This Body is Bullshit

And it feels like this might be the last normal one.

The five of us, Matt, Grace, Kathy, Dad, and me, are going out to dinner tonight. I’ve been fighting some upper respiratory bullshit for the past few days, trying to hold it together long enough to make it through the evening. I’m worried the bottom’s going to drop out at any minute.

What’s happening with him still feels surreal. Kathy and I talk a lot about the slow decline, about how there’s still so much of him there, which somehow makes it harder. Managing him, redirecting him, watching him struggle while still being mostly himself…it’s brutal. Not that I’d ever wish him further into this disease, but sometimes it feels like it might be easier once things are clearer. That’s a horrible thing to think. But it’s honest.

Years ago, when The Sister Project started their blog about their mom’s FTD diagnosis, I followed their journey closely. Michelle became almost a full-time caregiver. They had nursing help. They were able to buy her a place of her own. It was heartbreaking and remarkable and I never once thought we’d be here someday. I reached out to her recently. There are no answers. Just shared knowing.

Today, I want to celebrate him.

He’s a shell of the big, macho, tough guy I grew up idolizing. Now he’s a small old man who looks like the Lorax with the eyebrows and mustache, but without the belly or the orange. He’s sensitive. Anxious. Trying desperately to hide fear and confusion.

This is the same man who rode Harleys, worked construction, got into fights, and knocked people out. His claim to fame was making a citizen’s arrest of an attorney in Carbondale—handcuffs, duct tape, backseat of his car—driving him all the way to Chicago where the police greeted both of them. My dad spent a night or two in jail, made the Sun Times, the evening news, and still technically has a felony kidnapping record.

Which is… hilarious.

If you ever called him stubborn, he’d act like you’d called him a cunt. Worst insult imaginable. He is stubborn. And vain. And an only child who’s been spoiled his entire life. He made it to 84, outliving both of his parents by over a decade. He tried hard in life. His intentions were always good, even when things didn’t work out. And except for Kathy(he absolutely hit the jackpot with her) so much didn’t.

I don’t know what this year will bring for him. I just hope he always knows who I am.

And if someday he doesn’t, like my friend Tricia says about her mom, maybe he’ll still know that he loves us. And maybe that has to be enough.

Kathy and I keep wondering how long this has really been going on. FTD is usually diagnosed in people under 60. He’s 84. Could this have been unfolding for 25 years? Honestly… maybe. Looking back, there were signs.

I dread the day he can’t take care of himself or understand what’s happening. He’d be devastated. He’s too proud. He never wanted to be a burden. Sometimes I even think he might be lucky enough not to wake up one day because living fully aware of what’s coming would destroy him.

Losing him is already happening in pieces. And like Donna and Tammy, I’m realizing how strange it’s going to be to exist without parents. I’m incredibly lucky to have amazing stepparents but it’s still a reckoning.

I think about my mom a lot too. Our relationship was complicated. I know she loved me with everything she had, and she loved Grace even more. But it was hard. I loved her, but I was often frustrated and hurt. That wasn’t all her fault. I wasn’t easy either. And now, as a parent to an adult daughter, I see how anxious and worried she must have been. I probably shaved years off her life.

She didn’t take care of herself at the end. I miss her. And I wish I hadn’t gotten angry about things that were beyond her control. It probably didn’t help that I was always such a daddy’s girl – putting him on a pedestal.

If I could tell her one more thing, it would be this:
I love you,
I forgive you.
I’m sorry.

Tonight and for however much time we have left I’ll celebrate my dad. I’ll listen for that wheezy laugh. Watch his eyes close when he smiles.

Cheers to 84, my maniac dad.
Love you, old man.

This blog started because I needed somewhere to put things.
Not to teach.
Not to inspire.
Not to brand myself.

Just to survive my own head.

If you’ve read the last 41 entries, you already know this isn’t a highlight reel. It’s a running log of grief, exhaustion, dark humor, tenderness, medical appointments, family chaos, work stress, joy, and the occasional moment where I realize I’m still standing.

This blog is therapy.
Whoever reads it is a mystery to me.
And that’s exactly how I want it.

When I look back at the earliest entries, I can see how angry I was. Not loud, explosive anger—but sharp, brittle, always-on-edge anger. Truth be told, I would choose violence if I could. The kind that comes from being overwhelmed, grieving multiple things at once, and having no room to set anything down.

I was surviving on adrenaline and obligation. Everything felt urgent. Everything felt heavy. I didn’t trust rest. I didn’t trust stillness.
I’m still negotiating both.

Somewhere along the way, that shifted.

I’m less angry now.
Still tired. Still frustrated. Still grieving.
But less reactive. Less jagged.
Don’t get me wrong—I’d still pop someone in the mouth if they needed it.

