Gone are the days of carefully typing drafts into Google Docs first, spending time re-reading and editing, crafting each sentence into the purest and concisest version of meaning before scheduling a post to go live at the most optimal time.

Quick! Quick! It’s time to write! Don’t think too hard (or at all!), just write!

I suppose this means you are getting the most unfiltered version of me. I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Becoming a mom has caused me to have less of one, a filter that is. Although I consider myself a fairly extroverted person (Leo sun) I can also be surprisingly private and shy (Scorpio rising). I don’t like to talk to strangers and always wear AirPods in an Uber. I HATE asking people for help.

When I was younger my mom used to make me practice calling and talking to customer service representatives on the phone. Now they’re all AI, but I still think it was a useful practice.

Becoming a mom has changed all of that. I’m now shameless. If you have a kid, I’m talking to you. “How old?” “What’s their name?” “When did he start walking?” “You guys come to this playground often?” There is no parental small talk too small. I want to hear about your kid’s nap schedule. I’d love to converse about their current likes/dislikes. Please describe to me how they recently started saying “wawaba” for water bottle. I want to hear it all!!

Part of it is the loneliness and isolation of stay-at-home-mom life. I never intended to be a stay-at-home-mom and truthfully, I don’t think I’m that well-suited for it (but that’s a post for another day). When people ask me what’s it’s like I usually respond with “intense.”

(This is the part where I cringe and try not to seem ungrateful. I am beyond grateful to have spent nearly every waking moment with my son for his first year of life. It has also been really, really hard.)

Time feels confusingly warped in the infant realm. There are moments when it flies by (He’s crawling already! He’s up from his nap already!) and there are long stretches of the afternoon where the minutes tick slower than the time it takes my postpartum brain to fire up a coherent thought. It is simultaneously boring and exhausting. The repetition starts to wear on you. Feed the baby. Change his diaper. Put him down for nap. Wipe down the high chair again. Clean the bottles again. Start the laundry again. Get him up from nap. Rinse and repeat, repeat, repeat until you start to lose your mind.

I crash on the couch at 8pm feeling utterly spent but also wondering, what did we even do today??

Here’s what I’ve learned: becoming a parent severely alters your nervous system. It becomes activated in a way that feels entirely new. You are now completely attuned to another living being, exercising constant vigilance over them 24/7 in order to ensure their survival. Every wobbly step is a potential disaster. Every small object a choking hazard. Every uncovered outlet a near-death-experience. You exist in a constant state of flight, fight or freeze with your body pumping out adrenaline and cortisol like a broken fire hydrant.

Your brain is also working overtime to analyze their every move and anticipate their every need. When did he eat last? When will he be hungry again? What in God’s name am I going to feed him? He took a 45 minute nap this morning, so if I put him down at 3:15 then maybe he’ll sleep until 4:15 that way he’ll be tired for bedtime at 7:30. Did I grab his water bottle? His hat, his socks, his jacket? Is he fussy because he’s teething? Is it a regression? A LEAP?!

Your world shrinks down to the size of one small, albeit very cute, baby. A trillion micro decisions made on a loop, over and over again. There is no tune out, no off button, no PTO, no “I need to leave early” or “I’m off camera today.”

So yeah, when 8pm rolls around, I’m toast. I don’t have the energy to read or write, sometimes I barely have the energy to watch TV. I’ve become so overstimulated that I walk around our house turning lights off before the sun even goes down. The sound of the dryer or God forbid the vacuum is enough to send me over the edge. My nerves are more than frayed, they’re practically non-existent.

More than a few times my husband has walked into the living room to find me sitting quietly in the dark, scrolling my phone with the sound off.

“What are you doing? Just sitting in the dark?”

“I’m disassociating.”

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I started seeing a new therapist and a psychiatrist when I was about 6 months postpartum. The psychiatrist had me take a quiz that was supposed to indicate my levels of anxiety and depression by evaluating my responses to a series of statements with options like “sometimes” “almost never” or “every day.”

“I feel connected to others.”

I paused before answering. Did I feel connected to others? It depends on the others…

Several of my closest friends don’t yet have kids so in some ways we’ve drifted apart, a sea of mom-ness rising between us.

Still others have kids but have gone back to work full time and seem to be living a different reality, one that involves other adults and using their brains to do more than calculate wake windows.

I have a few new mom friends but they didn’t know me before having a baby so in some sense it feels like they don’t know the “real” me, the one who isn’t constantly sticky.

In some ways I feel closer than ever to my husband, drawn together by the existence of a human being we’ve co-created. In others I feel impossibly distant, unable to articulate what is happening in my body and mind as the hormones rise and fall in an exhausting, never-ending rollercoaster ride.

I feel connected to my baby in that deep guttural “I grew you in my body” sort of way, but we’re still getting to know one another.

Do I feel connected to others? I guess. Sometimes. Mostly not. Hence all the playground small talk. If nothing else, it gives me the opportunity to talk to someone other than my baby…

When I see a new mom out walking in the neighborhood, or at the coffee shop, with the bassinet stroller attachment that lets you know they have a “freshie,” I feel almost a compulsion to say something to them. To extend some proverbial hand that says, “I see you. And I know how fucking hard this is. You’re not alone. Us moms, we get it. We’ve got your back. Welcome to the club. Or cult, whichever you prefer.”

Usually I just go with a simple, “Congratulations.”

I don’t mean to make this sound all doom and gloom. My son is honestly a very easy baby and a joy to be around. As far as conversationalists go a one-year-old isn’t the best, but he does laugh at some of my jokes.

But I suppose that’s why I’m here, writing. A carefully placed classified that reads: “Stay-at-home-mom desperately seeking connection to the outside world.” I can’t help but hear how pathetic that sounds. But if I can do it on the playground, I can certainly do it on Substack. Honestly, at this point, I would enjoy talking to a customer service representative. Just not the AI ones please, I’m not that desperate.

Until next time, thanks for being here.

I type, I delete, I type, I delete, I type, I delete.

Nothing feels quite right.

A million thoughts and topics swirl around in my brain. I picture it a bit like that scene from Hercules the 1997 animated classic where Hercules travels to the underworld to save Meg and all the souls are souls are spinning around in the River Styx. When he reaches in to try and grab her his hands start to shrivel up and die. It’s a pretty morbid scene for a small child (perhaps why it has stayed with me so clearly) but it feels a bit like that.

Every time I try to reach in and grab a thought I gasp and snatch my hands back in horror, forced to watch them swirl away from me. The thoughts are too slippery. Too evasive. The waters too dangerous. Better to stay on the shore where it’s safe.

But because this is a Disney movie and Hercules is a hero he naturally prevails. He dives in after Meg and for his sacrifice the gods grant him immortality, allowing him to emerge, victorious, with Meg’s limp soul cradled in his arms, eventually returning it to her body so that they can live happily ever after yay love.

I don’t know why I’m rambling on about Hercules. I think it’s an avoidance tactic. The point is, I have been avoiding Substack.

My last post was 383 days ago. I was 38 weeks pregnant at the time and wrote about what it felt like to be on the precipice of motherhood, about to meet my son.

Well, Substack, I published that newsletter at approximately 2:30pm on Friday August 1st and less than 6 hours later my water broke. If that’s not some sort of witchy writer voodoo magic then I don’t know what is. My son was born 12 hours later and just like that, I became a mom.

Now here’s where the river starts to really churn; there is so much I want to say about motherhood. How beautiful it is. How challenging. How all-consuming. The joy, the grief, the anxiety, the uncertainty, the love, the guilt, the rage, the wonder. The sheer enormity of motherhood is overwhelming. Trying to put it into writing feels like trying to catch a bubble, an activity my son is fascinated by.

Instead, I stand frozen on the riverbank, watching it all swirl away from me. That sneaky old friend self-doubt standing staunchly at my side, arms crossed, a smirk on his face that says, “You know you won’t do it.”

So do I jump? I am the hero of my own story after all.

(If you had told me my postpartum return to Substack would be an extended Hercules metaphor I would have laughed in your face).

In an attempt at motivation I made up all these arbitrary yet neatly poetic deadlines for myself:

• I’ll write a post when he turns 3 months old (end of 4th trimester).

• I’ll write a post when he turns 9 months old (9 months in/9 months out).

• I’ll write a post when he turns 1 year old (self-explanatory).

It will be thoughtful and elegant, full of charm, nuance and self-deprecating humor. Or at the very least, it will be coherent.

As each deadline quietly slipped past I felt guiltier and guiltier.

I did open my laptop a few times. Occasionally I’d just stare at a blank Word document for a few minutes before picking up my phone and scrolling Instagram instead. Once or twice I got a few sentences down but then I’d get stuck trying to think of a word, or my brain would start to shut down in the middle of a paragraph, or the baby would wake up early from a nap.

Each futile attempt to write was another Jenga block pulled from my already shaky self-confidence. Eventually the whole thing felt too wobbly and I decided avoidance was the better strategy.

I paused my Substack subscriptions. I deleted the emails. I buried the app somewhere deep on the third page of my phone, behind all these new parenting apps (Nanit, Huckleberry, Solid Starts blah blah blah). After all, if I couldn’t see it, then it was like it didn’t exist! Voila! Another magic trick.

I opted to mindlessly fold another pile of laundry instead, a task I knew I could perform well and was a better match for my newly diminished brain functionality. Ah yes, my nervous system cooed. That’s better.

But avoidance only gets you so far. The truth is, I miss writing. I miss the vulnerability, I miss the connection, I miss the self-expression. I miss feeling like myself. I started thinking, maybe it doesn’t have to be so polished and profound. Maybe it’s okay if it’s a little messy. Done is better than perfect, right? (Right?! That was not a rhetorical question!)

So here it is, on a random Tuesday afternoon: my nervous awkward attempt to regain some small part of myself that has been quietly dormant since giving birth. A heaping dose of vulnerability wrapped up in self-doubt and a bad Disney metaphor. Not exactly what I had pictured but I’m still… proud of myself?

Okay the baby’s awake, gotta go - this will have to do. Ready, set, jump!

Until next time, thank you for being here.

As of today, I am 38 weeks pregnant. The home stretch. June and July were largely dominated by a seemingly never ending list of to-dos: attend the birthing class, plan the baby shower, organize the nursery, put the car seat in the car, pack the hospital bag, wash the baby clothes, break down the boxes (oh SO many boxes…).

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The third trimester nesting urge kicked in HARD, fueled by deepening anxiety that woke me up in the middle of the night with desperate thoughts of which dresser/changing table to get and a final burst of hormonal energy. My “doer” part was thriving, checking boxes left and right, puffing up her chest as if to say, “Look how productive I’m being! Look how prepared I am! Look how these tiny onesies are all perfectly folded and stacked in way they’ll likely never be again!”

My therapist is always reminding me to thank this doer part. She can be intense, but man, she gets shit done.

I was also training for labor like it was my job. Walking 3 miles a day, doing daily exercise videos with my birthing ball, consuming dates and raspberry leaf tea with wild abandon. Watching endless Instagram reels with titles like, “Postpartum must-haves from a 3rd time mom,” “What no one tells you about the first week with a newborn,” and “8 tips for your first poop after giving birth, from a labor/delivery nurse.” (That last one is, in fact, a real example).

The more I could DO, the more information I could CONSUME, the more it soothed that deeply anxious, fearful part of me.

And then, the shift. At 36 weeks it came hard and fast, catching me off guard. Baby boy dropped down into my pelvis, readying himself to enter the world, and it forced me to slow down in a serious way. I suddenly couldn’t walk more than 100 yards without feeling a twinge in my pelvis, a shooting nerve pain along my inner thigh or a general sense of unsteadiness, like I might actually break apart at any moment. My daily walks became slower and shorter. My sleep got worse. I started to rack up some serious hours on the couch. And yet, I felt a sort of peace. Of acceptance and surrender. This was it. I had done all I could do, I had checked the boxes. All that was left to do now was wait.

