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Ingredients 1 c nice (but not too nice) ½ c sass (measured with attitude) ¾ c piss and vinegar ¼ c depression (sub anxiety if out) ¾ c excitement ½ c risk ½ c fear Optional add-ins: * One mortgage you didn’t fully understand but signed anyway. * Maybe some kids, a few pets, or one lizard
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“Another small autopsy of connection.”
Newsletter
I’m not the target audience. For anything. Too old for the “find yourself” crowd. Too young for the “tell the grandkids about the war” set. I don’t want kids, I don’t drink coffee, I don’t think “live, laugh, love” belongs on a wall. I’m in
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Notes on trying to make friends when everyone already has theirs
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For a long time, I thought I was the problem. Everyone else seemed perfectly content living their lives. My partner—laughing warmly with coworkers—while I got the HR-representative version: measured, evaluative, like they were managing my file instead of sharing my life. My friend tossing me just enough crumbs
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File this under: things I learned by celebrating alone. The email lands: approved. You exhale at your desk, hand over your mouth like you might scare it away. You type “omg” to no one, then backspace the letters and close the tab. On the way home you rehearse the short
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A marriage isn’t supposed to feel like a job posting. But if your absence feels like relief instead of loss, that’s not love. That’s a vacancy. I know what that vacancy feels like. It’s lying in the same house with someone who can laugh warmly with
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This is the decade your friends start dying. This is the decade your parents’ health becomes fragile, if they’re even still here. This is the decade your marriage feels less like romance and more like survival. This is the decade you wonder if staying means losing yourself, but leaving
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I don’t want to see them anymore. Not because I’m angry. Not because anything happened. Just… because they’re leaving. And staying feels like letting it cut me open one slice at a time. The kindness hurts now. The small talk hurts. The way they still laugh and
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This wasn’t planned. The thoughts just wouldn't leave me alone. The thoughts. The feelings. The quiet ache of maybe I could mixed with the louder voice that always said probably not. I didn’t think I was starting a new chapter. I thought I was passing time
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Nobody handed me a license. There was no orientation. No panel of experts waiting to approve my creativity before I was allowed to use it responsibly. And for years, I took that silence as rejection. As proof that I wasn’t ready. That I wasn’t enough. That I should
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Let’s start with the hits: • I’m not a writer. • I’m not creative. • I’m too old to start something new. • No one wants to hear what I have to say. • I’ll never finish anything. • I wouldn’t even know where to begin. These weren’t passing