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Some losses are meant to be quiet. Some friendships end off-screen. You retreat, you let silence settle around what’s ending, you start the work of metabolizing grief in private. But they keep knocking on the door, asking for updates, for reassurance that you’re not too angry, that they’
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Sometimes you only spend a couple of hours with someone, but think about them ten times as much afterward. More than work. More than the person you actually share a life with. More than anything that should reasonably matter. And no, it isn’t love. Which makes it worse, because
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We’ve built this Tower of Babel out of apps, and somehow nobody actually says anything. How can we have a thousand ways to communicate and still fail so miserably at it? Why can’t someone who friends you actually talk to you if you friend them back? It’s
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The bed’s made when I arrive. Sometimes the corners are tucked tighter than I remember. It’s a quiet kind of kindness—someone still smoothing the evidence of my unrest. There’s a love that shows up like that: steady, practiced, predictable. A love that stays when the thrill
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I’ve never written for everyone. The self-help crowd can clutch their pearls, but their advice never landed. None of it sounded like me. I kept trying to fit my grief, my anger, my half-healed hope into their pastel affirmations, and it always felt like wearing someone else’s skin.
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It takes two to tango. One of my favorite lines—and true, too. I didn’t get here by myself. I’m not standing at the edge of a new life alone. There’s still someone beside me, at least for now. They’re waiting for their next chapter, too.
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I’ve been thinking about lasts lately. Not in a grim way. Well—maybe a little. Depends on your definition. I don’t mind thinking about death or endings or how it all goes down. Why pretend otherwise? Death is part of life. I’m not Thelma-and-Louising my way off
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If life starts feeling good, don’t panic. Don’t stop to overthink it. Don’t dismantle it looking for the catch. Keep moving. I spent years not writing because that voice—you know the one—ran the show: You’ll never be good enough. You’re from a small
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I spend so much of my time thinking. Thinking turns into planning. Planning turns into “what if.” What if the car doesn’t start tomorrow? What if my boss hated the email I sent? What if my spouse is carrying some unspoken disappointment? It never ends. The “what ifs” sprout
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The year I stopped being an emotional bouncer and let myself in.
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No one tells you that loneliness has its own logic. That after decades in the same rhythm—same partner, same habits, same jokes—you can still be startled by connection. Sometimes it happens with someone younger, someone who reminds you of a version of yourself that used to feel alive.
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It started slow. They always do. The small betrayals aren’t the kind you can name—they build quietly, molecule by molecule, like carbon monoxide in the air. You don’t smell it. You don’t see it. You just start feeling tired all the time. Wouldn’t it be