It has not been a good week to be on the marketing and PR teams of Callaway and Good Good Golf. Now, I must admit, I had never heard of the latter until a couple days ago when their indefensible excuse for an advertisement went live. Only to be promptly killed shortly thereafter as the inevitable tidal wave of backlash swept in.

Apparently it began as a YouTube channel and has grown into a digital media company that also produces golf apparel. That YouTube channel now boasts over two million subscribers. I saw one article describe them as the “Jackass of Golf”. As in the movie franchise where men do ridiculous and sometimes dangerous stunts to shock and entertain an audience of (typically) bros.

No wonder I hadn’t heard of them.

I am not their target demographic. But, apparently, according to them, dudes who find violence against women to be funny are. The men behind this video are—rightfully—getting destroyed right now. People are questioning their beliefs, their values, and their decision making capabilities. As they should. I mean, it almost sounds like these men might be too sensitive to be in positions of authority. After all, knocking a woman to the ground and standing menacingly over her while issuing a threat simply because she almost touched your new golf club seems a tad over dramatic, no? Perhaps these men were just on their periods.

Plenty has been said about these particular bros and the greater issues this ad has brought up. Again, rightfully so. But as soon as you start looking at any of the comments on these posts you can’t help but notice a general theme that keeps popping up: What about the woman? And not in a, is she okay?, kind of way.

“What would make a woman agree to this?”

“What is wrong with the woman who thought this was a good video to be in?”

“She should be ashamed of herself.”

“I’m more angry with the woman for agreeing to it.”

“She should know better than that.”

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Typically I find the sage old advice of the online era to be words to live by: Don’t read the comments.

Rarely do those comments do anyone any good. The hate. The vitriol. The aggression. The complete lack of self awareness. The desire to “own” someone. It’s all so… weird. The longer I’m on social media and the internet in general the more I will continue to not understand why some people feel the need to shit on complete strangers for sport. It’s basically a challenge now. How can I find something in every post that I can absolutely rage about?

A lovely story about a puppy and duckling that become best friends and go on walks together? How dare the owners put a plastic leash around the puppies neck! THINK OF THE MICROPLASTICS. Or a frazzled parent sharing a quick and easy dinner recipe that their kids love and keeps them fed and happy? THAT MACARONI ISN’T ORGANIC YOU MUST HATE YOUR CHILDREN.

It’s a vast hellscape out there, people. Protect yourselves. Take the proper precautions. Protect your peace. And for the love of god and all that is good and holy in this world DON’T READ THE COMMENTS.

But to every rule there is always an exception. This week I found one. In the best possible way. A couple days ago I shared a reel that’s been seen by a few hundred thousand people. Now, I don’t have a few hundred thousand followers, which means it’s been seen by a hell of a lot of people who do not follow me. Usually this is a silent trigger to cue the haters to start hating. I’m used to it. In just this week alone I blocked a couple of asshat men who had made it their entire identity to torment and harass women in my comment section. No, thank you, Chad.

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My daughter started elementary school last week and let me tell you, there were tears. They started before my husband and I were even out of the classroom. And they lingered far longer than I expected. They were subtle at first and then more urgent as the reality of the situation began to set in. Mommy and Daddy were leaving. This was it. Time to be a big girl. Even if she wasn’t ready.

And by she I mean me. And the tears? They were mine.

Because my child was absolutely fine. She was so excited to bring her new backpack and lunch box into her new classroom with her new teacher and her new friends at her new school. The Big School, as she’s been calling it ever since she knew what a school was. “That’s the Big School, Mommy! That’s where I’ll go when I get bigger.”

And now she’s bigger. While I am puddle on the floor.

Where does the time go? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself quite a bit ever since preschool graduation a few months ago. When you’re caught up in the day to day of, you know, just living, it’s easy to forget how quickly things are changing around you. It isn’t until a milestone hits that you begin to realize just how many parental firsts are now in the rearview mirror. And I’ve had a lot of feelings about it.

I was pretty quiet on social media over the past week as we first prepared to start elementary school, then as the first day came, and finally as it went and we began to face the reality of a new schedule. Yes, I was busy getting everything and everyone ready for the big moment. But that wasn’t the only reason I pulled back. I didn’t feel like I had anything to post. I didn’t feel like I had anything to say. And I didn’t have the energy to try.

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Kids say the darnedest things.

Last year at a random preschool pickup one of the teachers said she had the funniest story to share about something my daughter had said that day. They had all been talking about jobs and what it means to go to work, and the kids had been sharing what their parents do for a living. Or at least their perception of what their parents do for a living. The teacher asked my then there year old what her mommy does and my adorable child responded, “Nothing! Mommy doesn’t work”.

The teacher laughed and said she knew this absolutely couldn’t be true. But not because being a stay at home parent is actually a shit ton of work. No, she knew my daughter’s grasp of reality was quite weak because there’s no way I would dress as well as I do and be so put together at pick up and drop off if I didn’t have somewhere important to be.

I laughed along with her. But, once again not for the reason she likely believed.

There was absolutely no offense taken. It was a cute story because of course three and four year olds have no idea what things in life actually require work. And that taking care of her full-time is by far the most challenging work I’ve ever done. Which includes the 16 years I spent in television interviewing some of the most difficult characters in sports while working my way up to the number one market in the country. Being a stay at home parent is not for the faint of heart.

