Not firsthand (Brad and I are good), but our inner circle has been a goopy soup of heartache.

Perhaps it’s because we’re all in our 40s now, and you are therefore required by law (and hormones) to select your midlife crisis of choice:

• Affair

• Body/workout obsession

• Career pivot

• New fancy car (or eBike for the more practical)

• Going on an Eat Pray Love walkabout

For whatever reason, my elder millennial friends be OUT THERE.

And the attitude behind many of the breakups I’m witnessing has been less conscious uncoupling and more MAY THE BRIDGES I BURN LIGHT THE WAY.

Someone who has been consciously spilling the tea about her own divorce this summer is labor and delivery nurse, author, and influencer, Jen Hamilton. If you don’t know who Jen Hamilton is…well, we all live in very different algorithms, don’t we?

In mid-June, Jen posted a cryptic Instagram Reel that went batshit viral as she vague-booked something about her husband of 15 years, Brian Hamilton. It sounded like they were separating. She felt betrayed. She was shocked and saddened. But she was being purposefully tight-lipped, letting her tears do the talking.

The media went wild with speculation, as did her fans, who all have the wildest parasocial relationship with her (myself included). WE MUST PROTECT JEN AT ALL COSTS, we agreed collectively. And (possibly?) sensing our support, Jen’s Instagram content has evolved over the last 6 weeks from sad, cryptic posts, to honest and DESCRIPTIVE AS HELL reels outlining specifically what her ex-husband did. The posts are (rightfully) filled with fury.

This woman has ZERO fucks left to give and I am sat.

The (only) cool part is that instead of the community dragging her for “airing dirty laundry” or being “petty” or “dramatic,” we’re cheering for Jen.

In fact, she’s been inspiring other divorcees to speak up and be honest about how the terrible men in their lives all sucked, too. Something that I guess most of these people were just secretly sitting on for years and years…

I can’t speak for Twitter (I left that dumpster fire years ago), but Jen Hamilton has LIT UP Threads. It’s overflowing with women talking about their own experiences of serving as quiet, unpaid PR managers for their exes.

It got me thinking…we women spend an astonishing amount of time acting as unpaid PR managers for the men who hurt us.

We soften our language. We omit the worst parts. We bend over backwards to protect their reputations, telling our loved ones that “he’s a nice guy; it just didn’t work out.”

We carefully edit ourselves so no one thinks less of him.

Somehow, the person who got hurt becomes responsible for protecting the person who did the hurting.

It’s a bizarre social contract. The person who lies, manipulates, intimidates, or betrays someone often gets to walk away with their reputation intact…not because they earned it, but because the person they hurt decides carrying the truth feels heavier than carrying the secret.

I was 22 when my first serious relationship ended. And I worked OVERTIME as the publicist for a man who had a dark side that was downright scary. He was possessive and controlling. Insecure. Forbid me from talking about our relationship to my friends. He never hit me, but there were a few times where I thought he might. There was yelling. Wild condescension. Stalking. Harassing my next partner who came after him. In a fit of rage, he pressured me to throw away some of my journals. An absolutely unforgivable act for a writer.

And yet, I told VERY few people what was actually going on.

“It just didn’t work out.”

“We weren’t compatible.”

“We grew apart.”

It’s scarily easy to hide the truth inside ambiguous buzzwords. Most people won’t question you beyond your pre-approved publicist response.

Over the years, I’ve asked myself, why did I protect him?

And the answer is simple: I felt stupid. I felt weak. I feared that telling people the truth about how he manipulated and scared me would make me look pathetic…instead of making HIM look like the predator he was.

I was working double-time as BOTH of our PR managers. For free.

This has also had me thinking of the absolute wild assemblage of abusive men who were featured on Season 4 of Netflix’s dating show The Ultimatum. Watching The Ultimatum this season felt like watching emotional abuse in high definition.

Luckily there were cameras rolling to capture some of the red-pilled-to-hell things the men were saying to/about their partners which included:

• “Shut the fuck up”

• “My whole life I’ve had my mom take care of me. So my wife has to be like my new mom, I would say.”

• “Have you fucked her yet?”

• “You went from a big-titted blonde bitch to a flat-ass brunette bitch.”

• “I don’t want you to make me look dumber than you already have. You ruined it. You ruined everything. You fucked us over…I honestly hope to God you two weren’t touching on camera…who knows what else you’ve done…”

Just…the level of vitriol on this show was unlike anything I’ve ever seen on reality television (and I watch a LOT of reality television).

So, why do we do backflips to shield the men who actively hurt us?

I mean…I know why.

Speaking honestly about an abusive or controlling man isn’t always just uncomfortable; it can be dangerous. We know this because we’ve seen, over and over again, what happens when some men believe they’ve lost control…and it’s terrifying.

And sure, yeah: not all men. Obviously. This isn't an indictment of every man. It's an observation about an unspoken protective order a whole lot of women will recognize immediately.

The older I get, the less interested I am in protecting men from the consequences of their own behavior. If you don’t want us talking about how awful you are, maybe try being less awful.

It’s a good reminder. If someone treated you terribly, you don’t owe them a polished press release. Or a carefully worded Instagram-ready statement that makes everyone comfortable.

The truth is messy…so what if we just let it be messy?

What if we shared honestly…not to win the breakup, but because telling the truth is how we stop carrying someone else's secret?

What if we cared less about the press and more about the release?

Brad and I got married that May, and while I'd decided months earlier to change my last name from Gibson to Ash, the actual process pushed my executive functioning to its limits. It required gathering a mountain of disparate paperwork, going to the Social Security office during business hours, waiting in a long-ass line, and talking to government officials. No wonder I kept putting it off.

I was commiserating with my dear friend Jackie who had gone through the same name-changing ordeal a couple years earlier. She knew the drill. As I texted her questions about parking and timing, she sensed my anxiety and did one of the kindest, most generous things a friend has ever done for me: she offered to come with me.

She picked me up and showed up with a latte for the wait. A true American hero.

Which brings me to my pitch: the greatest, most underrated way to spend time with someone you love while borrowing a little of their executive functioning: The Errand Hang.

I thought about this again during approximately my 23rd rewatch of Seinfeld1. In an episode called “The Caddy,” George goes on an unapproved vacation by leaving his car parked at work (Yankee Stadium). He calls Jerry and asks him to remove takeout fliers that are sure to be left under his windshield so his bosses will still think he’s working. Jerry agrees to help George and just as he’s about to head out, Kramer walks in and they share this adorable exchange:

There’s literally NO downside to the Errand Hang! But if you want to get specific, here are some tangible benefits that only the Errand Hang can offer:

• You get to spend quality time together and cross something off your to-do list2

• Nobody has to host, clean, or cook

• You can spend money on necessities instead of another $18 cocktail

• Reward yourselves with a little treat afterward

The Errand Hang is especially powerful during seasons of grief and/or big transitions. Whether your errand is logistically annoying or psychically heavy, it can feel so loving, helpful, and distracting to approach a dreaded to-do with a friend by your side.

A dear friend reached out to our friend group and asked if any of us would accompany her to different assisted living facilities as she tries to find a good spot for her mom. Holy cow, do I love this. Not only does she get extra support doing something that is Hard and Not Fun, but we (her friends) get to show up for her and support her in a tangible, meaningful way beyond vacant “Let us know how it goes!” texts. It was an honor to go with her, take notes, ask questions, snap photos, and simply be there.

Then I came across this Threads post that perfectly captures what I’m talking about:

Here’s the thing: friendship gets harder as you get older. Everyone has real lives with real stakes. Big jobs. Relationships. Parenthood. Aging parents. Sick pets. Endless bills. It's not endless mimosa brunches anymore.

Your 40s are not fucking around. Nearly every forty-something I know is fighting for their life and is either mid-relationship crisis, health crisis, mental health crisis, financial crisis, job crisis, identity crisis or some potent-ass mixture.

And we’re mostly fighting these battles alone. We don’t want to burden people. We don’t want to complain. We would literally rather die of thirst than ask a friend for a sip of water. Which is wild…because our friends would love nothing more than to share their canteens with us.

Loneliness has become a public health crisis.

Case in point: the Chinese app called Are You Dead? Users check in every two days by pressing a button. If they don’t, the app alerts their emergency contact. Brilliant...and deeply depressing that we’ve reached the point where software has to check whether anyone has noticed we’re missing.

So here's our dilemma: we're lonely, overextended, and short on time.

Errand Hangs are my favorite workaround for this exact conundrum (“I want to see my friend, but I am also BURNT OUT and don’t have the capacity to host or cook or blahhhh I just can’ttttt even!”)

“But Elyse!” You might protest. “I don’t want to go places…” in which case, may I present to you the modified Errand Hang: Admin Night.

Invite a friend over. Sit next to each other with your laptops. Finally tackle the paperwork, research, or life admin you’ve both been avoiding.

It’s basically parallel play…or body doubling. Parallel play is when two people do separate activities alongside one another. Body doubling is when someone’s presence helps another person stay focused on a task.

We need groceries. We need to renew our licenses, submit our expense reports, buy birthday gifts, tour assisted living facilities, and survive boring old Tuesdays.

We also need our friends.

So maybe we stop treating those as separate parts of life.

Bring someone to Costco. Help them return the shoes. Sit beside them while they tackle insurance paperwork. Celebrate with iced coffee afterward.

Long live the Errand Hang.

Yup. Circus camp.

She'd gone before (not last year because I missed the sign-up deadline <cough> mother of the year <cough>), so she was thrilled to go back this summer.

On Tuesday—the second day of camp—I got a call from the director1. The director said Abigail “seemed to have hurt her foot.” She didn’t sound particularly concerned. If anything, her tone suggested she thought it might be an exaggerated injury. An 8-year-old trying to get out of a few non-preferred activities.

But when I picked her up from camp, I saw her limping. Abigail told me what happened (nothing exciting or cool…just regular klutziness). And that while it had been improving throughout the day, her foot was still bothering her.

On Wednesday, I lent Abby an Ace bandage to use and sent her back into the giant tent. At pick-up, I asked one of the counselors how her day had been.

“Eh. So-so. She had a few tough moments where she needed breaks. She did most of the activities. She didn’t want to walk to the park though. She said her foot was hurting, but I pushed her to go anyway.”

Uh, ok.

I asked Abigail later in the car about her day. “It sounds like you were able to make it to the park!” Lilting my voice upwards in faux optimism.

“Yeah, they made me go.”

“They MADE you go?”

“Yeah. They said I was fine and had to go. So I just walked over and sat on the bench when I got there.”

These are the parenting moments that drop-kick me into a days-long spiral of "should I/shouldn’t I” that is neither fun nor productive but as an attuned parent feel impossible to sidestep.

I wondered if I should be annoyed by the camp for not believing her or honoring her physical autonomy. I wondered if I should THANK the camp for pushing her a bit.

Could she physically walk to the nearby park? Yes.

Should she have been forced to do so with an injured foot? No.

Was she traumatized by the experience? No.

Did her foot heal in time for the big performance on Friday? Yes!

It’s a fine line. Knowing when to push and when to tend to our bodies is one of the questions I ask myself most often.

Early in my career, I’d wake up sick before an important client presentation and try to decide whether I was “sick enough” to stay home2. I’d run through the pros and cons of taking the day off and resting.

Pro: I could barely think and maybe if I took a day off, I’d feel better faster.

Con: I’d be behind in my work. I’d feel guilty. I’d worry about being seen as a weak-ass baby bitch slacker (or worse, a liar).

As human beings with imperfect, fallible bodies, we have to learn when to rest and when to push ourselves. Sometimes the answer is obvious. Often it isn’t.

That’s especially hard for Abigail. Like many neurodivergent kids, she prefers clear rules over gray areas: “If this, then this.” It’s tough for her when things are left up to interpretation. She will often over-explain or rationalize when she wants me to know why she did or didn’t do something. It’s a tough balance to strike. When it’s time to push yourself / get up / barrel on through the pain. And when it’s time to rest / take a beat / take a damn nap.

I am constantly asking myself: “What does my body need right now? Pushing or tending?”

If you've ever lived with an injury or chronic illness, you know how simply asking yourself this question can feel both empowering and overwhelming.

If you’re having gnarly endometriosis-fueled period cramps, then yeah, you probably need to tend (aka take a fistful of ibuprofen, curl up with a heating pad and back-episodes of Love Island).

But if you’re just feeling a little achy from a workout in which you pushed too hard, then yeah, maybe you should still go for a walk to the neighborhood coffee shop.

Answering the question can also feel muddied if you’re someone who spent most of your life in an environment where you were taught to "suck it up,” “walk it off,” or “push through the pain.” Which our monoculture greatly reenforces. Our country is obsessed with pushing itself. It’s kind of our entire identity: watching Olympians compete with sketchy injuries. Cheering on The Biggest Loser contestants when they vomit and faint. Watching people struggle to “pull themselves up by their bootstraps” is our greatest pasttime.

