The medical system repeatedly let down Lindsey Clancy as she sought to quiet the voices in her head and to battle the incessant insomnia she was experiencing. Not only did the psychiatrists she sought help from fail her, but her husband, Patrick, was absentee at best and complicit at worst.

Panetierre was extremely outspoken about her struggles with post-partum depression and addiction, and instead of applauding her for allowing her daughter’s dad to have custody of their daughter, the comment sections of articles about this would be filled with comments by the holier-than-thou hoi polloi. Not only that, but Neutrogena fired her for speaking out about this, as it reportedly went against some sort of ridiculous morality clause.

Photo from Slate

In the middle of all these flashier news stories, I came across a much quieter, somewhat lighthearted account about Fox 13 anchor Dominique Dillon, who went viral after briefly dozing off live on air during a morning broadcast of "Good Morning Memphis" in early August 2026. It turns out, Dillon has an eight-month-old daughter who was teething, and that resulted in her only getting two and a half hours of sleep.

Dillon was interviewed about the incident, and though she was a good sport about it and laughed along with the interviewers, she also defended herself a bit due to her current state of sleep deprivation. It’s almost as if she knows that, yeah, we can chortle over this on air, but the underlying expectation is that women can and should do it all. The bottom line is, no matter how Type A and motivated we are, many of us are exhausted.

By the way, if you haven’t seen comedian Michelle Wolf’s act on how “women can have it all,” I highly recommend you watch it immediately.

“I know there’s a lot of people out there who are like, ‘But. Michelle, you don’t have to choose. You can have it all. Women can have it all.’ Yeah, stop saying that. You act like ALL is good. All does not mean good. You’ve never left an all-you-can-eat buffet and thought, ‘I feel really good about myself.”

Wolf goes further down the rabbit hole, talking about how quickly women are expected to get back to work, leaky nipples and all. And, of course, she jokes that they should also make sure to run home to their husbands and have sex, as he’ll leave if he’s not satisfied. Needless to say, among the inevitable laughs is a harsh reality that many of us have experienced.

On top of the inevitable trials that motherhood brings along with its many benefits is not only sleep deprivation, but also judgment from other moms/women about said sleep deprivation and more.

When my oldest son was about eight months old, I went on a bachelorette trip to Santa Barbara, where after a few glasses of wine, I confessed to everyone how exhausted I was from having a son who still wasn’t sleeping through the night. Many of them suggested trying the oh-so-controversial “cry it out” method. I told them that I thought it might be too late for sleep training, but they suggested that I give it a try. At that point, I was desperate.

I talked to my (now ex) husband when I got home, and we both decided that, as excruciating as it would be to listen to him cry at first, the ends would justify the means.

When I tell you that, on the fourth night, it worked like a charm, and after that, he only woke when he was sick, I’m not exaggerating. We had our lives back, and I had my sanity restored. Sleep deprivation is a wicked master. During the sleepless nights, I would wake with jolts multiple times a night, many times having to be reminded that everything was okay and that the baby was in bed.

I shared that I used the “cry it out” method on comedian Trey Kennedy’s page once after he posted a funny parenting video, and unholy hell ensued. I’d be rich if I got paid for every commenter telling me that I’m raising future psychopaths. When I’d LOL and reply, “I have two wonderful boys who are not only decidedly NOT psychopaths, but they’re also two of the nicest kids you’ll meet.”

“Not yet,” was the common response.

The pearl-clutching crowd is nothing if not brutal.

One moment that stuck out for me from that time after my first son was born was when I talked to one of my best friends from Colorado, who gave birth to her daughter about a month or two after I’d given birth.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m doing great!” She replied.

I let her answer hang in the air, hoping for more.

“You don’t get … like, sad?” I remember asking, quietly.

“No, not at all. Why? You okay?” She asked.

“Oh yeah, I’m good.” I lied.

I remember talking to my sister-in-law about it, and she said, “Marnie, motherhood is the most isolating experience you’ll ever have.”

It wouldn’t have made sense before I’d given birth, as I’d have thought of all the mommy meet-ups and such. But the truth was, I never felt so alone in my life.

Luckily, I have my Master’s in Psychology, a predisposition to depression already, and a strong support system, so I was able to get understand what I needed and I sought help. Others might not be so fortunate.

The harsh reality and a stat that I came across recently is that between 70 and 100% of mothers have intrusive thoughts, just as Lindsay Clancy did. 70 and 100%! Now, intrusive thoughts don’t equal psychosis, but these numbers are alarming nonetheless. When I went to the comments section on an article I read about this, one woman said that she had to walk by a balcony every time she had to put her newborn down for a nap. She had so many intrusive thoughts about this, that she would walk as close to the wall on the other side of the hallway as possible.

So many of us would never tell anyone these things, as we feel like monsters. But until we are able to do so, the stigma surrounding intrusive thoughts, copping to extreme sleep deprivation, and post-partum depression, loneliness, and psychosis, mothers will continue to suffer in silence. And the results, as we’ve seen, can be catastrophic.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

If Dickens were alive today, there’s a good chance he’d write something to the effect of, “These are the most fucked up of times.” I think many of us would love to face a “winter of despair” over 10 years of utter insanity and a tremendous uptick in hatred and bigotry.

We’re officially living in the upside down. You see this if you watch the news and/or scroll social media (read: all of us). I didn’t see the Perez Hilton video, but I didn’t have to. It’s simply on par for what barrages my senses daily.

(The Mirror.com)

Men are running up to women and throwing their “junk” on them, and one guy actually performed the act and “finished” on a woman’s leg in a Dollar Store. Road rage is rampant, and no longer just a middle-finger salute as someone drives by. These incidents have turned deadly. Of course, the mass shootings are an epidemic. And we have entire accounts (That Danesh Guy, Tizzy Entertainment, etc.) that are dedicated to exposing people who are performing these egregious acts, often in the name of racism. A 29-year-old black woman was lynched in Jackson, Mississippi, and it’s barely a blip in the national news. Our vegetables are trying to kill us, thanks to the cuts made to food safety by this administration.

If you know me or read what I write at all, you know that I have a theory on this, and that is that Trump opened a portal to hell in 2016. I kid, sort of. Something truly changed that year, and despite four years of Biden sanity in the middle, our country has been a festering open sore that continues to ooze. I’ve also seen some recent news stories about countries like Thailand experiencing a devastating school shooting, and I can’t help but wonder if our country’s sickness isn’t spreading across the world like a virus that can’t be contained. God knows that our wars are having a vastly negative impact on other nations. If you ever want to read a painstakingly honest, profanity-filled account of what other countries think of us right now, I highly recommend “I Fucking Love Australia.”

Hatred is everywhere. It only takes one doomscrolling session to read these kinds of comments on articles. And it doesn’t even have to be anything impactful. I see negative comments on recipe sites, thrifting tips, and fitness influencer accounts. I’m not sure which is more appalling—those who leave these comments anonymously, or those who have the balls to leave hateful comments knowing that we can all see who they are.

In the book I wrote, THANKS, I HATE IT, I discussed this kind of vitriol, and I gave an example that still haunts me even though it’s been many years since I read the comment. There was a series on The Huffington Post in which a woman named Sheila Quirke documented her daughter, Donna’s cancer journey. Despite the heartbreaking nature of this column, I loved it and followed it closely. One day, Sheila mentioned in passing running through a McDonald’s drive-thru on the way home from the hospital, and one commenter wrote something to the effect of, “Maybe if you didn’t take your kids to McDonald’s, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Jaw. On. Ground.

As I wrote in my book, perhaps this woman had her own No Good, Very Bad Day. Maybe she got horrible news. But to turn that turmoil into words aimed directly at another person's heart is inexcusable.

We’ve lost humanity. We’ve lost the plot. And, quite frankly, if you’re like me, many of us have lost hope, as we continue to see people vote against things that will help our country and the marginalized communities within it. You just have to look at the attack on Dr. Fauci to see how far off track we’ve gotten, as we would not be where we are now—out living our lives without those oft-ridiculed masks—without him.

I’m officially sending the S.O.S., but who is coming to save us?

Such was the case yesterday when I stumbled upon this post from the Instagram account “jordanbrennanphotography.” Whew. Deep breath, even as I type this. [This is your cue to grab some tissues]. This talented photographer was given 15 minutes to capture her best friend’s tender final days with her husband and daughter. Jordan’s best friend was on hospice, and even let her know that this would be their final time seeing one another.