No, I was laughing because I do, indeed, choose to dress the way I do even though I (technically) do “nothing” for work. I have no meetings to attend. No office to get to. No people to see. I just wake up most mornings and make the decision to dress as if I do.

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There were many things my daughter was excited about as we neared our trip to Denmark in June. She couldn’t wait to see her grandma, whom she calls farmor. She talked constantly about swimming in the sea. She strategized about what rides she wanted to go on at Tivoli Gardens, a quaint and lovely amusement park in Copenhagen.

And she couldn’t wait to see The Little Mermaid statue.

Ever since watching the live action movie for the first time over a year ago she has loved the music and all the sea animals. And right before we left for our trip she finished a week long theatre camp and the show they performed on the last day was The Little Mermaid. In fact, when we arrived in Denmark she was even wearing her new Ariel shoes.

This kid was ready.

First up, she saw her farmor. It was a lovely reunion and the two of them picked up right where they had left off six months prior when we were in England for Christmas. We then spent a week at the sea where she got to play in the sand and swim in the waves. It was a wonderful few days and our daughter loved every minute of it. But by the time we got back to Copenhagen she was ready for the final items on her to-see list.

We set eyes on The Little Mermaid for the first time from the water. Before Disney got its hands on the story, it was originally told by Danish writer Hans Christian Anderson back in 1837. Several decades later this famous bronze statue of The Little Mermaid was created as a tribute to the original author. It’s now a symbol of Copenhagen and has become one of the most popular stops for tourists. She sits on a rock at the edge of the water and greets bus loads of visitors every day.

On our first full day in the city we took a harbor cruise through the canals around the city. The boat, of course, paused by the statue, which we were able to see from behind. Our daughter was excited, but insisted on seeing it from the shore. So, the next day we trekked out to see her up close and personal.

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This is a hobby appreciation post. Which is something I never thought I’d type. I mean, I have always been the person who despises and dreads the most terrible ice breaker question of all time: what do you like to do for fun?

I don’t know, Donna, I’m an adult human trying to raise a kid, doomscroll just enough to stay informed while not losing my mind, make money to survive, plan and cook meals, workout regularly, get plenty of sleep, wash my face every night, drink enough water, and cultivate and maintain meaningful relationships.

Who has time for a freaking hobby?

Also, what really is a hobby? At least this used to be my main question. Every time I was asked I’d stutter and stumble before saying, well, I like to read. But, let’s be honest, I didn’t have a whole lot of time for that anymore. I felt like I didn’t have time for anything but surviving. And I know I’m far from alone in that. So, if a hobby means something you do in your free time, then I guess hanging out with my husband and daughter at home and occasionally seeing some friends?

Was that enough of an answer to get the small talk moving on? God, I hoped so.

But then January 20th, 2025, happened. And everything absolutely changed.

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I will never understand the people who say getting cancer was the best thing that ever happened to them. That having their life suddenly in doubt pushed them to reevaluate their priorities in the best ways possible. To make major changes that turned them into much better and healthier versions of themselves. I’m sorry but I call bullshit.

Yes, I totally get wanting to make the worst thing that ever happened to you seem worth it. It makes total sense that we would want to find meaning in something so awful. Some way to feel more in control of a completely uncontrollable situation. It gives a sense of accomplishment. I got cancer but I also got my life back and it’s better than ever.

For the record I would just like to state this: Fuck cancer. That mutation in my DNA, the breakdown that allowed those voracious cells to try to take over my entire body? They can fuck all the way off. Cancer is, indeed, the worst thing that ever happened to me. Not only because of what it took from me during the months and months of treatment, surgeries, and recovery. But for what it has robbed me of for the rest of my life. The ability to relax. The blissful naïveté in believing that everything is probably going to be just fine.

I don’t have the luxury of blind optimism anymore.

Instead I have physical side effects that I’ll carry for the rest of my life. Reminders of what I was forced to endure just to get back being me again. Or at least a version of me that wasn’t plagued by cells that were trying to kill me. That’s one of the aspects of a cancer diagnosis that made me the most angry during treatment. I was going through absolute hell. And my reward? Well, IF treatment was successful, a best case scenario of being exactly where I was before it all began. It wasn’t like I pushed my body to the brink for nearly a year and in the end I gained superpowers. I mean, I didn’t get an improved title or education. I didn’t have a tangible thing I built or created. There wasn’t even visual proof that I had accomplished anything.

I looked exactly the same. And I was one of the lucky ones. For many treatment leaves them looking and feeling even worse for weeks, months, and sometimes years later.

But as debilitating as the physical side effects can be, it’s the mental and emotional toll that might top it all. Because unless you’ve been through the trauma of a cancer diagnosis you can’t truly understand the silent fear you will carry with you for the rest of your life. The worry that any little ache or pain means the cancer is back. The terror in even thinking about what it would be like to go through treatment again. And the anxiety that comes with worrying about when the next shoe will drop.

So, no, cancer is very far from the best thing that has happened to me. And at the same time it has given me lessons I never asked for. But that have now shaped who I am as a survivor.

These are some of the things I’ve learned over the past four years:

Cancer is forever

I think I dropped hints with a sledgehammer about this one already. Cancer never really goes away. Sure, the actual cancer cells might (hopefully), but the affects will always linger. Even when you don’t even realize it.

You can’t take anything for granted anymore. Especially your health. And when your health is not a guarantee, that insecurity easily seeps into other parts of your life. Because once the worst case scenario has happened to you, you understand how easily it could happen again. Suddenly, “it’s probably no big deal,” becomes a phrase your brain completely rejects.

