Blog
Thoughts, reflections, and letters exploring what it means to be human and our true nature.
When Her Weather Became Mine
My daughter’s birthday was yesterday.
At her request, I made eggplant parmesan.
On Saturday, I went to the farmers market, Costco, and Market Hall to gather everything I needed. On Sunday morning, my partner and I made tomato sauce, ricotta filling, Caesar dressing, and garlic bread. I fried slice after slice of eggplant and layered it with sauce, cheese, and fresh basil.
That afternoon, I went out to buy party hats and favors and pulled out photographs of my daughter as a child.
I wanted to make something beautiful for her.
The Word That Changed Everything.
My partner and I were driving to my son's engagement party.
In the back of his car sat a bucket overflowing with white lilies, garden roses, bright orange poppies, and blue hydrangeas.
As we climbed the hill leaving our house, the bucket tipped over.
Water rushed across the trunk, soaking everything in its path.
He started screaming. Profanities poured from his mouth. Instantly, my breath stopped. My jaw locked so hard I felt it radiate through my temples. My gut tightened. My shoulders curled inward as my body contracted before I had even formed a thought.
He got out of the car, opened the trunk, and began moving the wet packages into the back seat, wiping up the water as quickly as he could.
I quietly stepped out to help. I carried the bucket to the edge of a nearby lawn and poured out the remaining water. Then I rearranged the flowers and placed them back into the trunk.
I didn't say a word.
Why Don’t I Feel Good Enough
I felt my rage.
We were halfway through our walk, and there it was — my breath gone, my muscles pulled tight.
I am thinking: Why am I still friends with this person?
By the time we hug goodbye, I am already rehearsing the call to my partner. Everything my friend said. How superior she is. How ungrateful. I have the whole story ready, wrapped tight and righteous.
And then something stops me.
She is my mirror.
Why Do I Resent The People I love
I already knew he would need to stay.
His apartment has too many stairs. The dog had just had surgery. There was no other option. And I knew it before he asked.
That first morning, I walked into what used to be my guest room and stopped.
A mattress on the floor. A large dog bed in the center of the room, still stained from the surgery. My kitchen counter — the one I keep clear, the one that is mine — is covered in cups, medications, pill bottles, dog food, and an empty cookie container. My own dog barking behind a closed door, trying not to disturb the one recovering.
I stood there and felt it land.
Why Do I Feel Guilty Saying No to Someone I Love
About two years ago, I was doing laundry when my daughter came in, upset.
A piece of clothing had gone into the dryer that wasn't supposed to. She wanted me to look at each piece before putting it in to check the requirements for every item.
I noticed my automatic reaction immediately. Are you kidding me? What a stupid idea. The reaction was real. And I noticed it. I did not act on it.
Instead, I told her that if that was her request, I would no longer do her laundry.
That did not go over well.
It Wasn’t Complicated After All
My son is spending Christmas away for the first time.
Twenty-nine years of shared rituals, and now a quiet change.
I didn’t have an issue with him going. That part felt clean.
What hurt was something else.
I wasn’t held in mind.
Plans were made — with friends, with travel, with what came next — and somehow I wasn’t part of the orientation. When dates were offered later, they landed flat. January 25 didn’t feel like a celebration. It felt like a placeholder.
The meaning that came immediately was familiar:
I don’t matter. I’m not a priority.