This Body is Bullshit

What 2026 Will Bring

It’s Monday and the Midwest is doing its cruel thing — yesterday was 50 degrees, today it’s 7. Raw and bitter and deeply rude. I really wanted snow on Christmas. Didn’t get it. But overall, the holidays went really well, and I’m coming off a weekend that was full in the best and hardest ways.

I did make it to the prime rib dinner Friday night, just late. Delicious as always. Aunt Susie makes everything festive and beautiful and thoughtful — she really is something else. I love spending time with Maggie’s boys. They bring such good energy into a room.

It was a little odd though.

Maggie’s husband — who, let’s be honest, is not my biggest fan, and honestly I get it, I did something years ago that landed wrong and he has never forgotten it, nor does he have to — was surprisingly warm this year. It started with a hug, which caught me completely off guard since the previous standing instruction had been no hugging. No touching at all, actually. So I genuinely did not know what to do with my body. I took it as progress and kept moving. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter whether he likes any of us — as long as Maggie and those beautiful boys of hers are happy. That’s all I need.

Christmas Eve was relaxed and casual — fajitas from Alfredo’s, which was perfect. The owner is just the sweetest man. So genuinely grateful for the business. I hope his restaurant thrives because that kind of warmth deserves it. Grace was a little off — snippy with me, acting like I was the dumbest person in the room. When she gets like that I never really know what’s going on in her emotional world. I try not to react in front of everyone, but I do quietly let her know I won’t be spoken to that way. She really won’t have it when I do, and I don’t think she even realizes when she’s doing it — which is interesting given her entire psychology background. My stepmom jokingly threatened to separate us at the table. It made me sad that everyone noticed, but we still laughed and ate well and enjoyed being together with the family and the dogs. That’s what matters.

I do my best to create Christmas magic. I probably spend too much on presents, but I truly love giving gifts. Watching people open them and hopefully love them brings me real joy. I don’t care much about receiving — though I did get a few really nice ones this year. Christmas morning at home was cozy and simple, still in pajamas. I didn’t get the backpack to carry Frank in, but that’s okay. We got dressed and headed to the annual family brunch at the Wilsons’ — grab bag where stealing is encouraged, chaos ensues, never disappoints. Came home, napped, mentally prepared for work on Friday.

Ken stayed with us Wednesday through Sunday morning, which felt really good. I was glad he wasn’t alone. He absolutely adores Fiona and she loves him right back — good for both of them.

Yesterday was the highlight of the whole stretch. My stepsister Crissy and her family came over, which almost never happens since they live in New Jersey. Usually when they’re in Illinois they’re up north with Kevin’s family, and in the past when Wes was still alive it was just hard to coordinate time together. I used to feel hurt by that, but I understand now. Crissy was honestly one of the first people I watched truly use boundaries as a way to survive, and I’ve tried to learn from her example. Her making the effort to come down and spend time at our house and at Dad and Kathy’s meant everything. We played games with the kids and my heart felt full in that quiet deep way. I miss them more than I say.

I took them to our friends’ incredible property to see the lights. They had no idea what to expect and were completely blown away. They didn’t even realize half the lights were out because of a massive rainstorm earlier in the day — which was a bummer — but it was still magical.

I love Christmas. But it hits differently now. Having Crissy’s kids and my cousins’ little ones around brings some of that magic back — especially now that Grace is grown and that particular version of Christmas has passed. It’s sad, but it’s life. I soaked up every bit of it anyway.

Physically I’m in a lot of pain, which makes everything more exhausting. The holiday busyness layered on top of everything else has made the brain fog worse — though I’m grateful my oncologist confirmed it’s the meds, not dementia. Small mercies. And underneath all the joy there’s that quiet grief that creeps in around this time of year — missing my mom, watching my dad slip further, worrying about Kathy who is overwhelmed and frustrated and doing more than anyone should have to do. I don’t blame her. I just don’t know what to do.

Christmas is strange like that. Joyful and warm and fun and also sad and heavy and melancholy, all living in the same week.

I can’t help but wonder what 2026 will bring.

Just as I hit publish on my last post, reality walked into my office and reminded me why I do this work.

I had written that entry from work, fully expecting to wrap up my day and head out to prime rib dinner. Then a young employee came in — 23 years old — and everything shifted.

He asked what kind of medical leave he could take for Friday, the day after Christmas. That immediately raised a flag. You have to work the day before and after a holiday to be paid for it — if he didn’t work Friday, he wouldn’t get paid for Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. I was skeptical.

He started explaining that he’s been having heart issues. Nervousness. Nausea. Tingling in his pinkies. The longer we talked, the more I noticed the smell of alcohol. The way he was looking at me. The way he was speaking. And eventually I asked him — very directly — if he had a problem with alcohol.

Probably not the HR textbook way to handle it. But he’s 23. And it was heartbreaking.