And now, August. The month that our baby will be born.

So much has been leading up to this moment that it feels impossible to capture here. The enormity of the transition. The fear of the unknown. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, uncertain of when I will topple over the edge, desperately hoping that the parachute I’ve spent so much time preparing will make for a soft landing but also equally anticipating that I might end up crashing into motherhood with more than a few bumps and scrapes.

I’ve long feared childbirth. I can’t be certain when it started, but it’s a narrative that feels deeply rooted in my identity. I have an admittedly low pain tolerance and wasn’t blessed with “child bearing hips.” Early 2000s media depictions of birth, usually with a red-faced woman screaming in a hospital bed, certainly didn’t help. I’ve also witnessed friends endure traumatic birthing experiences, and seen the lingering effects it’s had on them. Truth be told, I am scared.

Knowing this about myself, one of the things I insisted on when we got pregnant (and my husband was immediately on board with) was hiring a doula. I knew I needed that additional layer of emotional support to carry me through this process. To some, this may seem an extravagant or unnecessary expense, at a time when you are already spending a LOT of money, but for us it was an investment in our mental health. (Also, more and more insurance plans are at least partially covering doula services so check with your provider!).

My initial pitch to my husband included the argument that we had hired a wedding planner when we got married and that was just to help us plan a party. This was for the birth of our child. Needless to say, our doula has been a source invaluable support for the both of us and knowing that she will be there in the delivery room, right alongside us, brings me a deep sense of comfort.

In our last meeting with our doula, I expressed some of my fears around childbirth. Sitting on the couch, one hand nervously rubbing my belly, I confessed through choked back tears that I didn’t feel confident in myself, in my body’s ability to bring this baby into the world. I told her about the story that played on a loop in my head: that I wasn’t built for this, that I wasn’t strong enough, that it was going to break me in some permanent, irreparable way.

She looked back at me, tender eyes full of sympathy, and said simply: “We’re not going to water those roots anymore.”

Her solution? Brainwash me in positivity. Start to build the protective bubble that would become our postpartum home. She prescribed positive birth podcasts, Instagram accounts and YouTube videos (I’ll leave a list of recommended resources at the bottom of the post). We talked more about hypnobirthing which uses deep breathing, visualization, and positive affirmations to induce a state of calm and focus during labor. (A friend who recently had an unmedicated home birth described it as entering “labor land” which I thought was an endearing way to put it.) We practiced labor positions and how her/my husband could assist me in each one. A little bubble of confidence started to grow.

Buoyed by our conversation, that week I took to Instagram, hunting for even more positivity: “Moms! What was the best part of your labor/delivery experience?” The answers ranged from the epidural, to crushed ice, to post-delivery sushi but the most ringing endorsements were those that said:

• “10/10 experience, will do it again.”

• “I would give birth 100 times to be able to meet my babies for the first time again.”

• “It’s the most miraculous experience you’ll ever get to have as a woman. It’s powerful and awesome. I honestly want to do it again, but without having to be pregnant or take care of a newborn again LOL.”

Reading the responses I actually started to feel a little bit of excitement about birth. Maybe it wasn’t as scary as it seemed. And surely if all these women could do it (and would voluntarily choose to do it again), then I could too?!

The roots of this new idea started to deepen, slowly pushing out the old, fearful narratives that I pictured shriveling up, turning old and brown and sad, replaced by fresh spring-green shoots. Signs of new life.

Eager to water them further I took to my Notes app, writing out a series of positive birth affirmations. I’ve been revisiting them every day since and I’ll share them here in case any resonate with you (or if you have any particularly potent ones to add!).

So now, we wait. He might come today, he might come next week. But what I do know is that sometime this month, I will meet the tiny human that’s been growing inside me for the past 266 days. And whatever happens, it will all be worth it.

Until next time, thank you for reading.

P.S. Here are some of my favorite birth resources:

• Expectful App Guided Meditations

• Positive Birthing Affirmations Playlist

• “Is It Normal?” Podcast

• Evidence Based Birth Podcast

• The Birth Hour Podcast

• The Positive Birth Company Instagram

• Pregnancy & Postpartum TV YouTube (I love the birth ball exercise videos)

Let me know if there are any that I missed!

If reading about bodies, pregnant or otherwise, is not for you right now, I completely understand. Feel free to skip this one.

I can remember the poster in vivid detail. How could I not? She resided over every high school sleepover, our reigning queen bee. She is wearing itty bitty pink shorts and a tight ribbed white tank top i.e. the “wife beater,” a staple of my high school wardrobe. The wildly offensive name (read about the origin here if you’re curious like I was) and the fact that it was widely adopted by teenage girls in the early 2000s should tell you plenty about the culture at that time. Her long slender legs are supported by sky high heels, and she pushes in front of her a vacuum, of all things.

Ah yes, the sexy domestic. A trope as old as time. But my eye was always drawn to the four or five inches of bare skin between the low-rise shorts and the expertly bunched tank top. To her perfectly flat stomach.

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If you haven’t guessed by now, our muse was none other than Ms. Britney Spears. Proud owner of what are perhaps the most celebrated abs in music history (Janet Jackson is the only other acceptable answer). 2000s culture was obsessed with Britney's toned midsection, her workout routine, and her body in general (who can forget when that older male interviewer asked her about her breasts??). We really did a number on Britney, but that’s a much longer essay.

(I’m enraged that I can’t find this exact photo of Britney online. I can see it in my mind so clearly! If you know what I’m talking about, please help validate that I’m not making it up).

As a competitive dancer throughout middle school and high school, my friends and I worshipped Britney Spears. And I, specifically, worshipped her flat stomach. I’ve always been insecure about my own stomach, which no matter how many crunches I did during dance practice, refused to contort itself into Britney-level flatness. Alas, I am built pretty much exactly like my dad which means I have an incredibly short torso, but as a trade-off was granted some decently long legs (if I do say so myself). You’d think it would be enough to just be grateful for the legs, but as a teenager I was greedy. I wanted what I couldn’t have, what my body just wasn’t built to support. I wanted Britney Spears abs. I wanted to be able to wear low rise jeans that showed off a strategically placed rhinestone heart or (to my mother’s horror), a belly button piercing! She never did let me get that piercing (thanks, Mom).

Over time, I’ve made some peace with my stomach. I’m 35 after all, and teenage-level insecurity isn’t really sustainable at this age. I’ve accepted that sure, if I chose to work out every day and, perhaps more crucially, restrict my diet then maybe, maybe I could slim down that perpetually annoying bit around my midsection. But I’m a yoga-girlie, not a gym-girlie, and bread is my favorite food so I’m just not willing to commit to the six-pack lifestyle. And I’m okay with that. Life’s too short.

But... the Britney Spears programming runs deep. Despite my lofty goals of acceptance and gratitude (the same tenets I preach to my yoga students), I still catch myself sucking in my stomach whenever I take a photo. Likewise, my stomach is often the first thing my eye goes to when looking at a photo of myself or looking in the mirror. I’m also painfully aware of other women’s stomachs. I have some pretty attractive friends (humble brag), many of them with athletic builds and enviably flat stomachs. “It’s genetics,” I tell myself as I tear my eyes away after catching myself staring for just a moment too long.

Summer is particularly tricky because while it’s my favorite season, it’s also swimsuit season, when the long-pale stomachs of winter emerge to greet the newfound sun. Over the years I’ve found a few high-waisted swimsuit bottoms that seemingly flatter my disfavored midsection (favorites here and here), but it’s admittedly still something that I struggle with.

Suffice to say, I wasn’t exactly thrilled when it came time to go swimsuit shopping for our upcoming babymoon to Kauai. Swimsuit shopping while pregnant? It sounded like a sitcom episode waiting to happen. I braved a local boutique where, thankfully, I was the only one in the store on a Tuesday afternoon.

As I tried on bikini after bikini in the cramped dressing room I started to notice a shift. At 28 weeks pregnant there was no sense in trying to suck my stomach in, that certainly wasn’t going to fool anyone. Instead, I cautiously realized, I really liked how my stomach looked. I’d waited for weeks to grow a noticeable baby bump (and get out of that awkward “are you pregnant or just bloated?” stage), and now that it was finally here, I was embarrassingly proud of it. That bump was hard-won, and she deserved to be shown off! (Note the baby inside is a boy, but the bump itself is definitively a “her”). It was a testament to all the work my body was doing to grow a human, and it was my baby’s current home. It was, at risk of sounding unbelievably cheesy, nothing short of a miracle.

I walked out of the store with three new swimsuits and a little skip in my step.

During our vacation the first thing I put on every morning was a bikini. I let the bump hang out loud and proud as we walked through the hotel to get coffee. I happily rubbed sunscreen all over it on the beach. I let it peek out from under tank tops and swell over the tops of pants. I ate tacos with chips and guac sitting cross-legged, my naked belly spilling over into my lap. I took photos in the hotel bathroom mirror without sucking my stomach in and this time when my eye was drawn automatically to my midsection, I was happy with the way it looked.

I posted one of those mirror-selfies on Instagram with the following caption:

“I’ve never felt more comfortable in a swimsuit than I do pregnant. Having been conditioned since the early 2000s to suck my stomach in it feels incredibly FREEING to wear a bikini with a bump out loud & proud. For me at least it’s been a really positive part of this experience.”

The amount of comments I received on that particular photo was overwhelming. A lot of friends expressed that they’d felt the same way while pregnant, had experienced the same sense of freedom and acceptance and pride. I asked one friend, “Why is no one talking about this??” I felt somewhat cheated, that no one had told me how healing it could be to be pregnant in a bikini.

She astutely observed, “I think maybe people are nervous to share the positive and great aspects of pregnancy and babies because they’re trying to be respectful of other people’s harder experiences? I don’t know, I think the swing towards being real about the hard parts has made everything seem a bit heavy and we forget that it can be rad and cool to bring children into the world!”

I sat with that comment for a while. She’s right, of course, people are nervous to share both the good and hard parts of pregnancy. It’s incredibly sensitive. To be honest, I’m nervous writing this newsletter. I recognize and respect that not everyone feels the way I do about this particular topic. There are undoubtedly millions of women who feel substantially worse about their bodies and bellies while pregnant, in a swimsuit or otherwise. I can’t pretend to understand their exact experience, but can only share that for me, letting my stomach hang out in a bikini in front of complete strangers while on a beach in Hawaii was deeply healing. It unwound some teenage-era feelings of shame or “not-enoughness” embodied by that Britney Spears poster that have stuck with me for far too long. And along with my low rise jeans and the desire for a belly button ring, I’m happy to finally let them go.

I wrote this essay partially as a reminder to myself. So that when I’m 40 weeks pregnant(!) and feeling insufferably huge, or when I’m struggling to accept my post-partum body, I can remember how I felt about my body during that trip. How proud I felt. How confident I felt. How free I felt. As if by writing about it, I can somehow freeze those feelings in time and hold onto them for as long as possible. If it resonated with you (or didn’t), I’d love to hear about it.

Until next time, thank you for reading.

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Part of me is deeply saddened by this. When I started writing on Substack in August 2023, I felt like I had found myself again. Having recently quit my job I had whole chunks of time to myself. (Too much time, honestly). Tuesdays became my “writing days” and I settled into a lovely writing routine that I wrote about here. Life felt ridiculously spacious. My brain and heart felt wide open. I was learning, learning, learning about myself with every word that I typed.

