This Body is Bullshit

Lately I’ve been listening to Suleika Jaouad’s The Book of Alchemy for the second time — the audio version is even better. On the surface it’s about journaling, but it’s really about noticing. Memory. The small threads that hold a life together. One of the prompts is about music — the songs and bands that take you somewhere, or make you think of someone specific. The timing was perfect because we’d just gone to what we dubbed a Yacht Rock show: Men at Work, Christopher Cross, and Toto.

I’ll be honest — I only knew about three songs from each band. It was a hundred degrees during the day and I was convinced we’d roast. But the sun went down, the weather turned perfect, and then I watched my friend Tricia completely lose her mind in the best possible way. I had no idea she was such a Yacht Rock superfan. She danced. She cried. She knew every word. It was pure joy to witness.

Tricia and her husband Matt have come to shows with us before — mostly Big Head Todd and the Monsters. I love Big Head Todd. The song Circle always makes me think of her Matt. Big Head Todd in general takes me back to high school, to the Fenwick/Riverside crowd, which makes me think of my old friend Liz. The last time I saw her was when Prince died — he reminded me of her and those days, so I reached out. We met for dinner with Melanie. Life happened after that and it was our last real catch-up.

Melanie is a music person to her core. A dancer. A fairy who floats from show to show. She follows Widespread Panic, and to this day I don’t think I’ve ever heard a single song by them. I used to mix them up with Rage Against the Machine, which is so wrong it’s almost funny. Her mom Pam will forever be I Heard It Through the Grapevine, and Strike It Up or anything Technotronic instantly puts me back at her dad’s house in La Grange in the 90s. Some of the best years.

Led Zeppelin is late nights at my dad’s house with my stepsister Crissy, listening to the box set over and over. One night she acted out American Woman by The Guess Who. So random. So funny. These days Beyoncé makes me think of Crissy — when we went to Vegas, she went to the concert and I had no idea she was such a huge fan. The only Vegas show I’ve seen was Shania Twain with Nancy and some work friends. Fine show. Country was never really my thing.

My dad’s thing, though. Classic country all the way. Kenny Rogers will always be him. He leaves the classic country channel on for his dog when he goes out. When I think country, I think Tammy and Terry. Remember When by Alan Jackson is Allison’s song — she introduced it to us. Donna gets full credit for Chris Stapleton’s Starting Over. And He Didn’t Have to Be — that one makes me think of Ken and Matt, both showing up as stepfathers when they didn’t have to.

Grace’s soundtrack starts with Justin Bieber. She was and is a devoted fan. I took her to four concerts. We went to his movie. Now she listens to something I can only describe as rap-adjacent, and honestly she may have come by that honestly. When she was a baby I was obsessed with The Eminem Show. My mom got in the car once, heard it playing, and was appalled. I said she can’t talk yet, she’s not going to repeat it. I was always good at getting a rise out of her.

Speaking of my mom — Barry Manilow will always be hers. She wanted My Way by Sinatra played at her funeral, because she absolutely did everything her way. She also loved I’m On Fire by Springsteen and would sing it around the house. Bruce is basically a religion for the Malek women — my aunts, my cousins, all superfans. One year at Wrigley he brought Eddie Vedder out to sing My Hometown and I genuinely almost lost it.

Pearl Jam is my band. Full stop. I’ve been to several shows — with Amy, with Drew and Zoltan, with Matt. Two stand out. Wrigley, when they opened with Release — one of their best songs, fight me — and it started pouring halfway through. And Moline, where Matt proposed. He was hoping they’d play Release so he could get down on one knee during it. Instead they played the entire No Code album, and the moment came during Off He Goes. We danced to Future Days at our wedding.

Matt is a Deadhead. I was deeply resistant — those live songs feel like they last three days, because they do. But I’ve learned to love them, mostly the studio versions. Any Dead song now makes me think of him, or Drew, or our friend Ben.

And then there are the song triggers. The random ones that hit without warning:

Apple Bottom Jeans — Terry. September — Nancy. Love Man — Ken, dancing and doing his own lyrics. Baby Got Back — Allison, and my cousin Bryon who couldn’t believe Grace was spelling out the words from her car seat on the way to dinner. Tom Petty — Heather. Can’t Feel My Face — her husband Rusty, who requested it for our wedding. INXS — also Rusty. Gloria, both versions — Grandma Gloria, obviously. Mr. Boombastic and Party in the USA — Natalie. Going to California and California Dreamin’ — also Natalie, my California girl. She laughed at me when I took a video in our hot air balloon in Temecula and overlaid it with California Dreamin’. Sometimes I’m like that. She introduced me to B-Side by Leon Bridges and Khruangbin and Harvest Moon by Poolside — I felt genuinely cool coming home from California with new music. Scatman, Safety Dance, Rhythm is a Dancer — those go straight to Cathy.