He wanted to work today. He’s a nice kid. He’s also had attendance issues, and if he missed any more work or left early he’d be terminated under policy. That wasn’t going to help anyone.

He avoided the question for a bit, then finally admitted it. He told me he’s had a drinking problem since he was 14. He showed me a screenshot of a treatment facility his girlfriend had already lined up for him — she was planning to take him there after work.

I told him I knew he was intoxicated and I couldn’t allow him to work. I also told him I didn’t want to terminate him. I wanted him to go straight to treatment.

That’s when it really hit him.

He put his girlfriend on the phone and I walked her through what we could do to protect his job and get him medical leave. This poor girl — calm, steady, completely devoted. I hope he knows how lucky he is to have her.

While we waited, I kept him in my office. His brother also works here. Confidentiality-wise I probably shouldn’t have said anything — but I needed someone to check on him at break. His brother broke down in tears. Said this has been a long-standing problem, that the whole family is devastated.

Watching it all unfold was a lot.

I hope I’m doing the right thing. I hope this is a turning point and not just another stop along the way. I can’t stop thinking about what Christmas is going to look like for that family this year.

So now I wait. Making sure the paperwork is right. Making sure he gets where he needs to go.

And I’ll be late to prime rib dinner.

Christmas Magic and the Light Matters

Last Thursday turned into an impromptu girls’ Christmas dinner that honestly shouldn’t have worked — but somehow did. Those last-minute plans sometimes surprise you. I got together with Megan, Carrie, and Donna, and before dinner we squeezed in photos with Santa. Yes. The four of us grown women with Santa. The pictures were ridiculous and perfect and I have zero regrets.

I worked remotely Friday because I had to take Matt in for his colonoscopy. Everything turned out fine, but we were there forever. I’d already told my dad I’d pick him up afterward to take him Christmas shopping for Kathy and then bring him back to my house to order the Kindle she wanted.

By the time I picked him up, it was dark. I ran into Nordstrom while he stayed in the car, nervous the whole time I stood in line — worried he’d get out and wander. But there he was, still waiting. We headed to a couple of shops I thought might be good for finding something unique for Kathy. I could tell immediately he was anxious. Tapping his legs, repeating questions, uncomfortable in his own skin.

First store — one quick loop and he was ready to leave. Second store — same thing. The whole point was to spend time together, get him out of the house, give Kathy a break. It wasn’t going according to plan. He just wanted to go home.

I tried to figure out if he was hungry. He said he’d already eaten dinner, which wasn’t true. I kept offering restaurants. He kept turning them down. On the drive to my house the questions kept coming, and the deep breaths — his nervous tell. He was confused about why we were ordering the Kindle from my computer at home instead of going to a store to pick it out. When we were almost there he said: just take me home, you can order it yourself.

I told him no — he needed to be there. He came inside, used the bathroom, stood over me while I ordered it, and immediately said let’s go. So much for giving Kathy a break.

I’m going to try again — during the day, in the light. I know nighttime makes things harder for people with dementia and that probably played a big role. Still, it was disheartening. Sad. Not personal — I know that. But hard. He just cannot be away from Kathy. I’m not jealous. I’m just sad that this is where he is, and I know it’s not going to get better.

Our original dinner plans got derailed by the Bears game against Green Bay Saturday night. We ended up at Kenny’s instead, which is what Heather wanted for her birthday anyway. I brought decorations so it still felt celebratory. Honestly, it was fun.

Tonight is the fancy prime rib dinner with Aunt Susie and Uncle Brad, Maggie, and her family. Aunt Susie is spreading herself way too thin making Christmas magic for everyone, and she mentioned yesterday she’s been dealing with some health issues messing with her sleep. No bueno. I need her to take care of herself. I ordered fajitas for Christmas Eve from our favorite little Mexican place and I’ll be making fruit salad for Christmas brunch at the Wilsons’, so at least those parts are easy. Then I work Friday.

Of course I do.

I’m anxious about how Dad will do on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Trying not to spiral. Mostly failing.

I’m hoping tomorrow starts to feel more like Christmas. I’m bummed it’s supposed to be 50 degrees — a white Christmas feels too far away this year. Still, I’m excited for all of it. I just also need a nap.

And I really, really hope Santa brings me that backpack to carry Frank in.

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today is my mom’s birthday. She would’ve been 78.

And today, my dad pulled a new one on us.

This afternoon at work I checked his location like I always do. Something was off — he was somewhere unfamiliar, and Kathy wasn’t with him. My stomach dropped. I called her immediately. She had no idea he’d left the house. They only have one car. I was at work. Cue instant panic.

My first call was to Aunt Susie, hoping she might already be home with the grandkids. She wasn’t — but being exactly who she is, she jumped into action immediately. Headed home, sent Uncle Brad out to search. From what little we knew, Dad was supposedly in a strip mall parking lot walking his dog. That’s what Kathy managed to get out of him on the phone. How that idea got into his head or where that location came from, we still don’t know.

