This Body is Bullshit

I just spent a few hours with Drew because I needed him. I was still feeling out of sorts—tight chest, depressed, stuck in my own head—and he was the person I could lean on. Sometimes you just need that friend, the one who grounds you without you having to explain.

Drew and I go way back—to high school. I was a sophomore, he was a freshman, and I was “going out” (as we said then) with his childhood best friend and neighbor. That’s how we met. Pretty quickly, Drew became my friend too. He even dated one of my girlfriends for years (on-again, off-again), so our lives stayed connected.

He was always the wild man. The first person I ever did psychedelics with. The one with the epic house parties—huge bonfires, a pool, a piece of property made for teenage chaos. We had a special connection from the start.

There was a stretch when we drifted apart, mostly when I was with Grace’s dad. Drew would get drunk and leave hilarious, ridiculous (sometimes a little too sexy) messages on my answering machine in the middle of the night. Let’s just say Grace’s dad wasn’t a fan. But Drew understood. We always cared about each other, even when we weren’t in touch.

I still remember being nine months pregnant and running into him at a graduation party after not seeing him for a long time. His face lit up, eyes wide at how huge I was. He thought it was hilarious and wonderful at the same time. We laughed. It felt like no time had passed.

That’s the thing about Drew—he’s not just a friend. He’s my only male best friend, which feels rare. We can be raw and emotional and vulnerable with each other in ways we aren’t with anyone else. We tell each other everything. He’s family.

But Drew’s story isn’t easy. Not long after college, he had a skiing accident. He broke his neck and was paralyzed—“from the triceps down,” as they put it. He can move his arms but lost fine motor skills. He went from being this outdoorsy, physical, larger-than-life guy—skiing, rafting, bodybuilding, construction—to suddenly having to relearn how to live.

I’ll never forget visiting him at RIC when he was in a halo. It was heartbreaking. But Drew being Drew, he didn’t lose his humor—or his perverted streak. Nurses would give him sponge baths, and he’d tell them, “Well, you’ve got your boobs in my face—what do you expect?” That’s just Drew. He found a way to laugh, even when everything had changed.

The harder part wasn’t his sense of humor—it was people. People pulled away. They didn’t know what to say or how to act, so they disappeared. The guy who had always been the life of the party was suddenly alone when he needed people most. That part still makes me angry for him.

It took a long time, but Drew found his way back into the world. Social again, going out, living life. He still parties a little harder than he should sometimes (I’ve yelled at him plenty for the next-morning apology tours he has to make), but that’s Drew.

Over the years we’ve had so many moments I hold close. Staying up until 2 or 3 a.m. in his van, playing “Name That Tune” with my iPod, only three seconds per song. One of the funniest concert stories ever: we were on our way to Pearl Jam, stuck in traffic, hot as hell, and he asked me to pour some water on his head. Out of all the bottles, I grabbed the one filled with vodka he planned to smuggle in. Straight vodka. On his head. We laughed even though he was pretty irritated with me.

More recently, he had another brutal surgery—one that could’ve taken him out. He spent months in the hospital. I went to see him as often as I could, and even then, we found ways to laugh. One time I finally got him out for a walk down by the lake. We stopped at a café, and there he was, hospital bands still on his wrist—including a DNR one—having a drink like he’d just strolled in from the office. I don’t know what they thought I broke him out of, but we were quite the sight.

I’m grateful every day that Matt isn’t jealous of Drew, that he understands how deep this bond is. Drew even stood beside us at our wedding, part of our family in every way that matters. And Matt and I have often said—if anything ever happened to his mom, Drew could come live with us. He is ours.

Drew is more than a friend. He’s my brother. My history. My witness. My family.

I don’t know what I’d do without him. And I realize I don’t spend enough time with him.

Today I feel out of sorts. My chest is tight, and it feels like I might be in the middle of a panic or anxiety attack. There’s this heaviness—sadness, anger, despair—that makes me want to curl up in the fetal position.

I was late for work because I couldn’t get off the shower floor. I sat there, water running, thoughts spiraling, trying to muster the energy to move.

I keep thinking—how do people live like this every day? Angry, worried, stressed out? I don’t feel this way all the time, but today it feels unbearable.

