me, I cut my finger on the dumb blender’s blade—the same blender that I had purchased for the sole purpose of creating delicious, protein-packed smoothies that let me down. I didn’t notice the cut, or the blood, until I started mixing the dough with my hands, trying to really work it all in, and there it is: crimson red liquid in the dough. My beautiful dough. So I ended up picking out the bloody pieces because I’ll be damned if this isn’t going into the oven.

I finally get it in the oven, and of course the rack is too high, but the heat is coming from the bottom. So I have to go back to Chat again who tells me to adjust the temperature and time. I follow the instructions, but when I check on the bars, they’re still raw. So I rig the rack lower, reset the oven, and start all over.

I think it’s worth noting that I use my fridge for beauty products, water, and teas, and that’s about it. Even during COVID, I barely cooked. I have a thing with raw food, especially raw meat or poultry or fish. Any raw animal product, really. But even raw carrots make my stomach turn.

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So I bought a bunch of frozen food early in the pandemic, thinking I’d cook, but within a week, restaurants had thankfully figured out how to reopen, and I ordered every single meal I consumed. I justified it by telling myself I was helping keep the Los Angeles economy afloat.

That’s not to say I can’t make a few dishes. I have a mean turkey taco recipe and a supreme avocado toast. But have you ever actually cooked for one person? It’s not less expensive, and it’s rather wasteful unless you’re willing to eat leftovers for three days straight. No thanks, barf.

Here I am, attempting to pass as someone who can make an edible meal, but what I’ve finally succumbed to is this: I despise the very act. All of it. The prep, the mixing, the baking, the flipping, the frying, the cutting, the cleanup, obviously, but also, I really detest eating what I’ve made because I don’t like knowing what’s in my food.

So I’m caught between feeling like a failure and feeling so absolutely free that I’ve finally embraced the fact that I will never try cooking again.

And in case you were wondering, the bars were inedible. Dry, chalky, and lacking in any sweetness. I immediately tossed them. Oh, and I’m returning the blender. It’s unnecessary, and I’m personally offended by its existence. Plus, it tried to bludgeon my finger and ruin my bars.

The moral is: Yes, Glennon Doyle, I can do hard things. I just choose not to.

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Getting older is weird. One minute you’re gossiping about crushes, the next you’re comparing magnesium supplements and debating whether three liters of water a day is “ambitious” or “bare minimum” (and I’m still short by one).

Gone are the days of planning boozy brunches and the weekly GNO with 1942. Now it’s about month-long alcohol detoxes because their beloved 5 o’clock cocktail is just a hangover and bad sleep disguised as fun-ish. These days, charcoal smoothies served in margarita glasses and almond flour, avocado oil tortilla chips with guac are the new happy hour.

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My eyes are strained from the moment I open them to the moment I shut them. Distance vision is deteriorating, near vision is rebelling, and thanks to my aging lenses, I now require three separate prescriptions. One for TV (my eagle-hawk mode), one for working and pretending to be social, and no correction for phone scrolling and reading because I’m not at “readers age”… yet.

We once said we’d “sleep when we’re dead,” and now it’s a nightly obsession. We compare sleep scores like they’re 401k statements. “Deep sleep under two hours? Are you dead inside? But also, let me tell you about my latest sleep supplement….”

Getting older requires preparation, and I’m not talking about the fundamentals: flossing, mammograms, and the addition of retinol (not me, ofc; I’ve been using this OG ingredient since my teenage years). I’m referring to after-dinner walks for lymph drainage and debloating, a supplement stack that has my doctor saying “wow,” and, my absolute (least) favorite, weight training because these muscles won’t last beyond fifty (just ask Jane Fonda).

Don’t even get me started on hormones. Why aren’t I hitting my sleep fitness goal? Why do I want to punch the barista at the coffee shop when he misspells my name? Why am I exhausted all day and then wired at ten pm? Why am I still breaking out? Perimenopause is the culprit—and she ain’t kind.

Aging isn’t sudden—you don’t wake up one morning and think: damn, my limbs are stiff and my metabolism has disappeared. No, aging comes on slowly: a heavier period here, more frequent brain farts there. Thinning hair and thinning skin. Bloat and indigestion. A shoulder ache from sleeping on your side. A cough that lingers because your immune system doesn’t bounce back like it used to.