I called Donna next. She and Mark dropped everything and got in the car. They arrived just as Dad found his car and pulled out of the parking lot. I stayed on the phone while they followed him all the way home.

Watching my friends chase my father around a strip mall parking lot feels surreal. Terrifying. Exhausting.

What makes it worse is that just the day before, I’d already reached out to his doctors because things felt like they were accelerating. On Friday, Dad and Kathy stopped by on their way to Costco. Kathy came in looking visibly shaken and quietly told me he’d just asked what Matt’s name was. My husband. But then Dad walked in joking like usual, greeting Matt and me, loving on the dogs — totally normal. Regular old him. They left for Costco. Then Kathy texted: he thought they’d been at Susie and Brad’s. He couldn’t remember Brad’s name.

Is that a cover-up? Or is it better than him not knowing he’d been at my house — or worse, not knowing my husband’s name? I honestly don’t know which is scarier.

And then Sunday.

His main weekend activity is watching the Bears. After the game ended, about an hour later, he asked Kathy when the Bears were going to be on. She reminded him they’d already played. They’d watched it. They’d won. Oh yeah, that’s right. An hour later, he asked again. The next morning, getting ready for the day, he asked when they were going home — then quickly corrected himself. Oh, never mind. We are home.

It’s getting scary. And sad. And devastating. We still don’t know how to navigate this.

In the middle of all that, I had my quarterly injection and a follow-up with my oncologist. My DEXA scan showed 17% bone loss since my last scan two years ago — significant and alarming. I’ll be starting infusions early next year, likely March. I adore my oncologist. He’s boisterous and funny and smart. But while we were discussing my worsening symptoms, I got the sense that he genuinely felt bad for me — and that threw me. I’m a push-through-it, power-forward, slap-on-a-grin kind of person. I think he respects that. But it was sobering.

Minimum five more years on these drugs, and they are unrelenting. The joint pain is real and significant — separate issue from the bone loss entirely. The fatigue is real. The brain fog and memory problems are real — not dementia, he assured me, just side effects. Then there’s the dry skin. The dry everything — you know what I mean. I now have a new insert for that particular problem that contains estrogen, which is deeply ironic given that the entire point of these drugs is to block estrogen. He assures me it won’t absorb systemically. There’s also a new drug coming that works more like tamoxifen — attacking instead of blocking, supposedly much easier on joints. He’s looking into whether I’d qualify. I’d be one of the first patients to try it. Not sure how I feel about being a guinea pig, but I’m listening.

The infusions should help my bones. First one may knock me flat for a couple days with flu-like symptoms. I’ll also likely experience growing pains. Growing pains. At fifty. Laughable.

I still haven’t tried the temporary nipple tattoos. My chest finally feels settled — less swollen — and I’ve realized I just don’t like the natural look. I know Dr. Fine went for natural and they’re probably perfect. But honestly? I wanted fake. Why not? I’m still going to get the tattoos eventually. I’m going to get fitted for a bra first and see if that helps me get out of my head about it — even though the whole point was never needing a bra again. If I want high and tight, a bra is required. Apparently that’s where we are.

Megan and Mike hosted the most amazing Friendsgiving. They went completely all out — so much food, games, a photo booth, reunions, and just so much love and laughter and friendship. The kind of night that reminds you chosen family is everything.

A couple weeks later was Donna’s annual girls’ Christmas grab bag party with a winter white theme. Small, perfect, exactly what it always is — lots of love, lots of laughter, a little shenanigans. I posted some pictures after and got so many compliments on how beautiful everyone looked in white. We really did look good. Another fabulous night at Club Tavo.

I cannot believe Christmas is next week.

I love Christmas. I love family. I love celebrating my people. And I am also exhausted and want to crawl into bed and do absolutely nothing. I’m trying hard to lose weight — finally dropped two pounds after what feels like forever. After the new year my cousin Jennifer will need a hysterectomy for suspected cancer, similar to what Tammy went through and thankfully came through without complications. I’m hoping the same for her. I never want to see anyone face surgery, but here we are.

Work is still nuts. Left after 6 tonight. But I’m keeping my eye on the prize — after the new year I can drop one building and get back to my people full time. Just need to get through the next two weeks.

Good things are coming. Heather’s birthday, dinner with Heather and Rusty and Ben — the Fab Five Fam. Then the Wilsons’ annual pre-Christmas prime rib dinner, fancy and fabulous and always slightly too rare for Matt and me, though that apparently is the correct way to eat it. Christmas Eve with Dad and Kathy, Matt’s mom and aunt, maybe Ken. Christmas morning at Aunt Susie and Uncle Brad’s for our annual brunch — almost exactly what my grandmother used to serve. I cannot wait for those cookies.

I really need to sit down with Aunt Susie and learn the lasagna. And the cookies. Before it’s too late to learn them from the source.

Happy birthday, Mom.