“You told me that this would be the last time we’d see each other. I didn’t want to believe you—but, as usual, you were right.”

The way I blubbered reading those words. I could feel the pain despite never knowing them.

I then headed to the comments, and by this time, my shoulders were heaving. The first comment I read said this:

“I heard that time passes differently in heaven. By the time they turn to look around for you, you’ll be right behind them.”

My god, that’s beautiful. And painful. And agonizing. And wonderful. And sad. And peaceful. As author and podcaster and all-around baddie Glennon Doyle has said, it’s “brutiful.”

And I guess, using the same rationale that one uses for listening to sad songs after a breakup, I did a deep dive on the woman (Lindsay) who recently passed and bawled even more.

Shortly before her passing, she wrote, “So, here I am. Never giving up, but ready to give in.”

I think this statement is so powerful, as so often we hear that “[insert name here] ‘succumbed’ to cancer.” Fuck that. So many fight to the very end, so there’s no succumbing to cancer. Cancer is a fucking thief, plain and simple.

In her final post, Lindsay wrote, “I now give my strength to all of you. Fight those battles. Don’t give up. Love fearlessly. Live with adventure in your heart.”

These words make me wish that I’d been lucky enough to know this woman. Again, a stranger from the internet.

Shortly before coming across this (thanks for the tears, algorithm), I’d seen the couple who founded “Simon Sits,” Jacob and Isabel, giving Simon the goodest final meal for the goodest boi—their heart dog that was the reason they’ve become one of the most famous animal rescuers in the country. Isabel, Jacob, and Simon have changed the face of animal rescue, and I certainly hope they’ve given someone considering buying a dog pause before doing so. They gave Simon the dignified goodbye that he deserved.

So. Many. Tears. Over. Strangers.

Even writing this right now, I feel like grief is weighing me down. My heart is heavy. But I hope that in the face of the ridiculously horrible state of our nation, the daily mass shootings, and people dying from the lack of funding for food safety, I never become jaded to this heartbreak. Because heartbreak is universal, and that means that despite the expanse that may exist between us, we hold space for each other as if we are one.

A couple of weeks ago, I became the meat in the sandwich generation, and it came in as hot as a five-alarm fire. I convinced my parents, who have varying levels of cognitive impairment, to move in with me. Getting them moved was like something out of a horror movie. For one, I live in Southern California, and they were living in Sarasota, Florida. It took multiple trips for me to get them packed, and I didn’t even finish, so my brother had to finish the job and get them on a plane with their completely untrained (but undeniably lovable) mini Doodle. To say they’d become pseudo-hoarders is an understatement. As a friend recently said to me, “Old people, man. They love their shit.” Truer words…

The first week together was an absolute nightmare, and all of us had the look of “I’ve made a huge mistake” on our faces all day, every day. During this same week, I was sitting outside on our patio, likely trying to get a break from the true crime that had been playing on the TV 24/7 since they moved in, when I got the phone call that I wrote about recently.

My son’s life changed in an instant, and he experienced something that I have never experienced in my nearly 54 years on this earth. He witnessed one of his best friends die in a tragic accident.

Shit. Meet. Fan. Meat. Meet. Sandwich.

I couldn’t breathe. Life was coming at me from every angle, and I wasn’t sure I was going to survive it.

Then, yesterday morning, the lack of breath wasn’t metaphorical. I was just about to take a sip of my coffee when I immediately hyperventilated. I hadn’t been feeling stressed or panicky, but it hit me like a brick wall. I’m no stranger to panic attacks, but this felt different. I ran outside, gasping for air that refused to come. I was in a cold sweat, and my palms and the bottom of my feet went numb. I used the tiny bit of air that I could access to call 911. I truly thought I was going to die, and all I could think of was my boys.

Life becomes surreal when five (ridiculously hot, BTW) firefighters enter your home for you and not your health-issues-addled elderly parents. In the end, it was “just” a panic attack, but the truth is, I never felt quite right all day. Having awoken with the first cold sore I’d gotten in about five years this week, I realized that stress is attacking me with all it’s got.

I am currently unemployed and trying to navigate the system to find out what kind of help I can get for my parents. I’m calling doctors and dentists, and driving to all the appointments. I’m getting records transferred. I’m learning about VA benefits. Because my mom’s memory is severely compromised, I am now in charge of my dad’s extensive medication regimen. I’m sending a son off to college. And I am trying to reel in my temper while having “roommates” for the first time in 30 years. I have no idea how they’ve done it, but my parents have found a way to watch Law & Order marathons on a smart TV. It’s as horrifying as it is fascinating. And, again, the true crime. So. Much. Murder. And we are drowning in tchotchkes. If there is a space, my mother will fill it.

It’s a lot.

That said, I’m mindful that, in some ways, this will be a time period that I will also look back on with fondness at some point. For example, my mom and I were busy unpacking the other day, stressed and disagreeing on the decor as usual, when my older son and his girlfriend came by for a visit. We took a much-needed break and sat on the back patio for hours, telling stories, many that my son has heard hundreds of times, but he didn’t let on.

As The Office’s Andy Bernard once famously said, “I wish there was a way to know you’re in the good old days before you’ve actually left them.”

“He can’t even pee. It’s time,” he said.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, hugging him.

It hit me that I witnessed his decision to put his clearly beloved dog down, and I felt sick. Sick for them, and sorry that I had been an interloper on this private moment.

It also hit particularly hard, as I got the worst phone call of my life last week. One of my favorite artists, Mat Kearney, once sang, “I guess we’re all one phone call from our knees,” and truer words had never been spoken (well, sung).

My 18-year-old son called while on his senior trip to Utah, a once-in-a-lifetime gathering of his best friends to celebrate graduating and the eventual separation from one another as they headed to college.

At first, I thought he was laughing. But I soon realized he was crying, or really, screaming. It took me a full minute to finally understand him, and he said, and I’ll never forget these words:

“Mom, I just saw my friend die.”

He didn’t even say “I think.” His friends had decided on a last-minute ATV ride before heading back to the house where they were staying. It was only two hours before they were headed to the airport to drop their friend, Gracie, off, as she was to be the first to leave for her cousin’s wedding.

In a series of decisions that would lead to so many later “what if” feelings of agony, the kids decided to take Gracie on one last ATV ride. My son was in a van, following the ATV. What’s come to light since this day is that a couple of the kids decided to change seats at the last second, and this decision is likely what led to her death. When the ATV tipped, she wasn’t wearing her seatbelt (probably due to the seat change). I won’t go into the details, but what these kids witnessed while they tried to save her life is something that no one should ever have to see.

As with all things dealing with fate and life and what God (if you believe in Him or Her) has in store for you, it’s easy to go down the rabbit hole of, “Why her?” Or, “Why not me?”

I ask that because, on the night before my high school graduation, my best friend and I did a thing. And much like what happened with Gracie, it was a very last-minute decision that nearly cost me my life. We had initially said “no” to going to the Blues Festival in downtown Chicago, but FOMO took hold of us, and we begged my brother to drive us at warp speed to the train station in my town. We saw the train beat us, and we then begged him once again to beat the train to the next station at College Street. He managed to do so, and I seemingly recall him not being happy about any of this, but as we pulled into the parking lot, the train approached.

“Let’s go!” Amy yelled.

I followed her out of the car and across the tracks, but because she is a person with a more responsible eye (read: not a derp), she made it across with no issues. I, on the other hand, caught my shoe on one side of the track and my head hit the other side, and the train was dramatically beeping at me. When I grabbed my shoe that had come off in the chaos, stood up, and limped to the platform, all of my friends stood there, mouths agape. My head was pouring blood, and for some reason that is still unbeknownst to me, I still got on that train. An elderly woman sitting across from me handed me a crumpled-up tissue for my head, and all of my graduation photos feature me smiling and grateful, but also missing a large chunk of my forehead.

The truth is, no one knows why one person is spared, and another is not, and if you let it, thinking about it can drive you to near insanity.

This story isn’t just about tragedy, however. It’s about a group of kids who had the innocence of youth violently taken away from them in an instant, but who have since banded together in a way that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. As a group, they’ve gone to visit Gracie’s mom ( (and her family), Gracie’s dad (and his family), and Gracie’s inconsolable boyfriend, holding space for all of them to grieve a person who meant the world to them, all while battling feelings of survivor’s guilt.