Maybe it’s the drinking. I don’t drink much anymore, but I got wasted at my friend’s birthday this weekend—to the point where I don’t remember how the night ended. Yesterday I was just tired and beat up. But today? Today feels like the emotional hangover hit harder than the physical one.

And then the financial stress came crashing back in. Debt I can’t see my way out of. The constant cycle of robbing Peter to pay Paul. I thought about sending a couple of the bills that are burying me to my stepdad and just asking him to pay them off so I could breathe. I hate even thinking that way, but it’s exhausting. That’s the thing—my mom would’ve helped me. She always said when she died, Ken would give me money, but he didn’t. Not that it was promised. But she believed it. And sometimes I think about how much that money would change my life right now, how different things could be.

Grace’s student loans are about to come due. I am covering her undergrad; she’s paying for her master’s. I want to help her, but it’s crushing. She’s carrying enough already. She gets frustrated so easily, she holds on to anger, and I just want her to feel light and happy and free. She deserves better than the guys she wastes her time with. She deserves so much more.

And then, beneath all of that, the constant whisper: will the cancer come back? I’ll never get to say “I’m in remission.” All I get is “no evidence of disease.” A phrase that feels temporary, fragile.

I’ve been through FMLA before—for my surgeries earlier this year. Just last week I filed again, this time to cover taking my dad to his neurologist. But I think about all the employees who take FMLA for anxiety, depression, mental health breaks. And honestly? Maybe I should too. Maybe I need it. I need a fucking break.

Being in HR doesn’t help. My whole job is dealing with other people’s feelings, other people’s crises. Most days I can hold compassion and empathy, but on days like this it’s draining. I’m running on fumes.

Right now, the fatigue is bone-deep. My scars ache, my shoulders burn, my face feels tired. And still, I’ll get up, smile, show up for people. I’ll make sure everyone else is okay. But I don’t know how long I can keep pretending I’m fine when sometimes I’m really not.

I want escape. I want to be in Florida with Rusty and Heather. Or in Sayulita with Natalie, where life felt lighter. Where I wasn’t weighed down by fatigue, by debt, by worry.

People ask me all the time—How are you? And I always answer the same way: I’m fine.

And it’s true… most of the time. I am fine. I don’t need anything. I’m not falling apart in a puddle on the floor. But my fine doesn’t mean what most people think it means. My fine is carrying a body that never really healed. My fine is living with a nervous system that’s been idling high for decades, worn thin by years of chaos and stress—past and present.

The fatigue is bone-deep. The pain is a constant hum. Some days it’s background noise; other days it’s loud enough to drown out everything else. It’s invisible, which means people don’t see it and when people don’t see something, they often can’t understand it. I can be smiling and laughing while silently negotiating with myself about how much longer I can stand before I need to sit.

I also think about something I read:  How we tell people we’re fine because fine is expected. Fine is acceptable. Fine keeps us from having to admit the truth. And after a while, fine becomes a wall. I’ve done that. I’ve put up that wall without even realizing it. I’m such a convincing actress that sometimes I don’t notice I’ve been performing until someone points it out.

I’ve had moments, private ones, where I’ve completely fallen apart, screaming or crying or both. And in those moments, I’ve realized just how much I’ve kept from the people who love me, simply because I didn’t want to look my own pain in the eye… let alone ask someone else to look at it with me.

The strange thing is, most of the time, I actually am fine. I have joy. I have love. I have laughter. But when I’m not fine, I have no muscle memory for letting people in. And I know I’m not alone in that. I know people who insist they don’t want attention, who smile and wave and swear they’re okay—but deep down, they’re quietly waiting for someone to notice that they’re not.

On the flip side, when I ask someone if they’re okay and they tell me they’re fine or they don’t need anything, I believe them. If I were truly in need, I’d reach out. If I wasn’t okay, I’d eventually say so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t want to be bothered. So when someone tells me they’re fine, I leave it at that. And yes, sometimes people get upset or disappointed when I don’t follow up or push. But to me, respecting their words is the same as respecting their boundaries. I take them at face value because I’d want them to do the same for me.

Maybe that’s the catch with fine—it’s a word that means different things to different people. For some, it’s the truth. For others, it’s a shield. And for most of us, it’s a little bit of both.