Maybe there will be some positive side effects, as well. Perhaps your priorities come into focus. Or you stop sweating the small stuff and start focusing on what matters. What you actually can control.

But the low key anxiety will always be there.

There is no way to fully prevent cancer

One of the worst parts about a cancer experience is the time between diagnosis and the start of treatment. Those days and weeks when uncertainty is high and fear even higher. You don’t have the routine of treatment to focus on. You’re just waiting. And wondering.

I had four weeks between diagnosis and my first radiation session. And at the beginning of that month I started reading everything I could about how to survive cancer. I picked up books that described the experience as a fight. One you could win. But only if you made some crucial changes to your lifestyle.

A few chapters into one of these books I told Marc that I was going to have to go vegan. That it must have been all the meat and animal products I’d consumed over the years that led to my cells revolting against me. At the very least, I said, I needed to cut out all sugar. Sugar feeds cancer cells. And cancer cells were trying to kill me. Therefore, sugar must be to blame.

Shortly after that realization my oncology nurse walked us through the chemotherapy process and began preparing us for what was about to happen. She handed me a stack of information thicker than any book I had been flipping through. These pages were all about the drugs I was about to take, what side effects to expect, and how to best get through treatment. All very important information, but the nurse made sure to highlight one page in particular at the bottom of the stack. The one that explained that sugar feeds ALL cells in the body. Not just cancer cells. We need sugar to survive. And because the effects of treatment were going to be brutal and yet I needed to remain as physically strong as possible, I should eat whatever food sounded good. Whatever food I could stomach. Whatever food that would get me through to the other side of treatment.

I went home and got rid of all those books. And instead I focused on what I needed to survive each day. Yes, there will always be risk factors for cancer. Smoking, alcohol, and a lack of physical activity are all at the top of the list. But even removing every single risk factor you can control will not guarantee cancer never affects you. And if it already has, it can’t guarantee the cancer won’t come back.

I did not cause my cancer. I did nothing wrong. I live in an environment where many things are out of my control. I was healthy, active, and I have never smoked anything in my life. And I still got cancer. My dad was one of the most active people I knew. Not only had he never smoked but he also didn’t drink alcohol. He was the picture of health. Until he was diagnosed with stage IV prostate cancer which quickly took him from us at the age of 66.

Meanwhile, some people will drink and smoke their entire adult lives and never experience cancer.

So much of it is a crapshoot.

I’ve learned to try to control what feels controllable, and to live my life without worrying about every little thing. Do I still eat meat? Every day. Do I still drink alcohol? A few times a week. Do I spend my precious time managing supplements, diet, and chasing longevity? Absolutely not.

I didn’t fight so hard to stay alive only to not live that life in a way that leaves me feeling fullfilled and happy.

No cancer is the same

One of my first thoughts after diagnosis was, I don’t want to lose my hair. Like many of us, I assumed chemotherapy meant hair loss. But chemotherapy is an umbrella term for a laundry list of drugs used to treat various cancers. And it turns out, my brand of cancer required a drug that did not cause hair loss. Oh, I had plenty of other terrible side effects to deal with. But temporarily going bald was not one of them.

Not only does each type of cancer and its treatments affect people differently, but even the same cancer can have a completely different affect on each individual. When it comes to cancer, nothing should ever be assumed.

Every cancer patient and survivor is walking their own path. There will be similarities for many, but no one can know exactly what anyone else is going through.

Getting diagnosed will change your relationships

You might survive cancer but not all of your relationships will.

Immediately after my diagnosis I had to figure out how to tell everyone in my life. My immediate family and my best friend knew immediately. But in that first week I had very little energy to tell anyone else. Once my scans were complete and we knew exactly what we were facing I made a list of about five good friends whom I wanted to make sure heard the news from me and not a social media post.

I texted each of them and told them I wasn’t ready to talk about it, but that I needed them to be in the loop. One of those friends called immediately, despite my insistence that I didn’t want to talk. She was devastated and we cried together. For the next couple weeks she checked in often and made sure my family and I had what we needed. Then I started treatment and suddenly she was gone.

Over the next several months I would realize she wasn’t coming back. We lived in different states, so geographically some distance was unavoidable. But she stopped talking to me and texting all together. And in the moment I was too exhausted and weak to process any of it. Then as I recovered I began to realize just how shitty she had made me feel. She essentially ghosted me when I needed her most.

We’ve never spoken since.

But for all the relationships that couldn’t survive the trauma of diagnosis, others blossomed. Some that I never expected. There were people who checked in on my regularly who I hadn’t heard from in months. They showed up and kept showing up. Even when I didn’t have the energy to properly engage with them. And years later we still connect semi-regularly. That has been a very pleasant side effect of cancer.

And while a diagnosis can put a major strain on partnerships, if cancer showed me anything it’s just how much I love and can rely on my husband. Our experience brought us closer together and proved we not only could but would uphold all our wedding vows. Happily.

Support groups aren’t for everyone

I didn’t know anyone who had been diagnosed with colorectal cancer, let alone rectal cancer. There was no one to look to for advice or guidance. Just my care team who, admittedly, weren’t used to dealing with a rectal cancer patient as young as I was.

Support groups sounded like the answer. Until I started going through treatment. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why the idea of a support group did not make me feel good. Because why wouldn’t being around people who were going through what I was going through be anything but positive? Then I realized something important. I didn’t want to be around people going through what I was going through. I didn’t want to normalize my experience. I just wanted it to be over.