So you slowly accumulate the rituals of someone older and you think: okay, this is middle age. Earlier bedtimes, healthier diet, the addition of nootropics, less alcohol, more protein, more frequent root touchups (because those greys love to linger on the hairline), cognition-enhancing games… it’s all just part of the new routine. Achieving that glow-up now requires a glow-down period of constant rest and relaxation. And these are hardly the disco naps of our twenties that left us reinvigorated on four hours of sleep and three venti double espressos.

In our twenties, we threw caution to the wind; we were fueled by adrenaline and vibes. Our thirties were about going wherever life blew us, and our forties are for figuring out how to stay upright in the damn wind. This decade is giving recalibration: copious self-maintenance required to keep running smoothly into the next decade and beyond.

The after-dinner walks, the magnesium, the protein obsession are all part of future-proofing. An investment in the latter years. There’s nothing fragile about a strict self-care regimen. Handle with care is the foundation of anything built to last. And somewhere along the way, the self-care that used to feel “extra” becomes essential. Staying home no longer brings on FOMO. The same people who used to mock the homebody now dream of an early night, a sleep routine, and the joy of pure melatonin. We’ve become aspirational.

The tables turn, the jokes flip, and honestly, I’m cool being the punchline. Because if aging means better boundaries, smarter choices, and full permission to prioritize myself (and my sleep!)… I’ll take the deluxe human experience, fully loaded, tyvm. After all, this rigorous upkeep is bound to make our latter years more premium. Because a vintage car, when well cared for, is worth far more than a new model.

Don’t gatekeep. Drop your holy grail anti-aging hacks in the comments below.

My full supplement stack’s coming next week for paid subscribers.

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Do you know how much had to go right for us to meet? Your father had to have sex with your mother during a precise 36-hour window—that's roughly 1.5 days out of 30 when the miracle of biology allows for creation.

For everyone who met their person without contemplating reproductive statistics: congratulations on your cosmic luck.

But let's rewind, because this letter isn’t about envisioning your parents (or mine) sleeping together (don’t need that imagery). Before the making you part, your father and mother had to meet and have a connection and, as we know, deep bonds don't form every day. They're statistically improbable.

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And my mother and father had to meet and connect (though my mother maintains it was less romance, more transaction: you're beautiful plus I'm handsome equals baby. Ten months later, I arrived). And their parents before that, and their parents before that, and on and on until the beginning of time. I marvel at how wildly improbable—and ext…

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There are few things more exhausting than toxic beauty standards. At a recent girls’ night out, the conversation followed a familiar script.

“Have you seen [insert trending female celebrity here] face?” one friend asked. “She looks amazing. What did she have done?”

“Filler, Botox, threads, and CO2 laser, from what I heard.”

“That’s insane. She’s barely 40. Why can’t she just age gracefully?”

“Who actually ages gracefully these days?” I asked, uninterested in pretending otherwise.

“No one,” someone else said.

“Me,” the lone dissenter chimed in. “I refuse to put neurochemicals in my body.”

“But you’ll vape,” another friend shot back.

We all laughed because we all knew the truth. She’s had Botox. In fact, I introduced her to the doctor that injected it into her line-free forehead.

The Lie of Aging Gracefully

We don’t live in a world that celebrates women aging. That’s not hyperbole, it’s fact. Women are expected to look youthful and flawless for as long as humanly possible. If we get work done, we’re vain. If we don’t, we’ve let ourselves go. It’s a rigged game, one where honesty becomes collateral damage.

So, we lie.

We attribute our smooth skin to hydration and our seven-step skincare routine (both are important but not the full story). We pretend genetics gave us the snatched jawline. We roll our eyes at those who go “too far” while secretly questioning what they’ve gotten done, sharing doctors’ names like insider stock tips.

I get Botox: I admit it proudly. I post about it on Instagram, and I recommend my go-to doctor, Dr. Diamond, because his glow-up is legit and I’m not a gatekeeper. But what I don’t discuss publicly is that I get filler, too. Not excessively, but enough, and even though I believe in transparency, I hesitate to share this with the world because there’s an incessant shame around admitting that your face has had some help in maintaining its youth. For whatever reason, Botox isn’t stigmatized as much, but do anything else and you’re automatically labeled fake. Ummm, have you looked at your roots lately? Seriously. Coloring our hair is societally acceptable, as are facials and lasers and peels, but God Forbid we inject some hyaluronic acid to help with hollowness.