Bon Jovi is a whole group memory — Terry, Donna, Tammy, Marisa, Megan, or the JJAM crew depending on the year. At least seven concerts between various combinations of us. Guns N’ Roses takes me to Highlands Middle School, where I convinced the girls in my class to do Welcome to the Jungle for our PE routine and played it approximately five hundred times until the teachers wanted to kill me.

And then On the Road Again by Willie Nelson. That’s a core memory. My mom singing it before we took off for the next move — beat-up car, sometimes a U-Haul, sometimes a car with a literal hole in the floorboard. After my parents divorced we moved a lot. I didn’t realize how poor we were because she just made everything feel fine. That was her gift. Maybe that’s where I learned to do the same when it was Grace and me.

I can still see the day my dad dropped me off in Memphis — I’m standing behind a glass door, pounding on it, watching him drive away. I couldn’t have been more than three. I don’t know if it’s a real memory or something I’ve built over the years. But I see it clearly.

Music mostly makes me happy. Sometimes it guts you. But mostly it just connects you to the people and moments that made you who you are.

I remember one night in Drew’s van — just the two of us, going through my iPod until two in the morning, playing only the first three seconds of each song. It was my music and he still beat me. That was a good night.

I love that Matt’s Deadhead tendencies are balanced by a genuine love of 80s ballads. We fight over the speaker constantly and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

There are so many more songs tied to so many more people. I just have to hear them to remember.

I wonder sometimes what songs make people think of me.

---

🎵 THE SOUNDTRACK 🎵

Down Under — Men at Work / Ride Like the Wind — Christopher Cross / Africa — Toto / Circle — Big Head Todd and the Monsters / I Heard It Through the Grapevine — Marvin Gaye / Strike It Up — Black Box / Pump Up the Jam — Technotronic / American Woman — The Guess Who / I’m On Fire — Bruce Springsteen / My Way — Frank Sinatra / My Hometown — Bruce Springsteen / Release — Pearl Jam / Off He Goes — Pearl Jam / Future Days — Pearl Jam / Low (Apple Bottom Jeans) — Flo Rida / September — Earth Wind & Fire / Love Man — Otis Redding / Baby Got Back — Sir Mix-a-Lot / Free Fallin’ — Tom Petty / Can’t Feel My Face — The Weeknd / Need You Tonight — INXS / Gloria — Laura Branigan & Shadows of Knight / Boombastic — Shaggy / Party in the USA — Miley Cyrus / Going to California — Led Zeppelin / California Dreamin’ — The Mamas & The Papas / B-Side — Leon Bridges & Khruangbin / Harvest Moon — Poolside / Livin’ on a Prayer — Bon Jovi / Welcome to the Jungle — Guns N’ Roses / On the Road Again — Willie Nelson / Purple Rain — Prince / The Gambler — Kenny Rogers / Remember When — Alan Jackson / Starting Over — Chris Stapleton / He Didn’t Have to Be — Brad Paisley / Baby — Justin Bieber / Without Me — Eminem / Copacabana — Barry Manilow / Ripple — Grateful Dead

I’ve been rereading some of my older entries lately and I noticed something.

I’m being honest. I am. But I don’t think I’m being fully real.

It’s like I’m writing with one foot on the brake the whole time. Shaping things just enough that they’re still presentable. Still palatable. Still something I could hand someone without feeling completely exposed.

And I’m not sure if that’s me protecting myself or protecting other people from worry. Probably both. Probably always both.

This is supposed to be therapy. Sometimes it is. But a lot of the time it feels more like storytelling. And I’m good at storytelling. I’m good at taking a hard thing and finding the angle that makes it bearable — for me, for whoever’s reading, for everyone in the room.

The question I keep sitting with is: do I actually have a lot of anger and fear inside that I’m just really good at masking? Or have I genuinely processed more than I give myself credit for?

I don’t know.