Lately I’ve been reading (well, now listening to ) Suleika Jaouad’s The Book of Alchemy for the second time. On the surface, it’s about journaling, but it’s also about so much more—about noticing, about memory, about the small threads that weave a life. Combining prompts made me think about music, bands, songs, and the people and moments they remind you of.

The timing was perfect, because we just went 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 going in. It was hot enough during the day to fry an egg on the sidewalk, and I was convinced we’d roast. But then the sun went down, the weather turned perfect, and we had a group of fun people. The best part? Watching my friend Tricia absolutely come alive. I had no idea she was such a Yacht Rock superfan—she danced, she laughed, she cried. It was pure joy to watch her.

Tricia and her husband Matt have gone to shows with us before, mostly Big Head Todd and the Monsters. I love Big Head Todd—the song Circle always reminds me of Tricia’s husband Matt. Big Head Todd also takes me back to high school and nights with the Fenwick/Riverside crowd. That makes me think of my old friend Liz, who was usually there for those adventures. The last time I saw her was when Prince died because he reminded me of her and those days. we met for dinner with Melanie after I reached out. Life happened, and that was the last real catch-up.

Melanie is a music person through and through. She’s a dancer, a fairy who floats between live shows. She follows a band called Widespread Panic, and to this day I don’t know if I’ve ever actually heard a song by them. I used to mix them up with Rage Against the Machine, which could not be more opposite. Melanie’s mom Pam will forever be tied to I Heard It Through the Grapevine, and whenever I hear Strike It Up or Technotronic, I’m instantly back at her dad’s house in La Grange in the 90s—some of the best years of our lives.

Led Zeppelin will always be the soundtrack to 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 see her in concert, and I had no idea she was such a huge fan. The only Vegas concert I’ve seen was Shania Twain with Nancy and some work friends. I like Shania, but country music was never really my thing.

My dad, though—he loves classic country. Kenny Rogers will always remind me of my dad. He leaves the classic country channel on for his dog when he leaves the house. When I think of country music, I think of Tammy and Terry. Remember When by Alan Jackson will always be Allison’s song—she introduced us to it. Donna gets credit for Starting Over by Chris Stapleton. Who introduced me to Didn’t Have to be? Makes me think of Ken and Matt being stepdads.

Grace’s music memories start with Justin Bieber—she was and is a huge fan. I took her to four concerts, and we even went to his movie. Now, I couldn’t tell you what genre she listens to—some kind of rap/trap hybrid—but she may have inherited that from me. When she was a baby, I was obsessed with Eminem’s The Eminem Show. My mom got in the car once and was appalled that I had it playing with a baby in the backseat. I said, “She can’t talk yet. She’s not going to repeat it.” I was always good at getting a rise out of my mom.

Speaking of my mom—Barry Manilow will always be hers. She wanted My Way by Frank Sinatra played at her funeral, because she did everything her way. She also loved I’m On Fire by Bruce Springsteen. Bruce is a religion for the Malek women—my aunts, my cousins—they’re superfans. One year at Wrigley, Bruce brought Eddie Vedder on stage to sing My Hometown and I about died.

Pearl Jam, though—that’s my band. I’ve been to several shows—with Amy, with Drew and Zoltan, with my husband. Two stand out: Wrigley, when they opened with Release (one of their best songs, fight me on it) and it started pouring. And Moline, where Matt proposed. He was hoping they’d play Release so he could time it perfectly, but instead they did the entire No Code album, and the moment came during Off He Goes. We danced to Future Days at our wedding.

My husband is a Grateful Dead fan. I was reluctant—those live songs felt like they went on for three days—but I’ve learned to love them, mainly the studio versions. Any Dead song makes me think of him, of Drew, or of our friend Ben.

And then there are the random “song triggers”:

Apple Bottom Jeans — Terry

September — Nancy

Love Man — Ken, dancing and singing his own lyrics

Baby Got Back — Allison, of course and my cousin Bryon (who once heard Grace recite the lyrics from her car seat)

Tom Petty — Heather

Can’t Feel My Face — Heather’s husband, Rusty, who requested for our wedding

INXS — also, Rusty

Gloria, both versions — Grandma Gloria

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 while we were in our hot air balloon ride in Temecula and I overlaid it with California dreaming, sometimes I’m silly like that.