A nip and tuck here or there is common practice; we send surgeon recommendations and treatment plans in the group chat like gossip, but we’re silent about it in public because we’re aware of the judgement that comes from society. Sometimes in the form of hushed snickers, other times by blatant disrespect. In fact, the harshest critics are usually other women. It’s as though we’ve all collectively decided to internalize the unrealistic standards, and we speak truth only in quiet whispers with our closest confidants.

I’ve got news for you: Everyone’s getting work done (well, almost everyone).

My First Time Under the Needle

I was 26 when a friend looked at me and said, “Have you ever considered Botox?”

It wasn’t judgment so much as a statement of fact. I’ve always had a forehead that emotes—deep furrows and exaggerated expressions. Even in childhood photos, my face looked like it was reacting to breaking news. It’s been a constant source of personal contention. Some people fixate on their nose or their jawline, I fixated on my forehead.

My first Botox appointment was with a doctor who had questionable credentials, but I was young, and I wanted a smooth forehead, so I went with it.

I walked out feeling like I had officially entered adulthood. Until my anxiety convinced me I had poisoned myself by having neurotoxins injected into my forehead.. who willingly does that to themselves? I’m neurotic, I admit, and I spent the next eight hours standing upright, refusing to bend my neck, convinced I would somehow ruin the results… or die. There’s no in-between for a hypochondriac.

Where Do We Draw the Line?

I believe in subtle work and have no moral objection to tweakments, but I admit the line gets hazy. I, personally, don’t care to look like a carbon copy of every other overfilled, over-snatched face I see on Instagram. I don’t want my lips or cheekbones to scream a doctor’s signature.

But who am I to say what’s too much? I’m not here to tear any woman down for what makes her feel good in her skin. It’s a personal choice and one that shouldn’t invite judgment or gossip.

We rarely feel the need to comment on a man’s status of aging. Salt and pepper hair is distinguished, smile lines mean they’re loving life, and meanwhile, I’m over here in a spiral because of the grey hairs on my root line and the unsymmetrical lip, courtesy of the sixteen stitches, that makes me feel like half of my face is falling. If men had the same pressure to maintain eternal youth, maybe they’d be in the doctor’s chair, too.

Not everyone gets work done, and for those who truly age naturally, good for you, genuinely. Just don’t judge those of us who don’t.

And for the rest of us, share your doctor and treatment plans in the comments. Or DM me if you still want to keep it on the DL.

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Before we get into this very important article, some housekeeping: I haven’t been publishing as frequently as I’d like, so I’ve decided to pause all paid subscriptions until life stops life-ing so much and I have more time to write about my cirrent spirals.

In the meantime, expect new posts in your inbox randomly and thank you again for the support! Subscribe (it’s free!) to help me stay motivated. xoxo

After a six-month pause from dating apps, I recently decided to rejoin my fellow masochists of love and resubscribe. While swiping through what felt like a Petrie dish of men, I noticed more profiles listing their relationship type as ethically non-monogamous, or ENM.

This isn't new territory—I’ve seen it before. But never at this velocity, never with this openness.

So, it got me thinking. Is this because:

A) I lowered the age range on my prospective gentleman? (Let's call this what it is: a supply chain issue)

B) Los Angeles, specifically, this bustling part of the city, has singletons who are no longer concerned about fitting a traditional mold?

Or C) Monogamy was never really a thing; it was just the illusion of a thing. Like thinking your ex has actually changed this time.

I did what any curious over thinker would do: I went down the ENM rabbit hole, and now I'm here to share what I learned, because understanding is always better than judging.

Ethical non-monogamy is the umbrella term for various forms of consensual non-monogamous relationships. I used to think ENM was just a more palatable word for an open relationship, meaning when two people are together but agree they can have the occasional sexual encounter with someone else. That's one form of ENM, but calling it just that is like saying all relationships are Disney movies with guaranteed happy endings (and we know this is inaccurate).

Then there's polyamory, which I had naively assumed was just a step up from ENM. I now realize it’s about having multiple committed, deep relationships with different people who all know about each other, not merely a casual hookup.

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And then there are throuples, not to be confused with threesomes, which, for the record, I actually do know the definition of. Threesomes were trendy when I was in college. But a throuple is three people in a committed relationship with each other. Different from polyamory, where a committed couple can both have relationships with other people but those relationships don't have to involve the same person, throuples are about each of the three participants being equal in the throupleship.