If you were still here, you’d probably be just as crazy as Dad is now.

Four Years and a Full Day

Today is four years since I lost my mom.

The death anniversary thing doesn’t usually hit me hard. I’m not really a mark-the-date kind of griever. But I woke up this morning crabby and mad and apparently emotional, which I didn’t fully understand until I was already in it. I’d gone to bed annoyed last night — work has been relentless lately, and I was irritated with Matt in that low-grade way where nothing specific is wrong but everything feels like a lot. He’s been laid off and is managing the household, which genuinely helps, but he can be so negative sometimes. I roll with his moods. He does not always roll with mine. He loves saying no to things. It’s getting old.

Anyway.

Our neighbor Teri got caught in the middle of a dog fight this week — she was fostering two Weimaraners while still having her own shepherd mix, and things went sideways. She went in with a broom (do not go in with a broom) and one of them turned on her. She needed hand surgery. Her dog Sadie is still at the hospital. Matt and I have been managing the Weimaraners in her absence, which is a lot, but she’s the best neighbor and we feel terrible about what happened.

So this morning I went over to let them out and clean up from their overnight quarantine. By the time I got home, I just lost it. Full ugly cry. Crying isn’t really my thing, but I had a good solid sob on the kitchen floor and honestly it needed to happen.

Right in the middle of that, Ken texted both Grace and me: Have a happy day. I love you. Sweet timing, Ken. Maybe it triggered something, maybe it just landed at the exact right wrong moment — but for the first time I wrote back honestly. I’m struggling today. That’s growth for me. Authenticity sounds great until you actually have to do it in real time.

On the way to work I blasted music, sang at full volume, and air-drummed like I was headlining something. I genuinely wish I could play an instrument or carry a tune outside the privacy of my car. But that’s between me and my steering wheel. Apologies to anyone who pulled up next to me at a red light.

Once I got to Melrose Park, things evened out the way they always do with my MP crew. Coffee, cookies, chatting before mandatory training — glamorous. And we’re still riding the high of an incredible email we received recently with VPs copied, praising the MP team. We’re kind of the island — often forgotten, never fully seen — so that acknowledgment meant everything. It felt so good to be seen.

Then I ran my own training at Hillside before Kathy was supposed to meet me to head to Northwestern for the social worker appointment. Except before she could get there, my dad disappeared. Told her he was running to Home Depot. Got lost. Didn’t make it back. She spent who knows how long managing his meltdown and talking him home before she could even get to her car. By the time she reached my office she was already wrung out.

The meeting with the social worker was productive and emotional in equal measure. We both cried — not like my ugly cry from this morning, but definitely tears. Hearing it laid out again — that Dad’s FTD, specifically the behavioral variant, means he literally cannot be reasoned with, cannot comprehend what we’re telling him, cannot retain it — is a specific kind of soul-twisting. You can’t wrap your head around the fact that he can’t wrap his head around it. It’s a horrific loop. The social worker is helping us understand that we are the ones who have to change, because he can’t. That’s a lot to absorb. And it’s going to get harder. It’s hard for the average family, and my dad has never been average.

After the appointment, Kathy and I sat in traffic for over an hour trying to get from Northwestern back to my Hillside office. An hour. That is absolutely insane and I want those sixty minutes back.

Kathy leaves Saturday for Mexico with the Mulroys — she deserves this trip more than anyone on earth. It means I’m on Dad Duty, and yes, I know I turn into a hall monitor on steroids when I’m responsible for him. We’re hiding the car while she’s gone. Tomorrow night Kathy and I have an ornament walk in Lemont before she leaves early Saturday. Megan and Mike are hosting Friendsgiving this weekend. We’ve asked Patrick to keep an eye on Dad on Saturday, and I’ll probably stay at his house Sunday and maybe Monday so I’m not losing my mind tracking him from across town.

Last night leaving Melrose Park, I was sitting at the light on Lake Street and noticed some police lights and commotion. Then I heard it — pop pop pop pop pop pop — at least six shots, maybe eight. I said some words. My heart went straight to my feet. Got home, checked the Melrose Park Police Department Facebook page — they were filming an episode of Chicago PD or Fire. Thank you, Melrose Park PD, for posting that immediately and saving my blood pressure.

On a much sweeter note — my little Frank, my shadow, my portly pug, turned 11 on the 18th. I am completely unhinged in my love for that dog and I refuse to apologize for it.

I also have a headache brewing and I’m pretty sure I’m heading into a sinus infection, so I made a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow. Great way to kick off the weekend.

Oh — and one more thing worth celebrating: Cathy in New Jersey and I started a Wednesday Waffle. I sent her a reel about these guys who could never coordinate calls so they started sending each other a two-minute weekly video instead, and she immediately launched it for the three of us — her, me, and Donna. Donna named our group the Twat Waffles. We’re on week two and I’m already thinking we need a spin-off. Tuesday Waffles. Thursday Waffles. Twaffles. I’m going to unleash this on them very soon.