And as I moved further into treatment and survivorship there was an even bigger factor with support groups that I wanted—no, needed—to avoid. The possibility of recurrence. I woke up every day promising myself that I was going to survive. That is what kept me going. And when my post treatment scans started coming back clean, I told myself the cancer was gone. That it couldn’t come back.

So, the idea of being with people whose cancer does come back was something I simply could not face. I could not let myself believe even for a second that I could have a recurrence. I already knew how possible it was. But I didn’t need living proof of that possibility.

I also couldn’t bare the weight of other people’s struggles. Mine were heavy enough. I did not have the capacity to even sit with more pain and trauma.

Now that I’m on the other side of treatment with a positive outcome, I have no problem talking to people still in the thick of it. I actually find comfort in sharing my story with them and lending support during such a difficult time. It helps me process my own experience. But you still won’t find me at any survivor support groups.

Those support groups are incredibly helpful for many people. But not all. And that’s okay.

Most people will never truly understand

And that’s both a good and bad thing.

It’s good because that means most people in your life will never have to go through something as terrible as a cancer diagnosis. And it’s bad because most people in your life will never truly be able to relate to the experience.

When I was going through treatment I never thought, why me? Because, why not? This could happen to anyone and I’m not delusional enough to think I should be immune to such trauma. Instead the thought I couldn’t shake was, why not everyone else?

Because here I was feeling physically terrible, dealing with side effects I wouldn’t wish on anyone, while also balancing a whole new level of regular fear and anxiety. And everyone around me just seemed to be going about their lives as if nothing was wrong. Because for most of them, nothing was wrong. At least not as wrong as cancer. I didn’t want them to all be facing what I was facing, but it felt like such a cruel twist of fate that they didn’t even have to consider all the things I was forced to confront daily. All I wanted was to plan my daughter’s first birthday and first holiday season with joy and freedom. Instead I was ordering random pieces of party decorations and presents from my bed in the aftermath of another cycle of chemo.

It felt so unfair. Because it is unfair.

There’s power in survivorship

“Well, I guess you’ll be able to add ‘cancer survivor’ to your list of accomplishments.”

That’s what Marc said to me as we drove home from our initial appointment with my radiation oncologist. He was the first of my care team to tell me that, with the treatment recommended, a full recovery was expected. That’s the moment I stopped only thinking of this diagnosis as the worst thing that ever happened to me (even though it still was), and began to consider what it could mean for the rest of my life.

I now have a unique perspective on that life. I have a better understanding of just what and how much I can endure. And I can relate to other people’s pain in a way not possible before going through my own.

As a result I’m now choosing to talk about and share my experience as much as possible. I want to create awareness and understanding about the greatest cancer killer in men and women under the age of 50. I want to break through the embarrassment we have around bodily functions to encourage people to freely and openly talk about poop with their doctors. And I want to connect with those going through what I have been through to offer hope and understanding that they are not alone. Yes, this is the worst time of your life. AND it is temporary.

I couldn’t do any of that before my diagnosis. It would never have even occurred to me to try. Because I didn’t have the understanding or experience to pull it off.

Being a survivor brings a level of authority. Sure, I’d much rather not be an armchair expert on all things colorectal health. But now that it’s a potentially positive side effect from my diagnosis, I will take it.

Cancer is not the best thing that has ever happened to me. Not by a long shot. But surviving cancer has shaped who I am going forward.

And I’m pretty proud of her.

It’s a controversial take.

Not because there’s anything actually alarming in the message, but because it goes against everything society currently champions. It’s a grifter’s world and we’re just living in it. There is no shortage of self-help “experts” out there who are more than happy to tell you all the ways you are doing it completely and totally wrong. Because once they’ve let you know how broken you are, well, then they can swoop in with the answers as to how to fix it all up.

For a fee, of course.

We’ve all seen it and many of us have fallen into the trap once or twice. Or 50 times. Hey, no judgement. The system is rigged against us and far too many people have realized they can weaponize our insecurities. All to pad their wallets.

I mean, who doesn’t want the quick fix answers? I, for one, would absolutely love if someone could properly tell me how to make my life finally go according to plan. Someone to give me the roadmap to all the success in the world. I am excellent at following directions. I swear. I would crush life if only someone told me exactly how to do it.

But here’s the problem: no one actually knows.

One of the most common messages I receive on social media is from single women asking me what I did to finally meet my husband. How I went from never having been in a relationship at 35 years old, to marrying my person at 38. How everything changed practically overnight when I walked into a bar on the Upper East Side of Manhattan one Friday evening in May, 2015. How my lack of dating luck suddenly turned into a windfall of love. How exactly I got my happy ending so they can try to mirror it for themselves.

Oh, how I wish there was a simple answer.

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“Do we need to cancel our trip?”

Four years ago last month Marc asked me this just days before we were set to fly across an ocean to finally visit his family for the first time since the pandemic began. We hadn’t seen his mum or brother in two and a half years and we couldn’t wait to introduce them to our six month old daughter. My mother in law’s first grandchild.

But something wasn’t right. Three days before our flight I finally found myself sitting in the office of a colorectal surgeon. I was there to talk about having the external hemorrhoid I’d developed during pregnancy removed. I hated that thing and wanted it gone. Along with the constant bleeding I had been experiencing for months that I was conveniently blaming on that tiny nuisance. But the woman who—unbeknownst to me at the time—would soon become the leader of my care team wasn’t so quick to schedule hemorrhoid removal surgery. She knew something else was going on.