Then there's "monogamish" (term courtesy of Dan Savage) which is when a primarily monogamous couple allows for sexual encounters outside of the partnership. And swinging, which I've also known about (not to be confused with the movie Swingers) is when two people in a committed relationship agree to, at times, stray from that relationship, usually in social settings. I feel like this was big in the seventies and eighties…

I’ve hardly even scratched the surface. Real talk? Dating is already a battlefield. Now add trying to understand ENM when you're in your 40s and most of your social circle is in dyadic partnerships. It's overwhelming, naturally.

I actually only know one person in a (somewhat open) ENM arrangement. She has a life partner who's married, but his wife has another partner too. They're all friends, the husband and wife just never divorced because it's too expensive.

Which reminds me of a dinner in Marbella, where my French-Moroccan father and our relatives discussed my cousin's wife and mistress, and his children with both, with the casual ease of a menu appraisal. 'C'est civilisé,' they said, because divorce is just too expensive. (Leave it to the French to make pragmatism sound sophisticated.)

I’m not fascinated with ENM in a way that makes me want to try it—I am a monogamist to the core. I can hardly handle sleuthing a crush—who he’s following on Instagram, where he’s going, why he isn’t texting… you know, the usual. Now add in more partners, and my entire day would be consumed with detective work. Too exhausting, thank you anyway. But I am intrigued by this new trend of declaring relationship preferences like choosing from ice cream flavors at a Baskin Robbins. Is it all you can eat, or is it merely a taste test? And let's not forget: cheating has been around since the beginning of time. The difference between ENM and cheating is like the difference between actually playing Wordle and finding the answer on a Reddit thread first so you can impress your group chat with a one-try 'genius.' They both end with multiple people involved, but one's built on honesty and the other's just performative.

The reality is that relationships already come in all forms: married couples living in different states, couples who sleep in separate bedrooms, partners who never marry but stay committed for decades, even the wife and mistress sharing the husband (like my cousin), so why are we still pretending there's only one legitimate way to be in a relationship?

Is this the death of monogamy? Or is it an honest conversation about what partnerships actually look like in 2025? Honestly, I haven’t the slightest idea, I’m just here to overanalyze. I will say this: the younger generations seem more invested in living their version of truth than following society's traditional relationship dynamics, for better or worse. That’s not up to me.

For the currently single and swiping (welcome to the club), allow this to be your cheat sheet for the next time you match with someone who lists themselves as ENM and, who knows, maybe it’ll pique your curiosity. And if you’re a traditional monogamist, that’s perfectly cool too. Knowledge is power, my friends.

In the meantime, I’m back to swiping… see you on the apps.

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Remember my bad date—who forgot to mention he was married… and gay? Refresh here:

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I think I like my skincare more than most of my friends. And I don’t mean that figuratively. My skincare never gives me unsolicited advice, never starts drama, never lets me down. My skin, on the other hand… a full-fledged frenemy. Cooperative and glowing one day, a total backstabber the next.

Like all my complicated relationships, I try to nurture my skin with patience, consistency, and only the best products.

Here’s my current lineup, safe for acne-prone skin that cares about aging (would love to know your hero products in the comments below):

I wash my face, morning and night, with this cleanser, a staple in my routine going on two years. It’s gentle enough to be used daily, but the glycolic acid gives it just the right bite to keep breakouts at bay. Hooray. If I wake up and my skin feels too dry, I’ll do my a.m. wash with this affordable, acne-safe barrier repair cream cleanser.

To remove makeup and sunscreen, I do a first cleanse with this EWG-verified oil cleanser—one of the very few that doesn’t cause breakouts. I love it. Sometimes I opt for micellar water as my first cleanse. This is the only one I use; it’s been a staple in my routine since before they sold it in the U.S. I used to stock up in Paris or have friends bring it back. It’s THAT good.

I love a toner. Always have. I’ve been using this Face Reality one for over a year and swear it’s improved my skin barrier. No actives, just hyaluronic acid and a few pH-balancing ingredients. I use it right after cleansing, morning and night, to prime for actives.

I use vitamin C day and night, something Jan Marini herself taught me. Before this one, my skin was reactive to vitamin C. I blamed a lot of my breakouts on it, but not this one. It’s thin, almost like water, gives a major glow, and doesn’t irritate. It’s an incredible primer for the rest of my products.