I’ve become more intentional with my time, mostly because I no longer have the energy to waste it. I’m choosier about where I show up, who I show up for, and what I say yes to. I’m learning (slowly, imperfectly) that doing less doesn’t mean I care less—it means I’m trying to stay functional.

A lot of these entries are about my body. Cancer. Meds. Pain. Fatigue. Brain fog. Scars. Side effects that linger. This body is bullshit sometimes—but it’s also carried me through more than I ever expected. I don’t romanticize survival anymore. I just acknowledge it and keep going.

I’ve learned there’s a word for this phase: survivorship. You’re not “done,” you’re not healed, and you’re definitely not back to who you were. You’re rebuilding. Or adapting. Or just trying to feel like yourself again. If that sounds familiar, you’re not broken. You’re responding normally to something that changed you forever.

Family runs through every part of this blog—the love and the complicated parts. My mom’s absence. My dad’s decline. Caregiving without a roadmap. The strange grief of losing someone in pieces instead of all at once. Trying to protect everyone while quietly unraveling myself. Learning, very slowly, that I can’t control outcomes no matter how vigilant I am.

Matt is here too—steady, loyal, sometimes annoying, always showing up. We’ve changed together. Not in a shiny, rom-com way, but in the real way people do when life keeps handing them shit they didn’t ask for. We’re still learning how to meet each other where we are, not where we used to be.

And Grace—my daughter, my heart, my mirror. She’s grown now, which is both beautiful and brutal. Watching her navigate her own emotions, choices, and struggles has forced me to loosen my grip and trust that I did enough. That she’s strong. That she’ll find her way. That part is still hard.

There’s also joy here. Real joy.
Friends who show up.
Dogs who anchor me.
Shared meals. Traditions. Laughter.
Moments that don’t fix anything—but soften it.

If there’s a theme to the last 41 entries, it’s this:
I’m learning how to live inside the mess without trying to outrun it.

I want more texture in my life now. More depth. More curiosity. Less noise. I want to travel—not to escape, but to stretch. I want to learn. To see how other people live. To gather stories and perspectives instead of just responsibilities. That takes time. And money. And space. All things I’m still looking for.

I don’t want a bigger life.
I want a truer one.

So this is the 2026 version of me:
Less angry.
More aware.
Still sarcastic.
Still tired.
Still showing up.

This blog will keep being what it’s always been—a place where I tell the truth as I understand it in the moment. No tidy conclusions. No takeaways. Just honest documentation of a life that keeps changing, whether I’m ready or not.

If you’re reading along, welcome.
But mostly—this is for my own sanity.

A few months ago, I started listening to Hidden Brain. Not because I was trying to reinvent myself or “do the work” (I’ve been doing the work against my will for about five years now), but because I needed something steady in my ears that didn’t involve murder, cults, or politics. It started to make a lot of sense and I was hooked. It didn’t change my life overnight or fix anything, but it did help me put language to things I’ve been living for a long time. The way trauma rewires your brain. The way grief lives in your body. The way we chase worthiness like it’s a moving target instead of something we already have. If you haven’t listened, I actually recommend checking it out. There are all kinds of topics, not just heavy stuff, and it has a way of gently explaining why we are the way we are without making you feel broken.

Then today, New Year’s Eve, a close friend posted something beautiful about standing still as the year turned. Breathing. No resolutions. No new version of herself. Just choosing to stay exactly where she is.

And it hit me, because this blog—This Body Is Bullshit—has never been about one rough year. It’s about the last five. It’s my therapy, and honestly, I’m sorry you’re reading this sometimes pity party. Five years of cancer diagnoses, surgeries, recurrence, reconstruction that didn’t go the way I hoped, and learning how to live in a body I didn’t trust anymore. Five years of grief stacked on grief—losing my mom, watching my dad slowly disappear, friends getting sick, dying. Five years of being reshaped by things I didn’t ask for and couldn’t control.

Here’s the part that feels important to say out loud though:
I actually have a good life.

Matt and I have a good life. We love each other. We laugh. We have enough. We are safe. I know that. I’m grateful for that. I don’t sit around wishing it away. But also? I want more. Not more stuff. Not more success. Not more productivity. I want space. I want to travel. I want to relax in the sun. I want to be near water. I want to be in nature. I want to see other parts of the world and remember that life exists outside of hospitals, waiting rooms, work, other people’s problems and calendar alerts. I want to learn about other cultures—maybe not all the food (I know who I am), but the way people live, slow down, and exist differently.

That doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful.
It means I’m alive.