That's one of the reasons Lena Dunham's new memoir Famesick, resonated so deeply with me. This passage especially stuck with me:

“I was starting to understand that illness wasn’t just a town l was passing through, but a city that I was going to pay taxes in. They were still hoping for the occasionally fragile girl with the random rashes and shitty periods they’d agreed to love. Nobody understood how much pain that girl was already withstanding from the minute she started walking…I was complaining of a pulled neck muscle at six, a bad knee at eight, sciatica at sixteen. I was just rolling and rolling and trying to keep up.”

Whether it’s in sports or just in our hyper-competitive capitalistic culture, we’re encouraged to push through physical discomfort3.

But what if you just need to lie down?

That should be allowed, too.

And we should also acknowledge that some bodies need more rest than others. Some can’t do as much as others. Some will never be fully “recovered” or “fixed.” And that’s ok. It’s not bad or wrong or lazy.

We also never know what someone else is able to do. There’s sometimes a weird chasm between one’s actual capacity and one’s perceived capacity. So if someone tells you they need to take a break on a hike, listen to them. Don’t doubt them or push them or say “But we’re just half-a-mile away from the campsite.” Honor their needs. Listen to them. Believe them.

Here’s what I want to teach my sweet, sensitive, deeply feeling daughters:

1. You are in charge of your body.

2. Only YOU know what being in your body feels like and what your body needs.

3. You don’t know what other people’s bodies need.

4. Bodies change all the time. Something you could do yesterday, you might not be able to do today and something you couldn’t do yesterday might be doable today.

5. If someone else is experiencing pain, you can ask them “What kind of support would you like?” Then they can choose whether they want physical help or maybe just a kind listening ear.

6. It’s ok to take a break.

7. Having a body is hard…but also, aren’t we lucky to have them? Flaws and all.

Mostly, I want them to get comfortable asking themselves: What does my body need right now? That’s the question I hope they’ll keep asking themselves for the rest of their lives. Multiple times a day.

Sometimes the answer will be "push." Sometimes it'll be "tend."

The trick is learning the difference.

I’ve written before about my ambivalence when it comes to summer. It’s a season where I struggle to straddle the line between gratitude/presence and the humming anxiety of how fleeting this time is…so I BETTER REALLY enjoy it before Old Man Winter2 sneaks back up on me.

But this summer is feeling different. I’m in a great mood and feeling genuine joy and excitement for these next few months. Reading Ali LaBelle’s recent Substack piece called “Summer A to Z” also started getting me excited. In fact, it inspired me to create my own “Summer A to Z” list even though my taste is not as high-brow…

A — Ace & Jig dresses: All my favorite summer outfits are Ace & Jig dresses. Size-inclusive. Ethically-made. Bright prints. They’re perfect (just wait for a coupon code or a big sale). I never get complimented more on ANYTHING than when I wear a piece from Ace & Jig.

B — Bell peppers: There is no tastier, crunchier, more refreshing raw vegetable to enjoy.

C — Cherries: Cherries are another deeply satisfying snack. Good job, nature.

D — Dramaaa on Summer House: I’m sorry but I am not over this yet, nor will I ever be. To West Wilson and Amanda Batula: may you forever be haunted by your dumb-ass wannabe main character decisions. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, good for you. You’re free.

E — eBike Fun: Brad got me an early birthday gift this year…an eBike that can safely haul both girlies on the back…and it’s been a blast. I’m still practicing and getting comfortable, but we’ve already been on 300% more family bike rides this summer (3) than last summer (0).

F — Famesick: If you haven’t yet read Lena Dunham’s memoir, Famesick, might I kindly ask what the fuck else you’ve been reading? This one is mandatory for millennial girlies (aka perimenopausal women), or if you’ve ever struggled with, oh I dunno…disordered eating, toxic exes, chronic illness, family enmeshment, or just feeling like you’re too much.

G — Gimme Gimme Pottery: I stumbled over this local ceramicist, Lexie, at an art fair last month and literally STALKED HER BOOTH at the Edina Art Fair to get my hands on a couple iced coffee tumblers and now they are my whole personality. Her products are adorable and her branding is A+.

H — Horchata: Starbucks created a new Horchata Frappuccino so clearlyyyy I have to add that to my personal summer bucket list. I will report back like the true journalist I am not.

I — Inflatables: Shoutout to Abby for pressuring Brad into buying some new inflatable friends (a flamingo and a unicorn) while waiting in a long-ass line in Menards. They are welcome new members of our family. And the kids only fight over who gets to use each one about 90% of the time they’re in the pool. Yayyyyyyyy.

J — Jam: Technicallyyyyy it’s a “Berry Compote” from American Spoon but fuck it. It’s so good. I’ve been enjoying it smeared lightly on a fresh baguette from Rustica with a hint of butter on a cute plate in the backyard. PLEASURE.

K — Keeping the windows open: After six months of sealing ourselves inside, there is no greater luxury than hearing birds, dogs, and neighborhood kids while sipping my iced coffee in the morning.

L — Linen everything: From our bedroom sheets to my pants, I literally only let my body touch linen now.

M — Mesh bags: I am seeing these everywhere and they make me yearn to walk through a crowded market in the south of France. I just ordered this one from Anthropologie and we’ll see how practical it is for everyday use or if it’s literally just for aesthetically toting pretty citrus and bouquets.

N — Nopalera’s Lotion Bar: I had not heard of a lotion bar until Miss Molly Miller gifted me one a few Christmases ago. It looks like a bar of soap, but acts as a skin moisturizer and is far less gloopy and slimy than lotion. For sensory-sensitive folks, it’s kind of a miracle. You just hold the bar in your hands and let it warm up a smidge, then ta da! Beautifully-smelling, soft skin. Nopalera has become a favorite brand, since I stumbled over it in a small boutique in Marin County last year with Mel.

O — OddBird bathrobe: This one could definitely be filed under “Linen everything,” but I think it deserves its own shoutout3. I made my first OddBird purchase in 2020 when we all lived at home so I figured I may as well dress like I’m at a spa/retreat vs a prisoner due to a global pandemic. Anyway, they have really expanded their products since then, and I am still a huge fan.

P — Palomas: Summer is the best season to enjoy my favorite cocktail: the Paloma. Grapefruit juice. Tequila. Lime juice. Club soda. Why complicate things?

Q — Quaintness: I dunno if it’s all the Widow’s Bay I’ve been watching (more on that later), but someone please drop me in a seaside town with hydrangeas and an independent bookstore immediately. This is the summer vibe I am striving for.

R — Ribbons: The girls have been insisting on wearing ribbons in their hair and it is the most precious way to zhuzh up a hairstyle.

S — Sun tea: Brad brews his own sun tea every summer in the backyard (because of course he does) and it brings me so much joy.

T — Trader Joe’s Dill Pickle Mustard: This Trader Joe’s condiment takes any sandwich from meh to MEOW4.

U — Unscheduled time: The moms on social media are talking about their summer bucket lists, and ya know what? Good on them. I’ve been that mom. But this summer, I am committed to scheduling less.

V — Vanilla Verve by Cyklar: Last month, I was influenced by the incomparable Kate Kennedy to purchase Cyklar’s vanilla-scented body wash and now I fear I am accustomed to a certain lifestyle and I’ll never be able to use another soap or body wash again.

W — Widow’s Bay: Do NOT sleep on this new AppleTV show starring my boyfriend, Matthew Rhys. I’d describe it as a Stephen King meets Twin Peaks thriller/mystery with elements of Jaws, Lost and Yellowjackets. It seamlessly bounces between genres, swinging between being incredibly funny and SO fucking suspenseful I can barely stand it. There are only 2 episodes left and Brad and I are at the edge of our seats.

X — Xtraaaaa sunscreen: Guys I dunno. I’m tired.

Y — Yesteryear: I just started reading this very buzzy book by Caro Claire Burke written from the POV of a fictitious conservative influencer trad wife. I’m only 50 pages in, but I’m hooked.

Z — Zara Larsson: I know who a young singer is, you guys! Feel excited for me!

Looking at this list, I’m reminded that joy is rarely the big stuff.

More often it’s a ceramic tumbler, a good book, a ribbon in your kid’s hair, or a cold drink in the backyard. Here’s hoping your summer is full of those kinds of things too.

It was antithetical to the fantasy I’d built for years when imagining my future college life: windy fall walks through the quad in a tweed peacoat as the colorful leaves swirled around me at a small, liberal arts college in the northeast—part Gilmore Girls and part Dona Tartt’s The Secret History.

Unfortunately, my academic profile was less Rory Gilmore and more “pleasantly average suburban girl with anxiety.”

I was a good student—but not great—with a 3.6 GPA and unimpressive SAT scores. I participated in extracurriculars, but quit the second they started feeling too serious or stressful. I quit softball right after making the varsity team. I quit orchestra right after I was asked to audition for a solo. I was anxious enough as a teenager and had no interest in grinding for extra-curricular clout. I mostly just wanted to drive around in my best friend Ashley’s cranberry-colored Sebring convertible and belt out Fiona Apple songs, but according to my guidance counselor “that” “wasn’t” “an extracurricular” “activity.”

On paper, I was an average teenager. My mom used to say I was a “jack of all trades, master of none.” I had friends, but was never on homecoming court. Pretty enough, but not hot. A good student who still occasionally got kicked out of Chemistry Class1 for being too giggly. I was a sheltered suburban white kid from Northern Virginia. I’d lived in the same safe, quiet suburb my whole life, where the most exotic food I ever ate was pizza sliced in the shape of squares instead of triangles.

I yearned for a more global, adventurous experience. I wanted a clean slate. A place nobody knew me. New fast food chains to try. Highways to drive on. Local slang to decode.

After applying early decision and immediately getting rejected from Northwestern University, I was forced to pivot2 and scrambled to apply to a bunch of other colleges. None of them felt like The One. They all had their pros and cons:

• Boston University was too expensive and overwhelming

• James Madison University wasn’t far enough away

• University of Wisconsin terrified me climatologically3

But when my Dad and I took the campus tour of the University of Miami in the early spring of 2001, I felt mariposas. The school looked more like a resort than a university. Sculptural palm trees and enormous banyan trees peppered the landscape. A pristine lake hosted elegant white birds. There were fountains. A smoothie stand. THREE swimming pools.

And the students were stunning. Tan. Tall. Polite. They opened doors for us and smiled warmly. My Dad turned to me and said, “This feels more like the College for Central Casting” (a joke I wouldn’t fully understand until my ad agency days). I fell in love with the possibility of meeting so many different people from so many different places.

While most of my high school friends attended either elite in-state schools (like UVA and William & Mary) or elite out-of-state schools (all my friends are brilliant, what can I say), I knew my path would look a little different.

My criteria for choosing a college were not especially rigorous. I wanted:

• Warmth

• Diversity

• Proximity to a beach

• Some level of football culture

• And apparently, a vague connection to salsa dancing

On a 106-degree afternoon in late August 2001, my family moved me into my dorm room. August in Miami is so hot that if you accidentally graze the metal clasp of your seat belt, you risk getting a second degree burn. My family gave me sweaty goodbye hugs and drove off in their air-conditioned rental van.

I immediately felt like I had made a huge mistake.

At the age of 18, I had no business living in Miami, Florida by myself. I hadn’t even taken Spanish in high school. I took French, like the dumb snob I am!

I was in way over my head. The girls on my dorm floor were nice, but experienced and I felt embarrassed after a round of “Never Have I Ever” the first night.

Never had I ever done literally anything—I didn’t even know half the words they were using.4

Every single person on that campus was aggressively attractive. The men looked like Cristiano Ronaldo and the women looked like Adriana Lima. It was clear that I was very different.

I didn’t act like the other girls—I wasn’t one for clubbing or body glitter or Jell-O shots. I didn’t look like other girls—I never learned how to tame my hips or my thick hair. I was always a full year late to every fashion trend.

It took me a while to find my rhythm in Miami. The culture shock was often overwhelming; I couldn’t believe how deeply people down there cared about yachts and Prada bags. How was I the only person in the dining hall at 9am on a Saturday??? Was I a huge loser? Yes. Was it ok? Also yes.

For a full year, I was embarrassed and intimidated. I joined Weight Watchers and lost 30 pounds between my freshman and sophomore year in an attempt to get at least half a centimeter closer to looking like Ms. Lima. I tried to drink more alcohol but found the rituals and biology around it disgusting (and I hated sleeping through breakfast on the weekends).

Eventually, I realized there was no universe in which I was going to out-Miami the girls around me. I didn’t even want to. So instead, I started building a version of college life that actually felt good to me: learning how to just be myself in a sea of Adriana Limas.

I lived by my own code. First (and most importantly) I found other non-judgmental, artsy girls and clung to them for dear life.