If someone made me choose one product for life—well, that would be torture, and that someone would not be a friend—but this Jan Marini serum would be high on the list. It’s made with three different acids and is very active—which is peak treatment for acne and aging. I’ve worked my way up to using it twice a day. And yes, people will say my routine has “too many actives,” but you do you. I’ve trained my skin for this, and what works for me is using a few actives, sandwiched between hydrating products.

Next, I layer this serum for hydration and nourishment—peptides, stem cells, growth factors, all the good stuff. It goes on after my active serum, but before my retinoid. Aloe vera is criminally underrated. This aloe and hyaluronic acid serum is soothing, hydrating, and pH-balancing. It’s also a great indicator of barrier health: if it stings, I know something’s off. I use it morning and night, before applying retinoid.

Jan Marini’s Age Duality is possibly the most important product for us acne-prone girlies concerned with aging. It combines benzoyl peroxide and retinol in custom formulas that don’t dry or irritate. One pump from each side, mixed together as my final active step at night.

I usually wait 15 to 20 minutes, then apply one of two moisturizers. This Skinbetter balancing everyday cream is what I use every morning and on nights when my skin feels balanced. The thicker, acne-safe Clearstem cream is the only rich moisturizer I’ve ever used that hydrates deeply without causing a single breakout. She’s an icon (and she’s affordable!).

Mornings, my final step is SPF. I rotate between the Colorscience tinted SPF, which gives gorgeous, even coverage and doubles as my foundation (even at night), and Jan Marini’s daily slightly tinted SPF, which doesn’t offer full-coverage but gives a beautiful glow.

When I’m using prescription retinoid at night, I keep it simple. Cleanse, this patented serum (it literally reverses aging), the aloe serum, and a pea-sized drop of retinol. I let it dry for 10 to 30 minutes, then follow up with the Clearstem cream.

I use my coveted U Beauty eye cream morning and night; it’s hydrating and smooths fine lines. This anti-aging eye gel is my go-to when I want something lighter, usually in the a.m. or during sweaty summer months.

Those are the basics. Other products rotate in and out, depending on my skin (and my mood). But this routine has held steady for over a year, and not only do I see visible results—tighter, more even, glowier, balanced, less noticeable pores and fine lines—I haven’t had a major adult acne breakout since committing. Yes, I still get the occasional pimple or clogged pore… I never said my skin is perfect, but this is HUGE for me so I’ll take it. As someone wise once said: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

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Watchlist:

• Your Friends and Neighbors on Apple - If you’re a paid subscriber, then you know I recommended this a couple of weeks ago. Still obsessed—even more now. The male version of Weeds with a stellar cast.

• The Glass Dome on Netflix - My friend Kim keeps telling me I need to watch, so I’m sharing it with you as well. It’s a crime/psychological thriller with a perfect score on Rotten Tomatoes. Let’s watch together—she says it’s terrifying.

• The Studio on Apple - This is such a fun satire about the entertainment industry—not sure if people outside of L.A. will care about it, but the cast is pretty impressive and the episodes are short and easy to binge.

• Ransom Canyon on Netflix - The first episode took a minute to hook me—even with Josh Duhamel as a cowboy and Minka Kelly (a.k.a. Lyla Garrity) as the love interest. But once I got through the heartache of this man’s life, I ended up really enjoying this sappy drama. Definitely bingeable.

• The Life List on Netflix - Technically this film dropped end of March, but I didn’t watch it until April. It’s not revolutionary, but it’s certainly good enough. I happened to enjoy the bucket list storyline, and I’m pretty much a sap for any romantic flick.

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Since Harper was diagnosed with IVDD and spent three months on strict crate rest, I haven’t been able to take walks with her the way I used to. These days the walks are short, no more than three-quarters of a mile at a time, usually just a half-mile. Unfortunately, the farmers market is a mile and a half away, which means Harper hasn’t been my companion on these Sunday outings since late July.

When Harper was diagnosed, it hit me hard…

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I’m starting a new section where I share my top 3 of the week—from what to stream to what’s saving my skin. It’s after my latest rant, so stick around (or just scroll straight to the bottom).

Social media used to be a way to connect, to share, to keep in touch. It used to be casual and, on good days, even fun. Along the way, it turned into something more formulaic, like a high school popularity contest where we show up, on full display, seeking validation.