B-Side by Leon Bridges and Khruangbin, Harvest Moon by Poolside — Natalie again, I felt cool coming home from California with new tunes

Scatman, Safety Dance, Rhythm is a Dancer…SO many songs make me think of Cathy.

Bon Jovi takes me back to my girlfriends—Terry, Donna, Tammy, Marisa, Megan—or my JJAM crew (Jenni, Jill, Amy, Molly). I saw at least 7 concerts with different combinations of these ladies. Guns N’ Roses takes me back to Highlands Middle School, convincing the girls in my class to use Welcome to the Jungle for our project in PE and driving the boys and teachers crazy playing it on repeat.

And then there’s Willie Nelson’s On the Road Again. It’s a core memory—my mom singing it before we took off for the next move, often in a beat-up car with a hole in the floorboard or a U-Haul. After my parents divorced, we moved a lot. I didn’t realize how poor we were. My mom just made the best of everything, so I thought that was just life. Maybe that’s where I learned to do the same as a single mom with Grace. I can still see the day my dad dropped me off in Memphis, standing behind a glass door, pounding on it, crying as he drove away. I was maybe three. Is it a real memory? I think so.

Music mostly makes me happy. Sometimes it guts you, sure, but mostly it connects you. I remember one night in Drew’s van, going through my iPod until two in the morning, playing only the first three seconds of each song to guess the title. It was my music and he still beat me.

I love that Matt balances his Deadhead ways with a love for 80’s ballads. We have different tastes, but enough overlap to fight over who gets to hook up to the speaker first.

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.

SOUNDTRACK

1. Men at Work – Down Under
2. Christopher Cross – Ride Like the Wind
3. Toto – Africa
4. Big Head Todd and the Monsters – Circle
5. Marvin Gaye – I Heard It Through the Grapevine
6. Black Box – Strike It Up
7. Technotronic – Pump Up the Jam
8. Led Zeppelin – Hey Hey What Can I Do
9. The Guess Who – American Woman
10. Beyoncé – Crazy in Love
11. Shania Twain – Man! I Feel Like a Woman!
12. Kenny Rogers – The Gambler
13. Alan Jackson – Remember When
14. Chris Stapleton – Starting Over
15. Brad Paisley – He Didn’t Have to Be
16. Justin Bieber – Baby
17. Eminem – Without Me
18. Barry Manilow – Copacabana
19. Bruce Springsteen – I’m On Fire
20. Frank Sinatra – My Way
21. Bruce Springsteen – My Hometown
22. Pearl Jam – Release
23. Pearl Jam – Off He Goes
24. Pearl Jam – Future Days
25. Grateful Dead – Ripple
26. Flo Rida – Low (Apple Bottom Jeans)
27. Earth, Wind & Fire – September
28. Otis Redding – Love Man
29. Sir Mix-a-Lot – Baby Got Back
30. Tom Petty – Free Fallin’
31. The Weeknd – Can’t Feel My Face
32. INXS – Need You Tonight
33. Laura Branigan – Gloria
34. Shadows of Knight – Gloria
35. Shaggy – Boombastic
36. Miley Cyrus – Party in the U.S.A.
37. Led Zeppelin – Going to California
38. The Mamas & the Papas – California Dreamin’
39. Leon Bridges & Khruangbin – B-Side
40. Poolside – Harvest Moon
41. Bon Jovi – Livin’ on a Prayer
42. Guns N’ Roses – Welcome to the Jungle
43. Willie Nelson – On the Road Again
44. Prince – Purple Rain

I’ve been thinking a lot lately—maybe because I’ve gone back and reread some of my older entries—and I realized something: I’m trying to be open here. And I am being honest. But I don’t think I’m being fully real.

It’s like I’m writing with one foot on the brake.

I don’t know if I’m protecting myself or protecting other people from worry—or maybe both. I want this space to be therapy. Sometimes it is. But more often, it feels like I’m telling stories. Shaping them. Cleaning them up just enough that they’re still palatable.

But how do I get raw? How do I let it all out? Or… am I already doing that and just not recognizing it?

I feel okay. I guess I always do. That’s the problem, though. I always feel okay—even when I’m not. I’ve gotten really good at pushing through. At functioning. At smiling and nodding and making jokes even when the truth is sitting heavy in my chest.