As a parent, I can’t imagine sending nine friends off to celebrate this milestone—kids on the precipice of so many things—only to have the group return home without my precious person. Yet these parents have been strong enough to console these friends and ensure that they know that this is a blameless tragedy.

Today is Gracie’s Celebration of Life, and I have to be honest. I want to stay in bed. I don’t want to face reality, but I know Gracie’s family needs this as a testament to the girl whose colds they’ve nursed, boo boos they’ve bandaged, broken hearts they’ve healed, and softball games in which they’ve cheered her sheer star power on. She not only existed, but she and her megawatt smile made their marks on so many people. And that’s why I am going to pull on my big girl pants and honor a life cut far too short. For Gracie.

We were on the Eurail one day, and a man took quite a shine to Katherine, and he was not shy about showing his affection and desire to get to know her. Normally, I would say that this was creepy, but the guy seemed generally harmless. He was also nothing if not persistent, as I believe he tried four different languages to communicate with her. As we approached our stop in Germany, his attempts remained futile, as Katherine spoke none of those, and English had somehow eluded him in his efforts to be multilingual. He shrugged and gave us a sweet smile as he went off with his friends, and we went on our way, but that story always stuck with me as such an account of a missed opportunity that all came down to a language barrier.

On that same trip, I had taken an overnight ferry to meet Katherine in London by myself, and I was scared, lonely, and freezing. I’d been told that they played movies on the ferry, so I figured it would help take my mind off all those things. To my surprise, I was the only person in the theater, and I’ll never forget what was playing—Wolf, with Jack Nicholson and Michelle Pfeiffer. The movie was pretty scary, but something much more terrifying happened while I was watching. A man came in, and despite the probably 75 other seats he could have taken, he sat right next to me, not saying a word.

In a way, these were similar encounters, though one appeared to have a much more malicious intent.

My fascination with language, spoken and body, is probably also why this poem, “Small Kindnesses”, by Danusha Lameris, stopped me in my tracks when I first read it:

I love the part about “brief moments of exchange.” As a single mom who’s worked remotely for years and who has custody of her two boys 50% of the time, there are many days when the only “person” I talk to is Alexa. Of course, nothing taught us about the value of these fleeting encounters more than the pandemic. Even those of us who consider ourselves recluses were longing for contact with others.

There are plenty of ways to convey feelings and meanings without words. For instance, when I talked to my son about the incident with the man sitting next to me on the ferry, he said, “Mom, why do you think he did that?”

“To make me afraid,” I answered.

We’re also able to tell our Vietnamese nail techs the nuts and bolts of what we want, despite the language barriers.

I need to learn how to say, “Who does this lady think I am? A miracle worker?” in Vietnamese, as I have a feeling that’s often said during my visits, but that’s neither here nor there.

And perhaps this is uncharacteristically Pollyanna of me, but I have a feeling our world would be a much more welcoming place if we spent more time focusing on the ways we’re alike than the ways we’re different.

Sigh. A girl can dream.

I’m sure he’s been the focus of a lot of people’s feeds lately, with his show having just been horrifyingly and unjustifiably canceled. Thanks, Genghis Con Job, Scaramount, and C B.S. But I’ve seen so many gems about him on a personal level lately. His lovely wife, Evelyn (aka “Evie”), was on the show the other night, and he talked about their process of getting ready when they have social events to attend. He said that when he reaches the top of the stairs and smells the scent of roses, he knows it’s time to shower. She laughed and revealed the rose-scented lotion she wears. Whenever you see these two together, it’s love served up on a platter, but like the coziest platter ever. It’s probably got warm sourdough bread, just out of the oven, with a homemade garlic butter.

He also recently revealed the actress whose beauty made him clumsy and nearly speechless, and it was (the also lovely!) Michelle Williams. Of course, I ran to the comments on the article about this to see the complaints about how, if “I were his wife, I wouldn’t like this.” But that’s the thing. Those of us who have followed him for years know that their marriage is as solid as the ground beneath us (well, not if you live along the coast, but…).

Even better, a program called “It Gets Better,” designed to help at-risk LGBTQ youth who are battling thoughts of suicide, recently reposted Colbert’s poignant video message of hope. As with all things Colbert, it was perfection.

I should also say that I have a theory about people who were raised in large families, and yes, I realize this is a sweeping generalization. But the ones I have met are salt of the earth. My dad was one of eight kids. My grandma was one of 14. My best growing up was one of 12. They’re built different. They’ve had a total of four hot showers in their lives, have never known quiet, and they have unparalleled skills in battling for the last piece of chicken. There is no pretense with these people, and Colbert is the epitome of this.

Today, however, I learned something about him that I can’t believe that I never knew before—that he lost his father and two older brothers in a plane crash when he was only 10 years old.

The plane had traveled over South Carolina and Illinois before it crashed into a cornfield hill. The reported cause of the plane crash was the pilot’s error of flying too low, which caused the plane to hit trees and catch fire.

Now, if you haven’t been following Anderson Cooper’s All There Is podcast/series on grief, you need to start doing so immediately, as it’s lovely.

The whole interview between Cooper and Colbert is worth a watch, but there’s one point that stands out for its breathtaking nature (at 13:02 in the above video). Anderson immediately chokes up as he starts to pose the question:

“You told an interviewer that you have learned to love the thing that I most wish had not happened. You went on to say, ‘What punishments of God are not gifts?’ Do you really believe that?”

Colbert replies after a long pause and with a smile, “Yes. It’s a gift to exist. It’s a gift to exist. And with existence comes suffering; there’s no escaping that.”

Colbert goes on to explain that if you’re grateful for your life, “then you have to be grateful for all of it.”

"You gotta learn to love the bomb,” he continues. “Boy, did I have a bomb when I was 10. That was quite an explosion. And I learned to love it. So that's why. Maybe, I don't know. That might be why you don't see me as someone angry and working out my demons onstage. It's that I love the thing that I most wish had not happened."

I know some people find it creepy to outwardly express the love of a celebrity, but I can’t help it when it comes to this man. He’s such a gift to this earth, and despite the rug being pulled out from underneath him by the cowardly powers that be at CBS, I just know that he’s going to give us nuggets of wisdom and side-splitting jokes until his last breath.

Thank you, sir, from all of us.

Galloway replies:

“I don’t want to. I think the receipts for love is grief. I hope my boys feel the same way about me. It hasn’t gotten in the way of my life. It makes me be more bold with my emotions. I used to see it as a problem. I went to grief counseling. Now I see not as a bug, but as a feature. And so what I would tell every young person is that I hope they have a lot of joy in their life. I also hope they have a decent amount of grief because that means they have people they love immensely. You can never tell your parents how much you love them too much.”

I saw another video recently made by a hospice worker who said that it’s well known in their field that when people call out towards the end, it’s almost always for their mothers, no matter how old they are. Wow, what an awesome responsibility. If you’re doing that job right, you should be the most important person or persons in your child’s life.

This brings me to this past Mother’s Day. Before I get into it, I have a confession—over the last 10 years or so, I’ve become what can only be described as a curmudgeon. I’ve gotten divorced, lost many friends in said divorce, been stolen from by a former best friend, had my car stolen, and many, many more things that have made me one of those people who are in a constant state of wincing, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When Mother’s Day comes around, I steel myself for disappointment. I write about it every year, and I always make sure to say first that I love my boys more than I ever thought possible. But… these are boys we’re talking about (sorry, guys), and my ex-husband isn’t going to be one to encourage any breakfast-in-bed scenario. And I know for certain that I’m not the only one who feels this way, as I read story after story of mothers' disappointment on social media, even when we’ve all tried to tell ourselves to have zero expectations.

This Mother’s Day, however, was absolutely delightful—possibly even my best one yet. My son, who is going off to college in the fall, wrote me a card that blew me away with its contents, calling me his “best friend” and thanking me for all the obstacles I’ve helped him overcome. I also found a photo (that he didn’t tag me in, but whatevs) of him and me that read “Happy Mother’s Day to the G.O.A.T.” GULP. I then went to my favorite pizza place, and my ex-husband even joined us. I listened to a singer-songwriter type perform all my favorite tunes while I felt the sun on my face, and my boys played catch. I took a moment to stop and think, man, this is the stuff, right here.