I bought a new laptop for Christmas, and it felt like I was making an investment in myself. I spent hours engaging in the Substack community and formed relationships that buoyed me up during some of my darkest moments. I shyly returned to writing a novel that has been brewing in me for the last decade. The possibilities were as endless as the blank page before me.

At the time, I knew that it was fleeting. This spaciousness. Enjoy it while you can, my brain taunted sarcastically. It’s the same foreboding phrase that some people find appropriate to bestow (often unsolicited) upon pregnant women. In your ‘golden’ second trimester? Enjoy it while you can. Can still see your feet? Enjoy it while you can. Going on an adult vacation, just you and your partner? Enjoy it while you can. Sleeping in on the weekends? Enjoy it while you can.

(Word of advice? Don’t EVER say this to a pregnant person).

One of the biggest fears I had (and still have) around pregnancy and motherhood is the loss of identity. How will it change me? What parts of myself will I lose along the way? What will need to be sacrificed in order to redirect time and energy into raising a human being?

And on an even more basic level, am I a person who craves sugar now (see: the aforementioned gummy candy)?? Will having a baby turn me into a morning person? Will my hips ever return to their “normal” shape? Am I still a writer if I don’t write? Will I still be able to recognize myself?

I’ve spent the past two years building self-care practices and tools that have become critical to maintaining my mental health. Getting nine hours of sleep. Teaching and practicing yoga. Committing to therapy. And yes, writing. It may sound obnoxiously self-indulgent, but it’s what has worked for me. Some anxiety aside (because let’s face it, I’m a person who lives in the world and surely some anxiety is inevitable?), my mental health is good. I feel strong, stronger than I have in years.

But what happens if those self-care practices start to slip? If they slide away from me, one by one, in the midst of late-night feedings and diaper changes and the endless pairing of tiny socks? How will I find my way back to myself?

I suppose the answer lies in the letting go. This pregnancy will change me in ways that are impossible to foresee. It already has. Life will be irrevocably altered. Yes, parts of my identity may fall away but new parts will be plastered on top. The end result may look a little different (and a little hodge-podge), but it will still be me.

I have nothing but deep respect for the parents who insist that having a kid will have little to no impact on their lifestyle. You see them on Instagram, traveling the world with their sleeping infant strapped to their back, surfing in Bali or hiking volcanoes. They are not sleep deprived and covered in spit-up, they are thriving!

One caption I saw read, “They’re coming into your world, don’t change your world for them.” It sounds... ambitious. And perhaps overly romanticized? I’d like to think I’ll be the type of parent who can bring their kid anywhere, let them doze off in a quiet corner of a brewery or cry it out during a concert, but the truth is I have no idea what it’s going to be like.

(I found this Reddit thread on the topic to be absolutely fascinating).

Over the weekend my husband and I went to a local outdoor music festival. It’s pretty family friendly, but we were still surprised to find ourselves in the crowd next to a group of families with several kids ages 2-7 during Sublime’s headlining set at 10pm. They seemed to be having an incredible time, effortlessly swapping kids back and forth among the adults so that you couldn’t tell who belonged to who. One mom ducked down to pull out snacks for the kids who were hungry, while another dad took turns lifting each one up onto his shoulders to see over the crowd. They’d clearly embraced the “it takes a village” mentality, and it seemed to be working pretty flawlessly. Here they were, beers in hand and kids in tow, loudly singing every lyric to “Santeria.”

Seeing them, hope fluttered in my chest. Surely if they could... but who knows what it looks like when these families go home to their separate houses, what sacrifices each of those parents has to make on a daily basis, what nights out they have to skip when they’ve got a sick kid or Pilates classes they have to cancel when someone wakes up early from their nap. As much as I’d like to believe it’s possible to “make your kids fit your lifestyle, and not the other way around,” I’m not convinced that it’s entirely realistic.

Parents and caretakers, what advice do you have for me?? How has your identity changed since becoming a parent? How do you balance your self-care practices with caring for your little one?

I am already mourning little bits of myself. Part of me is grateful that pregnancy lasts nine months as it gives me time to grieve and adjust. I know I’ll get some of it back. Some of it may be gone forever. New bits will come in. I might love those bits even more.

But, pregnant or not, isn’t that how life always goes? Isn’t that just, growth?

Until next time, thanks for reading.

“One thing I want to mention, it’s not a big deal, I just don’t want you to be confused when you see it in your chart later...” my OB starts, her tone cool and casual. She’s wearing dark purple scrubs today, with a matching color fleece on top and she sits with one leg comfortably crossed over her knee. Her long dark hair is pulled back in one of those effortlessly messy ponytails that my hair seems incapable of achieving.

My body tenses a bit at her words, bracing for what’s to come.

“The ultrasound tech noticed a cyst on the placenta. These happen sometimes and there’s nothing to do really except watch it. There’s a good chance that it will be gone by your next ultrasound so for now we just wait.” She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. “I’m not stressed about it, so you shouldn’t be either.”

The tension fizzles, like air being slowly let out of a balloon. I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

“Okay,” I smile and nod. I trust her. It’s one of the reasons I like this OB so much; she has an air of casualness that puts me at ease, like nothing phases her. She’s seen it all, whereas everything about this process feels invariably foreign to me. I grab my bag and precious ultrasound photos and float out of the room, still giddy from having seen the tiny growing human moving around on the screen just moments ago.

The next day the phone rings. I let it go to voicemail (who answers unknown numbers these days?) but then scramble to answer it when the recording transcript lets me know it’s a different doctor calling from the same practice. Instead of answering the call I somehow interrupt the recording, cutting it off short, but hear the words, “I’m calling to talk to you about your last ultrasound...”

The tension returns.

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A moment later a message pops up in my hospital app. The cyst is 1.7cm long and is actually on my umbilical cord, right where it joins the placenta. This doctor recommends that I schedule a consult with the maternal fetal specialist as soon as possible to review the findings and discuss next steps. The tone of the message is direct and professional. My heart rate quickens as I scan over the words again and again. My hands are shaky as I dial my husband, who’s still at work. I recount the message to him.

“Some doctors are just more conservative than others,” he counsels. “She’s just being extra cautious, probably because you’re already high risk,” he reminds me. And I am, technically. I’m what they kindly refer to as AMA or “Advanced Maternal Age,” since I’m over the age of 35. It’s preferable to the decidedly rude “geriatric pregnancy,” a term that was used previously, but the risk factors are the same.

I nod, taking in his words. As always, his logical rational approach to everything is a soothing antidote to my more emotionally sensitive nervous system.

“Okay, yeah, that makes sense.” I half-convince myself with the words.

When we hang up moments later, I lay down on the bed, curled on my side, as my hands nervously type “umbilical cord cyst” into Google. I know I’m not supposed to do this, but I can’t help it. My eyes glaze over as the words “higher risk of fetal anomalies and chromosomal issues” appear on the screen.

I click on link after link, then switch to “umbilical cord cyst Reddit.” I feel guilty, like a kid sneaking candy when their parent isn’t looking. Not all of it is bad; there’s some reassurance about the size of the cyst (relatively small) and the fact that there’s only one. It’s not enough...

A familiar tide rises within me and before I can even think to repress it, it gushes out of seemingly every orifice. I sob, tears flooding from my eyes, snot pouring from my nose. I heave and wrack, my belly contorting around the tiny human snuggled within. Every panic, every worry, every fear pushes its way up from the depths of my being.

Logic goes out the window as emotion takes over. There’s some freedom to be found here, in this profound loss of control. It’s more than just this ultrasound. It’s more than just the Reddit threads. It’s every dark, scary, anxious feeling I’ve had since finding out I was pregnant nearly four months ago. It all comes bubbling up at once.

A year ago, I wasn’t even 100% sure I still wanted kids. So how did we get here? Here being a place where this tiny bundle of cells is suddenly more precious to me than anything else in my life?

Growing up I’d always wanted kids. I just assumed they would be part of my future. My husband and I started talking about them early on in that cute joking way that couples sometimes do, but both agreed that we weren’t ready.

Fast forward to 2023 when I went through my mental health crisis and suddenly so much of my life seemed uncertain. Did I want kids? Could I even handle kids when I was like...this?

Then came the dreaded birthday... 35. The age at which doctors and society tells us that our fertility essentially drops off a cliff. Now, this is somewhat outdated thinking. Yes, fertility declines after 35, but according to a recently published CDC study there are now more women getting pregnant in their 40s then there are teen pregnancies.

And yet, the thinking is still somewhat pervasive. For me, it was almost a switch flip. I’d read the data, heard the personal anecdotes from friends and family, and yet when I turned 35 a strong animalistic fear started to rise up from somewhere deep in my being.

Sometime throughout my 20s and early 30s I’d developed an entirely imagined yet strongly persuasive narrative that I would struggle with infertility. I’d practically convinced myself that IVF was inevitable, even though I had no medical evidence to suggest that this might be the case. (I’d later learn that ~30% of women experience “fertility anxiety,” which made me feel much less alone). My anxiety told me that, ready or not, we needed to act, NOW.

When we got pregnant a few months later I surprised myself by how deeply and suddenly I wanted this baby. Maybe it was just pure relief from my unfounded anxiety. Maybe it was hormones (pregnancy is convenient in that you can blame pretty much everything on hormones). Whatever the reason, much of my earlier fear dissipated and was replaced by a nervous, fragile joy.

And now it felt like that joy might be ripped away from me. I pulled myself out of bed and trudged to my laptop where I opened Substack and reluctantly clicked “Unschedule” on the post I had set to go live the next day, sharing the news of my pregnancy. Instead, I decided to wait another agonizing four weeks until my next ultrasound. We needed more information, and in the meantime, I’d just have to wait...

(This is where all the tools I’ve learned in therapy over the past year proved to be absolutely essential. The wait was torture, but I got through it with lots of therapy, yoga, meditation, long walks and quality time with friends).

Four weeks later I went into for my next ultrasound and after a tense few moments the ultrasound tech announced that she didn’t see any cyst. The fetal maternal specialist came in a few moments later and confirmed the findings. It had either disappeared entirely or was never there in the first place. Poof! With the wave of a magical ultrasound wand, the anxiety was gone. Relief consumed me. My baby was healthy.

I floated out of the ultrasound office on Cloud 9, then hurried home to (finally!) publish my Substack.

While this story might be somewhat unique, there’s no shortage of anxieties to be had when you’re pregnant. Everything feels like a scary unknown and navigating the medical system is itself enough to cause a nervous breakdown. So much can go wrong and yet, at the same time, so much manages to go incredibly right. Part of the learning for me during this experience has been to get out of my head and trust the wisdom of my body, and the wisdom of the little one growing inside me. It’s a work in progress.

Someone once gave me the advice that “there’s no right time to start a family,” and while I believe that, I also believe that 35 was the exact right age for me to embark on this journey. I needed that crucial time to rest and reflect, to sort through my own mental health and equip myself with the tools and support system that would carry me through an era of deep uncertainty and anxiety. Without it, I can’t imagine how lost I’d be.

Taking charge of my mental health was the single most important thing I did to prepare myself for pregnancy and being a parent.

I know I have a lot more to learn. There will be plenty more surprises and anxieties and tears along the way, but today? This moment? I’m just really, really grateful.

Until next time, thank you for being here.

P.S for any expecting parents out there, I’ve found the Expectful guided meditations to be incredibly helpful in moments of stress; I recommend downloading the app to get daily reminders!

I have plenty to share about where I’ve been but, firstly, the caretaker in me feels obligated to let you know that I am okay!