And then there’s Grace. I am so proud of her it almost hurts. She is a genuinely good human. She worked her ass off for her degrees and is putting them to use in a way that actually matters—doing work that helps people and contributes to a better world. That didn’t happen by accident. And because I’m her mother, I can hold two truths at once. I want more joy for her. More confidence. More connection. Less isolation. Less hiding. Less pot smoking and more believing in herself the way I believe in her. I want her to feel solid in who she is—not just capable. Happy, not just functioning. Loving your adult child is a strange mix of pride, hope, fear, and knowing when to shut up and trust that they’re finding their own way. I’m working on that part.

I am absolutely exhausted by Christmas. Like, crawl-into-January-on-my-hands-and-knees exhausted. And yet I love it. I genuinely love Christmas. I love giving gifts. Not in a healthy, budget-conscious way. More like a mild condition. If something makes me think of someone, I buy it. Immediately. I don’t wait for birthdays or holidays. I see it, I think them, and suddenly my card is out. This is why December sometimes rolls around and I’m like, Huh. Interesting. I appear to have no money. And I just hope, truly hope, that people remember that random Tuesday in March when I gave them something because it reminded me of them. Because that counts. That should absolutely count. That’s how I love. Even if my bank account would strongly prefer I express affection in literally any other way.

FTD is a fucking bitch. It is mind-blowing and incomprehensible. There are no answers, no explanation for what’s happening to him, no clarity on why he’s acting this way, no roadmap for what’s coming, no real guidance on how to help Kathy, no certainty about anything at all. Just confusion, heartbreak, and the slow loss of someone you love while they’re still standing in front of you. Zero stars. Do not recommend. I hate it. I hate how unfair it is. I hate how depressing and frustrating it is. I hate how powerless it makes everyone involved. It’s exhausting and heartbreaking and such absolute bullshit.

And yet I still get up. I still show up. I still love fiercely. I still laugh. I still want beauty and warmth and water and rest.

What Hidden Brain helped me understand is that when trauma and loss stretch on for years, your brain becomes very good at survival and very bad at rest. You don’t stop wanting joy, you just don’t trust it. You brace. You scan. You wait for the next shoe to drop. And then you judge yourself for being tired or reactive when, honestly, your nervous system has been running emergency drills for half a decade.

And I need to say this plainly, because I tend to minimize it: I live with pain, fatigue, and brain fog constantly. Not occasionally. Not dramatically. Just always. It’s the kind that doesn’t look impressive from the outside but quietly dictates how much energy I have, how clearly I can think, how far I can push before my body reminds me who’s actually in charge. Some days I feel sharp and capable. Other days I lose words mid-sentence and forget why I walked into a room. It’s humbling. It’s frustrating. It’s real. And I’m tired of pretending that surviving well means pretending this part doesn’t exist. For a long time, I thought healing meant getting back to who I was before all of this. Before cancer. Before grief. Before pain rewired my body and loss rewired my brain. That version of me is gone. And chasing her nearly broke me.

So as another year turns, I don’t want a “new me.” I’ve already been remade too many times and none of it was optional.

What I want now is simpler and harder:
to stay in my body without apologizing for it
to hold gratitude and longing at the same time
to stop treating worthiness like something I earn after surviving well enough

No resolutions.
No reinvention.
No pretending the last five years didn’t change me.

Just me.
Feet on the ground.
Hand on my heart.
Breathing through whatever comes next.

And honestly?
That’s enough.

It’s Monday, coming off a weekend packed with more Christmas. The weather is doing that cruel Midwest thing—yesterday it was 50 degrees, today it’s about 7. Raw. Bitter. I really wish we’d had snow on Christmas, but overall, the holidays went really well.

I did make it to the Wilsons’ prime rib dinner—late. Delicious as always. Aunt Susie makes everything festive and beautiful and thoughtful. 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 acted like he liked me, which is a whole long story I won’t get into. It started with a hug, which caught me completely off guard, since I’d previously been instructed not to hug him—or touch him at all. But whatever. We rolled with it and tried to keep things normal. That seems to be the theme lately.

Christmas Eve was relaxed and casual. We had fajitas from Alfredo’s, and the owner is just the sweetest man. He was so genuinely grateful for the business, and I hope his restaurant thrives—kindness like that deserves it. Grace was a little off—snippy with me and 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 roller coaster. I try not to react in front of everyone, but I do calmly let her know I won’t be spoken to that way, reason with her is some way and she really won’t have it. I don’t think she even realizes when she is like this. Which is just odd with all her psychology background.My stepmom jokingly threatened to separate us at the table, which made me sad—because it was obvious everyone noticed—but we still laughed, ate well, and enjoyed being together with family and the dogs.