Nowadays, every airbrushed post and witty caption is a calculated move. As users, we've turned ourselves into brands, packaging our personalities into algorithm-optimized bite-sized soundbites. 140 characters here, 250 there. Every word has to land, every punctuation mark has to emote. (Don’t get me started on the perfectly-filtered photos, as if Facetune has become our collective dermatologist.) From dating app bios to Instagram captions, LinkedIn posts to TikTok hooks, self-promotion has become a full-time job.

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And, as a society, we are serious in this pursuit. Take, for example, my group chats where we send photos and exchange caption ideas to approve before posting. Only once it gets the collective seal of approval does it go live. Nothing is spur of the moment anymore; everything is prescriptive.

I’ll be the first to admit that, living in a world where engagement is quantified as a victory, if a post doesn’t perform, I delete it. Even at my age, with a healthy understanding of my self-worth, I still feel like I’ve failed if I don’t get enough likes, as though I’ve finally hit peak irrelevance.

These days, everything is about finding an audience. I’m not talking about celebrities, though they navigate this just as strategically, but if you have a public profile then you’re not immune. Whether we admit it or not, we’re all looking for our “fans.” Barf, but true.

Witty on Instagram. Punchy on TikTok. Conversational on Facebook. Smart but not too smart on the dating apps. Self-deprecating, but just enough to seem confident. Relatable, but never desperate. Edgy, but still likable.

Every platform demands a version of me tailored for universal appeal. Serious question: how do you appeal to all people all the time? And if it’s about finding our niche, why must we pigeonhole ourselves as one thing? Why can’t we be all the things?

Somewhere in the process, the real me, the one that exists in long-form, complete with nuance, depth, and contemplation, is relegated to a supporting role.

Every time I open a social media app, I exhale like I’m about to do a HIIT workout I was dragged begrudgingly to. Being my social media self, and posting purely for engagement, is exhausting. I’m constantly second-guessing what to write, future-tripping over how it’ll be received. Am I aspirational or unhinged? Will it get likes, comments, shares? Am I cool messy or red flag messy?

I rewrite, delete, tweak, repeat. And I know I’m not the only one, because we live in a world where social media is a universal popularity contest. But unlike the high school version, this one never ends. It’s not just the town or city, or even the country—it’s the entire world.

My parents didn’t have to deal with the pressure of a social media presence. Sure, my mom played the Queen Bee of suburbia game (why isn’t this the title of a reality show?!), with subtle competitions over who had the biggest house, the best garden, the nicest pool. But when she stepped inside, she was done. Now, we shut the door, pick up our phones, and the performance never seems to stop.

It’s as though we’ve become avatars of ourselves, built for optimal visibility. I’m not saying we’re fake (exactly), but we’re certainly playing a carefully constructed part.

And then there are the dating apps. How does anyone find a real connection when every profile is just overhyped prompts and one-liners that reek of trying too hard? No one is authentic, everyone is presenting their strongest pitch—pick me, choose me, like me (yes, I’m quoting Grey’s Anatomy)—attempting to sound effortlessly witty, marketable, and dateable, all with flawless skin… of course.

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A part of me wants to delete it all. Sometimes I do, other times, I just watch instead of posting, like a voyeur looking at the highlight reel of others’ lives. Maybe that’s why doomscrolling feels different. On Twitter and Threads, I’m not curating, I’m consuming (news, and it’s toxic!). But that’s an entirely separate addiction, one for a different post.

I keep coming back to one particular adage: If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, did it make a noise? I think about this often when I post. If I didn’t share it, was I really there? If people don’t see it, have I failed at my “brand?”

I’m doing it here too, agonizing over this, hoping it lands. It’s ironic, I know, to write about the exhaustion of optimizing while simultaneously attempting to optimize.

If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does the tree even exist?

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Top 3 This Week:

I’m starting a new section for those of you who make it this far (thank you, thank you… also, please heart the post—it helps with engagement, and I pretend not to care, but obviously I do).

Stream: I really liked Pulse on Netflix. Super bingeable medical drama with a very murky relationship storyline. The guy is hot—and a doctor—so it hooked me. (I can only watch saccharine-style dramas if there’s someone fuckable in the cast, ya know?)

Skin: Yes, the perfect hydrating serum does exist. This serum is both deeply moisturizing and incredibly soothing—and I’ve been adding it into my routine now that processed air has come back to wreak havoc on my skin. It’s safe for acne-prone skin, helps fight collagen breakdown, reduces redness, and it’s EWG-verified.