After a quick rectal exam she informed me the bleeding I had been experiencing for nearly a year and a half had nothing to do with my hemorrhoids. A colonoscopy needed to be scheduled immediately. It was becoming quite clear that the situation was far more serious than I had let myself believe. But I still couldn’t bring myself to consider just how serious.

So, when Marc asked if we needed to cancel our trip so I could get the colonoscopy right away I quickly shot him down. “Absolutely not,” I said. “I’m fine. I have to be fine. I mean, how can I be sick? I just had a healthy pregnancy and I feel better than I have in a couple years.”

And because this trip was so important for Marc and for our family, we both pretended to believe it. We needed to believe it. I was okay. This was probably no big deal! Doctors just like to be thorough. That’s all this was.

A few days later we set off for England, my fear and anxiety tucked away nicely into my carry-on.

Three weeks ago we set off on a similar trip. Marc’s mum’s birthday is around the time of the summer solstice and in the 11 years since I’ve known him we’ve tried to celebrate with her as often as possible. Four years ago we timed our trip to coincide with her birthday, and this year we were on our way to Europe to cheers her 80th trip around the sun. My mother in law is Danish so this year we were heading to Denmark to celebrate with her extended family. The dates of this vacation were almost identical to that trip to England four years prior.

And didn’t I know it.

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Once upon a time I was doing life coaching work. Part of that life coaching work was a group coaching program I created for single women. A program of which I am still very proud. It was definitely the best thing to come out of that chapter of my life. I was only able to run the program once because, well, life. There’s nothing like having a baby and then getting slammed with a cancer diagnosis to put everything on hold.

But that group will always hold a very special place in my heart and I will forever be grateful to those eight women for trusting me to be a (small) part of their own stories.

As I put together the program I made up a welcome package with a journal, The Life Actually Company tote bag, and a book. What book was it? Well, I had no shortage of dating how-tos to choose from. There are SO many books out there targeting single women—exploiting single women, if you will. So many writers who are all too eager to tell you all the things you are doing wrong and then provide all the answers on to how to fix it.

If you’ve been following along with my writing you will likely know that none of those books were going to come anywhere near the women I was working with. I would have them outlawed if I could. No, there was only one book that was making my cut. Only one book I knew of that beautifully encapsulated something so vital to human existence. And only one book that normalized that something and made it more acceptable to experience and feel.

The book? How To Survive The Loss of a Love. The something? Grief.

That is such a loaded word. Grief. It’s big and heavy and scary. And all too often it is associated with death. You are allowed to grieve the forever loss of someone you loved. But something? Well, that couldn’t really be such a big deal, could it? The idea of grief is reserved for dealing with the absolute finality of life. The seven stages of coping with no longer being near a person who meant so much. So, all too often that leaves us believing any other pain or disappointment is unworthy of the grieving process. I mean, it’s no big deal when people are out there actually dying, right?

This belief is truly unfair to the concept of grief. And truly unfair to all of us. Because we actually experience it on a regular basis. Or should, if we’d allow ourselves to. If we understood it better.

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Single ladies know, it’s rough out there.

It’s been 11 years since I was “out there” and I think I can safely say, the dating scene has only gotten more challenging. More barren. And requires more work. So much more work. And is finding a healthy and committed relationship really supposed to require back breaking work? In short, no.

I recently saw a poll on Instagram asking married women if they would ever get married again if they lost their spouse. I don’t remember if this was a formal survey or just someone getting curious. I don’t remember numbers or details. And I don’t know where I saw it or who conducted it. (Great start to this whole topic, right?) But what I DO remember is the general result. Happily married women overwhelmingly said they would never get married again. They would remain single.

Because they have absolutely no desire to even try again.

Those results might seem shocking in a society that bases women’s value on how well they adhere to traditional standards. Are they married? How many children do they have? Are they sexually desirable? Without being overtly sexy, of course. [insert eye roll] Do men value them? What do they provide if not being the seen-but-not-heard half of a heterosexual relationship?

Barf.

The older I get the less interested I am in becoming what men want me to be. And I can’t imagine back going to a place where I had to care again. It doesn’t seem worth it. Especially with the manosphere raging around us and the idea of alpha males infiltrating the minds of way too many men out in the dating world. There’s nothing quite like the fear of getting involved with a conservative to make you swear off men absolutely and completely.

I also understand how all of this could come across to single women still looking for their person. It sounds pretty insensitive. It’s rude. And I can understand how offensive it might be. Here’s me, a very happily married woman with a child who now has the audacity to say I could do without the companionship of a man if anything were to happen to mine.

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I would like to think I’m finally just out here living my best boring life.

Yes, I do mean boring. Hours after I was diagnosed with stage 3b rectal cancer, which was months after finally having our miracle baby, which was a year after multiple failed rounds of IVF, which was months after losing both my father and father in law within five months of each other, which was shortly after making a complete career change — got all that? — my husband choked back tears as he said to me, “I just want to live a boring life with you.”

Same, dude. Same.

But boring was not in the cards. At least not immediately. First I would find myself just trying to survive. Through treatments that made me far sicker than I ever was before they began. Through two major surgeries that left me first with a temporary ileostomy bag, and then with lifelong side effects. And then as I navigated my way into survivorship, which in so many ways has been harder than the actual cancer treatment. But survive I did. And now, after over three years with no evidence of disease, I’m finally starting to let a bit of my guard down.