I do my best to create Christmas magic. I probably spend too much on presents, but I truly love giving gifts. I don’t really care about receiving them—though I did get a few nice ones—but watching people open gifts and (hopefully) love them brings me real joy.

Christmas morning at home was cozy and simple, still in pajamas. I didn’t get the backpack for Frank, but that’s okay. We got dressed and headed to our annual family brunch at the Wilsons’, which is always fun. We do a grab bag where stealing is encouraged and chaos ensues. Afterward, we came home and napped so I could mentally prepare for work on Friday.

Ken stayed with us from Wednesday through Sunday morning, which honestly 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 especially special. My stepsister and her family came over, which rarely 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 hard to coordinate time together. I used to feel hurt, but I understand now. Chrissy was one of the first people I saw truly use boundaries as a way to survive, and I’ve tried to learn from that. Her making the effort to come down and spend time at our house and at Dad and Kathy’s meant a lot. We played games with the kids, and my heart felt full in that quiet, deep way. I miss them.

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

I love Christmas, but it definitely hits differently now. Having my cousins’ little kids and my stepsister’s kids around brings some of that magic back—especially now that Grace is an adult and that particular version of Christmas has passed. It’s sad, but it’s life. I still soaked it all in.

Physically, I’m dealing with a lot of pain, which makes everything more exhausting. The busyness of the holidays layered on top of everything else has made my brain fog worse—though I’m very grateful my oncologist assured me it’s not dementia, just meds. Underneath it all, there’s that quiet grief—missing my mom and now navigating my dad’s issues—that sneaks in when I least expect it. I’m sad it’s becoming so hard on Kathy. She’s overwhelmed and frustrated, and I don’t blame her. I just don’t know what to do.

Christmas is strange like that. It’s joyful and warm and fun… and also sad and heavy and melancholic. All at the same time.

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. 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, because you have to work the day before and the day after a holiday to be paid for it. If he didn’t work Friday, he wouldn’t be 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. And 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—she was calm, steady, supportive. I hope he knows how lucky he is to have her.

While we waited, I had him stay in my office. His brother also works here. Confidentiality-wise, I shouldn’t have said anything—but I needed his brother to check on him during break. His brother broke down in tears. He said this has been a long-standing issue in their family, and everyone is devastated.

Watching this unfold was devastating.

I hope I’m doing the right thing—trying to save his job and get him into treatment. I hope this is a turning point and not just another stop along the way. I can’t stop thinking about how hard this Christmas will be for that family.

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.

Last Thursday turned into an impromptu girls’ Christmas dinner, which 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 even squeezed in photos with Santa. Yes. The four of us grown women with Santa. The pictures were ridiculous and perfect.

I worked remotely last 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 would pick him up later to take him Christmas shopping for Kathy and then bring him back to my house so we could 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, and I was nervous the entire time I stood in line—worried he’d get out and I wouldn’t find him. But there he was, still waiting. We headed over to stores I thought might be good places to find something unique for Kathy. I could tell right away he was anxious—tapping his legs, repeating questions, clearly uncomfortable.

I got him into the first store—one quick loop and he was ready to leave. Same thing with the second store. The whole point was to spend time together, get him out of the house, and mainly give Kathy a break, but it wasn’t going the way I’d hoped. 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 different restaurants, and he kept turning them down. On the drive to my house, the questions—and the deep breaths—kept coming. He was confused about why we were ordering the Kindle from my computer instead of going to a store. When we were almost there, he finally said, “Just take me home. You can order it yourself.”

I told him no—he needed to be there. He came inside, went to the bathroom, then stood over me while I ordered it, and immediately followed it with, “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 can make things harder for people with dementia, and that probably played a role. Still, it was disheartening. Sad. Depressing. Not personal, I know—but hard. He just cannot be away from Kathy. I’m not jealous. I’m just sad that this is where he is now, and I know it’s not going to get better.

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

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, and she told me yesterday she’s been dealing with some health issues that are now wrecking her sleep. No bueno. I ordered fajitas for Christmas Eve from our favorite little Mexican place, and I’ll be making fruit salad for Christmas brunch back at the Wilsons’, so at least that part is easy on me. Then I work Friday. Of course I do.

I’m anxious about how Dad will do on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

I’m hoping by tomorrow it starts feeling more like Christmas. I’m bummed we won’t have a white Christmas—apparently it’s supposed to be 50 degrees, which just feels wrong. Still, I’m excited for all the festivities. I also need a nap. And I really, really hope Santa brings me that backpack to carry Frank in.

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—though usually not as obsessively when Kathy is home. Thankfully, I did. 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. I could hear her running down the stairs while we were on the phone, checking to see if the car was in the garage. She’d been working in her home office. They only have one car. It wasn’t there. I was at work.