Style: Just got this cute cropped button-down that’s perfect paired with loose denim or cut-offs. Feels put together with minimal effort.

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Three’s a crowd. It’s also the number of sides in a triangle, and the exact number of people involved in a toxic trio friend dynamic.

In math, three is an uneven, or odd, number. In human relationships, three can be catastrophic. From the First Triumvirate of Rome to The Talented Mr. Ripley and The Plastics in Mean Girls, triangular relationships are plagued with power dynamics, tension, passion, and deep sociological flaws.

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Take, for example, the latest season of White Lotus: three friends burdened with subtle shade and conjecture. Anyone who’s ever been involved in a triad recognizes the SOS from a mile away: this is disaster waiting to happen.

But why are triads so much more complex and, ultimately, problematic than dyads?

Not all triads are unstable or unpredictable. In the animal kingdom, triads exist in harmful, innocuous, or beneficial forms. In fact, many examples in nature show a collaborative dynamic. Take chickens, which follow a pecking order or hierarchical triad, and hyenas, which (I just learned) also follow a leader-follower-pack structure. In nature, this structure creates order and stability.

But what’s missing? Ego. And that’s where toxicity is bred.

When ego is involved, a trio of wolves that would otherwise present a clear hierarchy, can turn vicious, jealous, and even murderous. This is what happens in human relationships: any twisted romantic entanglement that involves an “other,” man or woman, results in chaos (Fatal Attraction comes to mind).

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Welcome back to etc | the list, my monthly rundown of what I’m wearing, watching, reading, and using when I’m not overanalyzing. (For last month’s list, click here).

Overall, March was a rather lackluster month. Nothing launched that had me giddy with excitement. I went to a Clarins event, and Gwen Stefani performed, and that sh*t was b-a-n-a-n-a-s… Episode 7 of Paradise was peak perfection, and I’m eagerly awaiting season two with bated breath.

My group chats have mainly consisted of what to wear to certain events (this was a busy month in terms of social engagements) and stylist recommendations (lots of people seem to be looking for a spring cut and color glow-up). Aaron King is responsible for my cut, and I adore him, his work, and his ultra-cool salon, Crane. And Sean is the man behind my color, which has drawn some envy from friends asking to duplicate my bronde-ish shade (apparently it’s a seasonal trend). DM me for his number because he’s not on Insta.

Onto my lists…

Beauty and Style:

This Jan Marini Regeneration Booster is a new addition, and one that I intend to keep. Jan herself told me that she created this to stabilize telomeres, which are basically like protective caps at the end of chromosomes that legit help them stay longer and healthier, therefore reducing signs of aging. My deep dive into all things skin and aging with Jan Marini is coming soon (but only for paid subscribers). If you’re a skincare fanatic like me, this will be a must read.

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How cute is this bronze, short, feathery Oseree dress for a spring/summer holiday, accompanying a tan, of course. It’s giving party girl meets beach-chic. I wore it to an Oscar party and JLo told me she thought it was cute (true story).

I love a little pinky-cheeky flush come spring, and I’ve been wearing this liquid blush from Saie on repeat. Equal parts punchy and flirty (and it’s completely acne-safe).

This body Gua sha is so good, I keep it on my nightstand and constantly kneed at my shoulders and neck.

I’m obsessed with these Partlow vintage-inspired cowboy boots. Perfect for spring and anything festival-inspired.

I’m not a perfume girly, but this U Beauty scent has got me reconsidering. It doesn’t have the synthetic smell of perfume. Instead, it’s like a potpourri of real floral, with notes of magnolia and jasmine, tartness from rhubarb, and sweet-smelling fruitiness, thanks to lychee. Tina Craig, the founder, swears that it attracts men.

I’m so obsessed with the Chloé bracelet bag. I bought it at the beginning of winter but barely wore it since I was in a black bag phase. Now that spring is here, it’s my go-to. It’s basically three bags in one: I can wear it as a clutch with the bracelet, a hobo bag with the long strap, or both for a little extra swagger.

Watchlist:

Adolescence on Netflix — An absolute masterclass in filmmaking. Each episode is filmed in a single shot… one take. The story feels painfully relevant, digging into toxic masculinity, incels, bullying, rage issues, and the chaos left in its wake. Phenomenal storytelling, acting, writing, cinematography… a definite award season contender.