I feel okay. I almost always feel okay. And that’s exactly what worries me — because I’ve felt okay through some genuinely not okay things. I don’t know anymore if that’s strength or just a very convincing performance I’ve been giving for so long I can’t tell the difference.

I want this to be the place where I don’t flinch. Where I stop editing for someone else’s comfort. Where I say the hard thing even when it doesn’t resolve into anything clean.

I’m not sure I know how to do that yet.

But I think that’s worth writing down too.

The Dogs

I’ve been thinking about dogs.

All of them. Every single one I’ve ever had. My girlfriend is facing having to say goodbye to her sweet girl soon, and it’s cracked something open in me — that specific grief that non-dog people genuinely cannot understand. I’m not going to try to explain it to them. I’m just going to tell you about mine.

Each one marked a season of my life. They weren’t just pets. They were witnesses.

Buddy was first. A German Shepherd mix. I got him when I was barely out of my parents’ house — he was the first thing that made me feel like an actual adult. Smart, good, loyal. Eventually I bought a house with Grace’s dad, and Buddy came with us into that chapter. When Grace was born, Buddy watched over both of us. He protected me in ways that the person who should have been protecting me wasn’t. He protected her too. I felt safer with him there than I ever did with her father.

When I lost him — kidney failure, only seven years old — I remember thinking: why couldn’t I have put Grace’s dad down instead of my dog? Dark, I know. Grief doesn’t make you polite. And he was a piece of shit.

My dad drove me to the emergency vet on a Sunday. I went in alone. I’d never done that before — walked a dog in and not walked back out with them. When I came out, my dad was crying in the lobby. That moment is seared into me.

Max came next — and actually, Max was already there near the end of Buddy’s life. Technically Grace’s dad’s dog, but we all know how that goes. He ended up with Grace and me when I left. A black lab. Labs are supposed to be the classic family dog, but Max mostly just liked Grace and me. He had zero patience for other kids. He’d bare his teeth at them and I’d say he’s not smiling because he’s happy — they thought it was funny. I meant it.

He helped me raise Grace in our apartment. Just the three of us. And I truly believe he held on until he knew Matt was there to take care of us. Once he was sure we were okay — really okay — he let go. Dogs know. They just do.

He made it to 13. Canine dementia at the end — barking at nothing, pacing, confused. Matt came into our lives during Max’s later years and Max was not thrilled about anyone invading his space. He warmed up. Eventually. A little.

One afternoon Matt got home and Max wouldn’t really get up for him. When I got home Max made the effort, barely. I think he’d had a stroke. Matt didn’t want me to go alone but I needed to. I held him and let him go. You always know when it’s time. The quality of life is gone and you do the hard thing because you love them.

The worst part was picking Grace up from school and having to tell her.

We swore we weren’t getting another dog. Too heartbroken. That lasted about five minutes.

Gus.

He was born the same day Max died. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. He was a mastiff — half English, half Dogue de Bordeaux — and I had already seen his photo and was completely obsessed. Matt said absolutely not. No dog that big. Hard no.

And then I had a hysterectomy and was home alone recovering and the silence in that house was unbearable. Deafening. A house without a dog is just not a home, at least not mine. So Matt and Grace went to see the litter — pudgy little hippos with paws way too big for their bodies — and honestly what was Matt supposed to do at that point. A few weeks later, Gus was ours.

I don’t really know how to write about Gus.

He was everything. All muscle and drool and soul. A giant presence, literally and emotionally. He felt like a person. He had a way of sitting next to you that felt exactly like a hug. Strangers would stop us on the street to ask if they could take a picture of him. He was that striking. But it wasn’t just how he looked — it was how it felt to be around him. Like everything was better when Gus was there.

Maybe he was the son Matt and I never had. Maybe the sibling Grace might have needed. I don’t know. He was just Gus. Once in a lifetime.

We only got six years. Cancer. We spent everything we had trying to save him and we couldn’t. I still haven’t gotten over it. I still hear him walking through the house sometimes. I still expect to find a random puddle of drool somewhere and feel that mix of grossed out and completely in love.

I already have tattoos for the poems that got me through dark seasons. Maybe Gus is next.

Now we have Frank and Fiona. Our current chaos crew.

Frank came to us at five — a rescue pug. I never wanted a small dog. Let me be very clear about that. But Frank is not a small dog. He is a large dog in a completely wrong body, with the personality to match. Stubborn, hilarious, absolutely convinced he is Gus’s size. He actually got to live with Gus for a couple years and they were the most ridiculous, perfect pair — total opposites who were somehow exactly the same.