If you noticed I was absent and experienced a flash of concern, I apologize for any worry I may have caused. If you didn’t notice at all, that’s perfectly fine. I don’t expect that you’re sitting around, waiting with bated breath for my triumphant return. If you’re curious about what I’ve been up to, well, keep reading.

There are also quite a few new folks here, so welcome! My last post in December on what books I read in 2024 turned out to be my most popular thus far and brought several new readers to Sundays in high school. Initially I was thrilled by this, but as the weeks passed and I hadn’t published anything new the guilt and imposter’s syndrome began to set in. Surely all these new readers would be confused: “What’s up with this girl? Her profile description says ‘weekly newsletter’ but she hasn’t written... anything? Ha! What a scam.”

Each new subscriber (even a few paid!) began to feel like a weight settling on my shoulders as the guilt gnawed away at me. And the longer I let it go on, the worse it got.

You know the feeling I’m talking about. We’re all familiar with the monumental weight a small task can assume when we continually put it off. That phone call to the insurance company that you’ve had on your to-do list for the past six months? Next to impossible. That DMV appointment you’ve been meaning to make ever since your license expired but instead you just carry it around hoping no one notices? Please, no.

Sometimes these mundane tasks only take a manner of minutes to actually complete but the longer you put them off, the heavier and more seemingly insurmountable they become.

The truth is, I tried to write. I sat down several times to do so and yet, it just didn’t feel right. I got a few paragraphs into a recap of 2024, which I’m affectionately calling my “rebuilding year” thanks to this episode of WCDHT, but then became hopelessly, frustratingly stuck.

I confessed this guilt to my therapist who, as always, had infinite wisdom to share. She reminded me about my values, and the intentions I had set for how I would write and share on Substack. Back in 2023, when I quit my job and was wandering aimlessly, I found it incredibly helpful to come up with a list of values that would guide my decision making and next steps.

I narrowed it down to five: authenticity, creativity, vulnerability, community, and service.

When I set out to write on Substack, my intention was always to let these values lead. And for the past year and a half, that plan has worked. I’m proud of what I’ve written and the readers I’ve attracted along the way. So why was I now feeling so stuck?

“Could it be because you’re having trouble showing up authentically?” she asked.

A light bulb went off. Yes. I was having trouble writing because part of me knew that it wasn’t authentic, that I wasn’t being my full self. I’ve used this space to vulnerably share the ups and the downs, to get honest about all aspects of my life, and now it felt like I was hiding part of myself. And I was. A huge part of me was secreted away, quietly incubating before I was ready to share it out loud.

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If you’ve made it this far, you deserve to know...

As of this writing, I am 16 weeks 20 weeks pregnant!¹

Phew. Just like that, my shoulders have dropped down a bit. My face has softened, my jaw unclenched. There’s immense relief in finally being able to share this news. And the honest truth is, I could have shared it sooner.

I have found this to be one of the toughest parts of navigating pregnancy thus far. There are several schools of thought on when to tell / when not to tell. The traditional wisdom preaches waiting until after the first trimester, when the risk of miscarriage drops significantly. Presumably, this spares you the pain of having to also share news of a devastating loss.

On the other hand, if you do experience a loss and you haven’t previously shared the news of the pregnancy with your support system of close friends and family, then you’re left processing that loss on your own, or with just a partner (lottttttt of pressure on the partner). Neither is right, and it’s an extremely personal decision, but it can be hard to figure out in the moment what’s right for you.

In our case, my husband and I found out about the pregnancy very early, at just 4 weeks. I told my therapist right away, and we told his twin sister at 7 weeks. After that we chose to wait a bit, telling our parents and closest friends closer to 10 weeks.

In hindsight, I don’t know if this was the right choice. I found the first trimester to be incredibly isolating. It was January, just after the holidays, and typically cold and dreary outside. I spent most of it on the couch, feeling nauseous, tired and grumpy, with very few people to talk to about my experience. Every time I talked to my mom or best friend on the phone, I felt instantly guilty, like they somehow knew that I was hiding this ginormous, life-altering piece of information from them.

I also experienced a fair amount of anxiety in my first trimester. Was the baby okay? Was it healthy? Was everything “normal”? We got a confirmation ultrasound at eight weeks and I was practically shaking in the car on the way to the appointment. But besides my husband and my therapist, I had no one to process that anxiety with.

All that to say, telling you now is an immense relief and an utter joy. The world has felt particularly dark and bleak these past few months and having this small piece of personal happiness has felt like a life raft in the endlessly raging shit storm. I find myself clinging to it desperately; checking and re-checking the pregnancy app, gazing fondly over the ultrasound photos, shyly and curiously exploring pregnancy content on Instagram. I feel excited and nervous and happy and anxious and tired and overwhelmed and joyful and panicked but, thankfully, no longer nauseous. I’ll take that win.

Even after that revelation from my therapist, the guilt about not writing hadn’t fully subsided. I should at least be journaling, I thought to myself. I should document this, how I’m feeling right now. I’m going to want to look back on it one day. It’s important. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I collapsed onto the couch, curled up in the fetal position, and watched another episode of comfort TV I’d already seen, while mindlessly scrolling my phone and stuffing my face with carbs.

My brain felt empty; my body depleted. I just didn’t have the energy to do anything creative (never mind the fact that my body was busy creating actual life).

I couldn’t even bring myself to read before bed, a habit I've stuck to for the past 10 years. My sister-in-law preordered me Onyx Storm as a Christmas gift and I couldn’t make it past the first two pages without falling asleep. I switched to audiobook and it still took weeks to slog through (I know, I know!).

I tried to cut myself some slack and remind myself that I’m growing a human but the self-critical part of my brain dismissed it as lazy. So-and-so was pregnant with twins and still published her Substack every week, that self-critical part argued convincingly as I shrank deeper beneath my blankets.

Then, somewhere around week 16, I started to feel more like myself. I’d heard rumor of the second trimester “honeymoon phase” where the brain fog lifts and your energy comes back but it felt too good to be true. Until one night I couldn’t sleep and as I restlessly tossed and turned, I started to write a Substack post in my head. The words shimmered across my brain, slippery as a fish, as a dormant part of my sub-conscious grasped for them wildly. I awoke with a tiny shiver of excitement.

Three hours and 1,500 words later, I have something written. It feels shaky, but it’s a start. Will it take another three months to write the next thing? I have no idea. But I do know that I will stick to my promise, and let my values lead.

I will always show up here as my most authentic self, even when that means not showing up at all.

I’d love to hear from you: What do you want to know about this experience? What questions do you have for me? I vow to answer them as honestly as possible.

I’d also love your pregnancy content recommendations! Substacks, books, podcasts to consume? I’ll take them all.

Until next time, thank you for being here.

P.S. Since I’ve been so delinquent in writing recently I removed the paywall for all my older/archived posts. Happy reading!

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One of the things I’m reflecting on is all the books I consumed this past year. I’ve never really kept track of my reading (I don’t use Goodreads even though everyone tells me I’d love it), but this year I felt inspired by some of my favorite Substack book-writers (A reading life, ) to catalog my literary consumption the old-fashioned way: by stacking them all one on specially designated shelf.

I read 22 books in 2024, which may not be all that impressive compared to some of the super-readers here on Substack, but is nonetheless something I’m proud of. Pulling them all back out this week felt like revisiting old friends and initiated the warm-fuzzies that are the true marker of the holiday season. Personally, I love to know what other people are reading (I’m pretty nosey and also it can tell you a lot about a person), so I thought it worth it to share my list with you all. What follows is a round-up of everything that I read this year; consider it my “Spotify Wrapped,” but in book form.

A few things you should know about me and my reading habits first:

• I am a “real” book snob. I stubbornly refuse to read on a Kindle or any other sort of electronic device. I also don’t really listen to audiobooks, unless my husband and I are doing a long road trip. I prefer my books the good old-fashioned way, made of paper and glue. We have five bookshelves in our house and looking at my collection everyday brings me untold joy.

• I read every night before bed. Reading is a key part of my bedtime hygiene routine (I’m VERY into bedtime hygiene). I typically read 20-30 minutes before falling asleep and more often than not I fall asleep mid-page and my husband has to pry the book from my cramped, sleeping fingers. On several occasions I’ve also woken up with a book still in the bed or uncomfortably rolled over onto one mid-sleep (beware the hardbacks for this reason).

• I am a true fiction girlie. I’ll read the occasional memoir or self-help book but fiction is my one true love. And within fiction I don’t really discriminate, I love fantasy, sci-fi, romance, thrillers you name it. Reading is my escape from reality so it’s fiction all the way.

Without further ado…

Book I read the fastest: tie between Carrie Soto Is Back and Bride (finished both in under 48 hours)

Book that surprised me the most : Good Material (namely because I hardly ever relate to male protagonists but Andy stole my heart)

Book that lived up to the hype : All Fours

Book that didn’t live up to the hype : It Ends With Us

Book that was the hardest to finish : Wellness

Book with the best writing : Tom Lake (I’m an Ann Patchett super-fan, State of Wonder is one of my all time favorites)

Most original : Margo’s Got Money Troubles

Most heartbreaking : Hello Beautiful

Book that made me laugh out loud : Good Material

Steamiest : Bride (hellooooo interspecies Vampire / Werewolf sex)

Best for getting out of a reading rut: The Guest List (when in doubt, a fast-paced thriller should do the trick)

Book that I tried to read but didn’t actually finish : The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store (everyone tells me it’s a slow start but I couldn’t get past the first 50 pages… should I try again??)

Books I bought but never made it out of the TBR pile: Grief Is for People, Blank, The Familiar

I would love to hear from you:

• Any favorites from this list that you enjoyed too?

• What should be on my reading list for 2025??

Until next time, thank you for being here.

I tried to write a new post again this week but what with the holidays, panicked Cyber Monday shopping at 11:30pm (not something I’m proud of), grad school applications and interviews, my new job, laundry (never-ending), decorating the house, dishes (our 100 year old house doesn’t have a dishwasher), taking care of the cats, teaching my classes, remembering to shower (don’t even get me started on how long it takes to wash my hair), getting my butt to hot yoga (necessary to combat SAD), staying committed to my volunteer hours, trying to get 8 hours of sleep… it’s a LOT! Your girl needs a break.

While it claims to be most wonderful time of the year (debatable), there’s certainly a strong argument to be made for it being the busiest.

As such, I was feeling guilty about my lackluster recent performance here on Substack. I’m behind on writing, and (even more distressing) behind on reading. I haven’t even responded to comments from last week’s post so if you commented please know that I saw it, I read it, and I was incredibly touched. Truly.

Despite a full-to-bursting schedule, I rushed home from teaching my second class of the day to join my monthly writing group, already embarrassed at how late I was. I tapped my foot impatiently as Zoom loaded (why does it always move so slow when you’re in a hurry?) until finally familiar faces filled my screen, each one looking guiltier than the last. My eyes darted wildly, waiting for someone to say something…

“We haven’t done any writing,” they sheepishly confessed. Relief flooded over me. As it turns out, everyone is behind. And everyone has been feeling guilty about it! I felt simultaneously validated and liberated. Instead of forcing ourselves to write when clearly none of us was in the mood, we spent the entire time chatting and catching up on all things big and small. It was potentially the best hour of my week, simply because it let me know that I am not alone. So if you, too, are feeling horrendously behind, overwhelmed, braindead, exhausted… please know that you’re in very good, very tired company.

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While I may not have any brilliant new thoughts to offer you today, I did want to share a very important piece of writing that I did recently: my grandma’s obituary.

A few days before my Grandma Jill passed, while we were in preparation, my mom asked me if I’d be willing to write my grandma’s obituary. I immediately said yes. It felt like the perfect way to honor her, as well as process my own grief.