Fast forward to this coming June, and my parents will be coming all the way from Florida to move in with my boys and me in North County San Diego. They are no longer safe to live on their own, and to say this situation is causing stress for us all is an understatement. My parents are loath to give up what they see as their independence, and I’m terrified about how we’re going to make it all work … not to mention the stress and overwhelm from the move itself.

Even with this trepidation, I’m so happy knowing that I can now have a nearly 24/7 opportunity to help keep them safe. In the last 10 years or so, I’ve flown out for surgeries, a near-choking accident, hurricanes, and more. When I’ve left to return to California, I’ve never been fully confident that they would be okay before my next visit.

This will be a chance to say “thank you” to parents who have done so incredibly much for me. A lot of people have called me a “saint” and the like for doing this, but I don’t see it that way. This is the natural order of things. My parents sacrificed so much to give me the life that I’ve had, and if I have to give up a few things here and there to return this giant mountain of a favor, I am honored to do so.

Yes, this so-called sandwich generation stuff can be excruciating, but in the coming months and hopefully years, I’ll be so happy to sit down with my parents, reminisce, and hopefully give them a soft place to land.

It’s funny when your kids are 17 and 15, as you’re still fulfilling your role as mother, but it’s more like spending time on the periphery. Your kids need you less and less, and you’re also preparing them to fly, so it’s a bit like walking a tightrope.

During this dental visit, I floated back and forth between the two rooms, gently rubbing their legs to let them know I was there. They would both look up and roll their eyes, but I could tell each was happy when I was in my corner seat.

At one point, I left my younger son and walked into the room where my very soon-to-be-18-year-old son was having his work done. The movie Frozen was playing on the ceiling TV, and he seemed engrossed. I almost laughed, but before I could, a wave of nostalgia hit me like a tsunami aimed directly at my heart. How did we get here? How did this giant man baby, with his size-11 Vans hanging over the dental chair, become an adult when I could swear that just yesterday, I was cheering him on in the holiday play from my chair in the preschool gymnasium? Wasn’t it just yesterday I was belly-laughing with him as we named the lizard missing a leg in our backyard “Gimp”? (Forgive us—our family thrives on dark humor). Wasn’t it just yesterday I was doing all the voices for the characters in his favorite baby books?

For years, this now-man-baby struggled with anxiety before going to school. In my family, we tend to pass the anxiety baton to an unknowing teammate without their consent or desire. “Here you go,” we say, though we’d do anything to avoid this ritual. Fortunately, my youngest son seems to be the lone person in a long line of worriers who has been able to rebuke this familial rite of passage (though he could probably stand to worry a bit more). Finn, my soon-to-be high school graduate, on the other hand, has inherited my incessant worrying along with my extreme lack of confidence. You’re welcome, buddy. Hey, at least we’re not cocky, amirite?

Because of these traits, I was not surprised when he initially said that he wanted to go to college close to home. A part of me was sad, as I wanted him to spread his wings, but I let him take the lead. A few months later, however, we were sitting in his counselor’s office, and somewhere in that time period, he’d decided he was ready to fly, but he hadn’t told me yet.

“I want to go away,” he said. “I don’t want to stay too close to home.”

Judas, the betrayal!

I kid, of course, and when he said it, I smiled, and he caught my eye and gave me an all-knowing grin. This kid was maturing at warp speed, and just in time, I might add. Our bond has thus far been unbreakable, and the lump that formed in my throat threatened to spill tears that would have summoned his hairy eyeball, so I forced them back.

Time is a motherf*cker, my friends. There’s no way around it. You surely remember a well-meaning older mom at Target, seeing you knee-deep in your kids’ requests for everything at eye-level (We know what you’re doing, marketers), the distinct smell of a dirty diaper that requires your attention, and a mom brain fart that has swallowed the PIN you need to enter on the keypad, when she says, “Soak it all in. This stage goes so fast.” You want to punch this woman directly in the thorax for two reasons:

1. YOU NEED HELP, not SELF-HELP!

2. You know somewhere in the deep recesses of your addled brain that she’s right, and you hate her for it.

As the saying goes, good parents give their children roots and wings, but no one thinks about the cold nests left behind, leaves still molded to their once-impossibly-tiny bodies. But if I’m to do what is best for you, it’s time to let you fly, my sweet boy. Just know your biggest fan will always welcome you home, and she’ll even make sure they play Frozen for you at the dentist.

For some reason, last year, I developed a visceral reaction to every mom’s post about graduation beginning with, “And just like that…” It was driving me nuts, if I’m being honest, but the truth is, there’s no other way to begin the news that your son is no longer a child. It really does happen in the blink of an eye, and just like that … you’re forced to let a part of your heart fly outside your body, hoping you’ve done everything you can to prepare him for life’s hilly path.

Needless to say, watching the video enraged me, and many other people in our area felt the same. I watched a town hall meeting in which parent after parent shared similar stories of blatant racism by students in our local schools. As far as I know, the students from this particular incident received detention (including the victim!), and nothing else was done. According to many of those who shared their stories, this apathy is widespread.

This past week, according to Phil Diehl of the San Diego Union-Tribune:

“The Carlsbad City Council approved an anti-bullying resolution Tuesday in response to a recent assault of a middle-school Black girl by a group of school kids at Poinsettia Park.

“The council approved the resolution 4-1, with Councilmember Melanie Burkholder opposed.

“‘We all agree that is not acceptable,’ Burkholder said, but added that she sees the bullying problem as a parenting issue and not one where the government should get involved.”

I’d be willing to guess that Burkholder calls herself a Libertarian, as this “party” is known for its distaste for government overreach.

(Photo courtesy of Washington.org)

The thing is, these are no ordinary times. Bullying is coming from the very top, and the demented ball of cheeseburger-laden fat cells in charge is actively trickling it into every part of our society. All you have to do is follow a social media account like Tizzy Entertainment or That Danesh Guy for daily videos of people spewing hate at one another, and 99% of the time, it’s white people not having any hesitation to be filmed spitting on (and worse!) POC. Between the racists no longer feeling like they have to hide and the gross oversteps of the despicable ICE agents, I probably wouldn’t leave the house if I were brown-skinned.

All of this rampant racism seems only to be emboldened by this manosphere that has entered the chat in the last few years. The UN Women describes it as:

“The manosphere is a collection of online forums, blogs, and social media communities promoting masculinity, male supremacy, and often, extreme misogyny. It acts as a loosely connected network—including incels, pick-up artists, and men's rights activists—united by opposition to feminism, traditional gender roles, and a shared feeling of grievance, frequently targeting women.”

The undeniable truth is that we have a Man Problem. A March 2026 CNN investigation reported on a global "online rape academy" featuring a website that garnered about 62 million visits in February alone. This network features men trading tips on drugging their wives or partners, and they then share videos of the resulting sexual assaults.

I realize that when I make a blanket statement about having a “man problem,” many males take offense to that, but what I beg of them to do is, instead of getting wounded and thinking, “Not all men,” why not take an active stance on these extremely dangerous and prevalent issues?

Some male-run accounts on social media are doing just that, and I’d like to share them here:

https://www.instagram.com/barrettpall/

https://www.instagram.com/newemergingking/

https://www.instagram.com/thebigoletexanfamily/ (though, lately, some of his videos are fake—come on, bro!)

https://www.instagram.com/politipunkpeacock/

https://www.instagram.com/danieltyack/

https://www.instagram.com/andr3wsky/

And my all-time favorite social media account that you probably already follow because he has a bazillion followers (but if you’re not already following him, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?):

https://www.instagram.com/mrwilliamsprek/

In sum, WE ARE NOT ANGRY ENOUGH (THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION TO THIS MATTER—IYKYK)! The bullying and abuse are funneling down from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and it’s time to cut it off at the source.

I know politics are much more nuanced than a quick Google search, but I’ll leave you with this hopeful thought anyway:

Article II, Section 4 of the U.S. Constitution defines the impeachment process, stating that the President, Vice President, and all civil officers of the United States shall be removed from office upon impeachment for, and conviction of, treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors.

“I did my time, but that doesn’t wash away the regret. I wish I’d done things differently, I think about it every day,” Duke tells Dr. Robby.

“They say that it’s never too late to change,” Robby says.

