This Body is Bullshit

I hear it a lot:
“I miss the old Molly.”

Well, I don’t.
She was exhausted.

People say it like I’ve slipped away somewhere and they’re just waiting for me to bounce back with glittery party invites and an armful of Jell-O shots. But the truth is, the old Molly doesn’t exist anymore. And if I’m being really honest, I’m not sure she ever did—not the way everyone remembers her.

Yeah, she was fun. Loud. The ringleader of whatever chaos was unfolding. She threw the parties, rallied the group, made everyone laugh until they cried. But she was also quietly carrying a hell of a lot. Always holding it together. Always smiling. Always on.

I’ve been through some shit.
And no, not just breast cancer—though that’s part of it.

Before that, it was loss. Single parenting. Bankruptcy. Chronic illness. Burnout. Exhaustion so deep it’s hard to explain. And then more loss. Life didn’t just knock me down; it chipped away at me piece by piece. And somehow, I’m still here—just not the same.

These days, I like different things. I like quiet. I like staying home with my dogs and husband, doing… not much. I’m a brunch bitch now. A 3 p.m. cocktail kind of gal. I still love a dinner out—good food, great conversation, a glass of wine—but then? I want to go home and put on sweatpants. I like being in my house. I like knowing where the snacks are and who’s snuggling next to me.

Honestly, I don’t really drink much anymore.
Partly for my health.
Mostly because it takes so damn much to feel a buzz, it’s just not worth it. Like—am I trying to have a good time or poison myself?

I’ll still get buzzed up and dance—who knows where, who knows when. That glimpse of “fun, annoying drunk Molly” might pop in unexpectedly. But don’t count on her too often—she’s mostly retired.

When I do go out, I’d rather head to a restaurant or somewhere with a vibe—a place with an experience. I’ll go to someone’s house, sure, but even when I love the person, part of me is thinking, “Why am I here when I could be on the couch with my dogs?” That makes me sound antisocial, but I swear I’m not. I just value comfort differently now.

Maybe that’s why I prefer hosting over being a guest. I haven’t done it much lately—money’s tight, the house needs work. It’s a little worn in these days. I’m not embarrassed—I’m proud of our home. My husband worked his ass off for it. But I still catch myself wondering what people think of our old bathroom or side-eyeing the fact that our dogs rule the house. They sleep in our bed. They’re allowed on the couch. We don’t just love them—they’re our weird little furry roommates.

Still, I miss throwing theme parties. The silly ones. The “wear something ridiculous and eat too much dip” kind. I want to bring those back.
Actually—I am bringing them back.
Be on the lookout for Muumuus and Margs.

And when I do show up—when I’m at the party and I’m not being loud or the center of attention—it doesn’t mean I’m not happy. It means I’m sitting back, watching my people laugh and dance and just be, and soaking in the joy like sunshine. That’s my sweet spot now. That’s contentment. I don’t need to be the spotlight anymore. I just want to be in the room, heart full, grateful to witness the good stuff.

I know some of this might sound weird. Like I’ve gone soft. Or boring. Or changed.

And yeah—I have.

But not because I gave up.
Because I finally let go of trying to be everything to everyone.

Now it’s presence over performance.
It’s naps and boundaries and saying no without guilt.
It’s leaving when I’m tired.
It’s listening more than talking.
It’s knowing I can still love my people without always needing to be “on.”

So no, I’m not the old Molly.

She’s gone.
She burned out.
She evolved.

And honestly?
I like this version better.