Is this when the boring part can begin? Has it already? Will it last?

Can I trust it?

If history is to be believed, well, I’m not too sure. That uncertainty goes back several years. Very few things in my life made sense after I left television. I didn’t have a solid plan for what to do next. I wasn’t exactly sure who I even was or wanted to be without the title of Sports Reporter backing me up. And I had some major PTSD about working for someone else ever again. My plan (that really wasn’t much of a plan) was to go off on my own. To work for myself. To figure it out as I went. Because I really had no idea what I was doing.

Those were some dark months early on. The only constant I could rely on was Marc, who went from my fiancé to husband in that first year. Everything about our relationship made sense. But I had always made my own money and supported my lifestyle without any help. I felt all shades of worthless without that steady paycheck coming in.

My initial plan was to give it a go as a fashion influencer. I have always had a clothing obsession and I loved putting together looks and styling my everyday NYC life. Plus, Marc is an incredible photographer and was more than happy to take as many pictures of me as I wanted. We even upgraded his camera and glass (as the cool kids call lenses) and were in a pretty good groove of photoshoots and posts. I was just starting to feel like I was gaining some (small) traction around the time of our wedding. Maybe I could possibly make this work.

Then came our first dose of bad news.

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The last week of our school year has now come and gone. And suddenly I no longer have a preschooler. Which is crazy because I’m not really getting any older. And while I didn’t have a baby until I was 42 I’m somehow still only 35. My four-and-a-half year old is actually still a toddler, who’s really only a newborn. Some days my c-section scar still seems raw. Others I can’t even remember what it was like to be pregnant.

Time is wild, man.

I spent so many years waiting for this chapter of my life to begin. The parenthood chapter. And throughout those years there were many moments of wondering if it was actually meant to be. Many moments of believing my time had passed. That I would never get the experience of being pregnant. And that I would miss out on the great responsibility and joy of introducing a tiny human to the world.

Then it finally happened. Nearly four and a half years ago our daughter came into the world and changed it completely and forever. It was much later than I ever expected and also right on time. As if the pace of it all couldn’t have been more perfect. Suddenly being a first-time mom over 40 seemed exactly right for me. Sure, I laughed with some of my oldest girlfriends as we realized that when they became empty nesters I would have a preschooler. But I was here for it. Just when I was at a point in my life where I was ready to stop having everything be about me, when I wanted to stay at home and be with my family, here I was with a perfect reason to slow it all down. A new chapter that gave me a new purpose. One that ensured there would be no midlife crisis on the horizon. It isn’t as easy to question your life’s purpose now when a small being needs you for everything from love and protection to wiping their bottom. The timing was right on.

And then that time just started flying by.

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Last week I noticed blood.

We were already stressed out and exhausted. My four year old was on day three of a terrible preschool illness. Here fever was hovering around 103 and she was only sleeping for a couple hours at a time overnight. I was so tired and so scared. She never gets a fever, so seeing that temperature was frightening. Seeing your child sick is one of the most helpless parts of parenthood. I hate it.

And while my focus was on my daughter and making sure she was okay, I couldn’t help but also think about how this plague was coming for me. There was no way I could have a tiny person repeatedly cough into my mouth and eyeballs and not get hit with it. It wasn’t a matter of if, it was a matter of when.

So, yeah, I was feeling it all as I stopped in the bathroom after putting her down for the night. Or at least for a couple hours until she woke up needing more medicine. That’s when I saw it. Blood in the toilet bowl. I completely froze.

Now, I’m no stranger to rectal bleeding. Not since being diagnosed with stage 3b rectal cancer nearly four years ago. There was the initial bleeding that presented as my only real symptom. And then there had been all sorts of hemorrhoidal bleeding since treatment ended. A side effect of life with half a rectum. Ever since my surgeries to remove all the affected parts of my digestive tract I have been prone to hemorrhoid flareups here and there.

But this bleeding wasn’t hemorrhoids. It wasn’t drops of blood that fill the bowl and remind you of a crime scene. No, this was bloody mucus. And bloody mucus is exactly the type of bleeding I had at diagnosis.

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“I’m so sorry, I need to run to the bathroom real quick.”

I said that a lot over the last few days. I always add the “real quick” at the end. I am rarely actually quick.

This is nothing new for me. At least not in the last three-plus years. Marc is very used to hearing it. He has always been incredibly understanding and supportive of me and what I need to do. He never complains and is always concerned for my wellbeing. He’s always checking in and asking what he can do to help me feel better. And he always has his phone handy. Just in case. It’s necessary when you suddenly find yourself alone as often as he does.

We just spent a long weekend in Mexico to celebrate our eight-year anniversary. Three years ago we left Mari for the first time to celebrate our five year anniversary—also in Mexico—and vowed we would always go away, just the two of us, once every year. Even if it’s just for a night. That alone time is necessary for us to reconnect and recharge. Raising a toddler is no joke.

It was a beautiful long weekend. The weather was perfect, the drinks were flowing, the food was great, and the relaxation was exactly what we needed. But that’s not exactly the whole story. Because for every pretty picture I posted on Instagram there were plenty of moments that definitely weren’t making the grid.

As is life.

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“Why couldn’t we have met 10 years ago?”