“Some things can’t be changed, like death. Death can’t be changed,” Duke, who’d just been given a potentially fatal diagnosis, responds.

Robby starts to comfort his friend, but Duke interrupts, saying, “I’m not talking about me.”

“Yeah, I don’t know if I want to be here anymore,” Dr. Robby responds, attempting to rein in his clearly overflowing emotions.

Now it’s Duke's turn to misinterpret, and he begins to talk about how no one would want to be in that hellhole of an ER, but Robby clarifies that he doesn’t want to be, you know, here here.

As someone who’s been there, I knew exactly what Robby meant when he said it, as I’ve said those same words many times, to people who love me very much. I feel terrible for putting them in that situation, and I felt that way in the moment, too, but the words could no longer be held back. I’ve been on the brink in the last ten years more times than I can count.

Rationally, I know I don’t want to bid adieu to my earthside self, mostly because I know how much that would impact my boys and the rest of my family for the rest of their lives, but the pain can be almost unbearable.

I think I’ve written about this before, but there have been many times that my therapist has had to ask me whether I had a plan in place, and I’ve always said, “No.” I’ve explained to her that I understand the permanence of it, but that I would give anything to be able to escape being me sometimes. A Marnie hiatus, if you will.

This brings me to the most lovely Instagram video I came across a few weeks ago by an account called “@joshuaspoetry.” In it, he says:

“I had dinner with myself 21 times last night. They all showed up, each year of my life.
Fifteen came in naive, stuck in his own head. One and two were at the end of the table, taking turns being fed by sixteen (How beautiful is that visual, BTW?), who’s a little distracted, trying to fit in. Eleven wouldn’t stop talking about how he wanted to be a policeman. Seven was soft and gentle, kind of in the corner alone. Nineteen didn’t want to be there and thought about going home. Thirteen was excited; high school had just begun. Seventeen was excited; high school was almost done. Fourteen was making friends that fifteen would soon hate. Twenty was making big decisions, and eighteen was making big mistakes. Three just kind of sat there and played with his food, while me at the head watched as they ate and smiled. Because most people have twenty friends, and I have twenty-one. Each of them, who knows everything that I’ve done, walks when I walk, runs when I run. They’ve been to all the places I’ve gone, and none of them could relate to each other. They were there; they were different. They had nothing in common. All they knew was me, but they loved each other as the stories went around. And then five looked at me and said he was proud, and that’s when I started to break down, so I stood on my chair, glass in my hand, and said, ‘Guys, I can’t thank you enough for bringing me here. Both the years that made me happy and the years that showed I’m human, if I had the choice, I would live all of you again, through highs and lows, losing and wins. Now, quick, let’s have seconds before twenty-two comes in.’”

Whew, amirite? I usually don’t include such lengthy quotes, but it’s important to listen to that whole thing to understand the message. And, Joshua, if by the slimmest chance you’re reading this, please let me know if I’m wrong, but I feel that it’s to say that our lives and how feel about ourselves changes from year to year, and some of them are wonderful and some of them are gut-wrenching, but the sum at the end of it all is the BIG, BEAUTIFULLY IMPERFECT YOU.

Holding my babies for the first time, ending a long day of skiing on a catwalk while the snow softly falls, watching my boys laugh with one another in a way that’s like a secret code that I don’t even care that I’ll never have access to, watching my mom and dad slow dance, having butterflies land on my hand, seeing my brother belly laugh with his kids, earning the trust of a pet who’s only known heartache, sitting around with my college girlfriends days before graduation when one of them said, “Never again will we all live together” and letting that reality set in, spending four days in Jackson Hole with the dearest of friends who love me, warts and all … these are what I hold onto when I’m having trouble seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

I have 53 best friends at my proverbial dinner table, soon to be 54. I’d give anything to give 19 a motherly hug that would last for days, channel the optimism of 25, tell 35 to bottle the smell of a baby after a bath, let 43 know that better friends are on the horizon, and assure 53 that her job search does not define her.

This is me, and I am her, for better or worse. Now let’s eat.

I came across an Instagram post last week that stopped me in my tracks for its ability to convey exactly what I’ve been feeling, which is where have all the good men gone? I know you’re out there, so why are you SO DAMN QUIET?!

The post, by The Midlife Rebel, goes into the owner of the account, Robyn Patton, detailing how she read a horrifying account of abuse from The Epstein Files. When she finished, expecting him to be equally as horrified, he questioned the sources. Patton describes letting out a sound that she had never made before in her life:

“Shaking
Guttural
Screaming. Crying.
Sobbing harder than I ever have.
Life grief.
As if the story I had just told him was about my baby.”

I was absolutely blown away, as I feel as though I’ve been in the throes of this kind of raw emotion since 2016. How did we elect a man who admitted to sexual a$$ault? As a victim of SA, it’s been ten years of being constantly triggered, and the Epstein files have only made that so much worse.

Patton goes on to defend her husband, saying that he is a good man and a good father:

“He’s an incredible man. He loves his family fiercely. He cares deeply about rhinos, has done so since he was a little boy. He’s passed that onto our son. But like so many men in my life, he just doesn’t seem to care about this.”

Imagine caring about rhinos but not caring that a lengthy list of women have shared their truths about having their childhoods ripped from them, as men in power abused them over and over when they were little girls. Children. BABIES.

We all know these men, though. Men like Patton’s husband. They’re decent people, but they’re not nearly as enraged as they should be about what’s happening right now. And we need that.

The knee-jerk disbelief that this husband showed—asking for more proof or better resources—is why the vast majority of women who have been assaulted don’t report.

You’ve probably seen the same video that I saw the other day on an Instagram account called “Heal With Britt,” run by author Britt Piper. She asks a group of college students to stand up if they know someone who has been sexually assaulted. In a stunning display, a vast majority of people stand. Next, she tells those people who know that this person or these people did NOT report the assault to please stay standing. I gasped as nearly everyone sat down. And then the final blow:

“If the perpetrator received any kind of punishment or justice, will you please stay standing?”

Out of the hundreds who initially stood, about three people were left standing by the end.

Imagine the trauma that the rest of those people feel daily. And even those three people who did receive justice are still surely traumatized.

The worst part about this trend that I’ve noticed is that the lack of empathy, the ability to look at others of the opposite sex as “things” rather than human beings, is happening to boys, not just men. And it’s often all in the name of what’s being called “the manosphere,” a place where young men have decided that they’re not getting what they’ve been owed by females.

A CBS News segment came across my feed the other day, and the newscaster reported that a group of PA teens had been sentenced to six months’ probation for creating AI nudes of their female classmates. First off, six-months probation is a laugh in the mother-fucking face. Secondly, the newscaster closed the segment by saying that the teens did not apologize for what they’d done. The way my own son wouldn’t see the light of day for five years if he’d been involved in something like this. And the only sliver of light he would see would be when he was washing the cars, painting the fingernails, and carrying the books of the girls who were traumatized by these actions.

You see it every day—stories of violence carried out against women, often by their own partners. And in the comments, women are saying that’s why they’ll choose the bear, every time. You’ve probably also seen the posts where a woman asks other women what they’d do in a world without men. The answers are heartbreaking, and often look like this:

“Run with headphones.”
”Wear whatever I want, whenever I want.”
”Go out at night.”
”Leave my doors unlocked.”
”Breathe.”

If you’re a man who reads posts like this and you get defensive, thinking, “Not all men,” I can appreciate that. It is an attack. But where’s the anger? Where’s YOUR anger? Let’s see you talking about these things, and more importantly, let’s hear you.

Wrong. So, so wrong. They’re beer-bellied, unkempt slobs armed with cargo pants and exhibiting clear signs of inbreeding.

And you know what? I am usually the type to say, “Hey, let’s stick to the atrocities committed by this administration and quit with the jokes about Mar-a-Lago face and self-tanner…” But guys? I can’t. I just can’t.

When they go low, I apparently go lower. Let’s take a look, shall we?

Legend has it, the guy in front was hung by his underwear so often, he’s been free-balling it for years. Way to get ahead of the problem, buddy.

If you asked ChatGPT to give you two Kyle Rittenhouses.

If “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” were a person.

I feel so sorry for this guy’s shower drain.

Lost out on the chance to play Al Pacino in his biopic. Never recovered.