Cue instant panic.

My first call was to Aunt Susie, hoping she might be babysitting the grandkids, which is right down the street where Life360 said he was. She wasn’t—but being who she is, she immediately jumped into action. She headed home and 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 had 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.

Knowing my aunt and uncle aren’t exactly close, I called Donna next. She and Mark dropped everything and jumped in the car. They arrived just as Dad had found his car and was pulling out of the parking lot, and started driving. I stayed on the phone with me while they followed him all the way home. At least he was able to do that this time.

Watching my dear friends chase my father around town like this feels surreal. Terrifying. Exhausting.

What makes it worse is that just the day before, I’d already reached out to the doctors because things felt like they were moving fast.

On Friday, Dad and Kathy stopped by my house on their way to Costco. Kathy came in looking visibly shaken and quietly told me Dad had just asked what Matt’s name was—my husband.

But then Dad came inside, joking like usual, greeting Matt and me, loving on the dogs—totally normal. Regular old him. They left shortly after. Then Kathy texted me: he said he thought they had 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—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,” he said.

An hour later, he asked again.

The next morning, while 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 last week. My DEXA scan showed a 17% bone loss since my last scan two years ago—which is significant and alarming. I’ll be starting infusions early next year, likely in March.

I adore my oncologist. He’s boisterous, funny, smart. But while 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 still… it was sobering.

I’m looking at a minimum of five more years on these drugs, and they are unrelenting. The joint pain is real. Significant. Not related to the bone loss—that’s a whole separate issue. The fatigue is real. The brain fog and memory problems are also real—but not dementia, thankfully, he assured me. Just side effects.

The dry skin. The dry everything—you know what I mean. I now have a new insert for one of those issues that contains estrogen, which feels ironic considering the entire point of these drugs is to block estrogen. He assured me it won’t absorb systemically.

There’s a new drug coming out that works more like tamoxifen—attacking instead of blocking—and is supposedly much easier on joints. He doesn’t know if I’ll qualify, but he’s researching it. I’d be one of the first patients to try it. Not sure how I feel about being a guinea pig.

The infusions should help my bones—but I need to be prepared. The first one can knock you flat for a couple of days with flu-like symptoms. And I’ll most likely experience “growing pains.” Laughable.

I still haven’t tried the temporary nipple tattoos. I think it’s because my chest finally feels settled—less swollen—and I’ve realized… I just don’t like them. I know Dr. Fine went for natural, and they probably are. But honestly? I think I wanted fake-looking. Why not?

I still plan to do the tattoos eventually. I just need to get over this mental block. I’m going to make an appointment to get fitted for a bra and see if that helps—even though the whole point was hoping I’d never need one again. If I want high and tight, though, a bra is required.

Megan and Mike hosted an absolutely amazing Friendsgiving. Way too much food (in the best way), games, high school reunions, a homemade photo booth, and just a lot of laughing and catching up—plus surprising Lauren and celebrating her 50th. One of those nights where you leave full, tired, and reminded that chosen family really matters.

A couple weeks later was Donna’s annual girls’ Christmas grab bag party, this year with a winter white theme. We always look forward to this night. It was small, simple, and perfect. Same vibe—lots of laughing, a little shenanigans, and really good company. I posted a few pictures afterward and got way more compliments than expected about how good we all looked in white. Another fabulous evening at Club Tavo.

I cannot believe Christmas is next week.

I love Christmas. I love family. I love celebrating friends. And I’m also exhausted and want to crawl into bed and do nothing. I’m trying hard to lose weight—finally dropped two pounds after what feels like forever.

After the new year, my cousin will need a hysterectomy for suspected cancer—similar to what my friend Tammy went through and thankfully came through without complications. I’m hoping the same for Jennifer. I never want to see anyone face surgery, but here we are. Hoping she comes out unscathed with minimal—if not no—treatment required.

Work is still nuts. I left after 6 p.m. tonight. But I’m focused on the prize—after the first of the year, I can drop one building and be back with my people. Just need to get through the next two weeks.

There’s good 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, fabulous, and always slightly too rare for Matt and me (though that is how it’s supposed to be eaten, I believe).

Christmas Eve will be here—Dad and Kathy, Matt’s mom and aunt, maybe Ken stopping by. Christmas morning is our annual brunch at Aunt Susie and Uncle Brad’s—almost exactly what my grandmother used to serve. I cannot wait for Aunt Susie to make Grandma’s cookies.

I really need to sit down with her and learn how to make her lasagna. And those cookies.