I explored Miami and found my favorite restaurants, beaches, and book stores. I joined a sorority5. I volunteered to be an Orientation Assistant (where I met one of the most important people in my life: shoutout, Mel). I was social enough, but also committed to my creativity (I had just discovered Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way and had made it my whole personality). I cared about my classes but never obsessed. I only did what I wanted to do…I went to the beach, but only the quiet, family-friendly ones. I drank when I felt like it. I dated a bit. I’d go out sometimes, but didn’t feel pressured to dress in a certain way or stay out past a certain time; I went out in Miami Beach wearing hot pink rain boots.

I think about her a lot—that joyful, spunky 20-year-old girl dancing to 80s music in rain boots at a nightclub in Miami…and I miss her. Her confidence and her comfort. Her refusal to shrink or conform or fit in. She was fun—but on her own terms and never because she felt like she HAD to be. She took risks. She enjoyed comfort and didn’t feel guilty for it. She listened to her body and took care of her friends. She knew she could figure anything out and that she’d be ok.

What would she think of 42-year-old Elyse? Would she miss the chaos of her young life? Or would she love the quiet softness of this one? Would she notice the lilac trees blossoming behind the writing studio? The husband who brings us mid-day lattes? The girls?

Someone told me recently that you only have to impress two people: 8-year-old you and 80-year-old you. But I also want to impress 20-year-old me.

Because she was cool as hell.

Perhaps for the same reason I used to be obsessed with YM quizzes (“What Kind of BFF Are You?”), BuzzFeed quizzes (“Which Avocado Are You?”), and, naturally, therapy.

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I am starving, at all times, to know more about myself. My interiority is my own favorite topic. An endless source of curiosity and concern.

I’m always wondering: Why did that make me so angry? Why did I react that way? How can I improve? What should I change to be a kinder, more accepting, more equitable human being? Help me. Tell me. Grade me, even.

It’s giving Elder Price, but whatever. I’m not going to apologize for being reflective and self-curious.

My obsession with corporate scorecards, rubrics, and SWOT analyses may sound perverted, but it’s rooted in my desire to improve. To grow. To find the weak spots where I can do, be, and act better, and hold myself accountable.

As a freelancer, I miss getting thoughtful, intentional feedback on my work, my process, my attitude. Even if I already know what I’m going to hear1, I still appreciate the feedback.

Or maybe just validation, if I’m being SUPER honest with myself.

I need to know if what I’m doing is appreciated, valued, cared for…or if I should back off, change my approach, or do less. Am I on the right path? Am I getting warmer or colder when it comes to becoming the best version of myself?

And this craving doesn’t stop at work. I want thoughtful, intentional feedback in my friendships, my marriage, my relationships.

And nowhere do I crave it more than in motherhood.

I wish more than anything that I could receive a performance review on my mothering from some unbiased, professional, all-knowing third party. Like some kind of Dr. Becky–Nanny 911–God–Brené Brown–Clair Huxtable–Earth Mother–Mary Poppins combo.

This omniscient parenting evaluator would know:

• Every parenting data point, both visible and invisible

• Every parenting philosophy, across cultures, religions, and time (think: Bringing Up Bébé but for every culture across all time)

• The best practices for my specific children

• The future

• Every trick, hack, and long-term consequence

• How each microscopic parenting choice I make today will impact their personal and professional lives twenty years from now

This magical all-knowing third party would also see EVERYTHING I do. Not just what I post online or how I perform motherhood in line at Target. An entity who saw how I responded all the time, monitoring my tone and word choice and would then give me a grade. Like a credit score.

I am hungry for real, honest feedback on my parenting: What am I doing well? What areas need improvement? How am I irreparably damaging my children because I KNOW I am. Where should I pivot? PLEASE SOMEONE TELL ME WHAT TO DO.

My mom was the one who used to give me “feedback” on everything: my parenting, my writing, my outfits. Except it wasn’t really feedback. It was: “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.” And I needed to hear it almost every day. Especially as a new mom.

But then in June 2021 she died, and now I rarely hear that kind of certainty anymore. Sometimes Brad will dole out a compliment or a fellow mom friend will remind me that I am enough. But honestly, my Instagram algorithm gives me better support most of the time. (Pathetic.)

I need support and direction now more than ever. Parenting two kids is wildly harder than parenting one and I am constantly flooded with questions that feel both profound and absurd: Are they at the right schools? Getting the right support? Eating enough protein? Exposed to enough art, music, culture, Judaism, nature? Is there too much structure? Or not enough? Are they in too many activities? Or not enough?2

Lately, this fixation has intensified because I’ve been reflecting more on how uniquely Boomer Parents fucked up so many of us3…not always through dramatic, after-school-special trauma. Mostly just through a thousand smaller cuts: neglect, dismissal, parentification, mockery, emotional immaturity, inability to repair or change. Enough to leave adult children estranged, low-contact, or quietly dreading every holiday meal.

Lately I’ve become particularly interested in Whitney Goodman’s podcast, Calling Home. Whitney Goodman is a licensed family therapist who primarily works with adult children of emotionally immature parents who are estranged or low-contact with their parents. And while it has taught me a lot about what NOT to do as a parent, it has also scared the absolute shit out of me.

Because somewhere along the way, my goal quietly shifted from “be a good parent” to “be The Best parent and make sure my kids like me forever.” Which is neither a good nor SMARTed4 goal. I know deep down I shouldn’t focus on being likable. I should focus on building an authentic relationship with each of them that feels mutually trusting, loving, and respectful.

I think my ultimate parenting goal is this: when the girls are in their early 20s and see “Mom” pop up on their phone, what happens in their nervous system?

How is anyone ever supposed to feel confident in their parenting? Because your kid reads above grade level? Because they stood up to a bully? Because they can make their own sandwich? None of that tells you, in real time, whether you are giving them peace or anxiety, sturdiness or self-doubt, trust or performance issues. And I hate that. I hate the not knowing.

The most confident Boomer parents I know have the most strained relationships with their kids. How can parents and their adult children have such different understandings of what happened? Of their history? This is my greatest fear. The girls growing up and one day turning to me to list all the ways I failed them.

Perhaps this is inevitable. The Circle of Life, Parenting Edition.

I just hope that when that time comes — for my performance review from my daughters themselves — I’ll be gracious, grounded, and open-minded enough to hear it, without devolving into a frantic and defensive “I DID THE BEST I COULD. SORRY I’M THE WORST MOM” litany like I see in all these Reddit subs.

One of the only comforting ideas I’ve found came from my therapist, who introduced me to Donald Winnicott’s concept of “good enough parenting.”

The basic idea: parents do not need to respond perfectly or constantly in order to raise secure kids. In fact, some researchers have found that a sort of “optimum midrange” of responsiveness — somewhere around 30 percent — may actually be better for resilience than relentless hyper-attunement.

Thirty percent?!

You guys. I have been out here gunning for 100 percent. For valedictorian motherhood. For Dean’s List attachment. And apparently…that is neither necessary nor ideal.

Objectively, thirty percent is an F. Getting thirty percent on any kind of performance review would definitely get you fired. But maybe what I’ve been calling a “performance review” is actually something simpler and sadder: I miss being witnessed. I miss someone I trust looking at me in the middle of all this and saying, with total certainty: You’re doing a good job. You are enough, in all your messy, imperfect, gray-haired glory.

Motherhood is private, relentless, and frustratingly impossible to quantify. I keep searching for reassurance in research, podcasts, therapists, Instagram carousels, and my own obsessive self-reflection.

But maybe the work is learning to mother without ever fully knowing how you’re doing. To do it imperfectly and reflectively, with an eye always toward repair. To accept that I WILL fail my kids in ways both ordinary and profound — and still love them ferociously. To stay open to their thoughts, their feelings, their eventual feedback. And to trust that being thoughtful and accountable is not nothing. It is, perhaps, the whole thing.

I still want the review, obviously.

But until then, I guess I’ll try settling for “good enough.”

Even non-art history majors know that Frida was a Mexican painter, married to Diego Rivera, liked women, and had many Communist friends.

She is iconic; known for both her work and her identity as an artist, feminist, and survivor.

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Frida Kahlo has been my favorite artist since I was in high school.

I know this doesn’t make me unique or edgy. If anything it makes me even more basic. Saying you like Frida is like saying you like dogs or cute coffee shops or Taylor Swift. I try not to let this bother me, but it’s tough to feel such a deep spiritual and emotional connection to a person or their work that is wildly beloved.

I feel similarly about a lot of other things. My love for cute stationery stores, peonies, cappuccinos, Joni Mitchell1, Paris. There’s actually a quote from an old This American Life episode that sums up Paris perfectly and I think of it all the time. Kristin Hohenadel says (about falling in love with Paris):

“It’s kind of like falling in love with the most obviously cute boy in the class, or a movie star. It’s like being a groupie. And then you try to convince the other 25 women who he slept with last week, well, I really love him, and I think he loves me too.”

Even after majoring in art history and being exposed to hundreds of other artists and stories, Frida is still my favorite of all.

I shared this insight with my travel buddy and dear friend since seventh grade, Tina, as we waited in the hot afternoon sun, leaning our backs against Casa Azul, waiting for our entrance time. We were both so excited for this precise moment that we arrived a full 40 minutes early. Even just being in the mere vicinity of this building was exciting. Overwhelming.

Together, we leaned against the cool blue stucco, watching parades of tourists line up for their chance to experience her home. Feel the vibes. Hope that some kind of creative osmosis could occur if we were all somehow near the physical space where Frida spent so much of her life.

Getting to walk through Frida’s house-turned-museum, Casa Azul in Mexico City, last week was a surreal experience2. I would have given anything to have some quiet time in there without, ya know, all the other people. I felt kind of rushed and sweaty, with a self-imposed pressure to soak it all in. And there was a LOT to take in.

The first part of the house-turned-museum gives context as to Frida’s upbringing and her childhood. Her family life. Her inner world. A placard in the museum says, “From a young age, Frida is known for her disruptive, irreverent behavior…many things attract Frida’s attention, so she takes Nahuatl and guitar classes, and assembles a library reflecting her many interests: biology, politics, literature, film, fashion, poetry, Mexican history, psychology, world art…” Even Little Frida was a total badass.

The space then opens up and you’re able to see the sitting rooms, the kitchen, Frida’s art studio, and her bedroom(s). The house itself is incredible. Even if it was just owned by some random lady, it’d be a cool tour. But the fact that the architecture is stunning, the styling is unpredictable, her items and collections are unique/beautiful/bizarre…it all adds up to an overwhelming visual and spiritual (for me) experience.

Just getting to see her actual paints made me emotional. What a gift.

So why do I feel such an affinity for Frida?

As a teenager and young adult, I loved that she was weird. Not well-behaved or modest or demure. She marched to her own drummer, and was encouraged by her family (well, at least her dad). She was hairy, disabled, queer, and probably neurodivergent. She was not classically trained in painting. And she did not let any of these things stop her from making art and luring us all into her interior world during a time when that wasn’t done often…let alone in the pretentious and misogynistic art world obsessed with training and credentials and penises.

Frida didn’t give a fuck. And as a young woman who gave a lot of fucks and constantly felt not pretty enough, not educated enough, not creative enough, I admired this personality trait to my core.

As I grew up, there were other parts of Frida I came to adore. Her perseverance. Her politics. Her curiosity. Her unique aesthetic.

As an art history major, I loved that her work was not about beauty or religion or shading or adherence to some concept. It was about her. Her feelings. Her world. Her pain. Her story. This was revolutionary.

When I was in the throes of infertility, I made a list of women I admired who never had kids and I would recite their names like a litany of saints. Frida’s name was always at the top. If Frida can stand tall and be strong in the face of her pain, surgeries, miscarriages and losses, so can I.

At this point in my life, the thing about Frida that I find the most inspirational of all is how this woman transformed her pain and medical trauma into art.

A placard in Casa Azul says: “From an early age, Frida has health issues, operations, and medical treatments that force her to be at home and in bed, that place of pain and insomnia, as well as inner strength. What begins as healing her body always leads to creative expression. Bedridden, she recovers, paints, writes letters; later she draws in her diary and always expresses her reality.”

She could have literally just laid in a bed her whole life, and no one would have blamed her. But instead, she created. She showed us her pain. Even though it was not pretty and often hard to look at.

I’ve been dealing with chronic illness my whole adult life. I didn’t always know what it was though. I just assumed ALL women had debilitating cramps during their menstrual cycles. It wasn’t until my early 30s when I was formally diagnosed with endometriosis and the puzzle pieces started falling into place.

In my early 30s, I was also diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease called Idiopathic Subglottic Stenosis (ISS). It affects my breathing, my voice, and requires frequent medical care and surgeries. It also gave me a really cool <sarcasm> throat scar.

I think often of how much worse it was for her. Having to undergo surgery in the 1930s and 40s—like, can you think of anything more horrifying? I cannot.