Good American Family on Hulu — Ellen Pompeo is back and tackling the Natalia Grace story. (And yes, the real-life docuseries on the same subject is worth a watch.) Ellen and Mark Duplass are crushing it in this deeply uncomfortable true story about a family adopting a seven-year-old… only to discover she might be much, much older.

Happy Face on Paramount+ — Inspired by a true story of a daughter’s experience with her serial killer father, and hitting all my true crime dopamine receptors. It’s not groundbreaking, and honestly, I’m not even sure I love the acting, but the plot has me hooked. If you’re into crime-meets-psychological-thriller, this one’s worth a watch.

Colin From Accounts on Paramount+ — I needed a lighthearted rom-com this month, and this show delivered. This Australian comedy nails the dialogue, the acting, and that rare, real-life chemistry you haven’t seen since Nobody Wants This. Two seasons ready to binge.

The Residence on Netflix — I’m a die-hard Shonda Rhimes fan. I’m pretty sure I’ve devoured everything she’s ever made. But I can’t get into this. My friends love it; it’s got that Knives Out meets Clue vibe, but the quirky dialogue and slapstick acting aren’t landing for me. Do I give it another shot or move on?

Reads and Listens:

I’ve been reading The Tell by Amy Griffin and I’m deeply enthralled by the story of dissociating with trauma and regaining the memories through psychedelic-assisted therapy. This honest and riveting memoir will have you reading late into the night.

I love this essay on a woman detailing her shoplifting from an Erewhon market. The writing is clever and detached, and left me simultaneously giggling and questioning what the F I just read.

I binged this true crime podcast on a recommendation from my sister, and after 10 episodes, I came away more confused than ever. The way the narrator flipped me from believing the woman was totally innocent to guilty without a doubt to somewhere in the middle is truly an ode to the sociopathic nature of the main character. Highly recommend.

I felt this essay deep in my soul. The search for happiness in the mundane—a theme I come back to often. The prose is beautiful, and like some perfectly timed intervention, it delivered exactly the message I needed right when I needed it.

Random:

My friend Kim has this humidifier in her room, and I found it so chic that I ordered one for mine. Vibes and better air, tyvm.

I discovered the absolute best plant-based cheese dip that’s reminiscent of actual movie theater nacho cheese (my favorite).

This gluten-free, dairy-free take on a Taco Bell crunch wrap is literal mouth heaven. Since I don’t cook, I begged my friend Sam to make it for her family and then I invited myself to family dinner. It was five stars all around.

@jacialisontoddMINI CRUNCHWRAPS 😮‍💨🍅🥬🌮 recipe below! Recipe yields 7-8 Crunchwraps INGREDIENTS: - 1 lb of ground beef - 8 regular sized tortillas I’m using @Siete Foods ) - 1 packet of taco seasoning - 1 heart of romaine (finely chopped) - 1 roma tomato (diced) - queso (I’m using dairy free @credofoods ) - sour cream (I’m using dairy free @Forager Project ) - Round tortilla chips (mine are Siete brand) INSTRUCTIONS: - heat up your skillet over medium heat, add a splash of olive oil and a pound of ground beef. Break it up til it’s brown you know the drill. - Once fully browned, drain out the excess oil, add a splash of water and a packet of taco seasoning. Mix until fully combined and water is absorbed. Cover, remove from heat and set aside for now. - Prep your toppings: roughly chopped romaine lettuce, diced tomato. Have your queso and sour cream ready to go. I had a little assembly line basically hehe. - In a small skillet over medium heat, once the pan is hot add your tortilla and warm up about 15 seconds per side. - Then remove from the pan and assemble (asap!) the trick with these gf tortillas is to use them immediately before they cool off and break. - Add 2-3 tbsps ground beef. 1 tbsp queso. 1 tbsp sour cream. Romaine lettuce and diced tomato. Top with tortilla chip. Fold inwards. Then put back in your skillet seam side down. Toast about 30 seconds per side. - Remove from pan and repeat that method til you run out of tortillas! These are so so so good, you haveeee to make these asap - we really do have Taco Bell at home 😮‍💨🤝🏻 @Caraway Home @H-E-B #minicrunchwraps #tacobell #glutenfreerecipes #dairyfreerecipes #glutenfree #dinnerideas #healthydinnerideas #dinnerfortwo #weeknightdinner #fundinnerideas #healthyswaps

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What’s on your March lists… let me know in the comments below. I need new TV recs!

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