So. Four years without my mom. And grief is strange — it doesn’t follow dates or anniversaries. It sneaks in while you’re cleaning up after someone else’s dogs. It hides in a text from your stepdad that says I love you. It shows up in a traffic jam on the way home from an appointment about your dad’s declining brain. It doesn’t ask permission and it doesn’t announce itself.

It’s been a day. A week. A month. A season.

And for today — that’s enough.

Ten Years and a Colonoscopy

Let’s see where I left off.

We did the annual pumpkin carving at the Wilsons and it was such a nice day. Aunt Susie made everything cozy and beautiful and delicious — full Hallmark fall spread, because that’s just who she is. She’s also genuinely one of the best cooks I know. Later that night we went to Rusty and Heather’s for another festive evening with them and Ben. I call us the Fab Five whether they like it or not. Another great homemade meal, great company, one of those nights that fills your tank without anyone trying too hard.

And now somehow October is over.

I really do love October — even if I hate saying goodbye to summer. The leaves are gorgeous, Halloween is always a favorite, and I think of my grandma every year since her birthday is the 26th. One of my closest friends shares that birthday too. But now it’s November and life is back to being a lot.

Work is still hammering me. I’m still carrying the mental load of Dad and Kathy. One bright spot though — instead of flying to New Jersey to visit the Mulroys, they’re taking Kathy to Mexico with them. Well deserved for everyone involved. Truly. However. That means I’m back on Dad Duty, and yes, I fully know I become an unhinged hall monitor when I’m responsible for watching him. I already asked her to drive herself to the airport and park there so he wouldn’t have the car while she’s gone. She thinks I’m nuts. She’s not wrong.

Today is my ten-year wedding anniversary.

A whole decade. And I am celebrating by getting a colonoscopy.

If that doesn’t perfectly summarize midlife I genuinely don’t know what does. Aunt Susie insisted on being my ride because she cannot wait to mess with me when I’m coming out of twilight sedation. I expect to wake up confused and immediately roasted. Matt and I will celebrate tomorrow — dinner and drinks in the city at a place I’ve been wanting to try. Not exactly his scene, but he loves me enough to be a good sport. I know he will.

This morning we were up at 4 a.m. for the tail end of my prep — which, for the record, is just his normal wakeup time, so he had no sympathy whatsoever. We exchanged anniversary cards. And out of every card at Walgreens, we had each bought each other the exact same one.

Ten years of marriage and we are still the same person. I love that.

Looking back at our wedding photos is bittersweet. They’re beautiful. But there are seven people in those pictures who are no longer here. Seven. Life moves in such strange waves — joy and grief and growth all jammed together, and you don’t always notice how much has changed until you’re looking at a photo from a decade ago.

I’ve changed. I know that. I’m softer now. Less angry. More intentional. Writing this blog, turning fifty, surviving what I’ve survived — it shifts something. Rearranges your values and priorities when you’re not even paying attention. What used to feel urgent doesn’t anymore. What used to feel impossible feels more manageable. And what used to feel like enough sometimes isn’t, but in a good way — in a I want more life, not more stuff kind of way.

Ten years married. Fifteen years at Dynamic. Almost fifty years alive. A lot has happened. A lot has changed. Some of it hurt more than I knew how to say at the time. But I’m grateful for where I am.

Still learning. Still evolving. Still trying to lead with kindness even when the world feels heavy.

It’s not flashy. It’s not cinematic.

But it’s real. And right now, real is more than enough.

Cheers to ten years, babe.

Now someone come get me out of this colonoscopy gown.

Cup Half Full (Even When It’s Cracked)

I had an eleven-hour workday last week that ate my soul. Came straight home, drew a bath, added extra epsom salt, and was fully soaking when Drew called. I let it go. A few minutes later he called again. I picked up. Small talk, how’s it going — and then he goes: are you in the bathtub right now?

I was absolutely in the bathtub.

Turns out he and his mom Jan had just been at Costco and were sitting in my driveway. I jumped out, hollered for Matt — half asleep on the couch — and we ended up having this completely unplanned little visit, hanging out in the garage because Drew didn’t feel like dealing with his ramp. I am deeply antisocial during the week. I usually hate drop-ins with a passion. But Drew showing up on a random Tuesday while I was dripping wet and laughing? I loved every second of it. Some people just get a pass.

Still racking my brain about my dad and poor Kathy.

We went to the No Kings protest last weekend — their first one was not, but mine was. I was excited, and even more so when Mike and Megan said they’d come. Megan gave me a gummy that was significantly more potent than advertised. I rallied. Kathy tried to get my dad to wear gym shoes. He refused. Wore cowboy boots.