I know there’s a lot of anger in me. A lot of fear. It’s there—I can feel it under the surface. But is it that I’ve gotten good at masking it, or have I actually learned how to deal with things?

I’m not sure. But I want to find out.

I want this place to be where I don’t flinch. Where I don’t edit myself for someone else’s comfort. I want to say the hard things. Even if they’re messy. Even if they don’t resolve.

So maybe this is the start. Not a perfectly told story. Just… a crack in the surface.

Let’s see what gets through.

Today, I’m thinking about dogs. All the dogs I’ve ever had. All the ones I’ve loved and lost. I am a dog person through and through, and non-dog people will probably never understand the grief that comes with losing them. I think they’re the purest love we get in this life. Loyal and good and present in a way people rarely are. A friend of mine is facing that brutal decision right now. Her dog is sick. It’s almost time. And it’s bringing all my old grief up like a wave.

Each of my dogs has marked a season of my life. They weren’t just pets—they were witnesses. Companions. Healers. Guardians.

There was Buddy—my first dog. A German Shepherd. He only made it to seven because of kidney failure. I wasn’t even fully out of my parents’ house yet, but I felt like an adult the day I brought him home. He was so smart. So good. Eventually, I bought a house with Grace’s dad and brought Buddy with me into that next chapter. When Grace was born, Buddy watched over us both. He protected me in ways no one else could or did. He protected her, too. I still remember when I lost him, thinking, Why couldn’t I have put Grace’s dad down instead of my dog? It’s dark, I know—but grief doesn’t make you polite. And he was a piece of shit. When the time came, I called the emergency vet on a Sunday. My dad drove me, and I went in alone. I had never done that before—walked a dog in and not walked out with them. It wrecked me. But it was peaceful, and I knew it was the right thing. When I came out, my dad was crying in the lobby. That moment is seared into me.

Then came Max. Max was actually there at the end of Buddy’s life. He was supposedly Grace’s dad’s dog. I think Buddy felt he could go and Max would take over. Max ended up with Grace and me shortly after I left the asshole. 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 and I’d tell them, “He’s not smiling because he’s happy,” which they thought was hilarious, but I meant it.

Max helped me raise Grace in our apartment—our little team of three. And I truly believe he stuck around until he knew Matt was there to take care of us. Once he saw that we were okay—really okay—he let go. Dogs know. They just do. He lived to 13, and I swear he had canine dementia near the end. Barking at nothing. Pacing. Confused. Matt came into the picture during Max’s later years, and Max was not a fan of anyone invading his apartment. Then we all got a house together and he warmed up. A little. One day, Matt came home from work and Max wouldn’t get up for him. He tried, but he wasn’t himself. Once I got home, he made it up—barely. I think maybe he had a stroke. Matt didn’t want me to go alone again, but I needed to. I took Max, held him, and let him go. It was the right call. It always is, when their quality of life is gone. But god, it breaks you. The worst part was picking Grace up from school that day and having to tell her things were different now. That Max wasn’t home anymore.

We swore we wouldn’t get another dog. We were just too heartbroken. That didn’t last long.

Gus came next. He was born the same day Max died, which still feels like something more than coincidence. He was a mastiff—half English, half French (a Dogue de Bordeaux). I had already seen his photo and was obsessed. Matt said no—absolutely not—he didn’t want a dog that big. And then I had a hysterectomy and was home recovering, and the silence in the house was too much. The emptiness without a dog was unbearable. So Matt and Grace went to see the puppies. Pudgy little hippos with paws too big for their bodies. And a few weeks later, Gus was ours. Gus… I don’t even know how to write about him. He was everything. All muscle and drool and snuggles and soul. A giant presence, literally and emotionally. He felt like a person. He had a way of sitting next to you that felt like a hug. He was funny and gentle and just… Gus. Maybe it’s because he was the son Matt and I never had. Maybe it’s because he was the sibling Grace might have needed. He was this huge, soulful presence in our house—funny and gentle and just… more. People would actually 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 he felt to be around. Like everything was better when Gus was there. We only had six years with him. He got cancer. We spent everything we had trying to save him. And we couldn’t. I still haven’t gotten over it. I still miss the sound of him walking through the house. I still expect to see drool at some random location in the house. Gus was once-in-a-lifetime. Maybe that’s what my next tattoo should be for. I already have ink for the poems that got me through other dark seasons. Why not one for the dog that got me through the silence?