Frank was a daddy’s boy when we first got him. Then I had my mastectomy and he never left my side. We’re pals now. That silly little jerk has my whole heart and he knows it.

And then there’s Fiona. A rescue mutt we brought home three years ago. Here’s the thing — on the drive home, reading through her paperwork, I found out we share the same birthday. I took that as a sign.

She’s the first female dog I’ve ever had and she is an experience. Scared of everything — genuinely, hilariously, sadly scared of everything. Fast as lightning. Vocal. Handsy. The emotional range of a Shakespearean heroine. She loves us so much it’s almost aggressive. She is sweet and exhausting and we are completely obsessed with her.

And finally — my grand-dog, Charlie. Grace rescued him about three years ago when he was three. He’s a boxer mix but looks like a full Rottweiler — solid, blocky, intimidating at first glance. He’s a nut. A lovable nut, but a nut. Something happened to him before Grace got him — you can just tell. He’s reactive, leash aggressive, and his play growl and his serious growl are identical which is genuinely terrifying. But underneath all of that he is sweet. He just came with invisible scars nobody can fully explain.

Grace has done so much for him. Loving a reactive dog takes patience and compassion and she has both in abundance. Charlie is lucky to have her. So are we.

Buddy. Max. Gus. Frank. Fiona. Charlie.

Every season. Every stage. Every hard thing and every good thing — there was always a dog nearby.

If you’ve ever had to say goodbye to one, I see you. I am you.

And if you’ve got one curled up near you right now — go give them a hug from me.

Colorado Reset

We got back from Denver just before midnight last night — exhausted, slightly sore, and genuinely glad we went.

I think we were both a little nervous heading into this trip. It had been ten years since we’d seen Matt’s sister and brother-in-law, and you never really know what ten years does to a dynamic. Life gets busy. Distance does its thing. You mean to visit and then suddenly a decade has gone by and someone’s keeping count. She was keeping count.

But it went better than either of us expected. Really well, actually.

They planned something for us every single day — just to get outside, move around, take it all in. And as people who live in the flatlands of the Midwest, the mountains still feel like a special effect. Every time. We needed that. The air, the views, the sense of scale that reminds you the world is bigger than your to-do list.

I was hoping for wildlife. A bear, a dramatic mountain lion cameo, something to text everyone about. No such luck. We did, however, meet the three most important residents of the household — Belle, Louie, and Charlie. Our official dog nieces and nephew. I fell a little in love with all of them immediately, which surprised no one.

Their home has been completely renovated since we were last there and it is so cozy — warm, well-decorated, full of personality. A true Colorado retreat. The backyard is another level entirely: gazebo, hot tub, fire pit, garden beds, string lights. Pinterest came to life in the best possible way. We sat out there and talked and laughed and had cocktails and it felt like exactly the kind of reset we didn’t know we needed until we were in the middle of it.

We talked about the parents, the aunts, all the things that connect us but tend to get lost when everyone’s just trying to get through their own life. And sometimes when people are far apart and busy and years pass, little things can sneak in — distance, misunderstandings, the general weirdness of not seeing each other enough. But this trip reminded me that underneath all of that, family is still home. It just sometimes needs a little tending.

They were incredibly generous with us. We’re lucky.

Now I just need to unpack. And maybe look into Colorado real estate.

Kidding.

Kind of.

Roots

There are gifts that stay with you long after the wrapping is in the trash.

My best friend gave me a Bryan Anthony necklace and a plaque with the poem Grit on it. She gave it to me at a point when I was barely holding it together — body a war zone, no idea which way was up. That poem became a mantra. I read it constantly. Sometimes with tears. Sometimes with a clenched jaw. Always with some version of okay, one more day.

The line that got me — still gets me — is about how she isn’t unshakable because she doesn’t know pain. She’s unshakable because she pushes through anyway. That distinction matters. I wasn’t strong because nothing was breaking me. I was strong because I kept going while it did.

I’ve since shared that poem with almost every woman I love — especially the ones who’ve gotten sick, or scared, or just temporarily forgot how much they could take. It’s not just a poem anymore. It’s a thing I hand people when I don’t have the right words.

Then my husband gave me a card. Inside was The Oak Tree by Johnny Ray Ryder Jr., and a note — private, emotional, straight from his heart. That card lived on my nightstand for a long time. The poem is about a tree that gets absolutely battered by the wind — stripped bare, branches snapped — and still stands. Because its roots go deeper than anything the wind can reach.