He’s got the old man shuffle going now — unsteady, not great on uneven ground — and those boots did absolutely nothing to help. Watching him navigate curbs and crowds was painful. He looked fragile in a way that caught me off guard. Frail. Old. It broke my heart a little. And yet he loved every single minute of it. Stood there proud as hell in those boots, probably because he thinks they make him taller.

He’s also developed this habit of plucking hairs off the top of his nose. Constantly. It is so bizarre and so gross and Kathy and I are on his case about it and he does not care even a little.

Kathy talked to him about the drinking. He swore he’d only drink on Saturdays now. We’ll see if he remembers that conversation. When she was out of town and I was on Dad Duty, I gave him drinks with zero alcohol in them. He didn’t notice the difference. He wanted to go out every single night — Kathy takes him out several times a week, which has to be exhausting and expensive. He is so spoiled and has absolutely no idea how good he has it with her. If it were me I’d be putting the hammer down. But it’s not me living with him every day, so I give him his virgin cocktail and bite my tongue.

My body has been staging its own protest — joint pain, muscle aches, fatigue hitting everything at once. Neck, shoulders, back, hips, knees, hands, feet. All of them, all the time. I did something I never do and Googled bone cancer at midnight. I don’t actually think I have it. It was just one of those late-night doom spirals when I couldn’t sleep. Fucking stupid. I closed the laptop and took a Xanax.

Work has been heavy in a different way too. I’m seriously thinking about asking to step back from my Hillside 5 responsibilities. It’s not that I can’t do it — it’s that I get anxious before going there, and that’s not how I want to feel about work I’ve been doing for fifteen years. I’m turning fifty. I used to want to move up, become a manager. That ship has sailed and I’m genuinely fine with it. I just want to do my job well, take care of my people, and not lose myself in the process. I just don’t want to disappoint Johnny or Nancy.

Speaking of Nancy — we had dinner recently. We always end up in these deep, winding conversations when we actually sit down together. I feel for her. She carries a lot — loneliness, old wounds that don’t heal clean. When she’s good she’s amazing. When she’s off she’s sharp. We’ve both changed, but there’s still love there. She mentioned wanting to take a trip together, which would be wonderful, but she’s in a very different financial world than I am. I know she’d probably offer to pay and that would just make me feel guilty. Still. I love her.

Donna — one of my breast cancer warrior sisters — is doing incredible. She was terrified at first but has handled everything like a total badass, all while grieving her mom at the same time. One surgery left. She’s frustrated about gaining a few pounds but she looks amazing — better, honestly, though she’ll disagree. Strong. Beautiful. I wish she could see herself the way I see her. She’s sensitive underneath all that strength and I sometimes worry about what she’s holding quietly. She doesn’t have to perform okay. Not with me. She knows that.

My cousin Jennifer had to put her dog down this week. It fell on the anniversary of Kirby’s death. That day always carries weight, and this made it heavier. I changed my Facebook profile picture to one of all the Malek girls — my mom’s whole side of the family together. It feels like another lifetime. Aunt Susie is always the one holding us together, even as we lose a few pieces along the way. We’re doing our annual pumpkin carving this weekend and I’m looking forward to it more than I expected.

Grace came to Sunday lunch with Matt’s family, which was good because she’s been quiet and a little distant lately. She goes through these phases where she pulls back and goes dark and I don’t like it. I worry. Maybe she’s overwhelmed. Maybe she’s talking to that ex again, which I hope to god she isn’t. But she’s twenty-six and she doesn’t need to talk to her mother every day and I know that. Knowing it and being okay with it are two different things.

I skipped a close friend’s 50th birthday celebration last weekend. I love her. But by the time I factored in dry cleaning, a gift, dinner at a new restaurant, and the casino, it would’ve been close to $300. That’s my weekly budget right now. We’re having breakfast in a few weeks and she gets it. I didn’t feel guilty, which is genuinely progress for me.

I’ve been trying to get intentional about time and money — two things that disappear if I’m not paying attention. I want more from life and I’m starting to actually think about what that means. Animals. Photography. National parks. The ocean. Learning things that make me feel curious instead of just busy. I’ve been listening to podcasts, reading, watching documentaries. I want to learn languages. Travel and actually speak to people in their own language. I’m not an adventurous eater — bad gag reflex, we don’t need to discuss it — but I want to be adventurous in every other sense of the word.

I heard something recently: some people are ferns and some are cactuses. They need completely different things to thrive. What nourishes one can drown the other. I’ve been sitting with that. I think it means something about a lot of things in my life right now.

By the time I get off work tonight it’ll be dark and cold — no more hammock weather. I’ll probably stop for a couple returns, go home, make dinner, and make it to Pilates at 7. I wish I could squeeze in a manicure but that’s not happening. Honestly that’s fine. A night that ends with movement and some quiet is enough right now.

I’m a cup-half-full person, even when the cup’s a little cracked.

Still trying to figure out what the fern-and-cactus thing means for me.

And still hoping for that mani-pedi.

Somewhere in the Middle

I’m tired of the noise.