The official obituary will be published in the Los Angeles Times this Sunday, December 8th but I wanted to share it here with you all. Writing it was incredibly cathartic and brought me so much joy in remembering all the details of her life. She feels nearly impossible to capture on paper, but I’ve done my best.

Mary Jill Comsa

October 12, 1940 - November 22, 2024

In loving memory of Mary Jill Comsa (née Curran), fondly known to her family as Aunt Jill, Gram Cracker, and Goofy Gram, who left this world on Friday, November 22, 2024. The daughter of Kathryn Mae Fitzgerald and Leo Thomas Curran, Jill was born October 12th, 1940 in Los Angeles, California. As the eldest daughter, she deeply loved and cared for her younger sisters: Peggy and Carol. She attended Mark Keppel High School, class of 1958, where she met her closest friends, a group of 12 women affectionately nicknamed “The Dragon Ladies” who would remain cherished friends all their lives.

Jill is survived by her two children, Daniel and Kelly, along with four grandchildren and one great-grandchild. In addition to her own family, Jill was a mother-figure and role model to many; everyone that she came in contact with was struck by her warmth and zest for life. People naturally gravitated towards Jill, drawn in by her bright light. She always had a hug and a smile for you, and her giggle was contagious. Jill was also incredibly generous, always giving to others even when she had little of her own. While she wrote the very best cards, she was a comically bad gift giver, something her family grew to appreciate and will be sincerely missed. She had a special way of making everyone feel loved.

Fiercely independent, Jill built a successful career in telecommunication sales, where she was continuously the top sales leader in a male-dominated field, all the while sporting her signature red nails and matching red lipstick. But Jill was hardly all work, no play. She loved to play, and she was very good at it! Anytime you were with Jill you were having fun. Happy to sit and play slots at the casino for hours, she loved to gamble and play cards. She would want you to know that she was a decorated poker champion, although her family would warn you she cheated regularly. Jill was also a huge football fan, especially her beloved Seattle Seahawks. Barbara Streisand and Elizabeth Taylor were her idols and she loved musicals, or anything that involved singing or dancing.

Described by those who knew her as “vibrant, colorful, special, and one-of-a-kind,” Jill was not afraid to stand out. She was a fan of bright colors, feathers, and anything sparkly, and always managed to look glamorous and fabulous, with her hair perfectly done and her jewelry and shoes color-coordinated. Her flamboyant style was a match to her dazzling personality. When she later worked at Chico’s she was once again their top salesperson, giving women the confidence to embrace their most sparkly selves. She had that kind of effect on people. When you were around Jill, you couldn’t help but shine too.

It’s no surprise Jill was the life of the party. Especially if that party involved cake (or ice cream, or cookies). She had a massive sweet tooth and was an excellent baker, particularly her famous cheesecake recipe. The secret? Full fat. In her opinion, everything was better with butter, even donuts. She was also a talented seamstress, recreating every single Disney princess costume for her enamored granddaughter. But Jill’s greatest talent might have been her storytelling; she could entertain you with stories about her childhood and the family history for hours. She was deeply proud of our family lineage and her Irish Catholic heritage and traveled to Ireland several times, tracing the family lines back through the generations. As the matriarch of our family, she united us all and instilled in us her enthusiasm for life, her love of fun and her generosity of spirit.

Today, we are united in our love for her and in our sorrow at her passing. But Jill was larger than life, and her legacy will continue to shine on through all who knew her.

There’s a lot more I want to say about death and grief and the specific, unbridled joy of a grandparent-grandchild relationship, but we’ll save that for another day.

Until next time, thank you for being here.

What’s been happening:

• I started a new job this month. Yes, I’m back in the corporate retail game, although it’s been a soft launch. I’ve learned a ton about myself and the challenges of putting boundaries into practice (spoiler alert: not easy).

• I applied (and got accepted!) to grad school.

• My beloved Grandma Jill, one of the most special people in my life, passed away at the age of 84.

When it rains, it pours. There’s more to come on all of this but I wanted to give you a sneak peek behind the curtain and also explain my absence these past couple of weeks. I know you all don’t need an explanation, but it soothes my nervous system to give one anyways.

I wrote this essay on change last week, before some of these major changes came to pass. In a way, it’s like my brain was preparing me for what was already brewing. I’ve since resisted the urge to edit it further as I think it’s important to capture a moment in time. If you’ve been struggling with change recently, I hope it brings you some comfort.

Since I was a small child, my mother has counseled:

“Change is the only thing we can count on.”

As an adolescent I remember being needlessly irked by the constant repetition of this catch-all phrase. The Spice Girls breaking up? “Change is the only thing we can count on.” Getting a new teacher in school? “Change is the only thing we can count on.” Friend moving away? “Change is the only thing we can count on.” Even now, part of me wants to roll my eyes in teenage frustration.

And it seems I’m not alone, a lot of us are having trouble coping with change lately. In these chaotic times, we crave the comfort of the familiar. It’s no wonder we’re on our millionth collective rewatch of Gilmore Girls, content to watch the same scripted narratives unfurl on our screens over and over again. Change is often yucky and uncomfortable, even when it’s packaged as its sexier counterpart: “Growth.” 

So, when does our resistance to change become a problem? You only have to look as far the recent U.S. election to see how a deep-seated fear of change can have catastrophic consequences. But lately I’ve noticed this fear showing up in smaller, yet still problematic, ways.  

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I pride myself on having a fairly well-curated Instagram feed. And no, I don’t mean aesthetically. I mean that I intentionally try to only follow accounts that make me feel good. I don’t follow many news outlets, brands, influencers or celebrities (with a few exceptions for the ones that spark a lot of joy, looking at you Jennifer Garner). I also have no qualms about unfollowing casual acquaintances whose content doesn’t resonate with me or triggers any feelings of “not enough-ness.” The result? A whole lot of cat videos, inspirational quotes, feel-good memes and the occasional travel or cooking inspo. Overall, my Instagram is a pretty happy place, which is a relief because, like most of us, I admittedly spend too much time there. And one of the places I spend too much time is in the comments section.  

Now, I’m not going to the comments section looking for trolls. But when I come across a post or video that makes me feel some type of way, whether it makes me laugh or tear up or gives me the warm fuzzies, I feel compelled to take a little trip to the comments section, to see how others are responding. Mostly I think I want to see if their reaction matches my own, perhaps to validate my own emotional response or know that I'm part of a greater collective. I’m not sure how to feel about this behavior, it’s just something that I’ve noticed about myself (curious if this is you, too?? If so, please share).

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As a perpetual optimist, I believe that the Internet and social media can be a positive place, and given the nature of my Instagram feed, the comments usually prove that theory. But every once in a while, I’m surprised by a comment that is directly opposed to my own experience. This has happened twice recently.  

The first came a couple of weeks ago. It was a Thursday and I was scrolling through Spotify on my morning walk, eagerly looking for the latest episode of Synced, one of my favorite podcasts, to accompany me. Synced is hosted by (she writes Airplane Mode here on Substack) and Monica Padman, two smart, relatable girls in their mid-30s. The show is mostly the two of them just chatting about anything and everything in their lives, from dating to egg freezing to flossing habits to airplane etiquette. It’s generally lighthearted and fun, although they do cover plenty of serious topics, especially in the months leading up to the election, and is perfect for when I need a little pick-me-up. Plus, thanks to their unabashed vulnerability and my devoted listening habits I feel like I know them. My friends, Monica and Liz.  

So, as you can imagine, I was fairly panicky when I didn’t see a new Thursday episode. Where were they?? I went to Synced’s Instagram page and was met with the sad news that, “After an unforgettable time together, we’ve decided it’s time to close this chapter of Synced.” My heart sank and I immediately clicked on the comments, desperate to connect with other Synced Squad members who were equally broken-hearted. There were plenty, but I was surprised to see that there were other commenters who seemed pretty pissed off about the way the show ended. Some blamed Monica. Some blamed Liz. Many demanded an explanation. A few called it “disrespectful” then dragged Monica and Liz for “profiting off an audience based on vulnerability,” claiming that as loyal listeners they felt “owed.” I felt a little sick to my stomach reading through the comments. Who knows what happened and why they had to stop the show, but I’m sure it wasn’t an easy decision. Why do they “owe” us anything? They’d already given us so much, why do we think we have a right to demand anything further from them? They’re just people!  

In the same vein, I’m a huge fan of the reality TV show Queer Eye where the Fab Five make over deserving “heroes,” building back their confidence and teaching them about self-care in the most heartwarming way. I binge every new season as soon as it comes out and end every episode in a puddle of tears. Even my husband loves it and has always been vocal about Bobby, the talented interior designer, being “the best one, hands down.” (Karamo is my favorite but to each their own). So, of course, we were both disappointed when they announced in February that Bobby wouldn’t be returning for season 9. The announcement was later followed by the news that Jeremiah Brent would be joining the Fab Five and taking Bobby’s place. The internet had a LOT of feelings about this. Rumors swirled about drama amongst the cast members and many were quick to denounce the new cast member and the new season. But surely people would get over it, right?  

The new season trailer arrived last week (RIGHT after the election, excellent timing) and once again I headed to the comments section looking for community and a little morale boost. Once again, I was surprised and a little sickened by what I found. Plenty of people were boycotting the show, “No Bobby, no thank you,” but some were even lambasting Jeremiah, making poor-taste remarks about his appearance, or calling out specific cast members demanding “consequences” for their alleged behavior in a kind of Internet witch hunt. This was not the loving, kind QE family that I had been expecting. In an already tough week, my faith in humanity dwindled further.  

These two instances are fairly specific to me, but there are plenty of other examples when something beloved or familiar changed and it pissed people off:  

• When Instagram changes its algorithm 

• When they remake a classic film (Annie, Fame, Ghostbusters, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) 

• When a film/TV adaptation seriously deviates from the source material (Game of Thrones, The Shining, The Handmaid’s Tale, Fight Club) 

• When a household brand changes its logo (Gap, Kraft) 

• When Sierra Mist changed to Starry (still confused by this one) 

• When an actor changes in the middle of a show (for me, it’s Francesca on Bridgerton) 

• When Gmail changed its user interface  

• When our favorite snack brands changed their recipes (“New Coke,” Twinkies, Ritz crackers, Cadbury Creme Eggs, Nutella)  

This also happened frequently in my old world of corporate retail. Every time we changed a customer-favorite product design or fabric (often due to sourcing problems, rising inflation costs, etc.), we would absolutely HEAR ABOUT IT. Customers would leave scathing reviews, demanding we bring back the old version and threatening to take their business elsewhere.  

Of course, these are all pretty innocuous examples. Bobby leaving Queer Eye certainly isn’t going to alter the course of history, no matter how expertly he designs an accent wall. There is very real, very scary political and social change happening in our world that directly impacts the livelihoods and well-being of millions of people. So why are people getting so upset over the little things? Surely, we have bigger fish to fry?? 

My working theory is that we as a society have become highly dependent on our coping mechanisms. The “little things” that we use to self-regulate have somehow become key to our very survival. There’s so much out of our control that we end up clinging to familiar people, products and routines with an iron grip. Like our very comfort and sanity depend on it, because in some cases, it does. So, when something beloved and familiar changes, like a favorite feel-good TV show, it can feel like a personal attack. We experience a loss of control; our coping mechanism is no longer available in its original form, the form we’ve come to rely on, which leaves us feeling dysregulated and panicky.  