I know that what we went through was NOT the same, but I find her courage to keep showing up and playing and working and making art deeply inspirational. And while being productive is not something that all disabled or sick people should feel pressure to do, I find Frida Kahlo’s commitment to her work and creative growth astounding.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that Frida was able to find commercial success. That we know her name at all.

I’m sure this success was a combination of her talent, her story, her personality and also partially due to the privileges of growing up with supports and being married to Diego Rivera. But the fact that her legacy and story are preserved defies the odds.

A queer, disabled, Mexican woman is one of the most internationally recognizable artists on the planet.

How many other Fridas have we overlooked or erased— who got dismissed and ignored?

Of course I had to buy ALL the Frida souvenirs in Mexico City. Before my trip, Abigail asked me to bring her back something very specific3 from the Frida Museum. They didn’t have what she had in mind (what else is new), so I ended up getting her and her little sister two Frida stuffies at a kiosk in the airport. It was a great way to tell them about Frida and how brave and strong she was, on top of being so creative.

I told Abigail how Frida learned to paint lying down after a terrible bus accident. I showed her photos of Frida with her many pets, specifically this photo of Frida with a deer which sparked this interaction:

Abigail: I can’t believe Frida had a pet deer.

Me: She really loved animals.

Abigail: Even if you really love animals, you don’t have to buy a deer.

Ahhh, 8-year-olds. So pragmatic. But I think I did what I needed to do; successfully introduce my own daughters to the power, magic, creativity, courage and compassion of Frida Kahlo.

As a Minneapolis resident for 16 years, I immediately got defensive. Something about the question (the phrasing? the tone? the punctuation?) pissed me off. It sounded more like a displeased dad asking his teenage daughter why she’s being so dramatic than someone who is genuinely curious and interested in learning.

My initial reaction was, “You think we LIKE civil unrest, fighting with the federal government, and grieving our citizens who are continuously gunned down by people in uniforms who insist that they are keeping us safe?” Guess what: WE DON’T. We’d much rather be known for our disappointing AF sports franchises and wild accents than for being a place of continuous civil unrest1.

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But then the preachy part of me wanted to jump in and say, OK FIVE-YEAR-OLD, SIT DOWN AND LISTEN UP.

Here’s a List of Reasons Why It’s “Always Minneapolis:"

1. We’re educated, politically engaged and we know what we’re looking at. Minnesota has the highest voter turnout of any other U.S. state. We’re continuously one of the most literate states (we have the highest recycling rates without bottle deposits, very high library usage stats, unmatched journalism support, and community org involvement). We know what is actually going on, we’ll name it, and we know how to organize, document, and challenge it.

2. We’re liberal. Like really liberal. Our whole state is pro-immigrant, pro-worker, pro–mutual aid, pro–“leave families alone.” This makes us a convenient target. We were also the only state NOT to vote for Ronald Reagan in 1984.2

   

3. We show up when injustice occurs. Minnesota is not a place that takes injustice lying down. It’s part of our state’s DNA to stand up and defend what is right over what is popular. We fight back. And we’ll help push your car out of a snowbank3.

4. The media LOVES a “pRoGreSsive ciTy iN cRiSis” story. “Bad things are happening across the U.S.!” isn’t clickable. “Progressive utopia exposed as chaos” absolutely is. Minneapolis has become a stand-in for “wokeness,” “violent mobs,” and “cities failing,” even though none of that is true.

5. Just the right size. Minneapolis is a stress-test city. We actually TRY to change shit that is broken, like police reform and how we offer social services (sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t). So when systems fail here, they fail loudly. We also look large enough to seem like a “real” city but are small enough to be more controlled versus a more spread-out city like Chicago or L.A.

I think this IG reel explains it better than I ever could:

“Minnesota is District 13. We are not flashy. We are not obedient. We are organized, principled, and we refuse to fall in line with injustice.”

- The Feminist Lawyer

We are not being targeted at random. Minneapolis is not random. It’s strategic. It’s planned. We’re being targeted for very specific reasons and we are responding in a fairly predictable way (organizing, protesting, marching, supporting one another, raising mutual aid funds, showing the fuck up). All ways that we have shown up before when our rights have been trampled.

So yeah, I guess there are real reasons why it does feel like “it’s alwaysssss Minneapolis.”

We’ve become the snarky kid in the back of the classroom who tells the teacher when they made a mistake on the board in front of the whole class—which is not always the popular thing to do, even if that kid is totally right. She’s not being defiant. She’s smart and she’s paying attention.

Minneapolis isn’t always the headline because it’s broken. It’s the headline because people here are educated enough, organized enough, and principled enough to refuse to look away. For better or worse, Minneapolis is now a symbol.

Civil disobedience is kind of our thing now—but trust me—we wish it didn’t have to be. We wish you knew about our beautiful parks. The St. Paul Winter Carnival. We wish you could taste the corn at the Minnesota State Fair for yourselves.

One of my favorite things about living in Minneapolis is how under the radar and seemingly “random” it is to everyone else. When Brad and I moved to Minneapolis from Washington D.C., everyone thought we lost our damn minds. “WHY!?”

Because we fucking love it here. It’s slower. Less competitive. Less expensive. There’s no traffic. I never worry about finding parking. The people are lovely. There are jobs. And local coffee shops and record stores. Parks. We can walk our canoe down to the lake in the summer and ice skate on it in the winter.

“BUT IT’S SO COLD!”

Honestly, that’s kind of the best part. The weather alone weeds out a lot of shitty, weak people, which is a really fabulous Darwinian trick.

When I lived in Miami, it was the opposite. Every snatched blonde idiot with a dream and a suitcase flocked there to soak up paradise and try to make it as a model or a housewife, and it made for a very chaotic, shallow, depressing experience for me.

Believe me, Minneapolis wants nothing more than peace, quiet, and the spotlight OFF of us. Just let us do our weird ice shantys and art festivals in peace.

That said…I suppose it’s been reassuring to see so many other cities and countries join in solidarity online and IRL. This tweet, and seeing the videos, have been beyond moving:

I’ve been getting a LOT of messages from friends and family across the political spectrum who don’t live here asking how we’re doing and how they can show up. Friends have offered us places to stay if we need a break, have sent us cash via Venmo to fund our coffee—it’s been really beautiful to watch so many civic-minded friends and family express concern, outrage, and support. I see you. I appreciate you. I love you.

It’s been a hugely hopeful, powerful upside. The only other upside I can find? This thought, that has me in stitches:

In Minneapolis, we don’t want the spotlight.

We want safety, dignity, and peace.

But if those things are threatened, we WILL stand up and make a stink. And we won’t go down without a fight.

A nurse in my doctor’s office greets me and ushers me into a room. She says she’s going to take my vitals. She asks me to step on the scale and I avert my eyes from the number.

“How are you feeling today, Ms. Ash?” She asks me.

“Not great. Public schools are closed, so my kid is home.”

“Same. Where does your child go?”

I answer and ask where hers go.

“Roosevelt High School.”

“Oh my gosh2.”

She wraps the blood pressure cuff around my arm and squeezes,

“He saw one of his teachers get taken into custody by ICE. He’s been a wreck ever since. I feel badly even being here at work.”

I’m horrified. I think I say “Ohmigod” but I can’t remember.

We sit in the little room and talk about ICE. About what we say to our kids, sharing the specific language we use to explain what is happening. We cry about how backwards everything feels…this unsettling, sinking feeling that apparently happens when your government tells you to believe them over your own eyes, threatening to hurt you if you don’t shut up, look away, and submit. Even when they’re doing something both illegal and grossly inhumane and immoral.

How much longer do we have of this? Democracy. Freedom. Rights.

“112 over 70. Looks good.”

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I’m nostalgic for the easy, breezy conversation we would have had a few months ago. “How are you? Staying warm out there? Any fun holiday plans? I like your earrings. Tough luck about those Vikings…”

These conversations do not exist in the Twin Cities anymore. From the cashier at Target (who is also surreptitiously glancing over their shoulder every 8 minutes) to our neighbors we see dragging out their trash bags, we all know what is going on. We feel it. We hear it. We see it. ICE agents are everywhere. Neighbors and protestors alike are being abducted with seemingly little foresight, strategy, or self-restraint from agents and very little recourse after the fact.

No one in the Twin Cities is safe. This is not hyperbole; it’s just reality.

In January 2026, President Trump sent 2,000 Customs and Border Protection officers to Minnesota (with 1,000 more on the way), making this their “largest operation to date.” In comparison, the Minneapolis Police Department has roughly 600 officers.

But why Minnesota? If the administration is so concerned with deporting as many people as possible, why not send resources to higher-populated states like California or Texas? According to the Minnesota Chamber of Commerce, American Experiment, and Minnesota Compass, immigrants make up just 8.6% of Minnesota’s residents (500,000 people) vs Texas in which immigrants make up 18.4% of their state’s total population (5.8 million Texas residents).

Because—duh—it’s not about the numbers or making any kind of real impact. It’s about being petty and punitive, and demonstrating power.

Minnesota is a Blue state, and ICE has been deployed disproportionately to Blue states to show Americans just how difficult Trump will make anyone’s lives who criticize or oppose him.

It’s a show of force.

And in a lot of ways, it’s working. Here in Minneapolis these last two weeks have been more unnerving and dystopian than any video on the ground, press photograph, or written analysis can communicate. This is an emergency that is affecting everything and everyone: children, families, schools, businesses, the economy, our mental health and sense of safety. We are under attack by our own government who is using extreme force, fear, violence, and countless constitutional violations to try and control and intimidate us.

I mean, let’s be honest. The whole immigrant thing is also a total ruse. ICE agents don’t care if you’re actually an immigrant or not. They care about your skin color and if you’re in their way. Immigration status is pretext for harassment and abuse and terrorizing people who look and think differently. No one is safe here and we all know it. It’s not really about immigrants.

Brad and I watched Marcello Hernandez’s Netflix special, American Boy, last week and it was both a hilarious delight and also filled with insights about how Marcello grew up in Miami as the child of immigrant parents from Cuba. This part especially stood out to me:

“I’ve been watching the news now for the first time in my life because they’re talking about us and it’s crazy. Every time I turn on the news, there’s a white lady and she’s like ‘THE IMMIGRANTS ARE COMING IN HERE AND THEY’RE DOING CRIME.’ I grew up around immigrants. Everybody I grew up with was an immigrant: my parents, my parents’ friends, my teachers, my soccer coach. Maybe we are doing crime, but the biggest crime we’re doing is working illegally, which is a pretty solid crime. There are a lot of Americans who don’t want to work legally, so we are filling a void there. We’re helping out. And I don’t like the idea that the Latino immigrants are scary. I don’t know about politics or laws. But I do know about Latino immigrants because that’s who raised me. And when they get on the news and go ‘The immigrants are scary!” I’m like no. We’re not scary and white people are not scared of us. Have you seen a white person at a resort? Do they looks scared of us when they’re like ‘Hola! ¿Cómo estás?’ They love us! they go to a bar, they make a joke with a Latino bartender and they go, ‘That’s it, Santiago! You’re coming home with us!’ You love us! We’re fun!

Honestly, if I don’t find ways to laugh, I won’t get out of bed.

The ONLY modicum of hope I have is seeing firsthand how our community is responding to ICE and organizing against them. Minnesotans have been out in the frozen streets with our whistles and phones, sending updates on Signal. Giving each other rides. Donating money, food, time, childcare. We’ve adapted. Made space. We’re sheltering and trying to support each other. The biggest takeaway:

We show up. We are resilient. We are hungry for justice and peace. We don’t care if it’s 10 degrees out. Do not fuck with us. We are not the ones.

I’ve been reading Alison Bechdel’s (yes, the same Bechdel of The Bechdel Test) latest graphic novel, Spent, and this cell caught me at the perfect time:

The whole book is astounding and funny and relatable, but this specific theme around political complacency and how much *worse* things continue to get stuck out to me.

Personally, I have been spiraling.

In my defense, it’s hard to know when to take certain threats seriously. I’ve always had a faulty nervous system. I’m prone to packing a bug-out bag at the slightest whisper of unrest.

Growing up Jewish, I learned about the Holocaust when I was very little. I don’t even remember a time before I knew about Anne Frank. I knew the phrase “gas chamber” before I was Bat Mitzvahed. In a way, I have been preparing for this my whole life. The scary bad guys with guns, sniffing around for people who look or seem different with no accountability or recourse. I was extra good at hide-and-go-seek because I simply imagined the Nazis were searching for me instead of my friends, which really cranks up the stakes.

I don’t say any of this to be alarmist, I just want to communicate to those who don’t live in Minneapolis or its suburbs what it feels like to be here right now. To observe these agents infecting your city and feeling like if you stand up to them, you might get killed.