The shouting, the finger-pointing, the you’re-either-with-us-or-against-us mentality that’s swallowed everything whole. Somewhere along the way, common sense and compassion became radical concepts. That breaks my heart.

I’m a values-first voter. I lean progressive on a lot of issues but I see the world through a moderate lens. I believe in empathy and protecting the vulnerable — and I also believe in accountability, law and order, and practical solutions. Those things can coexist. They should.

I support access to healthcare, education, and reproductive rights. I believe immigrants who work hard and follow the rules deserve a path forward. I care about the environment, veterans, farmers, and small businesses. I’m spiritual but not religious. I own a gun and I don’t think civilians need assault rifles. I’m not far-left or far-right — I just think we should take care of each other and stop turning every disagreement into a war.

I usually vote Democrat because it aligns closest to my values. But I don’t vote party line. I vote with my heart, my brain, and my conscience. I loved Obama — not because he was perfect, but because he was decent. I hate Trump — not because he’s Republican, but because he’s… you can fill in the blank. There’s a real difference between being conservative and being a Trump supporter, and I genuinely wish more people could hold that distinction.

I respect wealth and hard work. I understand that some policies benefit some groups more than others — that’s life. But if you’ve been fortunate, you should pay your share. You don’t have to lose for someone else to win. We rise higher when everyone has a chance to stand on solid ground.

I was a single mom. I’ve struggled to make rent, buy groceries, stay afloat. My daughter’s college debt is suffocating and I wouldn’t undo her education for anything. I want her to live in a world that doesn’t punish people for being born without privilege. I don’t think that’s a radical thing to want.

I support LGBTQ+ rights and I’ll never apologize for that. Nobody should have to fight for the right to exist or love who they love. Full stop.

Here’s the thing that made all of this feel personal instead of political: I work with people who are scared. Hardworking men and women — many of them immigrants, many of them parents — who come in every day and give everything they have. When words like ICE and deportation are in the news, I can see the fear move across their faces. They’re not political pawns. They’re human beings trying to survive. When you see that kind of fear up close, in the faces of people you know and care about, it stops being theoretical. It becomes personal. And it stays that way.

I’m exhausted watching people treat politics like a sport where the only goal is to destroy the other team. I miss nuance. I miss when disagreement didn’t require disgust. I want leaders who tell the truth even when it’s complicated. I want accountability without cruelty. Compassion without weakness. Progress without arrogance.

Maybe that makes me naïve.

Or maybe it just makes me human — standing somewhere in the middle, tired of the extremes, still believing that decent people can disagree and build something better together anyway.

I have to believe that.

Ten Years

Before the last thing he said to me that night, I was lying there feeling genuinely grateful.

Grateful for him, for our life, for the little world we’ve built. Something good had been taking shape because of his hard work, and I was thinking about how I wanted to tell him that in the morning. How much I appreciated him. How excited I was.

And then came a quiet comment. Not loud, not cruel — just a small thing that landed in exactly the wrong place. The kind that finds the crack you didn’t know was there. I took a Xanax because I knew if I didn’t it would eat at me all night. It ate at me anyway.

I’m not going to get into the specifics. That’s not what this is. What I want to try to say is the thing underneath it.

He is a good man. A genuinely good man. He takes care of our dogs like they’re his kids and Grace like she’s his own. He vacuums, mops, does laundry, mows the lawn, picks up after me and the dogs without complaint. I am grateful for that every day. But sometimes it feels like he’s done everything before I even get a chance to, and then — without meaning to — he keeps an invisible scorecard. One where I always come up short.

I do things he doesn’t always see. Quiet things. Emotional things. The invisible labor that keeps the edges of our life from fraying — the kind that doesn’t show up on a list or look like productivity but is always there. And even when I’m exhausted or in pain, I’m still trying. Still holding things together. Still showing up. Sometimes his version of contribution is about quantity. Mine is about quality. We’re not always measuring the same thing.

We’re coming up on ten years of marriage next month. Ten years. I want to feel that connection again — the joy, the laughter, the partnership that made us us. Lately it feels like we’ve drifted into parallel lives. We share a home and a history and a love, but we don’t always share a rhythm.

I love him. And sometimes I wonder if he even likes me.

He gets irritated easily. Shuts down. Scrolls his phone instead of talking to me. I end up feeling invisible in my own living room. I miss when we used to laugh, really laugh. I wish he’d take initiative sometimes — make a plan, be spontaneous, show some excitement about doing something together. I try to snuggle closer and he pulls away a little, and I don’t always know what to do with that.

I’ll be honest about the thing I don’t say out loud much: sometimes I worry he’s not attracted to me anymore. My body has changed so much. The scars, the weight, the medication, everything. I don’t need constant romance. I just need to feel wanted. And sometimes I don’t.