There’s also such intense pressure on the concept of loyalty. Not to make everything in this newsletter political, but you saw it play out in the recent election. For one candidate, loyalty was prized above all else, and ultimately weaponized to great effect. When we’re loyal to a podcast, TV show, brand, or company we tend to feel like they “owe” us, like that loyalty needs to be reciprocated. When that loyalty is broken, we become hurt and defensive. We lash out, leaving snarky Instagram comments that betray our interior instability.

In some cases, this righteous anger is directed at major corporations, which is pretty easy to justify. You can rail against McDonalds or Starbucks all you want; I’m not going to get upset about it. But in these two instances, with Synced and Queer Eye, that anger directly targeted people. Living, breathing, human people. People who have shared their lives with us, who have offered themselves up for public consumption and we’ve chewed them up, spat them out and demanded more, more, more. This, for me, is the scariest part of social media: when we forget that there are real people on the other side of an interaction.  

A week later, I can’t seem to shake these two experiences. I find myself thinking about the people who left those nasty comments and I’m sad all over again. This might sound a little naive. And I’m okay with that, I likely am a little naive. Like I said, I’m an optimistic person and I generally like to see the good in people. So, whenever I catch whiff of the darker side of human nature it can be a little destabilizing. And given my current headspace (poor) and anxiety levels (high) post-election, it was enough to send me into a bit of a tailspin.   

In trying to set myself right again I’m reminded of the yogi concept of “aparigrapha.” It’s one I’ve been coming back to a lot lately. Aparigrapha is one of the “Yamas” or ethical principles that are laid out in the yoga sutras. It’s a Sanskrit word that means "non-attachment," and is often described in relation to outcomes. It essentially says that we don’t know what’s going to happen so we should try to release attachment to a particular outcome and instead accept what is. Easier said than done. But, we can’t predict the future. All we know for certain is that things are going to change. And change some more. And change some more.

Unfortunately, my mom was right, “Change is the only thing we can count on.” So maybe let’s be a little nicer to each other while we all do our best to cope, yeah?

Until next time, thank you for being here.  

P.S. If you have recs for replacement feel-good podcasts please send them my way! I’ve started in on Nobody’s Listening Right? and while I like it so far it’s not scratching my very specific Elder Millennial girlhood itch.

That’s likely why so many of us find it easier to disassociate or compartmentalize, to pack those prickly feelings away with the intention of facing them later “when I have more time,” “when I have more bandwidth,” “when they feel less scary” or “next Tuesday between 3-4pm.”

It’s not our fault, we’re socially conditioned to avoid our feelings (especially the “bad” ones). There are all these implicit “rules” about how/when it’s socially acceptable (or not) to be angry, sad, hurt, etc. Don’t beat yourself up for following the rules.

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Over the past year I’ve been trying to feel my feelings more. It’s hard. But for me it’s better than the alternative, which is letting them build up until they become so overwhelming that they completely hijack my nervous system and send me into an anxious depressive state. (What my old therapist referred to as “emotional flooding.”)

For me, a lot of this is based in fear. I used to be really afraid of crying. Of feeling “too much.” I think I was worried that if I started to cry then I wouldn’t be able to stop and I would drown in my sadness.

But I’ve learned that’s not true. All feelings are temporary.

In my experience, when you open up space to feel the difficult feeling it allows you to move through it and past it quicker. It doesn’t linger, tugging at the back of your mind, before meeting up with its old friend anxiety and plotting how it’s going to ruin your day when you least expect it.

I’ve been trying to remember how I felt in 2016. I don’t remember feeling rage or sadness. Mostly just shock, I guess. I felt numb. This time around I have a lot of feelings, and I’m doing my best to let myself feel them. For me, that’s looked like a lot of tears in the past 48 hours. Hence, tired.

So if you, too, are exhausted this week, just know that you’re not alone. Feeling your feelings is hard work and you deserve some rest. We all deserve some rest.

But also, we don’t have to feel our feelings 100% of the time. In fact, we probably shouldn’t. Some compartmentalization can be healthy to help us regulate emotions, otherwise we’re all just walking emotional live wires (yikes).

Check in with yourself. Take breaks when you need to.

Know that you have permission to grieve in whatever way brings you the most relief, okay? If you need to engage in some of those avoidant behaviors, go for it. You have permission to scroll Instagram or eat junk food or have another glass of wine or lie catatonic on your couch for hours.

You don’t have to go for a walk or make it to a yoga class or meditate or trot out all the other healthy, productive tools in your mental health toolbox. Today doesn’t feel like a day for tools. There will be a day, of course, but for now, grant yourself permission. Extenuating circumstances and all that.

That’s it. Just, grant yourself permission. There’s no right way to handle this particular grief. Let’s cut each other some slack, yeah? We’re all just tender-hearted humans trying our best.

It’s okay to be messy. Let’s be messy together.

And take as long as you need. There’s no rush. You don’t have to “rejoin the fight” until you feel ready. You don’t have to keep up with the news. You don’t have to post on social media. Take that pressure off yourself. Let yourself just be. The fight will still be there, waiting, when you’re feeling stronger.

I think I wrote this newsletter because it was what I needed to hear today. If it resonated with you, I’d love if it you would drop a “❤️” in the comments. It’s nice to know that we’re feeling our feelings together.

Until next time, thank you for being here.

P.S. If you enjoyed this newsletter, you may also like:

As I sit here writing this it’s 6:41am which is significantly earlier than I’m typically awake, thanks to a childfree existence and two lazy cats who like to sleep in even more than I do.  

I’m up this early because my guest post has just gone live on SmallStack. I’m feeling quite a bit of anxiety. It started last night; I was manically folding laundry (one of my top-tier skills) while Sam was telling a long-winded story about his coworkers. I could physically feel his words going in one ear and out the other as my hands moved robotically through the familiar motions.

Shake, flip, fold, fold, fold, stack. Shake, flip, fold, fold, fold, stack.

“Sorry, I’m anxious, I need to go to bed!” I finally blurted out, before hastily fleeing the room, leaving a trail of confusion and an unfinished story in my wake.  

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If you’re unfamiliar, SmallStack is a newsletter right here on Substack dedicated to supporting writers with a small audience (under 500 subscribers). In June they put out a call to writers to submit ideas for a guest post and a chance to be featured. I immediately knew I wanted to write about my experience on Substack, specifically as it relates to writing about my mental health and “healing out loud.”  

Today (Wednesday), my post went live and straight to the inboxes of over 5,000 SmallStack subscribers.  

That number makes me gulp. That’s a LOT of people to be reading my writing. Like, 4,900 people more than usual. My impostor syndrome has been raging all morning as I’ve anxiously hit refresh dozens of times, examining every notification for signs of approval or disapproval. I scan the other guest posts and mentally set arbitrary benchmarks for myself: If the post gets 100 likes I’ll be happy. If I get 10 new subscribers I’ll be happy.  

This is not how I usually operate.  

One of the things I love most about my time on Substack has been my “give zero fucks” attitude when it comes to how my writing is perceived. I routinely tell myself that I don’t care if I get likes or follows, that I’m doing this for me. This approach is, in essence, the crux of my SmallStack piece. I’m writing for my own healing, not for anyone else’s approval.  

“Is this what it’s like to be an influencer?” I muse, and then am immediately embarrassed by this train of thought. It’s not like I’m the next Kim Kardashian, or whatever the Substack equivalent of a Kardashian is (is there one?). Far from it. And yet, is this what it’s like to base your worth on your engagement? If yes, I don’t think it’s for me.

The title of the piece is admittedly a bit click-baity. “Is Substack Better than Therapy? A case for healing out loud.” This was not the original title but, thanks to SEO character count and other things my non-digital brain refuses to understand, it’s where we landed. I felt a little nervous about this, was it dismissive? Insulting to therapists? But anyone who reads my writing knows how actively pro-therapy I am (annoyingly so), so I decided to let the work speak for itself.  

Cue the first comment, posted less than 5 minutes after the post went live:  

“Absolutely, no.”  

It felt like someone had pushed me off a cliff. Fuck. I was in free fall, frozen with indecision, the ground rushing up to meet me at an alarming speed. Do I respond? Let it be? I sat there, nervously biting my cheek, and then dashed out a response that I hoped made my position clear. A parachute deployed at the very last second.¹ 

The truth is, my default position is defensive.  

The entire process of writing this SmallStack piece has been a lesson in trying to re-wire this part of my brain. I struggle with feedback. Like, really struggle.   

I know, I know, “Feedback is a gift.” But what kind of gift makes you feel yucky? Certainly not one I’d be happy to receive.  

I can remember feeling this way since I was a small child. I do not take kindly to be told what to do, never have. Combine this with a healthy dose of self-confidence, imparted by a loving mother who constantly reminded me how “special” I was. The result is that I can have a pretty high opinion of myself, and a deep conviction that I’m almost always right.  

So, when feedback enters the chat, I bristle. Hackles raised, shield up. Ready to fight the good fight.  

This is particularly apparent when it comes to feedback on my writing. I’m used to being a star student. English teachers fawned over me. I even attended my high school English teacher’s wedding where I was the only student invited (teacher’s pet, much?). My first semester of college got a bit... out of hand, shall we say, but I smugly handed in a paper I knew was sub-par, confident that my highly-praised writing skills would elicit another glowing review.

Imagine my shock when I got a B-. A “B”! A letter I was hardly even acquainted with! Did they even make letters besides “A”?!! I felt instantly small, shriveled up, and deeply embarrassed. I wrote the professor a long-winded email, practically begging for a do-over. They stood strong and explained exactly how my paper fell short. The worst part? They were 100% right.  

This is perhaps the hardest part of receiving feedback: admitting when you’re wrong. For me, it’s deeply uncomfortable.  

I doubled my efforts on the next paper, managing to eke out an A- in the class and preserve my self-worth in the process. Sigh, even now my ego wants you do know that I did, in fact, get an A in the class. I’m a work in progress, folks.  

When I submitted the first draft of my guest post to the SmallStack team, they had a lot of feedback. Like, “This wasn’t really what we asked for, can you rewrite it?” feedback. (Although phrased in a much kinder way).  

Old patterns are hard to shake and my initial response was to reach for that familiar battle shield.  

But I'm older now, wiser, and thanks to hours and hours of therapy, I’m getting a lot better at sitting in discomfort. I reminded myself that they were just trying to help. That it wasn’t a personal attack on my experience or my writing abilities. That we were on the same team, and we both wanted the post to be a success. There’s a clear distinction between feedback and criticism, but it’s taken my brain awhile to learn the difference.

“Thanks so much for the feedback...” began my response and I was proud to know that there was a part of me that actually meant it!  

(It feels a little like I’m looking for kudos here. And maybe I am. Growth is hard!) 

Over the next few weeks, we went back and forth on edits on the post. This was my first experience in working with an editor and while uncomfortable, it was also exceedingly positive. When you write personal essays like I do, it can be painful to think of someone taking a red pen to your life experience. This is perhaps why so many people choose to self-publish their memoirs. The thought of someone digging around in our memories, cutting here and pasting there, is enough to make us run for the hills, our precious writing clutched to our chests like a newborn babe. Don’t mind us, we’ll just live out our days in the woods rather than subject ourselves to your (admittedly, correct) opinion!

I’m grateful to have been in such good hands with the SmallStack team.  

Now, do I want all of my writing to be edited? Ha! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves... but this was a worthwhile growth experience and at the end of the day I’m proud not only of the result, but of what I learned along the way.  

I’d love to hear from you:  

• Feedback, love it or hate it?  

• Any tips for giving or receiving feedback?  

Until next time, thank you for being here.  

P.S. If you missed the SmallStack post, you can read it here. 