That’s the image I come back to. You can lose so much. Illness can take your body. Grief can take your breath. But if your roots are deep enough — anchored in love, in people who see you, in something that matters — you stay standing. Even when you look like hell doing it.

I’ve shared that one too. With people facing their own storms. I wanted them to feel what I felt the first time I read it — that I wasn’t alone, and that I was stronger than I’d realized, and that the wind eventually gets tired.

Both of those poems are tattooed on me now. Not the full text — just enough. One for Grit. One for The Oak Tree. Permanent reminders of who I am and who loves me.

Because here’s the thing I’ve learned: sometimes it’s not your own strength that gets you through the worst of it. Sometimes it’s theirs. Their words. Their belief in you. Their handwritten notes and unexpected gifts and poems tucked inside cards at exactly the right moment.

That’s what these two are for me. Not just reminders of what I survived — but reminders of who was standing there with me while I did.

---

GRIT
by Bryan Anthonys

She is unshakable not because she doesn’t know pain or failure,
but because she always pushes through.
Because she always shows up and never gives up.
Because she believes anything is possible no matter the odds.

And perhaps what makes her beautiful
has less to do with what lies upon the surface
and more to do with what lies within.

She isn’t just beautiful because of her appearance.
No, she is beautiful because of the way she chooses to live and love.
In the way she embraces all of life’s experiences — good or bad.
In her willingness to bend but never break,
and in her courage to believe that the darkness can’t hold her
as long as she continues to create her own light.

She is just like a pearl — made from grit but full of grace.
She is unstoppable — she knows it’s not what happens,
but how she chooses to respond,
with perseverance in her mind and passion in her heart.

---

The Oak Tree
by Johnny Ray Ryder Jr.

A mighty wind blew night and day.
It stole the Oak Tree’s leaves away.
Then snapped its boughs
and pulled its bark
until the Oak was tired and stark.

But still the Oak Tree held its ground
while other trees fell all around.

The weary wind gave up and spoke,
“How can you still be standing, Oak?”

The Oak Tree said, “I know that you
can break each branch of mine in two,
carry every leaf away,
shake my limbs and make me sway.

But I have roots stretched in the earth,
growing stronger since my birth.
You’ll never touch them, for you see,
they are the deepest part of me.

Until today, I wasn’t sure
of just how much I could endure.
But now I’ve found, with thanks to you,
I’m stronger than I ever knew.”

Sore Muscles, Full Heart

It’s Monday. Which is to say: the day that requires both caffeine and divine intervention to get out of bed.

Yesterday was my second day back at Pilates after five weeks off, and it did not go easy on me. It hurt. Also — I need to come clean — I’m not at 137 classes. I’m at 133. I’m actually a little further from my goal than I thought. I’m sore. Add in menopause and my meds and honestly, I feel like a walking science fair project.

But! I had a good weekend.

It started Thursday when I met up with my JJAM crew for dinner. These women saved me when I moved to Western Springs with Grace — just the two of us in an apartment, me a completely lost single mom. I could not have made it through those years without them. Our kids, who once ran around together like a pack of wild things, are now on totally different paths — but we’re still showing up for each other, celebrating and supporting however we can.

Friday night, my BFFLs and I had a patio night at our friend’s house. Her backyard is beautifully landscaped with a little water feature, and her husband cooked for us. Peaceful, easy, lovely. We were there because her sweet dog has cancer and she’s facing an impossibly hard decision. If you know me, anything involving a sick dog turns me into a puddle. But we laughed a lot. Those three women are my rocks.

Saturday morning I went to the farmers market with my bestie. It had been way too long since we’d had real one-on-one time, and I didn’t realize how much I needed it. She finds out this week when her final reconstruction surgery will be. She’s not feeling great, but she’s moving forward and doing remarkably well. Thank God, no setbacks. She’s so tiny and carries so much stress in that little body. She is honestly more family than friend.

Sunday was a full-on do-nothing day and it was glorious. My mother-in-law popped in for a quick visit, then my dad and Kathy came over for dinner. My dad showed up in a Temu shirt — his latest obsession. We don’t even know how he discovered Temu, but it’s driving my stepmom nuts. I’m not sure what look he’s going for, but “senior citizen influencer with questionable taste” might be close.