He says no to most of my ideas. I know he doesn’t mean to shut me down — that’s just how he moves through the world, cautiously, slowly. But my excitement seems to wear on him sometimes. My silliness, my energy, the parts of me that used to make him laugh — I can feel when they become too much. I know I’m a lot. I’ve always been a lot. That used to be something he loved.

There’s one more thing I can’t shake, and I’m going to say it even though it’s uncomfortable: he’s never really read this blog. My blog isn’t something I do for fun. It’s how I process everything. It’s my therapy, my truth, the realest version of me trying to make sense of my own life. And the person I share a bed with hasn’t really gone there. Maybe it’s too uncomfortable. Maybe he just doesn’t want to. But it means he doesn’t see the part of me that’s been trying to reach him in the only way I actually know how.

I’m not saying this to guilt him. I’m saying it because feeling unseen by the person who’s supposed to know you best is its own particular kind of lonely.

I don’t want to stop reaching for him. Ten years in, I still want the laughter and the spark and the feeling of being on the same team. I still want us.

Some days that feels possible.

Last night wasn’t one of those days.

Trail Magic

There’s this thing hikers talk about called trail magic. A good Samaritan leaves snacks or cold drinks somewhere along the path — something a weary traveler stumbles upon when they need it most. It’s not really about the food. It’s about the reminder that someone out there believes in what you’re doing, even if they don’t know you. That someone cares.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. I want to be trail magic for people. Not with Gatorade and granola bars, but with care and presence and the specific kind of showing up that says I see you and I believe in you. I think I do a decent job of making my people know I’m proud of them. At least I hope I do.

Then there’s the less warm and fuzzy thing I’ve been sitting with: ambiguous loss.

It’s the kind of grief that doesn’t have an ending. The kind that leaves you stuck between hope and heartbreak. It happens when someone you love is physically present but psychologically gone — or when they were slipping away long before they actually left. There’s no funeral. No clear before and after. Just this slow, ongoing loss that you can’t fully grieve because the person is still right there.

I coped with ambiguous loss for years with my mom. I grieved her before she died because she was disappearing even while she was still in the room. And now it’s starting again with my dad. Maybe ambiguous grief is the better word. Because it’s loss and longing and confusion and love all tangled together, with no clean way through it. You can’t fix it. You just keep trying anyway.

I’ve been reading everything I can find on FTD. The neurologist recommended The 36-Hour Day and The Unexpected Journey by Emma Willis. The first was brutal — dense, clinical, depressing, a slog. The second was genuinely sweet. But neither had much to actually say about FTD specifically. They’re both really about caregiving in general. I still have no answers. Just the same long list of questions and a growing sense that the answers might not exist yet.

Meanwhile my body is staging a full-scale revolt and I’d like to speak to the manager.

My neck hurts. My shoulders hurt. My back, my hips, my knees, my hands, my feet — all of them, constantly, at varying levels of awful. Some days it’s background noise. Some days it’s the whole concert. The joint pain from these medications is relentless and I’m tired of it and it’s so fucking stupid. I have survived cancer, sepsis, seven surgeries, and radiation, and what’s going to take me out is that I can no longer open a jar without sounding like a sixty-five-year-old man getting out of a lawn chair.

Also, my obsession with animals is becoming a problem. My empathy for furry things is genuinely out of control. I want all of them — dogs, cats, goats, bunnies, tigers, manatees, bears, jaguars, foxes. I scroll rescue pages like it’s a spiritual practice. Maybe it’s because animals don’t need you to fix anything. They just need you to be kind and show up. That I can do. This is probably how I’ll go out — hugging something wild and magnificent. Honestly fine with that.

Kathy went to New Jersey last week to celebrate Mae’s birthday, which meant I was on Dad Duty. I kept him from going out to restaurants in the evenings — we went to his house one night, he came to ours twice, I met him out in the woods with the dog. The whole time I watched his location on my phone like a maniac. Called and texted constantly. Thursday night at his place he didn’t have a drink. Friday and Sunday he wanted one — so I gave him one. Minus the alcohol. He didn’t know the difference.

It was exhausting. I know I was overdoing it. Hovering, tracking, managing every variable. But I can’t help it. If it were up to me I’d keep him home all the time. But that would kill him just as surely as the disease will, just faster. So I give him his virgin cocktail and watch his location and try to breathe.

Somewhere in all of this I’ve been trying to get intentional about what I actually want. What makes me feel good. What I’m doing this for. I want joy. Simplicity. Presence. Not grand gestures — just things that are real and feel like mine.

And I’ve been thinking about this a lot: cancer didn’t make me sick. I had cancer. They took it out. Radiation was hard. The surgeries were brutal to recover from. The scars are tight and always will be. But I was only actually sick when I had sepsis, and when the infections came after surgeries. The rest of it was just living through something hard. Surviving. Which is apparently what I do.

Maybe that’s still what I’m doing now — surviving this strange tangled mess of grief and pain and gratitude and love.

Trying to make my own trail magic while I’m at it.