^{1 Later on someone left a considerably harsher comment that essentially accused me of “trauma dumping” and once again I’m thankful to the SmallStack team for having my back and swiftly taking it down. I know we’re not supposed to let people on the internet get to us but man, we’re all just people with feelings! The majority of comments were really kind and positive, like most of the experiences I’ve had here on Substack.}

SmallStack

Is Substack Better than Therapy? A case for healing out loud

If you’ve ever felt alone in your anxious and/or depressed basket case of a life, please know there are plenty of us right there with you. Actually, right here on Substack, including SmallStack Team members. This week, we’d like to shed light on the therapeutic aspects inherent in publishing on Substack…

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2 years ago · 29 likes · 18 comments · Robin Taylor (he/him), Robin Cangie (she/her), Alexa Spiegel, and Erin Michaela Sweeney

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Warning: some Heartstopper spoilers ahead! If you haven’t watched Season 3 yet you may want to hold off (and also WHY haven’t you watched it yet??). 

After last week’s post (and mini existential crisis), I needed to write about something light this week. And while not always light, Heartstopper has become my ultimate comfort show (don’t worry Great British Baking Show, I still worship you and Bread Week most of all). If you’re unfamiliar it’s a charming teen drama on Netflix that centers around a group of high school friends and deftly tackles themes of queerness, homophobia/transphobia, bullying, body image and dysmorphia, eating disorders, self-harm, friendship, first crushes, love and sex. Oh, and they’re all British. The accents make everything better.  

The series is based off the best-selling graphic novels by Alice Oseman who is also heavily involved in the Netflix adaptation. Oseman is only 30 years old(!) a fact that initially infuriated me before I quickly recognized it as a tell-tale sign of envy. (Shout-out to ’s excellent exploration of envy vs. jealousy to help me know the difference here). Would I love to one day write a teen book/show that’s half as delightful and relevant as Heartstopper? You bet I would.

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The truth is, I love all teen, coming-of-age content. It has always struck a profound chord with me, given I feel like my teenage angst never quite disappeared in the way it was supposed to. It’s the same reason I chose to volunteer with The Trevor Project, I felt a strong urge to work with teenagers simply because I empathized and identified with feeling like no one really understands what you’re going through.  

Enter: Heartstopper. The show first premiered in 2022 to critical acclaim and quickly became my whole personality. This was April, just two months before my mental health breakdown, and I sobbed my way through every episode, in desperate need of the emotional release it offered.

The main narrative centers on the relationship between Charlie, an anxious and adorable highschooler and Nick, a popular rugby player with golden retriever energy. In the first season Charlie develops a crush on Nick which is ultimately reciprocated (hallelujah) when Nick realizes that he’s bisexual. In the second season they explore their relationship further and Nick endeavors to come out to his family and friends.  

The third season, which premiered on October 3^rd, has jokingly been referred to as “Heartbreaker,” for its darker themes centering on Charlie’s experience with OCD, anorexia and self-harm. The season isn’t all tears, though. Actor Joe Locke who plays Charlie has cheekily referred to season 3 as equal parts “sad and horny.” If that doesn’t pretty much sum up the teenage experience then I don’t know what does.

And while yes, Charlie and Nick do have sex, it manages to be endearingly wholesome. Although when they are struggling to find some alone time to have sex I wanted to scream at my television, “Just do it in your car already!” I also love the scene of Nick being horribly embarrassed while buying condoms; relatable and pro-safe sex is a winning combination.

Similarly, the teens are shown drinking in several episodes this season, but its not glorified or made to look “cool.” They throw up, they get hungover, they regret things they said or did. Relatable, relatable, relatable.

So what is it about this show that has such a hold on me?? And not just the show, but the actors themselves. I am obsessed with Joe Locke and Kit Connor. My Instagram “For You” page is almost entirely Heartstopper content at this point (like this and this). My friend who works at Netflix got me a Heartstopper sweatshirt that I wear every week. I am seriously considering flying to NYC to see Kit Connor in the stage adaptation of Romeo & Juliet. Need further proof? I’m writing an entire newsletter about it.  

Here are a couple things I think the show gets absolutely right: 

• One word: representation. Nobody is doing authentic queer representation like Heartstopper. The characters are gay, bisexual, trans, nonbinary, even asexual and aromantic. And these are not token queer characters or the one “quirky best friend,” these are the main characters. Each identity is explored with such care and tenderness by Oseman, who herself identifies as asexual and aromantic.  And considering that nearly 30% of Gen Z identifies as LGBTQ+ this kind of representation is highly needed. More than once I’ve recommended Heartstopper to the youth at The Trevor Project, especially those who live in communities where “there’s no one like me.” 

• The casting is phenomenal. They’re all relatively young (Joe is 21 while Kit is 20) and while Joe has joked about being praised for being “unconventionally attractive,” they each have a perfectly unique look to them that gives the show a lot of character (never mind that Joe and Kit are now both fashion icons in their own right, case in point Kit starring in a Loewe campaign). No overly-sexualized outfits or unrealistic beauty standards here, the characters feel like a normal, slightly-awkward group of high school friends which makes it all the more believable. Plus, Olivia Coleman and Jonathan Bailey. If a show has been blessed by the queen Olivia Coleman herself then you know it’s good. The scene in Season 1 where Nick comes out as bisexual to his mom, expertly played by Coleman, is one of the sweetest of the whole series. 

• The chemistry between Nick and Charlie is... so hot. I honestly can’t think of a better way to describe it. While everyone else is kicking and screaming over Kristen Bell and Adam Brody in Nobody Wants This, I’m quite literally losing it watching these two high school boys crush on each other. Part of me is a little insecure about this, why am I so obsessed? Does anyone else feel this way? Is it kind of... creepy? (A quick Google search reveals that someone has already compiled all the make out scenes from Season 1 and Season 2. I love the internet). The truth is it gives me this warm fuzzy feeling every time I watch Nick and Charlie make out on screen. It’s just, joyful. Props to Joe and Kit and David Thackeray, the show’s intimacy coordinator, on a job well done. The scene this season when Nick takes Charlie’s shirt off (a big deal, given Charlie’s struggle with body image) and says, “I love you. And you’re so fucking hot,” before kissing him passionately?? Swoon. May we all be blessed with a Nick Nelson.

• The soundtrack takes it to another level. Once again, Oseman was heavily involved and wanted the “music to be joyful, epic, and make viewers feel like teenagers again.” Mission accomplished. Season 3  features artists such as Billie Eilish, Troye Sivan, Olivia Dean, Grimes, Birdy and Sufjan Stevens. The real standouts though are the two Tom Odell songs “Best Day of my Life,” played when Nick and Charlie say “I love you” for the first time, and “Black Friday” which creates the perfect emotional backdrop for Charlie’s struggle with his mental health. The lyrics are hauntingly beautiful and capture Charlie’s internal landscape: “I want a better body. I want better skin. I want to be perfect like all your other friends. Every time you touch me I feel adrenaline.” Full boy chills.  

• The themes are mature and relatable, yet told in a simple, wholesome way. This show is not just for teens. It’s not just for the queer community. At first glance it may seem light, fluffy. Teens fall in love! There are even little animations, drawn from the original graphic novels. Cute! Some have called it the antidote to Euphoria, a much darker grittier portrayal of the teen experience. But the themes themselves aren’t light, arguably it covers many of the the same themes as Euphoria, and the content is relevant to all ages and identities.  

  In the latest season Charlie is battling his mental health and Nick struggles with his role as a supportive partner. Nick’s aunt, a psychiatrist, wisely counsels, “It’s okay that you’re scared. I know that you love him so so much and I know that you think it’s your job to save him but that dependency isn’t healthy for anyone. Love can’t cure a mental illness. You can be there for him. Just to talk or listen. You could cheer him up when he’s having one of those bad days. And on those bad days you could ask him what you could do to help. Standing together, even when it’s hard. But also knowing that sometimes people need more support than one person can give. That’s love, darling.”

   

  Charlie’s therapist Geoff also drops some serious wisdom, telling Charlie, “Trauma doesn’t define you. But it also doesn’t vanish in five minutes so, give yourself some grace. And you’ve got people around you who love and care for you, so enjoy them.” 

  But it’s not just the adults in the show. There’s the scene when Charlie coaches Tara, one of the members of the friend group, through a panic attack using the breathing techniques he learned in therapy. Tara also gives Nick plenty of advice, encouraging him to journal to express his feelings and reminding him, “You just need to remember to look after yourself too.”  

  All of this feels like lessons I just learned over the past year, as a 35-year-old. And yet it’s all packaged in a ridiculously charming, colorful, endearing sort of way, with plenty of lighthearted moments in-between, like when Charlie tells his older sister, “You’re having a weird amount of trouble with labels for a straight couple.” that make the medicine go down all the easier. Because mental health can still be fun, right? Right?

Watching Heartstopper on repeat has become a kind of therapy for me. It’s gone beyond comfort show and has melted into my psyche in a much more meaningful way.

I see so many parts of my own teenage experience reflected back to me, even as a cis-hetero Millennial. The butterflies of a first crush. The intensity of that first relationship. The overwhelming pressure to do well in school, to get into a good college. The frustration of feeling like an adult when you’re only 16. The fear of not fitting in. The feeling that absolutely no one else gets it. It serves to normalize the entire experience and also puts me right back in my feels. In a good way. In a way that makes me feel like I’m going to be okay in the same way the Heartstopper gang is going to be okay.

Because ultimately what makes the show is it’s unflinchingly hopeful optimism. There’s a world in which teenage boys fall in love and everyone is okay with it. A world where bullies lose and you find the perfect people that make you feel safe. A world where parents love you no matter what. A world where all genders and sexualities and identities are accepted and normalized. That’s the allure of the Heartstopper world, and it’s a world that I’d very much like to live in.

What about you?? I’m dying to find other Heartstopper super fans!

If you haven’t seen the show, are you interested in watching now?

What’s your ultimate comfort show?

Until next time, thank you for being here.

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In my yoga class this week we talked about “mobility,” or “the ability to move freely and easily.” Sounds nice, doesn’t it? In reality, it’s often easier said than done. We all have burdens and responsibilities that weigh us down, that can make it feel like we’re trudging through mud or quicksand, constantly fighting to move forward. What would it be like to set some of that heaviness aside? To shed some of the weight in order to move through the world with more freedom and ease? How much lighter would you feel?

Over the past year I’ve worked tirelessly to release myself from the pressure of expectations, to slough them off like dead skin in order to be born anew, but it is very much a work in progress. The roots run deep and untangling them requires constant vigilance. It can be, quite frankly, exhausting.

So if you’re still here, still reading, just know that I am very, very grateful.

This past week I:

• Put aside my people-pleaser tendencies and got honest with my therapist.

• Had my first real anxiety attack.

• Got an update about something exciting related to Substack that I’ll be able to share soon!

• Had a job interview and made some big decisions about the future.

• Spent time with my grandma who is turning 84 on Saturday (pictured below). She’s been having a tougher time lately and I’m so grateful to live nearby and be able to soak up her presence.

• Watched all of Heartstopper season 3, cried during every episode, and then immediately rewatched it.

Like I said, a lot. I hope to write more about all of these topics in the future, but for now I need to rest and cuddle my cats and just “be.”

Until next time, thank you for being here.

- Alexa

Today’s newsletter is on the lighter side. I’m no expert on mood boards and culture recs, but it called to me this week and, like any intuitive writer, I answered the call. (But don’t worry, I still managed to talk about my mental health 😉).

Autumn in Southern California can be kind of a letdown.

Look, I’m not complaining. But 75 degrees and sunny doesn’t exactly scream “apple picking in matching flannels.” You’d have to travel to the High Sierras to see the kind of vibrant foliage that seems common place across the East Coast. There’s nary a brownstone nor cobblestone to be found. Outdoor fires are largely considered too dangerous (wildfires, ya know?).