Had to shop in the “big goons” department to find cargo pants to fit.

Documents his own atrocities for his spank bank.

“Women”

“I’ve made a huge mistake.”

“Do these pants make my micro penis look… eh … never mind…”

Osama Been Unemployed

After this, you guys gotta come to my summer home—I call it ”Uncle Tom’s Cabin”.

I was previously against the masking of ICE agents, but after seeing this, I’ve realized that perhaps those are the only things keeping us from clawing out our own eyeballs.

I keep the late, great poet Andrea Gibson’s book You Better Be Lightning on my chaise lounge, where I’ve been spending a lot of my time lately. Thanks, Depression. Their poems touch my soul in a way that makes me feel like I’m being read to by someone who truly sees me. Understands me. Loves me despite my flaws.

The other day, I re-read all my dog-eared pages, one of which was the poem “Wellness Check”:

“In any moment,

on any given day,

I can measure my wellness

by this question:

Is my attention on loving,

or is my attention on

who isn’t loving me?”

Andrea, why do you taunt me from the grave? I kid, but the first time I read this, I did wonder how this could resonate with me so much.

There was a common joke going around the interwebs for a while, where people would share memes that said things like, “Behold thy field of fucks, as you’ll see it lies barren.” In other words, a lot of people were out of fucks. Where had they all gone? I’ll tell you. I HAVE THEM ALL. I am a hoarder of fucks. Don’t need yours? I’ll take them despite my already-overflowing supply.

I am particularly drawn to giving fucks about what others think of me—the worst kind of fuck to give, in my humble opinion.

In my book, THANKS, I HATE IT, I even share my obsession with people not accepting my Facebook friend requests. I know, I know, I realize the ridiculousness of it, but I’ve quite literally lost sleep over it. When my mouth goes rogue at a party, and I can’t sleep at 2 AM because I made a joke that involved baldness and a bald man was within earshot of me? Yeah, that. So much that. Witness protection is not even sufficient.

I loved this post that I read on Nadia Bolz-Weber’s Substack the other day. Here’s an excerpt:

Normally I would just lie there frustratingly awake for a couple of hours -- unable to look away from my most recent personal blooper reel -until it became obvious that the most logical solution would be to move to another city where I could start over with a new identity.

Like an emotional witness protection program.

As someone with a “big personality” who blurts things out and later regrets them—someone prone to a Ready-Fire-Aim approach to life—I am not unfamiliar with a solid 3 a.m. perseveration on my gaffes.

But a few nights ago, something different happened.

I hesitate to say it was a nudging from The Spirit, because that always feels perilously close to spiritual self-flattery. And we all know how the “God told me” thing can go very sideways. But I say it may have been a God thing mostly because… it did not feel like me.

In fact, it felt like the kind of thing I would usually mock.

Here’s what happened:

Every time my brain tried to replay the embarrassing thing, instead of sitting down with a tub of popcorn and watching it again—nodding gravely and pricing out moving trucks—I said one word:

“Love.”

That’s it.

When the scene tried to start again, I said, “Love.”

Whoa, am I right? If you’re like me, burdened by fucks and thoughts about what others think of you to the point where it can be nearly paralyzing, it’s amazing to think there might be a way to nip the freight train of obsessive thoughts in the bud. I haven’t had a chance to try this out yet, but I’m heading out to a birthday party shortly, so I’m sure I’ll have toilet paper hanging from my shoe, something in my teeth, or I’ll ask someone how their dog is, only to find it was hit by a car this week. Plenty of fodder, so little time.

Again, I kid, but my long-term goal is to give away some of these fucks weighing me down like cement boots.

Fucks for sale … going once, going twice…

I FaceTimed my mom the other day to show her where we were. I had taken my boys to dinner at a place that I used to frequent in Del Mar. I hadn’t been there in a long time, and some great memories came flooding back. It’s a wonderful restaurant, and, depending on where you sit, there are tremendous views of the ocean. My heart was happy, so I called my mom to loop her in on this. Instead of being excited that she picked up (which can sometimes be a miracle in and of itself, but I digress), I was immediately shocked by how wrinkled I look in the little square where you can see yourself. My happiness quickly turned to depression, as all I could see was the weight of the world displayed across my face. And then I felt shame for feeling that way, particularly since I’ve had two classmates die of cancer in the past year. Growing old is a privilege, but sometimes it’s hard to truly embrace that, as vanity is a wicked master.

The lovely Mariel Hemingway described it perfectly:

I eat well.
I move my body.
I take care of myself.
I do the things we are told will protect us.

And still… time touches my face.

There is a voice that whispers,
Why this?
Why me?
Why now?

I know it is fashionable to say we earned our wrinkles.
That this is graceful.
That this is beautiful.

And yes… part of me knows that is true.

But another part feels something deeper.

What I realized is this.

The ache is not about the wrinkles.

It is about identity.

Somewhere along the way, we start to believe the mirror is telling us who we are.

That youth equals value.
That smooth skin equals worth.
That beauty equals belonging.

And that is the lie.

Because there is a woman inside of me who has not aged one day.

Go here for the full Instagram post.

My brother and I are very weird about posting photos, and we have a strict “ask us first before posting” policy that drives my mom nuts. When my brother asked about this one, I was tempted to say, “Hell, no! Look at those wrinkles all down my face!” I’m so glad that I didn’t, though, as no one makes me happier than the people in this photo. I can’t remember what was said that made us belly laugh like that, but I sure wish I could relive this moment, wrinkles and all.

Can we also talk about our social media algorithms? Once you start paying attention to the aging process, you’re more likely to click on that post about UV light for your skin, cortisol belly busters, and expensive creams. Now, instead of a feed filled with funny videos, animals, nature, and travel, as it’s been at various times in my life, my feed is a carousel of influencers schilling their latest inventions. And, listen, I’m not against influencers, as everyone has to put food on the table. I just wish that I could get my content back to things that make me feel less than for doing what’s inevitable … getting older.

It’s funny, too, as when I look back at photos, there are times when I think I’ve looked really great and times when I’ve thought, “Oof, what was I going through in this photo?” I’ve had long hair, short hair, medium hair, and different colored hair. I’ve gone through periods where my budget demands drugstore cleansers and makeup, and other times when I’ve been able to splurge a bit more. In the end, none of that is what I notice in these photos. In the ones where I feel as though I look the best, I know that I was really, really happy. Nothing looks as good as contentment feels, or perhaps it’s the other way around. In the end, we can’t stop the march of time across our faces, but we can control how much we let that distract us from the point of it all—living in the moment.

What an absolute abomination of a state for rushing through such hateful legislation that went into effect in Kansas yesterday.

(Sherman Smith/Kansas Reflector)

According to The Guardian:

“Transgender Kansas residents have begun receiving letters from the state’s Department of Motor Vehicles notifying them that their driver’s licenses will be invalid beginning Thursday, as a new law goes into effect that demands that forms of identification must now reflect the credential holder’s ‘sex at birth’.

“The bill, known as SB 244, also bans transgender people from using bathrooms in public buildings that match their gender identity, and creates a sort of bounty hunter system, in which citizens can sue transgender people they encounter in restrooms for $1,000 in damages.”

Can you imagine how that latter part is going to go down? Citizens demanding to see the genitals of other citizens to prove their assigned sex at birth? Because that’s not super fucking creepy at all. But, hey, you get a thousand bucks for being a pervy narc, so there’s that.

I’ve asked it before, and I’ll ask it again. What is with the trans hate? Another thing I’ve shared on here before is that I’ve had friends say, “Listen, I’m an ally, but this ‘trans stuff’ is going too far.”

When I probe a bit more, I usually get told, “They’re shoving it down our throats.”

Really? Because I’ve had several people come to my door trying to push their religions on me, but I’ve never had a knock from a trans person. And you know what I’d do if I did? I’d ask that person in for a cup of coffee or an alcoholic beverage. Because life is hard AF for them.

A lot of the controversy seems to stem from the fact that many trans people say that they knew they were trans from a very young age, and that makes people feel like it’s a phase, or perhaps their parents are pushing some agenda. BTW, what kind of parent would push their kids into a way of life that is statistically more dangerous? Yeah, it doesn’t happen.

As the Human Rights Campaign points out, “In fact, an increasing body of social science research reflects that gender-affirming behavior on the part of parents and other adults (teachers, grandparents, etc.) greatly improves mental health and well-being.