He made a few comments and asked questions he should know the answers to, and we all just kind of looked at each other and let it go. Kathy and I gently tried to bring up him getting lost again — something he’s still firmly denying — and Matt, clearly uncomfortable, quietly started clearing the table to escape the conversation. He’s so damn stubborn. And yes, the Temu shirts are ugly.

This morning I finally heard from a friend who’d been MIA. She’s okay — just buried in life. She’s like me: bottles everything. Her corporate job is sucking the life out of her and she’s had more than her fair share of health scares. I worry about her. She’s also a new grandma — Ma’maa, as she says — and there is no one more suited for that role. That should be what fills her up, not all the other bullshit.

This week is already a lot. We’re heading to Denver Wednesday to visit my sister-in-law for the first time in ten years. Yes, she’s kept count. They’ve redone their whole house since we were last there and we’re excited to see it and meet their furry crew — our dog nieces and nephew. I’ve got way too much to finish at work before we leave. I need that breath of fresh air — literally and metaphorically.

Also in the works: a potential road trip with my ride-or-die, who splits her time between Hermosa Beach and Vegas. She’s my favorite travel buddy. After the surgery saga, she whisked me off to Sayulita, Mexico — a place I’d never heard of — and it was one of the best trips of my life. We travel the same: early mornings, beach walks, weird TV, early bedtimes, a little microdosing on the beach, a whole lot of laughter. We even took a tour I’ve since dubbed the Murder Boat. No further comment.

She’s the kind of friend who, when I wasn’t sure I’d make it to Grace’s college graduation, booked a flight just in case so she could go in my place if I couldn’t. Who does that? She does.

Her 50th is coming up. First she wanted Greece. Now she’s thinking Amsterdam. Somehow she’s trying to pay for me again — says she needs a chaperone. As of last night I still hadn’t won the lottery, but we’re manifesting. We joke that if anything happens to Matt I’ll just be her housewife, or that we’ll end up in the same nursing home yelling at staff from our rocking chairs. One time on a ferry back from Catalina, someone asked how long we’d been together. We still laugh about it. And honestly? We kind of love it.

Earlier this year she and Matt had a moment — just the two of them in the kitchen, crying over me. She was thanking him for taking such good care of me. I cried from the other room. Because how do you not cry when two of your favorite people are having a full-blown gratitude meltdown over your existence?

Most people only see her wild funny side. I know the whole person — wise, deeply empathetic, weirdly good with money, fiercely loyal, heartbreakingly generous. We love and worry about each other across the miles.

Anyway. That’s the update.

Sore muscles. Full heart. Slightly feral energy.

I’m here. And I’m damn lucky.

I went back to Pilates today.

Live, laugh, feet in straps. Pilates — not the gynecologist. Let’s be clear.

It felt really good to move again. My favorite instructor Caroline was teaching, and being in her class is like getting a warm hug and a gentle shove at the same time. She’s one of those rare people who actually sees you — remembers your name, your limitations, your preferences, the thing you mentioned three weeks ago. She makes you feel like you matter. I want her to be my aunt. Or adopt me. Or just let me siphon her energy on the days I’m running on nothing.

But in the middle of class this little wave of sadness crept in. Because here I am again — starting over. Five weeks off and my strength, balance, and flexibility have packed up and left without notice. My body resets without my permission constantly and it’s infuriating. But I’m here. I showed up. That counts. My next goal is 250 classes — I think I’m at 137 now. Slow, steady, and extremely sweaty.

It’s been a melancholy week.

We lost a friend this weekend — you read about him in my last entry. Even when you know it’s coming, it still settles over everything like a fog you can’t quite shake. Work has been relentless on top of it, and my stepmom is out of town so I’ve been keeping an eye on my dad. He came over for dinner last night. It was sweet. It was also hard. He doesn’t grasp what’s happening to him, and watching that in real time is its own particular kind of heartbreak that I still don’t have words for.

And then this morning I heard on the news that scientists have made a major breakthrough in treating mitochondrial disease in babies. It’s extraordinary news. It’s also gutting — because my nephew, who we lost last year to Leigh’s disease, won’t benefit from it. It came too late for him. And I keep thinking about his parents. About what that feels like. To have fought so hard and then watch the answer arrive after.

Same with my cousin Kirby. Sanfilippo syndrome. My aunt and uncle helped pioneer the research — started one of the first foundations, advocated for years, built something from nothing. And now there are human trials. A cure is close. But Kirby is gone. And that is so profoundly unfair I don’t know what else to say about it except that it is.