(Warning: unpopular opinion incoming.)

I’m also, to be honest, not really a “fall gal.” I don’t love Halloween (too scary). Same with corn mazes. Apple cider doesn’t really do it for me. I don’t own Blundstone boots. I don’t like Pumpkin Spice flavored… anything. “Back to School” is not my vibe.

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I got my fill of seasons when we lived in Philadelphia for six years, and am no longer interested in spending 10 minutes dressing/undressing myself every time I transition from inside to outside. Down coats are meant for skiing, not your morning commute. I’ll happily take year-round sunshine instead.

If anything, fall gives me a bit of anxiety. If summer is freedom then fall is productivity. It signifies a return to routine. Gone are the long, sun-drenched days and instead we’re sharpening our pencils and buckling down. I find myself dreading the change of seasons, reluctant to put away my flimsy sundresses, and personally offended by the chill in the air.

I had granted myself permission to enjoy the summer, to not worry too much about the godforsaken question of “what am I doing with my life” and instead to lean into self-care and social time. Now that summer’s over, my self-imposed seasonally-dependent liberty is waning. The critical voice has returned with a stern, “Okay NOW you need to get your shit together.” I’m a precocious schoolchild, dragging my feet and pouting all the way from the playground to the classroom.

But there’s some beauty to be found in a California autumn. As I feel my resistance towards the season mounting I’ve opted to face it head on, a bit of exposure therapy if you will, although less enthusiastic than my tribute to summer. Read on for how I’m psyching myself up for the ‘ber months.

What I’m looking forward to this autumn:

• All the warm beverages: chai lattes, mulled wine, tea (so much tea). Sam and I recently got into cardamom syrup and it’s been a game changer, adding the perfect amount of seasonal spice to our morning lattes. We bought ours from an online retailer who shall remain nameless but I’m tempted to try making my own using this simple recipe.

• Redwood hikes. We’ve started a yearly tradition of hiking the Dipsea trail in Mill Valley, a small charming town in Northern California surrounded by redwood trees. This will be our 3rd year making the pilgrimage and I’m also determined to visit the Mill Valley Public library which looks soooooo dreamy. Those windows!

• Exploiting my black cat. Do we even need Halloween decorations? I think not.

• Reading in bed (1st choice) or cozied up on the couch (2nd choice). My TBR list is already pretty long, I just ordered All Fours, Margot’s Got Money Troubles and Such a Bad Influence based on overwhelming recommendations. What else should I read this cozy season? Also for all my romantasy readers, I just tore through Bride by Ali Hazelwood and if spicy love between a vampire and werewolf is your vibe then this is your book.

• If there’s one thing I love about fall it’s beach sunsets. Although the sun sets earlier (yuck) it usually means that I can time my early evening walk to correspond with the dazzling displays of orange, pink and purple. And the way that golden light reflects off the waves? Gives me all the feels.

• We are a scents heavy household. Candles, incense, all of it. I wish I could say I ascribe to some fancy candle company like Flamingo Estate but in reality we burn through candles so fast that I usually stock up at Home Goods where they’re $7.99. But we’ve recently been burning more palo santo at home and it gives the exact woodsy vibe that I’m going for this season.

• Soup season. After letting my Le Creuset dutch oven sit lonely in the back of a storage closet since 2021, last year I finally embraced soup season. Tomato soup + grilled cheese is my go-to comfort meal but I’ve also perfected a sausage, white bean and kale stew that I’m quite proud of. Thinking of trying a sopa de fiedo or a chicken and rice recipe this fall.

• Similar to summer I’m going to try really hard not to purchase too many new clothes this season (I was pretty successful! I basically lived in linen sets from Target). I have plenty of sweaters that are still in great shape, but I DO love this style inspo of green waffle texture paired with denim and a chunky brown belt. Similar here, here and here. No jacket required.

• Rewatching Harry Potter movies. We took a break from our yearly tradition last year to rewatch The Hunger Games instead (also great, #teamgale), but I’m craving a return to Hogwarts, perhaps intensified by the passing of the late great Dame Maggie Smith, may she rest in eternal peace. We like to make our living room into a cozy pillow fort by moving the couches and piling all of our pillows and blankets in the middle which makes for the ideal movie-watching set up.

Truth be told, there’s plenty else to look forward to including a packed concert line up this month (Kasey Musgraves, Wild Rivers and Suki Waterhouse), and the return of some of my favorite heartwarming TV shows (Only Murders in the Building, Heartstopper and The Great British Baking Show).

At the end of this experiment I’m forced to admit that, really, fall is not that bad. Even the somewhat lackluster version we get in California. I’ll try to stop being such a Scrooge, I promise.

I’d love to hear from you:

• Team summer or team fall?

• What are you looking forward to most this season?

Until next time, thank you for being here.

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There’s something sticky about writing about your life as it’s happening. This would be so much cleaner, neater, tidier if I could write about it in 3 months from now, 6 months from now, when I had more answers, more clarity. But then again, it wouldn’t be nearly as interesting.  

Once again, I am coming to you from the messy middle. It’s a place I’m pretty familiar with by now, one could even say it’s become my home base. I’ve set up shop, decorated with a few charming throw pillows and my affirmation Post-its. It's even starting to feel a little comfortable here, a little cozy (or maybe that’s just the Fall chill in the air).  

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You’ve heard the expression “when it rains it pours?” What am I thinking, of course you have. Well, after exactly one year of being unemployed, one long year of self-doubt and soul-searching and writing this newsletter and asking “what do I want to do with my life?”, I can finally see a light at the end of the tunnel. Now unfortunately, what that light revealed is not one straight path forward (because that would almost be too easy, wouldn’t it?), but a fork. Ah yes, the fork.  

(For the Girls fans you’ll remember this as Adam’s favorite utensil, from the diner scene on the way to pick Jessa up from rehab. Shoshanna is, of course, appalled by his choice, “Why would you want cold metal prongs stabbing you in your tongue when food could be delivered on a cool, soft pillowy cloud?” The girls who get it, get it.) 

Forks are tricky. They denote options. And options can be confusing. If I’m being frustratingly vague here, I get it. Like I said, it’s sticky.  

Suffice to say, after a year of nothing (I shouldn’t overgeneralize like that, this year was actually quite full, as illustrated by newsletters 1-41), I now have two very viable paths forward. Two very different paths. They each have their pros and cons, I won’t go into detail, but the overarching message here is that I have a choice to make.  

Of course, I’m feeling quite a bit of anxiety about this.  

As I described to my life coach earlier today there’s a phenomenon in our culture whereby you choose a major and a career path at the ripe young age of 18-21. To think that you could trust anyone in this age group with such a major life decision is nearly unfathomable. At that age I was mostly hungover (albeit, a very high-achieving hungover).

But when you’re that young the world is your oyster. You can move anywhere, take any job, be anything. You’re not afraid of failure yet, instead you’re full of unearned confidence and a zest for life! At 21 I graduated from college and moved across the country solo to pursue my dream job. I broke up with my boyfriend because who wants to do long-distance when you’re that young and surely there would be more fish in the sea! (spoiler alert: we only stayed broken up for two weeks and are now married). You’re free, untethered, bursting with possibility.

When you’re 35 it’s a pretty different story. You’ve seen some things. Perhaps you’re like me, a bit jaded, a bit broken. Maybe you wake up every morning thinking, ‘How did this become my life?’ or ‘Is this really what I want to be doing?’ Many of us sort of just stumbled into a career and then because it was easy or the money was good or we kept getting promoted or we liked the people... we stuck with it. It’s easier to stay on the moving train than it is to get off.  

Enter: the midlife crisis.  

What would happen if you asked 35-year-olds across the country, “If you could choose any career path right now, what would you choose?” How many would choose the same job and how many would choose something completely different? And for those that choose the same job, do you choose it because it feels safe? Known? (Hey, no judgement).

The decision of what to do with your life feels so much weightier at 35. You're no longer free and untethered. Now it’s possible you have a partner, a mortgage, a kid or two. Your decisions impact not just you but your household. There are financial considerations and the fact that you value your time differently. Perhaps it becomes less about purpose and passion and more about a lifestyle. What role do you want work to play in your life? How do you want your days to look? What allows you to live most in line with your values?  

Part of me envies the 21-year-olds who breeze through these decisions, bolstered by a healthy dose of self-interest, while I struggle under the weight of everything that I've accumulated in life thus far. They don’t know how good they’ve got it.  

Then of course there are the people who successfully pivot, who have 2^nd and 3^rd and 4^th careers. It is possible! And as my coach gently reminded me, this next decision doesn’t have to be the final decision. It is just a decision, one of many.  

But ah, the fork. The fork feels so ominous.  

You might ask yourself in this situation WWRFD? (What would Robert Frost do?) As any good English major knows, he'd tell us to take the road less traveled. But I don’t think RF got it right. Not because I, too, don’t see the sexy lure of the road less traveled but because at the top of the poem he says “And sorry I could not travel both.”  

My question to you, Robert, is why not?? Why couldn’t you take both? Could you travel down one for a bit, decide it’s too overgrown and then double back and take the other? Or maybe you find a shortcut in those woods, maybe you can hop from one road to the next, maybe MAYBE the roads only split up for a short while but then rejoin and actually end up at the same place?! (Did anyone else’s head explode or just mine?).  

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, 

And sorry I could not travel both 

And be one traveler, long I stood 

And looked down one as far as I could 

To where it bent in the undergrowth; 

Then took the other, as just as fair, 
 

And having perhaps the better claim, 

Because it was grassy and wanted wear; 

Though as for that the passing there 

Had worn them really about the same, 
 

And both that morning equally lay 

In leaves no step had trodden black. 

Oh, I kept the first for another day! 

Yet knowing how way leads on to way, 

I doubted if I should ever come back. 
 

I shall be telling this with a sigh 

Somewhere ages and ages hence: 

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— 

I took the one less traveled by, 

And that has made all the difference. 

He also doesn’t say if the road less traveled is the right choice. Just that it makes “all the difference.” Good difference or bad difference Robert?? I’m reminded once again that most poetry is frustratingly (and intentionally) vague.  

Or is the point of life instead to just wander around in the woods, admiring the trees and the birds and smelling the crisp pine scent, rather than trying to push through and arrive at some unforeseen destination? Truthfully, that doesn’t sound so bad.  

has a different take on forks. She writes beautifully in Dear Sugar about this idea of “sister ships.” That at each major life decision the life splits and running alongside your life is this phantom “sister life.” The road not taken.  

Cheryl’s perspective allows for an alluring sense of surrender. While it can be tempting to play the “what if” game and live in the liminal space of fear and unrealized regret, it's easy to get stuck there, frozen with indecision. Instead, her advice urges you to choose and step towards the life that’s in front of you, wholeheartedly, without looking back. We don’t know what we don’t know. (This advice was given in answer to the question of whether or not to have children which I also think is extremely topical).  

So what am I doing about this fork? I’m not sure yet. I know that I’m putting too much pressure on myself. I also know that I am privileged to have options. I’m tempted to crowdsource it, to ask my closest friends and family (and the Substack community), what should I do?? But of course that’s not the answer; the answer lies somewhere in my Knowing, and it’s my job to listen and to trust.

Curious to find out what happens? Me too.

Until next time, thank you for being here.

P.S. It’s Sundays in high school’s birthday! On September 27th, 2023 I published my first post in a burst of bravery and vulnerability. I am so grateful to this community and to every single reader who has liked, commented, shared or subscribed in the past year. Your support means the world to me, thank you thank you thank you. Onward!

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