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

Today marks four years since I lost my mom. I don’t usually get hung up on death anniversaries, but I definitely woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Crabby, mad, emotional — the whole cocktail. To be fair, I went to bed annoyed last night. Work has been relentless, like I can’t seem to catch up. And then there’s home life, which should feel easier now that Matt’s laid off and doing most of the house management — more than he normally does, and he does truly makes everything easier. But still… I was irritated with him. He gets so negative sometimes. I roll with his moods; he does not roll with mine. And he loves saying no. To everything. It’s getting old. He’s not great at finding the joy and sometimes he actually sucks it out. Then, at the same time, he is the best guy around.

Anyway.

We’re helping our neighbor Teri, who got caught in the middle of a dog fight between her two foster Wisenheimers and her own shepherd mix. She went in with a broom (mistake), and one of them turned on her. She ended up needing stitches in her leg and hand surgery. Her dog is still in the hospital(Sadie needed stitches, ok now but just keeping the dogs separated at this point), and the rescue will be retrieving the fosters soon. In the meantime, Matt and I have been managing the Wisenheimers — which is… a lot. But she’s the best neighbor, and we feel awful about what she went through.

So when I went over this morning to take them out and clean up from their overnight quarantine, by the time I got back home, I just lost it. Full-on tears. Crying isn’t usually my thing, but I had a solid little sob.

Somewhere in the chaos, Ken texted both Grace and me: “Have a happy day. I love you.” It was sweet. Maybe it triggered me, maybe it just hit at the wrong (right?) moment, but for the first time I replied honestly: “I’m struggling today.” Growth, I guess. Authenticity sounds great until you actually have to do it.

On the way to work, I blasted music, sang like I belonged on stage, and air-drummed like a lunatic. Honestly, it helped. I wish I could actually play an instrument or sing outside the confines of my car, but that’s between me and the steering wheel. And apologies to anyone who witnessed it.

Once I got to Melrose Park, things evened out. The emotions settled. Being with my MP crew always does that. Coffee, cookies, and chatting before mandatory sexual harassment training — the glamorous life. Our training and development manager does a great job. And the night before, we got the most incredible email (with some VPs copied) praising the MP team — a rare acknowledgment for our little “island.” Felt so good to be seen.

Then I zipped to Hillside to run my own training before meeting Kathy to head to Northwestern and meet with the neurologist’s social worker. But before she could meet me, Dad went missing for a bit — said he was just running to Home Depot. He got lost, didn’t make it back, and Kathy was dealing with his meltdown while trying to talk him home. By the time she finally reached my office, she was already emotionally wrung out.

And then the meeting… Jesus. Productive but heavy. We both cried — not like my ugly cry from this morning, but definitely tears. Hearing again that Dad’s FTD, especially the behavioral variant, means he literally cannot reason or be reasoned with — it’s soul-twisting. You truly cannot comprehend the fact that he cannot comprehend. It’s a horrific Twilight Zone. The social worker helped us understand how we have to change in order to survive living alongside it. It’s a lot to absorb. And it’s going to get harder. It’s hard for the “average” person, and my dad isn’t exactly average to begin with.

Kathy leaves Saturday for Mexico with the Mulroys — a trip she deserves more than anyone. But it means I’m on Dad Duty again. We’ll be hiding the car while she’s gone, which takes a huge burden off me.

Tomorrow night we have an ornament walk in Lemont. Then she leaves early Saturday. Megan and Mike are hosting Friendsgiving this weekend, and we’ve asked Patrick to keep an eye on Dad Saturday. I’ll probably stay at Dad’s Sunday and/or Monday so he’s not alone and I don’t lose my mind trying to track him from afar.

My friend Cathy in New Jersey and I started something new. I sent her a reel of a group of guys who couldn’t coordinate phone calls, so they started sending each other a two-minute weekly video called the “Wednesday Waffle.” She immediately started it with us — now it’s me, her, and Donna sending our own Wednesday Waffle videos. Donna affectionately titled us the Twat Waffles. Week two and I’m already thinking we need a Tuesday Waffle or Thursday Waffle spin-off — Twaffles. I might unleash that soon.

Last night leaving Melrose Park, I heard what sounded like gunshots — six? Eight? My heart dropped into my stomach. Turns out it was filming for Chicago PD or Fire. Thank you to the Melrose Park Police Department Facebook page for saving my blood pressure.

And speaking of my heart — my sweet Frankie turned 11 on the 18th. My tiny old-man shadow. I’m obsessed with him beyond reason and refuse to apologize.

By the time I get home tonight, I’ll still have to take care of the Wisenheimers, and I’ve got a headache brewing. The earache from earlier thankfully disappeared, but I’m pretty sure I’m walking straight into a sinus infection. I made a doctor appointment for tomorrow — an excellent way to kick off a weekend.