“The opposite is true– transgender children are more likely to experience anxiety, depression, and at greater risk of substance abuse and homelessness when their immediate caregivers are rejecting or hostile.”

Transgender youth also have a higher rate of suicide, particularly if they’re kept from the gender-affirming care that helps them to embrace their authentic selves. To put it plainly, it helps their outsides match their insides. Why is that such a bad thing?

Of course, a lot of people let their love of sports taint their views on trans people, especially with moon-faced ghouls like the uber-unsuccessful Riley Gaines spewing hatred and misinformation to remain in the spotlight. The thing is, even trans activists like me have a more moderate view on this topic. In fact, at one point, the NCAA had a very common-sense rule in place: athletes born male had to transition by a certain age, thus not allowing them to reach the stereotypical strength/speed of a male. At least that’s what I assume the reason was. Of course, they’ve changed the rules now to only allowing those born females at birth to participate in women’s sports—no doubt due to the pressure put on them by Ghengis Con-Job in the Oval Office.

As Mahatma Gandhi once said, “The enemy is fear. We think it is hate; but it is really fear.”

If you’re willing to admit that you fear trans people, I urge you to actively seek out meeting some by volunteering at your local LGBTQ Center. That’s what I’ve done, and I’ve met some of the loveliest, most misunderstood people who want the same thing as you and me—to be left alone to live their lives the way they see fit.

Lastly, the next time you find yourself getting angry about a trans person, perhaps even considering writing a nasty comment online, ask yourself this: How does this person’s existence impact me in any way?

In case you got caught under a heavy piece of furniture, the U.S. Men’s Olympic hockey team pulled off an amazingly exciting OT win against Canada on Sunday, winning its first gold since 1980. For about five minutes, the country united. We were proud Americans, once again. And then a pile of shit tantamount to about 5 million itty bitty Kash Patels and Mike Johnsons put together hit the fan.

Not only did the clutch goal scorer, Jack Hughes, mention being “proud Americans” in his post-game interview more times than Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell have pleaded the fifth, but it only took a few hours to give a large portion of the country the collective ick seeing the googly-eyed head of the FBI downing shots in the locker room with the toothless Neanderthals.

As former Congressman and all-around stand-up guy, Adam Kinzinger, said via Threads:

“The worst part about the Kash video is just how much of a DORK he looked like. Like a guy who for the first time was at a party with the cool kids and trying too hard.”

Never one to pass on piling onto the massive ICK already growing like a snowball rolling downhill, the POTUS hops on the horn and shares his sniff and spit-filled kudos in a glazing session reminiscent of Lindsey Graham suckling at his ample teat.

We all knew that would be coming, but what many of us likely hoped for was at least some glimmer of disdain from some of them. One of them? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Instead, they giggled like fourth-grade boys who found one their mom’s vibrators in a drawer. Even when Ghengis Con-Job dropped the inevitable insult about “having to” invite the women’s gold medal-winning team to the White House, nearly all of them channeled Billy Bush being told about grabbing women by the pu$$y.

The exact words by Canks-in-Charge were, “Going to have to bring the women’s team,” saying if he didn’t, he’d “probably be impeached.”

“People are so negative out there, and they are trying to find a reason to put people down and make something out of almost nothing,” Jack Hughes told reporters outside a Miami nightclub late Monday night.

What this New York Times/Athletic article failed to mention is that this “Miami nightclub” was a strip club (Club E11even), where the knuckle-draggers felt it was appropriate to sing The National Anthem.

What I hadn’t realized until I read it in the comments section of an article yesterday was that Jack Hughes’ mom had, for all intents and purposes, won a gold medal as well, as she is the player development consultant for the U.S. Women’s National Team. Not only that, but she is a former member of the U.S. team that won a silver at the 1992 Women's World Championship. Super cool, right?

Narrator: It should be super cool, but…

Mama decided to weigh in on the backlash today, and, listen, I’m a mom to two boys, so I get the Mama bear tendencies. But, man, she royally dropped the ball with her statement:

“If you could see what we see from the inside, and the men and women sharing, you know, dorm rooms and halls and flex floors and the camaraderie and the synergy and the way the women cheered on the men and the way the men cheered on the women — that’s what it’s all about. And the other things they cannot control. They care about humanity. They care about unity, and they care about the country.”

That’s right, Mom. We can’t see from the inside, but from out here? The optics ain’t good. And you had your chance to at least touch on that, and, quite frankly, you missed scoring the winning shot on a tender-less goal.

As one person commented on the article that I read today, “Yes, they did have their chance to unite the country. But they actively passed on that.”

It’s really as simple as that.

In a country filled with ped0phile apologists like Jack Hughes’ goon squad, be an Elisa Gu, Alysi Liu, (insert female Olympic athlete of your choice here), or Flavor Flav. All the latter needed to do was put out the word that he was organizing a Las Vegas event for the U.S. Women’s Hockey team, and sponsors were clamoring to make it happen.

The ladies are going to get the red carpet rolled out for them in Sin City. The guys will get the red ketchup in the Oval Office, where the demented fossil sitting at the desk reportedly shat himself last week. Cue the sad trombone.

“The year 2026 is the Year of the Fire Horse (specifically, Yang Fire Horse), beginning on February 17, 2026, and running until February 5, 2027. This year is associated with energy, independence, and rapid, bold progress, as the fire element amplifies the Horse's natural traits of speed and passion.”

My very sweet friend, Susan, sent me this via my DMs recently:

The slides go on to say:

“A horse’s heart generates an electromagnetic field up to 5X larger than a human’s. It radiates outward like a sphere and can directly influence the heart rhythm of anyone standing near it.

“This is why people cry around horses without knowing why. This year will amplify whatever you’re carrying in your heart. Your energy isn’t just felt by you.

“Horses are emotional mirrors. Studies show they absorb and reflect the emotional state of the humans around them. If you’re calm, they’re calm. If you’re anxious, they feel it instantly.

“The fire horse year will reflect your energy right back to you. Regulate first. Manifest second.

“This isn’t the year to glorify exhaustion. But it is the year to ask who you trust enough to truly let your guard down around. Rest isn’t a weakness. It’s a strategy.

“Horses have what’s called a ‘coherent heart rhythm,’ a pattern linked to calm, joy, and low stress. Their field is so powerful that simply standing near a horse can shift your own heart into that same rhythm.

(Photo taken by friend and ultra-talented photographer Tricia Meteer/Equinox Photo)

“Become the most regulated version of yourself this year and watch how everyone around you starts to shift, too. Coherence is contagious.”

I love this whole thing even though I’m not typically a very “woo woo” person, but I think this is my favorite part:

“This isn’t the year to glorify exhaustion. But it is the year to ask who you trust enough to truly let your guard down around. Rest isn’t a weakness. It’s a strategy.”

If you’re American like me, you know that we pride ourselves on working ourselves to the bone. We wear the exhaustion on our sleeves, like a badge of honor. Let us take this Lunar New Year to fight that instinct and rest our weary bones. Life has been exhausting since 2016 (IMHO), so let’s put down our proverbial swords (in between protests, of course) and take care of ourselves.

REST ISN’T A WEAKNESS. IT’S A STRATEGY.

And if you’re, ahem, middle-aged like me, you also know that the time we have on this earth is valuable. To waste it with people who aren’t comfortable with you being your authentic self is detrimental to your peace, which you must protect at all costs.

The other thing that really resonated with me is that horses are “emotional mirrors.” I have, indeed, cried around horses. I once made my (now ex) husband stop on the way back to our hotel after a day of wine tasting in Solvang, as a few horses were grazing right up next to the fence, not far from the road.

I got out, wishing I had an apple or a carrot, but I went to them, empty-handed, and the love I got from one horse in particular has left an indelible mark on my heart. He was a beautiful grayish-white color, and he hugged me repeatedly. I know, I know, a horse hug? That’s the only way that I can describe it. I was so connected with this horse, I cried when we had to leave. I wanted to go back the next morning, but we didn’t have time. If this horse were an emotional mirror that day, then I can only say that I must have been filled with love that day.

It took me about an hour to find this pic, so please enjoy:

Idyllwild is also my Happy Place. Everyone should have one of these. I had to be out of my rental place for a terrible flood about six years back, and decided to visit here, as I’d never been. I found a woman who rented out a one-bedroom casita on her property, complete with horses that I could pet until my heart’s content. This place made me feel peaceful, and that is not an easy feat for me.