I used to say this to Marc a lot when we first started dating. We met the day I turned 35 and a half. And yes, the half matters. I say this all the time but it will never not be true: when you are chasing life milestones you think you should have already achieved by a certain age, half years matter. You can’t not focus on the passage of time and how much older you get with each day that goes by. Each day that goes by with you not having the thing (or things) you want so badly.

By the time I met Marc I had been actively searching for a relationship for a couple decades. Even back in high school I constantly had a crush on someone. And even back in high school I couldn’t understand why all my friends found themselves with boyfriends while all my crushes found themselves with girlfriends who weren’t me. Of course, this led to all sorts of self reflection. Which, to me meant wondering how I was screwing it all up. What was I doing to make myself the only one not worthy of a relationship?

That “self reflection” would not win any awards with a certified therapist, but it was really good at following me into adulthood. I constantly wondered what was wrong with me and how I had managed to absolutely piss off the dating gods. Or—worse yet—the universe.

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My dad was not one to give love advice. He and I were always close but he was never the one I went to when my heart had been broken. Or when I had a crush. Or when I wasn’t sure if a guy was interested. He stayed in his parenting lane, and that lane did not include affairs of the heart.

But I will always remember the two pieces of wisdom he did choose to share. His only ventures into my romantic life. And he shared both of them when I was very young. Before I was even considering the idea of boys being anything but icky. Because he knew it was better to be armed with this information earlier than necessary rather than too late.

The first piece of George wisdom: you can never change a person. He warned me of the dangers of going into a relationship with someone you were interested in based on potential. Someone you cared about deeply if only…

“It will never happen,” he told me. No one will change unless they truly want to. And there is never a guarantee that realization will happen. If you’re dating someone based on who you think they could become, run. Get out. This will not end well.

Decades of dating and marriage later I’ve found no evidence to the contrary. The first piece of relationship advice is a 10/10. No notes.

As for the second, I laughed when he first shared it. Probably because I was a child who still deeply believed the Disney fairytale version of life was real. And that it was absolutely okay (and so romantic!!) to willingly give up your ability to speak in order to have a shot at getting a man to like you.

Anyway…

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I have absolutely no idea how it is almost May already. I guess time flies when you’re having fun. Or watching the fall of democracy. Or just trying to fucking survive.

Anywho… There have been terrible things this month, the cost of living is insane, and we continue to be gaslit by this current administration. But despite all of that — or maybe because of it — it’s so important to take the time to appreciate the little things. Because a little gratitude goes a long way when it comes to preserving our sanity.

April started with my family’s trip to Mexico. It was our first time taking a vacation together with all the grandkids. And without my dad. There were A LOT of emotions to go around. But it was the most magical week in an absolutely gorgeous place. I was responsible for the idea and most of the planning so I felt a lot of pressure for everyone to have fun. I mean, I knew where we were going so I knew it was going to be incredible. But there’s always a fear that people won’t enjoy it in the way you hope they will. And the way you plan for. So, when everyone is still talking about wanting to go back a few weeks later I know it was a success.

That’s why my first favorite from this month has to be the house we rented in Puerto Vallarta. La Casa Buena Vida was everything we could have hoped for and more. From the moment Marc and I first spotted it from our neighboring resort two years ago we have been building it up in our head. And I can now safely say it lived up to all of our expectations and more. This was not a sponsored stay. They didn’t even know I had any sort of social media following until I started tagging them in posts after our stay. So, there is no pressure on my part to generate a positive spin. It was just the best spot for a family vacation.

We stayed in the poolside room with Mari crashing on the massive couch that was bigger than a twin sized bed. Meanwhile, my brother and sister-in-law took the two rooms on the second level for them and their three kiddos. While my mom got a little separation in the beautiful blue room on the top floor. There were no complaints. Other than that we had to leave after five nights.

The staff was also incredible. Shout-out to the chef, Miguel, for somehow delivering exceptional meals every day that appealed to both adults and a four and six-year-old.

My most worn item on that trip was the $30 linen blend button down I grabbed right before we left. It was an impulse buy but one that totally paid off. And I’ve now bought another in pink and am currently eyeing the yellow. It’s lightweight and perfect for summer. And since it’s a linen blend the wrinkling isn’t out of control. I was able to dress it up and down and highly recommend!

Instead of reading by the pool I found myself grabbing my knitting. Yes, I’m apparently now that person! Which is just fine with me. I only started knitting back in January, so I’m very much a newbie. But one of my original goals was to knit an actual sweater. And I found the perfect pattern for a first-timer. It’s the Ruke Knit Mohair Muse Sweater. I haven’t finished it yet, but I’m well on my way. And I’m so proud of myself for figuring it out.

This is my favorite swim cover-up that I keep coming back to every summer. It’s an oversized shirt in a linen/cotton blend and it’s the perfect length. I originally got it when I was pregnant and sized up to a medium, but I loved the larger fit after having the baby, too. So I continue to reach for it every time I need to throw something on over a swimsuit. I have the flax color and just ordered one in white as well.

As the weather warms up I find myself just wanting to make margaritas and sit by the pool. Last year when Marc and I were in Cancun the resort made the best hibiscus margaritas that I recreated at home over the summer. But then it got colder and I forgot about them. That is until our trip earlier this month. Our welcome cocktail just happened to be a hibiscus margarita and I knew that it would need to be back in the rotation when we got home.