So yeah… four years without my mom. And today reminded me that grief is strange. It doesn’t follow anniversaries or dates. It sneaks in during dog-walking mornings, on the drive to work, in doctor’s offices, in text messages, in the middle of traffic jams — which, by the way, it took Kathy and me over an hour just to get from Northwestern to Hillside today. Absolutely insane.

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

And for today — that’s enough.

Let’s see… where did I leave off?

We had our annual pumpkin carving at the Wilsons, and it was such a nice day. Of course, Aunt Susie made everything cute, cozy, delicious, a full Hallmark-fall spread, because that’s just who she is. And she’s the best cook. Later that night, we went to Rusty and Heather’s and had another festive evening with them and Ben. I like to call us the Fab Five (whether they like it or not — we’re basically family at this point). Another great meal, great company, and 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 we’re in November, and life is back to being…

Work is still hammering me, and I’m still carrying the mental load of Dad and Kathy.

One happy thing for Kathy, though: instead of flying to New Jersey to visit the Mulroys, they’re taking her to Mexico with them. Well deserved for all of them. Truly. However… that means I’m back on Dad Duty. And yes, I fully know I turn into an unhinged hall monitor when I’m responsible for watching him. I even asked her to drive herself to the airport and park there so he wouldn’t have the car while she’s gone. She definitely thinks I’m nuts.

Today is my 10-year wedding anniversary. A whole decade. And how am I celebrating? With a colonoscopy!! If that doesn’t sum up midlife, I don’t know what does. Aunt Susie insisted on being the one to take me because she cannot wait to fuck with me when I’m coming out of sedation.

Matt and I will celebrate tomorrow. Dinner and drinks in the city at places I’ve been excited to try. Not exactly Matt’s scene, but he loves me enough to be a good sport. At least I hope so… actually, I know he will.

We were up at 4 a.m. for my end of prep (which is his normal hour). We exchanged cards, and out of every card at Walgreens, we managed to buy each other the exact same one. Tell me that isn’t the most “10-years-of-marriage” thing ever.

Looking back at our wedding photos is bittersweet. They’re beautiful memories, but there are seven people in those pictures who are no longer here. Life really does move in strange waves; joy, grief, change, growth all jammed together. Marriage changes. People change. I changed. I’m softer now. Less angry. More intentional. I think writing this, almost turning 50, surviving what I’ve survived… it shifts perspective. Maybe it’s just life doing what life does, rearranging your values and wants when you’re not even paying attention.

Ten years married. Fifteen years at Dynamic. Nearly 50 years alive. A lot has happened. A lot has changed. Some of it hurt, but I’m grateful for where I am. Somehow I’m 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 feels good enough.

Cheers to 10 years.

Last week I had one of those 11-hour workdays that eats your soul. I got home, dropped everything, and decided the only logical next step was a bath. Just me, the tub, and extra epsom salt.

Right as I was about to sink in, Drew called. I figured I’d call him back later, but a few minutes into soaking, the phone rang again. This time I answered. A little small talk, then he goes, “Are you in the bathtub?” and starts laughing — because, yes, I absolutely was.

“Well,” he says, “I’m in your driveway.”

Turns out he and Jan had been at Costco and decided to stop by. So there I was, naked in the tub with my best friend and his mom in my driveway. I hollered down to Matt, who was half-asleep on the couch, to get the door. Jan, Drew, Matt, and I ended up having a great little visit, hanging out in the garage because Drew didn’t feel like dealing with his ramp. Totally unplanned — and I usually hate drop-ins — but honestly, it was nice. A surprise bit of joy on a random weeknight.

Then there’s my dad. And poor Kathy. We went to a No Kings protest last weekend — my first one, though they’ve done several rallies before. I thought it would be fun and empowering, and it was… but more emotional than I expected. Megan gave me a too-potent gummy. Kathy tried to convince Dad to wear gym shoes, but of course he refused. He wanted his cowboy boots.

Now he’s got this old-man shuffle, and those boots didn’t help. Watching him try to navigate curbs and crowds was painful — he looked frail, unsteady, old. It broke my heart. Still, he loved every minute of it. He’s stubborn and vain — I’m convinced he thinks the boots make him taller — and he’s developed this weird habit of plucking hairs off the top of his nose. It’s disgusting, and Kathy and I are constantly on him to stop.

She’s been trying to talk to him about his drinking too. He swears he’ll only drink on Saturdays now, but we’ll see how long that lasts. When she was out of town, I gave him “drinks” — zero alcohol — and he didn’t even notice. It’s exhausting keeping tabs, but if it were up to me, I’d keep him home every night. Then again, that would probably kill him faster than the booze.