On my first trip there, I pulled out of the driveway super early, and couldn’t believe my eyes. Just loose in her driveway was this magical white horse/mini horse?/pony? I went up and gave him and apple and a good pet and went on my way. I felt it was a sign of some sort, of which I still don’t know.

Let’s be like horses and be emotional mirrors for one another. That means that if you ask someone how they’re doing and they say, “fine,” but you perceive something more ominous lies beneath, perhaps you take the time to dig a little deeper. And keep in mind that a 20-second hug can ease anxiety and boost dopamine. What a tool we all have in our emotional toolboxes.

My life tends to be an epic series of disasters, so much so that my friends have all begun a “woo woo” movement to improve my somehow tarnished juju. I’ve been saged, horse-shoed, and evil-eyed, and carry a $2-dollar bill behind my phone. Still, the hits just keep on coming. In the middle of writing this yesterday, my son called me into his room. What had started out with a small complaint about not feeling well turned into the most terrifying flu I’ve ever seen. Within two hours of the initial complaint, he had 102-degree fever and was shaking and delirious. Thankfully, after three bags of IV fluids, some flu meds, Tylenol, and emptying his stomach contents in the Biohazard bin at the urgent care, he is recovering.

I can’t say that I like living this way, but it is what it is. And if I’m going to embrace the Year of the Horse, I have to hope that my presence can bring joy to others, not a sad sack “woe is me” existence. As the slide above noted, “Your energy isn’t just felt by you.” I will proceed to fake it until I make it, and in the meantime, I’ll thank the universe for sending me friends who care enough to fill me with woo woo love.

1. Besties Unite

If you’re looking for the antithesis to the hate and ignorance our government is serving up, I give you the Facebook account for “Don’t Cross a Gay Man.” Run by an angel on earth, Misha Brown, this account shares stories of awesome things people are doing on the regular, including by Misha himself. He has recently hit superstardom with his book, Be Your Own Best Friend. And because his mama didn’t raise no fool, she was scrolling the comments on one of his posts and saw someone note that she would definitely buy the book, but she didn’t have the funds at this time. Misha’s mom bought the book for this person, and then another bestie from the comments section paid this forward to another bestie down on her luck. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that this is the movement that keeps on giving.

Watch the video HERE!

2. A Light From Darkness

If you follow Anderson Cooper, you know that he has channeled his own grief into an entire podcast, featuring real-life people who know the grieving process all too well. This week, a heartbroken mom, who lost her precious son due to a once-in-a-lifetime misstep while he was hiking over a waterfall, shared how much her son meant to her and the ways his memory lives on. In doing so, she turned me onto someone I’d never even heard of before—Frederick Buechner—as he wrote one of her son’s favorite quotes:

“Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid.”

I went down the rabbit hole of some of his most well-known quotes, and this was another of my favorites:

“When you remember me, it means you have carried something of who I am with you, that I have left some mark of who I am on who you are. It means that you can summon me back to your mind even though countless years and miles may stand between us. It means that if we meet again, you will know me. It means that even after I die, you can still see my face and hear my voice and speak to me in your heart.”

Whoa, isn’t this the universal wish? That we leave an indelible mark on our loved ones’ hearts? It sure is mine.

3. Savannah Bananas FTW

If you’re not following this team’s group page on social media, what are you even waiting for? They’re such a light in these dark times. Even better, though, one of the Bananas, KJ Jackson, did something beyond the field that made me say, man, chef’s kiss. This guy’s the real deal.

According to the FB page, “While accepting recognition for his impact on and off the field, Jackson didn’t thank a ‘brand,’ didn’t talk about grinding for fame, and didn’t play the usual highlight-reel speech.

“No.

“He looked straight at the room — filled with sponsors, executives, and people who profit off the game — and said:

“‘If you’ve got influence, it’d be dope if you used it for something bigger than yourself. If people are struggling while you’re winning… what are you really winning?’

“Silence hit before the applause.

“Because nothing makes comfortable people more uneasy than being reminded that success without service is empty — and that clout without compassion isn’t leadership.”

The article went on to note that KJ walks the walk, too, and has started various youth programs in his community.

In a world of Elons, be a KJ.

4. Obamas. Le Sigh.

The TikTok account, The Squirrel Pit, reminded us of what life was like when our president and First Lady had compassion and class. Watch the video, but grab your tissues. If you miss decency in the Oval Office, your eyes will be leaking.

When I heard the news of James Van Der Beek’s passing, it happened again. It felt like a loved one had passed, and not because I was a huge Dawson’s Creek fan (which I was - Team Pacey, though, if I’m being honest). It was because his videos mesmerized me. For someone who has long felt broken inside, never knowing a moment’s peace, this man felt like video Xanax. He exuded serenity, even when he got sick. The guy made having six kids look like, well, child’s play. Sorry, I had to.

Yesterday, his social media account promised that there would be some insightful videos from him forthcoming, and whoever is handling his account already delivered. You’ve likely seen the video from his most recent birthday that’s been floating around on the interwebs, but if you haven’t, I urge you to stop and watch it right now.

@hellocanadamagJames Van Der Beek marks his 48th birthday with an inspiring message ❤️ 📷: #JamesVanDerBeek

Tiktok failed to load.

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“I am worthy of God’s love, simply because I exist. And if I’m worthy of God’s love, shouldn’t I be worthy of my own?”

Whoa.

He goes on to say, “I offer that to you, however it sits in your consciousness … however it resonates, run with it.” He even notes that if the God part “trips you up,” you can simply change the mantra to, “I am worthy of love.”

Le sigh.

What struck me on a personal level is how, before he came to this realization, he talks about how our identities are so tied up in things like our careers, and for me, that’s always been brutal. I often say that I peaked in grade school. From about fourth grade through high school, I had the confidence of someone who has their shiz together. For as stellar a student as I’ve always been, I’ve floundered in figuring out what I want to be when I grow up. I got my Master’s Degree in Counseling Psychology in 1998. I received straight As throughout the program, but I got my first “C” during my internship.

“Do you even want to do this?” my supervisor asked, not mincing her words.

My grandiose idea of asking people how things made them feel was quite a departure from having to tell a father that he can’t put his kids in an actual doghouse if he wants to keep DCFS away.

From there, I got into HR and recruiting, only to experience the dot-com crash during which recruiters were the first to be laid off.

I worked in entertainment for a while, and I began writing free restaurant reviews to weasel my way into becoming the one thing I’ve wanted to be since I was a child—a writer.

I’ve had a good run, albeit a nonlinear and low-paying one.

That brings me to the current day, and I’ve still been the victim of multiple layoffs. I also have no real savings to speak of. I’m rolling into month six of a six-month severance package, and I’ve been an absolute wreck. And the people who say that money can’t buy happiness have surely never been in this situation.

“AI is taking our jobs!” might sound like a copout, but there is a lot of truth to it. I’m heartbroken, as it’s the only thing I’ve ever done that I truly love, but I also would like to take care of my children and not work until I’m 90. I’ve been in a near-sweat-inducing, fight-or-flight state for the past year, so much so that a conversation between two women after a fitness class that I recently took, talking about their conference calls that needed to be made, caused me to break down in a fit of tears once I got to my car.

My brother (a.k.a. my second dad/therapist/sounding board/favorite person) always takes the call when I’m in my feelings, and he’s tried to tell me that my career (or lack thereof, currently) is not who I am. And while I can understand that on a cerebral level, my bank account tells another story.

I often indulge in pity parties for a few days … a week, tops. In the end, though, I’m a fighter. So I will continue to attempt to find my way in this world, especially for the sake of my sons. But the biggest battle I face? Self-loathing. The thoughts inside my head would shock you with their searing negativity. I am not gentle with myself, and perhaps that’s what made me burst into a shoulder-heaving sob when I watched James’ video.

I pledge today to start every day by honoring James and his sage advice by embracing his mantra. I am a mom. I am a friend. I am an empath. I am a volunteer. I am a passionate dog rescue advocate. And, yes, I’m an unemployed writer, but that doesn’t have to define me.

I will tell myself each morning, “I am worthy of God’s love.” And hopefully I’ll even come to believe it.