My second grader attends a before-care program in a community building and this week they started keeping the front doors locked. Brad and I were annoyed at first. Ugh. Now we have to wait in the cold for someone from the program to let us in…WHY!? But then we learned that it’s on purpose. ICE can only enter public spaces and one of the key indicators if a place is private or public is if a door is locked. So now they keep the doors locked. And they’re not being paranoid. ICE agents were loitering in front of the building Monday morning. They’d made the right call. And Brad and I felt like privileged jerks.

And the news keeps coming.

Last night, ICE shot a Venezuelan immigrant in the leg in North Minneapolis. They travel in unnecessarily large packs, perched outside schools, churches, grocery stores, and hospitals just snooping, sniffing, waiting; armed vultures with a chip on their shoulder and violence in their hearts for who knows why.

This morning, President Trump is threatening to send the military here via the Insurrection Act over anti-ICE protests.

Minneapolis has been through so much pain. We’ve seen injustice and violence firsthand. I spent June 2020 listening to helicopters hover over my home as our community set police stations on fire and destroyed our city; the grief and anger just too much to bear. Every day I worry that things will get more violent. Trump is just looking for a reason to maim even more people who disagree with him.

I don’t have any tips or insights. No hacks. No light-hearted list of things to do.

I’m not an activist or pundit or strategist. Just a mom living in Minneapolis who doesn’t want anyone to be abducted by the government or separated from their families. That’s literally it.

This morning, many of us quietly celebrated as we sent our sticky, chocolate-covered children back to school (and started stealthily throwing out, putting away, and organizing an avalanche of old and new toys, alike1).

For me, the holidays usually start off feeling warm, cozy, and exciting, but then quickly collapse into a fire swamp of overstimulation and overwhelm. A pile of cardboard boxes mocks me from the corner of our living room, waiting for Recycling Day. Mystery leftovers haunt me in the fridge. The girls keep asking for more and more star cookies and screen time.

I especially find the chasm of time between Christmas and New Year’s confusing and unnerving. It’s when time has lost all meaning and I no longer hold the illusion of control. Jared Freid explains the rules here:

This year, I was OVER the holidays by December 21 and then found myself counting down the days until January 5. I was starving for stasis. A return to rules.

It’s just too long a vacation for our particular family.

Our second grader had 16 days off of school, and for our ADHD-riddled, routine-hungry family, this led to a lot of dysregulation and exhaustion…for all four of us. We also did a LOT. Over the course of 16 days we:

• Flew back to Northern Virginia where we visited with family for 9 days (!!!) (I’ve written before about how borderline-impossible traveling with young kids is and I will die on this hill).

• Tried our damndest to manage everyone’s eating and sleeping schedules despite constant gifts and chocolate and screens.

• Went to Great Wolf Lodge2 for 2 nights.

• Celebrated our four-year-old’s birthday (even hosted a party!) and Hanukkah for ONE MILLION NIGHTS.3

The whole “break” (lol) culminated in us flying back from Northern Virginia to our home in Minneapolis during a snowstorm, where Brad immediately got sick4 and then, the MOMENT he started feeling better (Saturday, January 3), tore his calf muscle at an indoor playground…which was also the exact same second that his disgusting sickness started coursing its way through MY body.

So I was sick. He was on crutches. And we still had two full days before we could send our slimeballs back to school. I was NOT ok. I was spiraling. My body felt like a balled up piece of scrap metal and the thing about parenting that is sort of glossed over, is that parenting small children is so fucking physical.

It mostly looks cute! Piggyback rides and horsey rides but I’m here to tell you that these tiny creatures have trashed my body like a dilapidated fraternity house and there is not enough spackle or drywall in the world to bring it back to life.

My body is a couch. A pillow. A weighted blanket. It’s a trampoline. A playground. Livestock. A hammock. A tissue.

There are a lot of articles and books and research centered around the emotional and psychological challenges of raising children. And all of that is true and valid. But I also think the physical challenges of raising kids are not to be underestimated, especially for an older parent (me) and a chronically ill parent whose abilities and capacity changes all the time (also me).

At 42, my body is struggling to keep up. It is being asked to do SO MUCH. First it was creating, carrying and birthing two babies (all of which was against its will). Then it was breastfeeding and schlepping around a giant-ass carseat everywhere we went. Now that we’re done with the diapers and strollers, I thought things would get easier, but honestly it’s just as hard.

Sometimes my 35-pound 4-year-old still wants to be carried. And sometimes I need to forcibly remove her from situations that are unsafe, like when she is melting down in say, a Target parking lot. I’m squatting all the time trying to cram her little legs into leg holes. I’m chasing her down the walkway at the airport. I’m sitting on the floor, hunched over, for hours on-end because that’s how she insists on playing. It’s the endless dishes and laundry and hiking up and down three flights of stairs whenever I forget a water bottle or socks or a computer charger. I’m up twice a night to help my 4-year-old pee in the toilet5. I’m an exhausted pack-mule hacking up a lung. FEEL SORRY FOR ME.

In my most enlightened state, I know it won’t always be this. I know they won’t always want me giving them piggy back rides and playing fairies on the floor together. They won’t need help putting on their snow pants for much longer. It’s “just a season.” Or is it? That expression has me thinking of this beautiful passage from Virginia Evans’ book The Correspondent which I just finished (and loved):

“There is an articulation of life one hears again and again. People will say, ‘oh, this is only a season.’ You know what I am referring to, don’t you? I mean how if someone is in difficulty they’ll say ‘it’s only a season.’ Or if someone is having a new baby and in the sleepless nights, an older woman will comfort with this idea that the expanse of time is a season—a winter, I suppose? (rather, a hurricane season!)-and the season will change eventually to something sunnier. I take issue with this. There are, by definition, four seasons that repeat in measured pattern year after year. As there is no such rhythm in the human life, I have to think that when it comes to seasons we all get one round. We are born and grow through childhood in spring. We live those glorious, lively, interesting years of our twenties, thirties, forties in summer. We settle into ourselves in autumn, that cool but not yet cold time, rich and aromatic. And in winter we age (brutally) and die.”

This resonates. I suppose I am in my early fall…feeling tired and worn down. My internal check engine light is flashing but I’m just kind of ignoring it.

In this specific moment, I am frustrated. Annoyed that Brad got hurt the moment I started feeling sick…so he can’t drive to help with school drop-offs and pickups, or carry up clean laundry. It’s gonna be all me for the next week or two until his calf heals. But I also know life is gonna life and he feels just as frustrated about the whole thing as I do.

So what can I do? Nap. Hydrate. Count my blessings. Take a deep breath. Order Doordash. Take a NyQuil. Then get the fuck back up and do it all over again tomorrow. Even when sick. Even when exhausted. The job never ends. But this part WILL end. So for now, we can do this. I can do this.

Undoubtedly, your social media feeds are already filled with various Highlight Reel propaganda from people you know and love, people you kind-of-know and like, and people you continue to hate-follow for some bizarre reason.

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This is a gentle reminder that it’s (mostly) a big lie2 and I am begging you not to fall for any of it.

Do not for one second believe that everyone else’s lives are gorgeous, intentional, put together and perfect all of the time. Even though it might feel like everyone you know is running marathons or having babies or renovating old farmhouses or traveling the world…they’re not. You are not the one singular human who feels like your life is a fucked up mess of disappointment, SSRIs, plummeting credit scores, and emotional ruin. I promise you.

As someone who knows how the highlight reel sausage is made3, I can assure you that when we share this stuff, we don’t mean to be liars…and yet, we are kind of lying, in a way.

When people post their highlight reels, they’re sharing their best angle. The rogue moment when the kids actually smiled at a camera. The hard-earned promotion they’ve spent years chasing. Their adorable, new puppy (that also just destroyed their favorite purse).

They are sharing moments of joy…and honestly, thank GOD. We need to share more joy! But let’s remember these moments of joy are not criticisms of us. We can’t internalize the message that we are somehow not enough because we didn’t compete in a triathlon or set up a Free Little Library4. We can’t let these messages and moments make us feel like we’re losing some imaginary competition.

These are curated moments of joy and that’s it. Every photo, holiday letter, and company holiday party anecdote are scenes of other people’s *best* moments. They are not their average moments or most frequent moments.

When you open that gorgeous holiday card from your high school friend who has never been unemployed or divorced or sick with more than a head-cold or faced an existential crisis, please go easy on them and on yourself. When you see your cousin’s perfect engagement ring or that unexpected sonogram photo in your IG feed5, try to imagine what you’re not seeing. The behind-the-scenes moments, if you will.

We are all imperfect humans. Flawed. Messy. Desperate for understanding and approval. Both longing to be seen and terrified of it, all at once.

For all the good times this year, we also experienced a string of disappointing lowlights…many of which still haunt us. We just choose not to share them publicly. Mostly.

Well, I decided this year to share my lowlights.

I was inspired by this post I saw on IG by Jess Bolton a few days ago…

And then I decided to make my OWN lowlights reel of 2025…because I worry that I’m part of the problem.

So in the spirit of transparency, here are some of my lowlights from 2025…enjoy the chaotic mess and never-ending guilt spiral that is my life!

Join me, won’t you?

Show me your lowlights!

I’ve been doing everything in my power to stave off the seasonal depression, and with a few big freelance projects wrapping up, I’ve suddenly had time to deep-dive into my extremely diverse media diet: a healthy mix of reality-TV garbage, juicy/confessional divorce albums, and my elder-millennial-lady hobbies (reading, podcast-listening, coloring, and compulsively checking my bank account to make sure the daycare deposit will clear).

We are truly living in the end times.

But at least there’s never been more dynamic, unhinged, fascinating media to consume. Huzzah!

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My 10 Fixations This Week

10) Squid Game: The Challenge (Season 2)

If you’re a fan of the wildly violent and upsetting anti-capitalist series Squid Game, then you’ll LOVE Squid Game: The Challenge.

This is the second season of the Netflix reality TV behemoth, which follows a structure similar to the original (minus the murders, of course). Calling it a “game show” feels derogatory—the scale is unreal. I would genuinely watch a whole behind-the-scenes documentary about how the production team pulls this off. Some real-life Game Maker shit. Whoever their Seneca Crane is…BRAVO.

With 456 contestants from around the world, only one will win the grand prize: $4.56 million. The suspense. The casting. The editing. The attention to detail. It’s all spectacular—and really fun to watch while loudly insisting you would CRUSH every challenge, even though in reality you’d be eliminated during the very first game.

9) BETH’S DEAD

Armcherries have probably heard the promos for BETH’S DEAD, a new “true crime…sort of?” podcast hosted and produced by Monica Padman (of Armchair Expert). I don’t want to give anything away because the build of this mini-series is so intentional and well-done; I think it’s best to go into it without too much information. It’s part journalism and part exploration of the crazy para-social dynamics that happen between content creators and fans. Shout-out to my friend Paige for turning me on to this.

8) Margo’s Got Money Troubles, Rufi Thorpe

I did not think I’d like Margo’s Got Money Troubles because the chick-lit-adjacent cover art felt cheesy and pandering. But wow. This was a brilliantly fun, morally interesting, emotionally juicy read.

Not only was it creatively and morally interesting, I WAS SO EMOTIONALLY INVESTED. I don’t think I’ve loved a protagonist like Margo in a longggggg time. I was eating out of her hand. Desperate for her to win. Rooting against her enemies.

This story is sad and funny and insightful and unexpected and had me gagged. 10/10

7) Candle warmers?

I didn’t know that candle warmers were a thing until I walked into ’s basement on Sunday night and was hit with the most incredible scent. “It smells so good down here!” I declared. She said it was just her candle, but the candle wasn’t even lit soooooo what did she mean???? Then she showed me her “candle warmer” which I had never heard of before. I guess it just warms up your scented candle enough to release the aroma, but you don’t have to really light it or create an actual fire hazard to enjoy it? Ridiculous? Maybe. But as someone who has almost burnt down two different apartments1 due to candle malpractice, truly brilliant.

6) Coco Wyo’s Coloring Books and “Coloring Culture”

Last week I hit a big milestone in my (guiltiest?) pleasure: I admitted to my friend Corrina just how into coloring I am. I even showed her some of my “pages.” Is this hobby embarrassing? Maybe. Could I use this time to write, clean, cook, work? Absolutely. But coloring relaxes me. And it’s (sort of?) creative. I am now knee-deep in Coco Wyo coloring content on IG and I am not mad about it.

5) The drama, lore and actual music of Lily Allen’s new album West End Girl

Are you like me and have you been OBSESSED with listening to Lily Allen’s Lemonade-esque new album West End Girl which chronicles her messy-as-fuckkkk divorce from David Harbour or are you normal? This is her first record in seven years and holy MESS. She is NOT holding back when it comes to her divorce from David Harbour.

The lyrics alone could fuel a whole Reddit ecosystem.

I am deeply invested in both this album and her redemption arc. Get’em, Lily.