I know this blog can feel like a lot. A lot of heavy, a lot of grief, a lot of me processing out loud. I’m aware. But this is my therapy and I need somewhere to put it, and people don’t have to read it. So I’m not really sorry — I just want to acknowledge that I know it’s a lot sometimes.

Today was a lot.

From Caroline talking me through my reformer like I wasn’t already dying, to medical miracles that came too late, to my dad sweetly confused at my dinner table — it was just a lot of feelings with nowhere tidy to land.

But I’m here. Still showing up. Still stretching.

Still getting my damn feet in the straps.

The Ones Who Failed Me

I want to talk about the doctors who let me down. I’ve been carrying this anger for a long time — almost three years — and I’m only just starting to loosen my grip on it. Not because I’ve forgiven anyone. Just because rage is exhausting and I’m already tired.

But I need to say it out loud first.

Dr. Kim was my reconstructive plastic surgeon. In the beginning he was fine — competent, professional, the whole thing. But the minute complications started, he vanished. My body was rejecting the expanders, I was recovering from sepsis, everything was going sideways — and he couldn’t handle it. Just gone. Unavailable. Too vain to deal with a messy case. If you ever looked at his social media, it tells you everything — only posts patients who look like supermodels. I was a problem to be managed, and he chose not to manage it.

He also dismissed the lump. That part I can’t let go of.

Dr. Gradishar — my oncologist at the time — dismissed it too. I found something. It looked like a pimple, or a mosquito bite. They told me it was a cyst, and honestly, I believed them — because why wouldn’t I? They’re the doctors. Gradishar sent me for a mammogram and an ultrasound. Results were inconclusive.

And that’s where they stopped.

No biopsy. No follow-up. No “let’s keep an eye on this.” Just — inconclusive, moving on. As if I hadn’t already had cancer once. As if a lump on a breast cancer patient wasn’t worth pursuing.

It was cancer. Again.

I had been walking around with undiagnosed, untreated cancer in my body for two years. Two years. Do you understand what that means? It means those cells had time to move. It means I now live with the very real likelihood that my cancer will come back — somewhere, sometime, ten years from now, twenty, maybe sooner — and part of that is because nobody caught it when they should have. I wasn’t even offered radiation the first time around. Should I have been? I still don’t know. Nobody has given me a straight answer on that.

I spoke to an attorney. I wanted to hold them accountable. I wanted someone to look at what happened and say yes, this was negligence, yes, you deserve more than just being alive.

They told me I don’t have a case. Because I eventually got diagnosed. Because I’m still here.

I sat with that for a long time. I’m still sitting with it. The system basically said — you survived, so what’s the problem? The problem is that survival shouldn’t be the bar. The problem is that two years of cancer in my body has consequences I’ll be living with for the rest of my life. The problem is that if they did this to me, they’ve done it to someone else.

And then there’s Dr. Fine.

When I was at my lowest — physically wrecked, emotionally done, running out of trust — he showed up. He took one look at that lump and knew. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t minimize. Didn’t make me feel crazy for pointing at my own body and saying something is wrong. He was right, and he acted on it, and I genuinely believe he saved my life.

Dr. Hansen, who did my original mastectomy, was exceptional. Dr. Undevia, my current oncologist, is sharp and thorough and actually follows protocol. These people did their jobs. They took me seriously. They treated me like someone worth saving.

The others? They know what they did. Or worse — they don’t.

I’m still angry. I’ll probably always be a little angry. But I’m done letting it eat me alive.

Almost.

This weekend, my husband lost a friend.

A good man. Kind, private, strong. He fought cancer quietly — didn’t let many people in on how bad it had gotten until about a year ago. He lived across the country, which made it hard for his friends to show up the way they wanted to. They tried. But he kept most of it to himself anyway. That was his way.

He lost his wife to leukemia over a decade ago. And now their daughter — barely in her twenties — has lost both of her parents to cancer.

I keep coming back to that. A young woman, just starting her life, and both of her parents are gone. To the same disease. That’s the kind of grief that doesn’t have a roadmap. I don’t know how you carry that. I just hope she has people around her who show up and stay.