My body’s been staging its own protest lately — joint pain, muscle aches, fatigue. It’s like every part of me is tired. My neck, shoulders, back, hips, knees, hands, feet — all sore, all at once. I did something I never do: Googled bone cancer. I don’t actually think I have it, but it was one of those late-night doom scrolls when I couldn’t sleep. Fucking stupid.

In between managing pain and family chaos, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want from the rest of my life. I keep saying I want more — more meaning, more adventure, more curiosity. I want to learn things, really learn them. I’ve been reading, listening to podcasts, watching documentaries. Half the time I feel intellectually lazy, like I can’t keep up. I hate small talk, but I’m not always confident enough to speak on big issues either. I’d love to learn languages, travel, experience other cultures. I wish I were more adventurous with food, but I’m a picky eater with a bad gag reflex — so, baby steps.

Work’s been heavy too. I’m seriously thinking about asking to step away from my Hillside 5 responsibilities. It’s not that it’s hard — it’s just draining me in ways I can’t explain. I get anxious before going there, and that’s not how I want to feel about work. I’ve been at Dynamic for fifteen years. I’m turning fifty. I used to want to move up, become a manager. Not anymore. I just want to do my job well, protect the family, keep things running, and not lose myself in the process. I’m proud of what I do — I just want to keep doing it without feeling like it’s eating me alive. But I don’t want to disappoint Johnny or Nancy.

I had dinner with Nancy recently. We always have these deep, winding conversations when we do get together. I feel for her. She carries a lot — loneliness, heartbreak, old wounds that don’t heal. 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’s a fellow breast-cancer survivor, and we used to be thick as thieves. Life just… shifted. She mentioned wanting to take a trip, which would be great, but she’s in a very different financial world than I am. I know she’d probably offer to pay, but that just makes me feel guilty. Still, I love her.

Speaking of my breast-cancer circle — my best friend Donna is doing incredible. She’s been through hell and back, but she’s handled cancer like a total badass while dealing with the grief of losing her mom. She’s in the home stretch now, one surgery left. She hates that she’s gained a few pounds, but she looks amazing — better, actually, though she prefers being bone skinny. She’s got great muscles though. I wish she could see herself the way I do: strong, beautiful, brave. She’s sensitive, though, and sometimes that strength makes me worry about what she’s hiding underneath. She holds so much stress in her tiny frame. It’s not good for her. I try to help her see the glass half full, but she’s the opposite too often. I just want to hug the shit out of her.

Then there’s Grace. She’s been kind of elusive lately. I worry when she goes quiet like that. She feels things so deeply, and sometimes I can sense when she’s struggling, even from miles away. I know she’s twenty-six and living her life, but part of me still spirals — wondering if she’s slipping into a depressive spell or talking to that ex again. He’s no good for her. But I have to remind myself — she’s her own person. I can’t helicopter her into happiness.

On the bright side, Matt and I are in a better place than we were. We’re learning to meet each other where we are. I heard this analogy recently — some people are ferns, some are cactuses. Ferns need constant watering and attention. Cactuses just need light and space. Maybe that’s us — a fern and a cactus trying to share a pot. It’s not easy, but we’re figuring it out.

I’ve become intentional about how I spend my time and, with Matt’s “suggestion”, money. I skipped a close friend’s 50th birthday party last weekend, which I felt guilty about. But by the time I factored in dry cleaning for what I wanted to wear, a gift, dinner, drinks, and the casino, it probably would’ve been a $300 night. That’s my new weekly budget! So instead, I stayed home, guilt-free. We’ll have breakfast soon, and she gets it.

My cousin Jennifer had to put her dog down — the same day as the anniversary of losing Kirby. Brutal. I changed my FB profile picture to one of all the Malek girls together — my mom’s side. It feels like another lifetime when we were all under one roof. Aunt Susie hosted, as always. She’s still the glue, holding the family together, even as we lose a few pieces. We’re doing our annual pumpkin carving this weekend.

By the time I get off work tonight, it’ll be dark and cold — no hammock weather anymore. I’ll probably stop to make a few returns, then head home for a quick dinner before 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 good enough for me right now.

I’m trying hard to live intentionally — to lead with joy instead of worry, to stay curious, compassionate, and grounded. To take care of myself without guilt. I’m naturally a “cup half full” person, even if the cup’s a little cracked these days. Anger, bitterness, control — they’re just wasted energy. I like this path. It’s interesting how aware I am of the physical changes, and how aging — oddly enough — is opening my mind.

So maybe this isn’t some grand finish to the week. But it’s still something steady.
A quiet exhale.
And hope for that mani-pedi.