4) MATCHING Glassware

Life hack: If you want to feel like you have your life together, may I recommend throwing out your chipped, mismatched glassware and just…starting over?2?

Brad and I haven’t bought bowls or glasses since 2012, and our stemless wine glass situation had reached apocalyptic levels (we had two left). So we went to Crate & Barrel (a store I once confused with Cracker Barrel as a child) and bought new glassware.

I didn’t realize you could simply replace household items you chose during your chaotic 25-year-old wedding registry era. I thought they were a lifelong curse.

Turns out: you can just buy new glasses. Line them up nicely. Feel smug. HIGHLY recommend.

3) The Chair Company, HBO

I feel like Tim Robinson was my brother in another life.

As a Tim Robinson superfan, I had HIGH expectations for his new HBO show The Chair Company…and oh boy, does it deliver.

It’s bizarre, honest, hilarious, and completely unpredictable. My jaw hits the floor every four minutes.

2) Who’s The Clown, Audrey Hobert

I don’t remember how I first heard Audrey Hobert’s song sex and the city, but once I did, I pressed “repeat” approximately 45 times. She gives Kate Nash (Made of Bricks) vibes—funny, raw, embarrassing, real. She’s a friend/peer of Gracie Abrams, but honestly? I like her way more.

Hoping she cracks my Spotify Wrapped this year, though she’ll have to fight through the algorithmic tsunami of my kids’ obsession with KPop Demon Hunters.

RIP, my Spotify algorithm.

1) Pluribus, Apple TV

Two words: Vince Gilligan.

I tried to hate it because how dare this man keep making perfect TV? But it’s fantastic.

It’s giving The Good Place meets The Last Man on Earth (complimentary).

That’s what’s been occupying my brain space this week. Drop your current obsessions in the comments: my media appetite is bottomless, my attention span is feral, and winter in Minnesota is long. Help a gal out.

Genetically it was just as likely as her having brown hair and brown eyes.

Abigail1 is going to need extreme orthodonture work.

My oldest daughter, Abigail, is seven, and she’s already made jokes about her teeth. Quiet little comments, tossed out like confetti but feeling like shrapnel: “Mom, do you think I look like a bulldog?” Her school photo this year shows the first tight-lipped smile I’ve ever seen her make; the circus of her teeth tucked quietly behind it.

You hardly need to work in teeth to notice that she has too many teeth trying to fit in a too-tiny mouth. It’s not a medical emergency. But it’s not nothing. And sitting in the orthodontist office during her first consult the other week, had me spiraling out of control. For her, as a sensory-sensitive and neurodivergent kid. And also for Little Elyse who was traumatized by almost 10 years of orthodonture work. It was orthodontorture2.

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I used to hesitate to call it trauma. I usually reserve that word for things like sexual assault, medical crises, or abuse. But then I spent an entire therapy session talk-crying about my orthodontist memories and, yeah; it fits.

I remember my first orthodontist appointment. It was at a children’s-only practice in Vienna, Virginia, in the mid-1990s and the office was misleadingly awesome. It was really giving I’m not a regular orthodontist office, I’m a cool orthodontist office.

They had old arcade games you could play for free in the waiting room (Ms. Pac-Man, Centipede, and Space Invaders were my favorites). The walls were painted in bright colors and even the ceiling was a mural; an underwater scene with ducks’ feet and lily pads overhead3. It was clearly designed to make kids feel comfortable. And it worked, for about ten minutes.

Because there’s only so much you can do to soften the sensory blow of forcing metal brackets onto the molars of a nine-year-old kid.

Name an orthodontist procedure and I’ve had it, probably more than once. Palate expander? Check (x2). Teeth extractions? Check (x4). Braces? Check (x2). Retainers? Check.

My “treatment plan” lasted in some form or another from age eight to fifteen. Eight years of my life spent with metal brackets and bands ripping open the skin inside my mouth. I know a lot of kids have braces. It’s common. But for me, it was excruciating. One routine appointment would leave my mouth sore and swollen for days. I hated it more than shots, running the mile in gym class, or (eventually) getting my period.

My mom was committed though. There were a few things that Adrienne Gibson did NOT fuck around with and one was oral health4. I didn’t even try to ask if it was optional; I knew it wasn’t. But I also knew she felt bad. Usually, after an orthodontist appointment, I’d get a milkshake on the drive back to school. She’d cringe and cry while turning the key to tighten my palate expander. She hated seeing us hurt, but she also knew this was the kind of thing that was better handled young; which, to be fair, she was absolutely right about.

The result of my orthotorture work is straight, pretty good-looking teeth, which I never would have had without intervention. And looking back, I’m glad I did it. But it was awful. It came at a price.

And now I’m sitting next to Abigail at her own orthodontist appointment. She’s squeezing my hand as someone tries to wedge little spacers between her back teeth. Apparently she needs “preparation” before we can even put in a palate expander. Turns out there’s a step even before step one.

My sweet Abigail, who already finds the world too loud and too painful even when she’s simply sitting in her classroom or laying down in her own bed, she’s crying and resisting these spacers, and I am trying so hard not to cry as I hold her hand.

HOW is she going to do this? HOW am I going to do this again? How can I watch them do this to her? Is this worth it? Is this even a choice? How do parents watch their kids writhe in pain, even knowing it’s for some kind of greater good?

And also, is it?

Or is it just good old-fashioned American vanity?

Will she hate me more for making her do this now or hate me more later, when she’s a young adult with fucked-up teeth whose mom didn’t make her get braces?

Here’s pretty much a reenactment of our appointment at Abigail’s first orthodontist appointment:

Brad and I left the office discouraged. She could barely make it through one of the simplest procedures. How the hell is she going to let them put a palate expander in? How am I going to be the one to turn the key to tighten it? How the fuck are we going to get through this at all? How are we still only on step negative one?

Maybe this is what parenthood really is: watching your kids face the same painful things you did, trying to guide them through it with more gentleness than you were shown. And then getting the hell out of their way and watching them respond differently and grow in their own unique way.

I can’t protect Abigail and Pippa from everything. But maybe I can rewrite the story a little.

Maybe this time, the orthodonture chapter can end with fewer tears. For both of us.

I simply love a tradition. I know some people crave novelty, but I crave ritual. Accurate weather reports. A nightly skincare routine. Perusing a menu before setting foot in a restaurant.

And for the same reasons, my brain often gets stuck trying to recreate joyful experiences. I’m never content with just one amazing trip or outing. If it goes well, I immediately pitch it again the next year: “Remember that restaurant/apple orchard/hotel we loved? Let’s do it again!” I think that’s probably common for people like me who deal with anxiety; I can relax more when I already know what to expect.

So, by my own (admittedly loose) definition of “tradition,” I just returned from my traditional fall creative retreat to Bayfield, Wisconsin. It was dreamy and quiet and lovely and yet… honestly? Not quite enough.

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The First Year: Perfection

When I dreamed up the idea for a fall solo trip last year, my intention was to create a short, drivable “creative retreat” that combined quiet, nature, and time to write. Just for me. No Brad, no kids, no friends. No one else to monitor, manage, or disappoint.

I needed time and space to only worry about my own needs…which, as it turns out, are loud, conflicting, and change every 87 seconds.

I forget how I first heard about Wild Rice Retreat, but after taking a yoga class with the founder, Heidi Zimmer, and experiencing her quiet intentionality firsthand (plus getting a 15% off discount code), I booked the trip.

And it was perfect. I romanticized every single moment. I hit peak fall colors. Slept with the windows open. Made French press coffee every morning while I wrote. Hiked down to Lake Superior for a bespoke latte with whole milk before stopping by a bespoke bookstore. The whole damn thing was bespoke as fuckkkkk.

I felt like a smug, bougie Henry David Thoreau.

And it was easy! The trip hardly even required pants. I mostly lounged and wrote. No makeup, no accessories. Not too remote; there was a pharmacy nearby and strong WiFi.

My only critique: it was too short. After four hours of driving each way, three nights wasn’t enough to fully soak it all in.

The Second Year: Expectations

So this fall, I booked the SAME trip. Same place. Same sized cottage. Same time of year. Same expectations.

And you know what?

It was fine????

Of course, I enjoyed four nights away from my loud-ass family (we’re night-training Pippa right now, which means waking her twice a night to pee so she doesn’t wet the bed, and it is a hellish, unsustainable experience I can’t wait to laugh about in my toast at her wedding one day).

Staying in a faux-woodsy condo with a Fir Balsam candle and cold Sauvignon Blanc was vibey as hell. I had time to write and watercolor and hike and drive out to a little beach. Brad was supportive. My best friend, Ashley, even made me a special playlist for the week.

But ya’ll, I struggled. The Big Feelings were coming in hot and they were a potent mix of:

• Guilt (for leaving my family): I don’t deserve this. Brad is doing so much!

• Guilt (for not feeling guilty enough): Ok I actually don’t feel that bad. Is THAT bad?

• Joy: Holy shit, FREEDOM!

• Gratitude: Gosh, I am one lucky bitch. Who even gets to do this?

• Fear: What if I get lonely? What if I don’t write enough? What if I don’t maximize this time? What if I never get a trip like this again?

• Doing It Wrong: What if it’s not ‘worth it?’

And then came the comparisons:

The weather was better last year. I spent more time outside, too. The food was better. I felt less lonely. Am I writing enough? Too much? Should I be outside more? Sleeping more?

Turns out, that expression “wherever you go, there you are” is painfully true.

And also, turns out I’m fucking insufferable.

The Nostalgia Trap

The most ironic part? Now that I’ve been back for a few days, I’m already nostalgic for this year’s trip. I’ve mentally edited out the lulls and disappointments and started replaying my highlight reel.

My mom used to say the best part of spending money on travel is that you get to enjoy it three times:

1. The Planning Phase: You get to imagine yourself on the trip. The anticipation is delicious. The planning and fantasizing is a joy in and of itself. Maybe you buy a new outfit or an overpriced miniature hairspray, and as the travel date on the calendar approaches, the excitement feels like such a rush.

2. The On-the-Trip Phase: Yay! You’re on your trip! You’re hopefully relaxing and exploring and resting and laughing and doing some fun things for yourself! Live it up! Take photos! Wear comfortable shoes!

3. The Reminiscing/Nostalgia Phase: Aww, wasn’t that so fun when we went on that trip? Traveling is fantastic because the memories and mementos from the experience stay with you. Talking about your trip and looking through old photos is almosttttt like going there again. I think that’s why both my mom and myself love(d) scrapbooking and documenting our travels so much.

Brains are wild, huh?

Anyway, Bayfield…

I almost forgot; this was supposed to be a “36 Hours in Bayfield, Wisconsin”-type post. That now feels… ambitious.

So instead, here are some of my favorite spots (especially in the fall):

• Wild Rice Retreat: Located on Lake Superior, Wild Rice Retreat offers stays for people looking to create their own getaway and also guided retreats for those seeking more instructor-led retreats. It’s perfect.

• The Brownstone Trail: It’s kind of unreal but the most magical trail runs from Wild Rice Retreat right down to Bayfield and is only about 1.5 miles away. Perfection.

• Wonderstate Coffee: Best vanilla latte of my whole life??? Fantastic baked goods, too. Love this place. Went every day I was there.

• Honest Dog Books: This family-run bookstore is too stinking cute.

• Stone’s Throw: A very cute gift shop with a variety of handmade crafts and unexpected items.

• The Fruit Loop: Bayfield has a variety of berry and apple farms and orchards and their annual Apple Festival is beloved statewide.

• Meyer’s Beach: Took a little windy walk on this beach and enjoyed the outdoors. Would probably be much nicer in the summer? But it was still beautiful.

I highly recommend checking out Bayfield and the Apostle Islands. It’s quaint and stunning and full of creative energy.

I fully intend on going back again next year. Or not? Maybe I should try NOT to make it a tradition…

Two is the warm-up act.

Three is the headliner.

Over the first three years of parenting, you slowly build your confidence. You potty-train them. Transfer them out of their crib. You have inside jokes. You know their favorite books and songs. You understand what they’re capable of. Then? BAM!

Three comes in hot to knock you onside the head with unmatched levels of chaos, confidence, stamina, strength, and noise.

Three is an unhinged age. They’re not a toddler, but not really a big kid. They cannot be trusted around ice cream or art supplies, and yet, they SO desperately want to do it all themselves.

They’re developing more autonomy and independence. Every day they discover something new and amazing their bodies can do. They also have more physical strength and more focus and drive than ever before.

It’s terrifying.

My three-year-old daughter, Pippa, has more stamina, strength, grit, and humor than anyone I know. I’m pretty sure she could outlast and outperform me in any of the following competitions:

• A who-can-stay-awake-the-longest contest

• A who-can-wear-high-heels-the-longest contest

• A chocolate-eating contest

• A screaming contest

• A singing contest

• A movie-watching marathon

• A literal marathon (the kind you run)

• A full season of Survivor (now there’s a pitch for you, CBS: Tot Survivor. Outwit. Outplay. Outscream.)