It’s a pretty simple recipe. I found a big bag of dried hibiscus flowers and basically make an Agua de Jamaica, which is a hibiscus tea that’s very popular in Mexico. Then I add a couple ounces to a regular margarita recipe and that’s it!

We don’t like the hibiscus to be too sweet, so this is the recipe I’ve landed on:

Agua de Jamaica/Hibiscus Tea

• 3 cups water

• 1/3 cup sugar

• 3/4 cup dried hibiscus flowers

Dissolve sugar in water over heat. Use more sugar if you prefer a sweeter taste. Add hibiscus flowers and bring to boil. Remove from heat and let steep for 15 minutes. Drain.

As for the margarita, you can make this spicy or not. For spicy we infuse our own tequila with habanero peppers. Which sounds fancy and time consuming, but it couldn’t be easier. I shared how we do it in this Instagram post.

Hibiscus Margarita

• 2 oz tequila (spicy or not)

• 1 oz Cointreau

• 1 lime

• 2 oz hibiscus water

Combine all ingredients in a shaker over ice and shake. Strain and serve. Makes one cocktail.

Another hero item from our trip — and really my every day life — is this Versed facial sunscreen. Please ignore everything Kristen Cavallari says and wear sunscreen. It’s the most important part of any skincare routine and I put it on my face every single day without fail. But I know how tricky sunscreen can be for many people. Myself included. I didn’t wear it daily for years because every one I tried made me breakout. I finally discovered this one from Versed several years ago and it is the best I’ve used. It doesn’t smell like sunscreen and doesn’t feel greasy or oily. It also doesn’t cause me to breakout. Plus, the price point is good. It’s currently sold out on the Versed website but is available at Target. I’ve been through so many tubes of this stuff. I really can’t say enough about it.

Sticking with skincare items, there’s another I can’t get enough of right now. It’s the Iris&Romeo The Reset Face Mist. It’s hydrating and refreshing. And right now it’s 20% off during Credo’s Friends and Family Sale. I spray it on as the last step in both my morning and evening routine. I’ll even dab some below my eyes right before putting on concealer in the mornings and it keeps it from settling into lines and creasing. I am all about covering certain things up with makeup but only if it doesn’t look like I’m wearing a mask. After my days in television I have been very anti foundation and anything that appears cakey. Maybe I’m just old, but I just can’t when I see all these makeup tutorials for contouring. It looks great! But in a photo or highly lit video on social media. The amount of layers of makeup actually needed just makes me cringe.

Back to this face mist… I like it so much that I have a smaller travel version that I travel with or can throw in my bag to use when needed throughout the day.

As for what we’ve been watching, oh my god The Pitt Season 2 is so good. We held off starting for a few weeks so that we wouldn’t have to wait each week for the new episode. This show is all the things. I’ve cried, laughed, gotten furious (Fuck ICE), and felt seen in many different ways. I won’t give any spoilers for those who haven’t seen it yet, but it is hands down one of my favorite things from this month. I’m sad to have finally finished the season. Whatever we watch next won’t be as good. It just can’t be. Sorry.

Finally, March may be colorectal cancer awareness month but this is a topic that needs to be talked about year round. I’m so grateful to PBS for keeping the conversation going into April. They featured me and my cancer story earlier this month on their Horizons program, which you can watch on the PBS website. They also spoke with doctors and experts in colorectal health. It’s an important episode for everyone to see. And, as always, if you are 45 or older it’s time to schedule your colonoscopy. If you are younger but have a family history or are experiencing any symptoms talk to your doctor about getting screened now.

It doesn’t matter how long I have been with my husband (nearly 11 years), or how long we’ve been married (nearly 8 years), I will never forget the feeling of staring at my phone willing it to vibrate with a text. From a guy. Who just didn’t care.

It is true I did not have an actual relationship until meeting my husband at 35 and a half. It is also true that I did not need to be in an actual relationship to have my heart absolutely shattered. Many times. Because while I never made it to girlfriend status, I certainly hoped to on several different occasions. And the result was always the same. He walked away or just disappeared, leaving me wondering what I had done to make myself completely unlovable.

There were the men who had mastered the art of the first date. The ones who listened intently to my stories, not because they cared about me, but because they wanted to know all the right things to say to hook me. To make me feel like this was the best first date ever. To make me believe I had met the one. To make me tumble down a rabbit hole of wedding and life planning after just one or two dates because clearly this was absolutely my perfect match.

I will never fully understand why they did it. Was this act meant to get women into bed? Was it a major ego boost? Was it just to prove they could? Were they bored? Was it all a fun game? Maybe it was a little of everything. Maybe it was just about power. But, the motivation didn’t really matter when I was left crying on the bathroom floor asking myself how it had all gone so wrong. Again.

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I started this week in an actual state of depression.

Yes, I know the first days back after vacation can be that way. And I often joke about it. Please take me back! I need another vacation! I can’t actually be expected to do normal things like work and cook now! But at the end of the day I’m just fine. Annoyed to have to resume real life, but fine.

This week I was not. I felt an actual emotional hangover. Not only was I tired and worn down but I felt really, really sad. I was grumpy. I felt defeated. Nothing seemed okay. It didn’t make any sense. Had I accidentally missed a few days of my antidepressant? Had something bad happened that I was trying to avoid? No and no.

Then it hit me. I was truly missing my family and our shared experience. The trip I had been looking forward to for months was over. And not only had it happened already, but it was better than I could have imagined. Yes, I was depressed. But for all the right reasons.

If that makes any sense.

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