This group of guys — Matt and his closest friends — are all just past fifty now. This loss has shaken them in that particular way that starts happening at this age, when you realize health isn’t guaranteed and the people you love aren’t either. They’re barely through grieving one friend before another wave hits. One of their closest friends’ wives is in hospice right now. Also cancer. There’s no space between the losses anymore — just one rolling into the next.

And then today someone came by work. A guy I’ve gotten to know, someone I genuinely like, who’s been out on leave. He didn’t come for business. He came to say goodbye. He’s tired. He’s choosing hospice. He wanted to see everyone one last time while he still could.

It’s a lot. It’s just a lot.

But — and I always seem to find one — there are silver linings this week and I’m holding onto them hard.

My friend, my sweet spirit animal moon phase goddess, who was told she had a tumor in her ear — it’s Ménière’s disease. Which comes with vertigo and hearing loss and its own set of challenges, but it is not brain damage and it is not paralysis of half her face, which is what we were bracing for. That’s a win. A real one. Now I just need to keep her out of the sun so she stops getting carved up for skin cancer, because I fully intend to grow old and ridiculous with her.

And my stepsister’s sister-in-law — the one doing clinical trials for a rare and terrifying cancer — got some promising news. Her treatment seems to be working. That matters. That gives a lot of us a little air to breathe.

I don’t have anything profound to say about any of this. No clean takeaway. No lesson I’ve neatly extracted.

Just the overwhelming urge to hug my people and not let go.

Cancer fucking sucks. I hate it.

I’m Not In Her Walls

We had just gotten back from our happy place — a long weekend with some of our favorite people, the kind that sends you home actually recharged for once. I was pulling into the driveway, still in that good mood, and I saw my neighbor across the street. We’ve always been friendly. Casual. She helped us out a lot after my mastectomy — walked Gus, my 170-pound lovebug of a mastiff, when I couldn’t. She was there when I was in the hospital and Matt was juggling everything alone. We’d had drinks on her patio, laughed together, been good neighbors to each other. So I rolled down my window and said hey, happy Memorial Day.

She stared at me like I had five heads.

I chalked it up to her being… her. She’s always been a little different. Quirky. A lot of childhood trauma, some emotional stuff. Odd, but in a harmless way — or so I thought. I gave her space. She ignored me, I let her. Fine.

Then things got weird.

We started hearing her screaming inside the house. Not arguing — screaming. At her husband, at nothing, we couldn’t always tell. Doors slamming. Things crashing. Her back storm door ended up on the curb one day, just broken and discarded. She started blasting music in the backyard loud enough to bother the neighbors next to her. She yelled and swore at people walking past with their dogs. She cornered new neighbors demanding to know what the cocksucker neighbors were saying about her. Apparently she’s been telling the whole block that’s what we are. Charming.

Then one morning I went out for the garbage cans and she came over like nothing had happened. I thought maybe she was coming out of it. She asked if I’d been having trouble with my phone or internet. I said no. Then she told me she was on her third phone — all bugged. That Charlie had wires all over the house and was trying to make her crazy. And then she told me that my voice had been tormenting her through her speakers for months.

My voice. Through her speakers. For months.

She believes I’m living in her walls somehow, using AI to harass her.

I kept a straight face. Barely. I got inside and called our neighbor Teri immediately. Turns out she’d gotten a version of the same conversation — voices in the house — plus an accusation that Teri, who works for NASA, had been moving satellites to mess with their electricity. Teri said she actually shut the power off in her house for two hours trying to locate the source.

It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad. But it’s both, honestly.

There’s a part of me that feels genuine compassion — she’s clearly in crisis and she needs help. And there’s a part of me that’s just creeped out and a little annoyed, and I think both of those are allowed.

Because now she sits outside every night in a chair facing our house. Just sits there. No book, no phone. Staring. A few times during dinner she’s come into the parkway with her hands on her hips, just watching us through the windows. My dad was over once and we kept having to tell him to stop looking back at her because it felt like we were one eye-contact away from a suburban standoff.

At a friend’s urging, Matt and I went to the police station — not to get her in trouble, just to get something on record. The officer was kind. Told us this was the fourth time something had been reported related to her. The good news is our town now has a social worker on staff and she’s been referred.

I hope she gets help. I genuinely do. But I also need to feel safe in my own home, and right now I don’t entirely. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder. I’m tired of trying to hold compassion and self-protection at the same time like they don’t constantly contradict each other.

This isn’t quirky neighbor stuff anymore. It’s unsettling. And it’s exhausting.

And for the record: I’m not in her walls.