She is in a bold stage these days. A demanding, frustrating, “I CAN DO IT MYSELF” even when it comes to very complicated tasks that she cannot complete herself, like, oh I don’t know, opening a car door and buckling herself into her car seat.

It’s somehow cute and funny and infuriating all at once.

Three is also a super cool age because you can see their sentience peak and their personality start to come online. Pippa, as a human, is fully booted up. She is hilarious and charming. She loves giving names to all of the characters in her imaginary games and even does different voices for them all. She can riff with me and we’ll do bits together. It’s kind of a blast.

I love being a visitor in Pippa’s world. It’s so pure and wholesome. And just watching her figure out her own preferences/disgusts had me making a list of things that she believes with her whole heart…at the ripe old age of three.

Things my 3-year-old believes with her whole heart:

1. She can do it herself. And get out of her fucking way. Whether it’s slicing her own strawberries or opening a giant car door, Pippa knows that she can do it—ALL of it—herself. It’s sweet and empowering and also deeply frustrating. She’s always mad whenever we try to save her life (remember that Tumblr-turned-coffee-table-book called Reasons My Kid is Crying? It’s that forever.)

   

2. If you’re wearing a shirt or dress with a character on it, you ARE that character. If she’s wearing a ballerina sweater, she IS a ballerina. Even if it’s 90 degrees outside.

3. The expression is “Red, Set, Go.” And NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES IS IT “Ready, Set, Go.” Don’t you dare try to correct her.

4. More is more. Forget that dumb quote Coco Chanel said about removing one accessory. What you want to do is the opposite: add MORE accessories/jewelry/stick-on earrings/hair clips.

5. Her 7-year-old sister is a professional face-paint artist. Despite her murky qualifications: one tricolor palette of Halloween face paint and a YouTube video.

6. If you want to feel pretty, wear a dress. Every other article of clothing is overrated, honestly.

7. Cookies are a fruit. The whiteboard at preschool says so, Case closed.

   

8. The best song in the world is “Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed.” It’s a story. It’s a song. It’s comedic gold. It’s a banger and it kills every time.

9. Any food that is not a chicken nugget or a chocolate chip is poison. Any other food that you try to put on her plate will be catapulted off. It’s really annoying. And only mildly disconcerting from a nutrition perspective.

10. Naps are overrated. And honestly a form of oppression. Do NOT try and waste my time with this nonsense.

11. Being upside down is always preferable to being right-side up.

12. There is no difference between a costume and a fabulous outfit.

    

13. Lemons are an acceptable and normal snack.

14. Nail clippers are a torture device.

15. You can make friends with anyone by giving them a compliment. She befriended a dad with a face tattoo by sweetly telling him, “I like your tattoo!” It’s unnerving how well this tactic works.

16. There are only 5 good bites of an apple. Then it becomes disgusting.

    

17. Tea parties fix everything. Seriously have Republicans and Democrats tried just having a good, old-fashioned tea party with caffeine-free tea, honey, and biscotti?

18. There is no greater joy in the world than bouncing in a bounce house.

19. “You’re not my best friend” is the ultimate diss. This turn of phrase is especially effective when screamed directly at Mom or Dad.

20. Rain boots are the ultimate footwear, regardless of weather. Because nothing says confidence (and blisters) like sweating in rubber boots on a 95-degree day.

Watching Pippa discover and write her own tiny gospel of truths is one of the great joys of this age. Three may be chaotic, demanding, and exhausting, but it’s also a fleeting, magical window where the world still bends to her imagination, and somehow everything makes sense.

Someday she’ll stop believing cookies are fruit and that rain boots are year-round attire, but for now, I get to be her witness.

And honestly her world makes a lot more sense than ours.

But for the uninitiated, Gary Chapman wrote a book called The 5 Love Languages, which outlines five common ways people give and receive love: Words of Affirmation, Acts of Service, Gifts, Quality Time, and Physical Touch.

When I first read Chapman’s book, I had so many lightbulb moments. Suddenly I understood why my husband, Brad, never showered me with praise and adoration like Billy Crystal at the end of When Harry Met Sally. It made sense why he felt connected after mowing the lawn and making dinner, and why I was like: Cool? Now can you read this essay I wrote and tell me I’m brilliant?

But as insightful as Chapman’s framework is, I’ve always found it a bit…goyish.

As a Jewish woman, there are ways I show up in my relationships that others may find odd, like reminding my 39-year-old sister to pack an umbrella or bringing food to an event when I’ve been explicitly told NOT to bring anything. There are unique ways that we, as Jews, try to demonstrate our love that others may find bizarre, overbearing, or obnoxious. But hey…that’s what 3,500 years of generational trauma will do to a people.

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Here’s my attempt to articulate the Five Jewish Love Languages: Worrying About You, Cooking for You, Laughing Together, Pushing You, and Arguing With You.

The Five Jewish Love Languages

1) Worrying About You

Are you bringing a sweater? Did you eat something? Who’s driving you home?

While this love language can feel like a barrage of questions and logistical micromanagement, it’s rooted in a deep desire to protect and prepare. Jews know on a cellular level how dangerous and hostile the world can be. At the root of my reminding and questioning is my need for the people I love to always be warm, fed, and prepared to flee at a moment’s notice. If I’m not worrying about your job, immune system, parking situation, and overall trajectory in life, do I even love you?

This may manifest as: 47 follow-up texts and a fully-charged portable phone charger “just in case.”

2) Feeding You

From matzah ball soup when you’re sick to a lovingly wrapped piece of babka for the road, food is the most primal and persistent way we say “I love you.” As a Jewish woman, I will not let you go hungry. There are bagels in the freezer. Hummus in the back of the fridge. Cough drops in my purse.

Are you hungry? Just say the word. Or don’t–I’ll ask you again every 22 minutes regardless. When my cousin went away to college, our grandma mailed him a brisket during the High Holidays. A warm brisket. Through the U.S. Postal Service. I’m sorry, but this is love. Disgusting, disgusting love.

This may manifest as: A rogue kugel showing up in your freezer after a hard week.

3) Laughing Together

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are quite a few Jewish comedians out there. This is hardly a coincidence. Comedy has always been a coping mechanism for our people—a way to soften pain, connect deeply, and maybe (just maybe) charm our way out of death.

Laughing together is how we flirt, how we bond, and how we survive. Please remember this when I send you 11 direct messages on Instagram of Andy Samberg videos, Seinfeld memes, and Sarah Silverman one-liners; it’s just my way of saying “Hi! I love you! Now laugh!”

This may manifest as: Memes, Mel Brooks references, or gently roasting your haircut.

4) Pushing You

What do you mean you’re dropping out of law school? Jewish love often shows up as ambition on your behalf. We want you to reach your greatest potential, and sometimes that presents itself as...pressure. Maybe even disappointment.

We are not intentionally being critical or trying to control you. We just have a fierce, unrelenting belief in your brilliance and want to see you “succeed” (which we sometimes forget is subjective). Unfortunately this can feel more like judgement or pressure…but we’re working on it. We swear.

This may manifest as: Urging you to email our friend’s son who works at Google. Because “you never know.”

5) Arguing with You

To be a Jew is to disagree. Loudly. Jewish love means engaging. If we’re debating you, it means we respect your mind enough to challenge your ideas. We don’t argue to be combative; we argue because we’re curious, we care, and we feel comfortable.

My Jewish mother-in-law loves to argue about politics. We’ll quarrel over every decision every politician has ever made until the vibe gets very tense, and then we’ll start gossiping about the neighbors.

Honestly, the moment you should start worrying is when we just sit there, nod, and say, “That’s nice.”

This may manifest as: Spirited, hours-long conversations that somehow end with “I love you, you maniac.”

At its core, Jewish love is about showing up. The Talmud teaches that it’s our duty to rejoice with the bride and groom, care for the sick, and free the captive. We celebrate with you. We sit shiva with you. Whether it’s a bris or a breakup, a wedding or a random Wednesday—if we love you, we’ll be there. Maybe ten minutes late. But we promise to bring food.

An earlier version of this article was first published in Modern Jewess in September 2025.

Four days left until second grade. I was fresh out of projects, fresh out of energy, fresh out of enthusiasm. Then Brad heard a massive thud. A scream. And then—a long, hard cry.

Abigail had fallen while doing something stupid1. Neither Brad nor I saw it happen, which made it harder to gauge. Were her tears from pain, shock, fear, or embarrassment2? After an hour of sobs, snuggles and icing her arm, she was still holding it in this very specific, sad way…like a little animal licking its injured paw.

I had to decide: urgent care, or wait it out?

I’m not one to panic over sicknesses or injuries. I am usually a “put an ice pack on it, suck down some Tylenol, and let’s see how things go” kind of mom, but something about her reaction to this injury told me it wasn’t fine. It was also the Friday before a long weekend, when clinics would be closed.

I decided to take her to an orthopedic urgent care clinic. She was seen quickly and compassionately, x-rayed promptly and given a cast in her favorite color3.

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It’s a small fracture and she’ll get her cast off in 2 weeks.

I’d made the “right” decision.

Which almost never happens in parenting. Most decisions don’t have a clear right or wrong. Instead, they live in a murky middle, and we’re left to wonder: Did I push too hard? Not hard enough? Will this matter in five years? Will she forget this happened or will it be interpreted as trauma in her therapist’s office in 20 years?

The doubt creeps in innocently, the way it did the other day with our neighbor, Gail.

Gail and her husband Dave are the most wholesome people I’ve ever met. Baby boomers from North Dakota. They don’t swear. They don’t own a TV. They weed their yard every day. They bake us tomato tarts. They invite us over for tea (since they don’t drink).

I pulled into our driveway one afternoon after picking up the girls from their respective activities (art camp for Abby and preschool for Pippa). Gail was outside (weeding) and said, “Wow, you’re just always on the go! Just wait until they start sports!”

Sports. Should I be pushing them harder into sports? My kids don’t really like sports. We tried Soccer Shots. Gymnastics classes. Swim lessons. Ice skating so they won’t get laughed out of Minnesota. But team-anything makes Abigail miserable. She stresses over rules, panics at mistakes, clashes with authority. I know my kids.

But also: do I?

Sweet Gail’s innocent comment set off a Classic Elyse Shame Spiral: Should we sign them up for sports anyway? Are we messing them up forever if we don’t? Or is forcing them worse?

That’s how it always starts: a microdose of self-doubt that mushrooms into a full-blown rumination about all the ways I am (probably) ruining my children.

For me, that’s the hardest part of parenting. Not the sleep deprivation, the money stress, or the ever-growing pile of shitty plastic toys. It’s the relentless stream of decisions that all feel high-stakes, whether they actually are or not.

What should we have for dinner? Should we start giving Abigail an allowance? Is she in a good school? Is there a better one for her near us? How much would that cost? Is she safe at school? Is she safe anywhere?

The information overload doesn’t help. I consume so much: actively, passively, accidentally. And it’s all contradictory.

KIDS NEED FREEDOM.
KIDS NEED BOUNDARIES.
KIDS NEED PLAY.
KIDS NEED STRUCTURE.
KIDS NEED TO BE PUSHED.
KIDS NEED TO BE ACCEPTED.

Which the fuck is it?

There used to be four parenting books written by doctors. Now, thanks to social media, I’m absorbing advice from PhDs, TikTok “experts,” and complete idiots who believe autism is caused by vaccines; and it’s all weighted the same by The Algorithm. It’s too much and it’s fucking with my instincts.

I crave efficiency. Best Practices. The right way. But in parenting, there isn’t one. Every kid is different. And every parent has their own opinion and their own unique neuroses and fears.

As Lori Gottlieb says in the clip below, our dumb lizard brains weren’t built to process this much choice.

Which is why I’m holding onto the small victory of Abigail’s broken arm: I saw her pain, I trusted my gut, I took her in. And that was the right decision.

Maybe that’s all parenting really is: a million uncertain choices and, every once in a while, the relief of knowing you got it right.

Even if just for a fleeting moment.

I’m only halfway done. But I’m GOING to finish it. I have to finish it. This is my first attempt at long-form fiction and while it’s challenging, it’s also fun. Invigorating, really.

But writing this story has me feeling like (as the great millennial poet Chris Carrabba would sing-scream) “a walking open wound, a trophy display of bruises.” I am ALL UP in my feelings. And insecurities. The whole process is embarrassing. What if I don’t finish it? What if I do finish it and it’s bad? Like…2-stars on Goodreads bad? What if no one cares? Like, who the fuck do I think I am?

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Last week, I hit a big (to me) milestone and decided to print off the work-in-progress pre-first-draft at Kinko’s. I wanted to read through it on paper so I could mark up my notes and also physically see how much I’d written. It’s all well and good to have a word count hovering around 50,000, but I wanted to feel the heft of the paper. The fruit of my labor1.

Anyway, when I went to go pick up my printout at Kinko’s, I got immediately self-conscious. Like I spent money and resources printing my half-baked (literally) manuscript? How humiliating is that? IT’S NOT EVEN FINISHED. It’s not even good. Then I really started spiraling.

Ohmigod what if someone at Kinko’s READ it or even just read the first few pages? What if they read it aloud in the break room? What if they made a TikTok about it and I never even see it because I’m not on TikTok because I am too fucking old to be on TikTok? Of COURSE no one is reading this you self-absorbed bitch…you think Kinko’s employees have time or interest in reading your shitty manuscript?

So yeah…the writing process is going really well, thanks.

A few days later, I was in the car listening to Amy Poehler’s podcast Good Hang2 and it was the episode with Tony Award winner Cole Escola.

Poehler is a natural podcast host (duh). I enjoy her specific interview style (which I’d define as sincerity, sprinkled with jokes and well-meaning jabs), as well as her carousel of unexpected, talented guests.

My favorite part of her conversation with Cole was when the two mused:

Would you rather be boring or annoying?

Posed by Poehler, this was framed like a question in the game “Would You Rather.” She said something like, if you had to be one, would you rather be seen as annoying or boring? She answered her own question, “No one wants to be either—but give me annoying over boring any day.”

“AMEN!” I yelled to myself in my car.

It was a refreshing reminder: I would rather be an annoying, cringe-card-carrying try-hard any damn day of the week than a scared, sheltered bore who keeps it all inside and has never had their heart broken. PERIOD.

I know things aren’t always as binary as being boring or annoying…but at its core, isn’t it kinddddd of binary? Aren’t you either a bit too much or a bit blah? Is anyone ever just perfectly tucked into the fulcrum at all times?

Here’s my question: When did it become uncool to try?

Like…what was the time of death of effort?

Speaking of podcasts3, Mike Birbiglia had an “I Don’t Think So, Honey” rant on my other favorite parasocial show, Las Culturistas. Birbiglia POPPED OFF:

“Literally everyone good at anything tries hard. Know who tries hard? Taylor. Know who else tries hard? Beyoncé. Know who else tries hard? Raygun, the breakdancer at the Olympics. I’m more suspicious of people who don’t try hard or people who lie and say they’re not trying hard when they are. If someone does something amazing and they say it was easy, be suspicious. Not only are they lying about it, they also committed crimes.”

Matt Rogers and Bowen Yang talk a lot on Las Culturistas about “Climbing Cringe Mountain,” because the struggle is real.

I’ve written before about how I hate the word “ick,” but I think I hate cringe even more4. When something is labeled “cringe,” there’s no way to defend against it. Same with the ick. It’s subjective. And now it’s tainted by your negativity and judgment. I share the exact same opinion with this person:

So what do we do? We climb Cringe Mountain anyway.

We suit up. We prepare and do our homework. We ignore the icky feeling of being bad at something or failing or getting rejected and we keep trying. If you need inspiration, look at toddlers. Look at them weeble and wobble and fall down again and again and again. They’re not embarrassed. They’re curious and cute and learning and most importantly—IMPROVING.

And I get it…trying at something you care a lot about (and might not be amazing at yet) is easier said than done. Especially when it comes to creative pursuits. Remember this gem of a quote from Ira Glass? I think about it every day:

The voices of other people (both random online trolls and sometimes your own support network) can be very loud, especially when you’re doing something they either: A) Have never seen you do before or B) Would never be brave or disciplined enough to try themselves5.

So what’s my plan?

Put on my horsey blinder thingies, focus, and remember: everything I want is on the other side of cringe.

50% down. 50% to go. Let’s climb this thing.

My emotional gas tank and mental health are both on -E.

I’ve written before about how ungratifying it is for me to travel with my kiddos (ages 7 and 3.5). I find it deeply stressful, exhausting, and just not fun. Not all parents feel this way; many find traveling with their kiddos invigorating and joyful. Not me, though. At least, not yet.

Last week, I spent 99% of my time doing things for others:

• Packing suitcases

• Downloading movies/figuring out tech

• Sitting outside in oppressive humidity (the #1 way to ruin my mood)

• Making sandwiches

• Swatting bugs

• Applying sunscreen

• Listening to some truly bonkers political opinions

• Going to the <shudders> community pool in rural Virginia

I got maybe one hour of “Elyse time” each night after the girls were in bed, during which I either A) read my book, or B) watched trashy reality TV until I passed out. Then the kids were up at 6am with their “NOW WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO, MOM!?” energy. Brad kept sleeping. “Just let them figure it out,” he grumbled from half-sleep as I got up to make them food and put on a show1.

“MUST BE NICE…” I thought2.

This “always on” aspect of motherhood3 (at least the way I mother) leads me straight to burnout, bitterness, and a “HOW FUCKING DARE YOU GO BACK TO SLEEP” rage.

After 10 days of abandoning my own needs every 15 minutes, I was ready to pull a Thelma & Louise.

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The ONE thing I wanted to do for myself on this trip was go to the cute coffee shop on Main Street and write. I wanted to sit alone with a latte and a pastry, maybe journal, maybe watercolor (if I was feeling crazy). Honestly I just wanted to exist in peace for a couple of hours. I packed accordingly:

✅ Laptop

✅ Journal

✅ Book

✅ Watercolor set

I even told Brad ahead of time that I’d need some time “off-campus.” I scoped out the coffee shop’s hours (open Wed–Sat, 7am–3pm). But the logistics got tricky. As each day passed, I spiraled more, worrying I wouldn’t get this time that I needed. I made a private, petty-ass list in my Notes app titled “Things I hate about this trip4.”

Thursday was my last chance at freedom…I asked for 1–2 hours that morning, got the green light, then bolted in the rental car before anyone could even ask where I was going.

And I did it! I’m writing this now from that adorable coffee shop, surrounded by twee Americana. Red brick sidewalks. Patriotic bunting. Barbie-pink hanging geraniums off the lampposts. And I feel…better. Not perfect. But better.

This whole story is a win. I could’ve easily said “forget it” and stayed back at the country house, letting the kids run circles around me while I tried to read the same sentence 14 times. That would’ve been easier. But I needed air (preferably air conditioned). And I took it. After that, my attitude shifted. Things felt lighter and I was able to enjoy the last 2 days of the trip.

Historically, I have NOT done this. I’d ignore my Inner Elyse, clench my jaw and just try to survive the hard-for-me thing that everyone else seemed to enjoy…which left me feeling twitchy and furious. Then I realized: when I feel like I’m constantly making sacrifices for others, I get nasty.

I transform into a neglected dog that pees on your Moroccan rug and chews your expensive boots. It’s my Inner Elyse BEGGING for air and space. She wants to sing Ani Difranco in the car at the top of her lungs with a Coke Slurpee and cry at inappropriate times and take a really long, hot shower and not reply to any texts.

She is Ava in Season 4, Episode 6 of Hacks (IYKYK).

One of my worst traits is my natural tendency to keep score. While I don’t have an itemized list of every card everyone has ever sent me or some long-running tally of times someone has shown up for me (or not), there is a vague, always-on, highly subjective scoreboard in my brain. And when I feel ignored or neglected or like I’m giving WAY more than I’m getting? Shit gets ugly.

I hate this about myself. I wish I was a purely altruistic person who gives to others with no expectation of gratitude or reciprocation. But I’m not. I’m a gift-giver. A people-pleaser. A first-born daughter. And when unchecked, this cocktail leads directly to resentment.

I’ve been working on this in therapy. And my therapist gave me a question that changed everything:

“What is the most you can give—with love in your heart?”

That question now guides so much of how I show up in relationships. I used to just offer up *everything* to the people I love.

• You need a place to stay? COME LIVE WITH ME!

• You need money? HOW MUCH?

• You need hours of my time to do unpaid labor for you? SOUNDS GREAT!

And then I’d low-key resent them for not adequately appreciating my generosity. For not performing gratitude in the exact way I needed.

Not a great system.

So now, I ask myself this question first and I answer it honestly: What is the most I can give with love in my heart?

Can I pick up your sick kid from daycare? Probably not. But can I DoorDash you dinner and some ice cream? Absolutely.

Can I talk for two hours about your breakup right now? Nope. But I can send you a few 30-minute windows when I’m available.

That’s how I now try to show up without abandoning myself or growing resentful.

A few more ways to resentment-proof yourself:

• Say it with your face. People can’t read your mind (boo….). They won’t know you’re struggling unless you tell them. It’s not a moral failing on their part, it’s a communication breakdown on yours.

• Not everyone deserves your best. If someone wouldn’t do the same for you, maybe they shouldn’t get the gold-star version of your effort.

  

• Your capacity changes. One week you might be a “HELL YES” to helping babysit your friend’s kid. The next week? You’re barely hanging on. That’s okay. You're allowed to flex.

• Lower the bar. Not everyone will support you the way you support them. That doesn’t mean they don’t care. It just means they’re different. Adjust your expectations accordingly.

  

• Figure out what you need. Maybe you can’t get a two-week trip to Italy (yet), but you can get more sleep. Or a gelato. Or 20 minutes alone in your car listening to something other than the Frozen soundtrack. Brainstorm a few ways you can make yourself 5% more comfortable or joyful.

When your needs are met, your generosity flows from a much healthier place. Period.

What about you? What helps you keep resentment at bay in your relationships?

I’m here to tell you, it does not.

Although I *totally* understand why people say this.

Because if they told you the truth—that it doesn’t get easier or go away; it just sits heavily on your chest and every day you feel like you’re about one Joni Mitchell guitar chord away from completely losing your shit—then you’d never get out of bed again.

It’s a lie we have to tell ourselves just so we can function…you know, keep grocery shopping and taking showers and all that.

I lost my mom 4 years ago today and the grief does not feel any lighter. If anything, it feels heavier. Stronger. Darker. The injustice of her diagnosis and the indignity with which she was ripped away from us still haunts me. If I think too hard or too long about everything she’s missed, I start to spiral. What’s the point of *any of this* if my mom isn’t here to see it and share in it?

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A lot of people have coMpLicaTeD relationships with their moms. But I didn’t. Mine was really simple. She was the sun. She made everything warm.

It reminds me of a griefy Jessmyn Ward passage I love:

I’m mixing metaphors, but whatever. My mom would still think this was all brilliant writing because she thought everything Becca and I did was brilliant. She brought flowers to orchestra performances in which I was VERY mediocre. No solo. No special part. Just me, under-rehearsed and winging it, sitting two or three rows deep in the Second Violin section. And her, cheering so loudly I could hear her in the dark otherwise-anonymous audience, waiting for me at the end with a big smile and bouquet of flowers. She was always waiting in the wings or the bleachers, cheering on my mediocrity.

Mom, I hate that no one else is you. How there is no replacement or medicine for this grief. No understudy or backup mom on standby. Nothing feels the same. Everything is just a little bit grayer. A little bit worse.

I wish you could meet Pippa and see the girls together. Tell me which parts remind you of Becca and me. Recite the same stories again and again.

I wish I could call you after a hard day and you could tell me I’m doing a great job and I’m not irrevocably fucking up the girls or my life. That I’m smart and beautiful and creative and enough. I wish my final memories of you weren’t so strong and didn’t poison the millions of beautiful ones. I’d love to solely focus on the illustrations you drew on goody bags (aka brown paper bags) for our birthday parties. The size of your smile when you’d pick me up me after school.

Sometimes I’ll see an older woman in the grocery store hunching her shoulders ever so slightly and I’ll start to cry. I’ll see a grandmother with her granddaughter sharing a muffin at Starbucks and need to leave. Life looks and feels so different now. I’m nostalgic every day for how things used to be and furious over what I feel robbed of. Your death feels like a personal attack.

It’s a confusing and emotionally fraught balancing act, that I fail at every tenth attempt. I’m always looking for ways to stay busy, honor my feelings, practice gratitude, and also push myself out of the darker spirals when necessary (I went to see Kyle Mooney’s comedy show on Monday night with friends and my face still hurts from laughing). But I cannot figure out that magical combination in a sustainable way.

If you’re in the midst of grieving your parent, sibling, spouse, partner, BFF…then I’m so sorry. And if you’ve been spared this particular flavor of heartbreak (so far), then that’s wonderful.

I’m no expert by any means, but here’s an article I wrote with tips for both people who are grieving and for those who want to support their friends or loved ones who are:

As for me, I’m honoring my mama today in small ways. I’ll listen to a playlist of songs that remind me of her. I’ll probably grab a coffee and order some art supplies. I’ll text my sister and my dad and anyone else who is missing her extra hard today. Because really, what else can I do? I mean, today is hard. But so is every day without her.