Now, we have Fiona and Frank—our current chaos crew. Frank was rescued when he was five. A pug with a big dog attitude in a small dog body. I didn’t think I wanted a small dog, but Frank has filled that space in my heart Gus left behind. He’s stubborn, hilarious, thinks he is as big as Gus. He got to live with Gus for a couple years. They were the cutest buddies. Total opposites but also the same. The two of them together were picture perfect. Frank was a total daddy’s boy when we got him. Then after my mastectomy, he never left my side. We’re pals and I miss him when I’m not home. That little silly jerk that he is.

And Fiona. Oh, Fiona. She’s a rescue mutt we brought home three years ago. She’s also my birthday twin—I found that out while reading her paperwork on the drive home. She’s the first female dog I’ve ever had, and she’s scared of everything. It’s sad, it’s sweet, it’s incredibly annoying—and we adore her. She’s fast and vocal and has the emotional range of a Shakespearean heroine. She’s handsy and dramatic and full of love. She keeps us on our toes in all the best and most exhausting ways.

And then there’s my grand-dog, Charlie. He’s a boxer mix, but honestly, he looks more like a Rottweiler—solid body, intimidating at first glance. My daughter rescued him about three years ago when he was three, and he’s been part of the family ever since. He’s… a nut. A lovable nut, but still. We don’t know what happened to him before she got him, but something did. You can tell. It’s in the way he reacts to the world—especially on a leash. He’s leash-aggressive, and there’s this wild unpredictability in him. You can’t always tell if he’s playing or about to throw down. His growl is the same either way—deep and scary and a little too convincing. But underneath all that, he’s sweet. He really is. He just came with some invisible scars that we may never fully understand. Still, he’s family. And I’m proud of how much my daughter has done for him. Loving a reactive dog is no joke. It takes patience and strength and a lot of compassion—which she has in spades. Charlie is lucky to have her. And honestly, so are we.

They were, and are, family. If you’ve ever had to say goodbye to a dog, I see you. I am you. And if you’re lucky enough to have one curled up near you right now—go give them a hug from me.

We got back from Denver just before midnight last night—exhausted, slightly sore, and genuinely grateful. I think both Matt and I were a little nervous heading into this trip. It had been ten years since we’d last been out to see his sister and brother-in-law, and you never really know what ten years might do to a dynamic.

But honestly? It went better than either of us expected.

Not only did we get to see the mountains (which, as Midwesterners, still feel like a special effect every time), but they planned something for us to do every single day—just to be outside and take in nature. It was exactly what we needed: crisp air, blue skies, mountain views, and that sense of “wow” that you can’t get in the flatlands.

We didn’t see as much wildlife as I had hoped—still holding out for a surprise bear or dramatic mountain lion cameo—but we did meet their three pups: Belle, Louie, and Charlie. Our official dog nieces and nephew. As expected, I fell a little in love with each of them.

Their home has been beautifully renovated since we were last there. It felt like a true Colorado retreat—warm, inviting, and full of personality. The backyard was next-level: a gazebo, multiple TVs, a hot tub, garden beds, string lights, fire pits… basically, Pinterest came to life. It was cozy, lived-in, and made for long conversations and fun drinks.

We ate great food, went out for cocktails, and had real conversations—the kind that go past small talk and into the stuff you don’t always get to say. We talked about the parents, the aunts, all the things that connect us but often get lost in the distance.

Sometimes when life keeps everyone busy and far apart, it’s easy for things like resentment or misunderstandings to sneak in and settle down. But this trip reminded me that at the core, family is still home. And sometimes home just needs a little reconnection, a little laughter, and maybe a cocktail or two under the gazebo lights.

They were incredibly generous hosts, and it felt like we hit a little reset button for all four of us. We needed that. All of us did.

Now I just need to unpack… and maybe look into Colorado real estate. Kidding. (Kind of.)

There are some gifts that stay with you—long after the unwrapping, long after the tears, long after the worst part is over.

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 time when I was barely holding it together—when my body was a war zone, and I didn’t know which way was up. That poem became a mantra. I read it constantly. Sometimes with tears in my eyes. Sometimes with a clenched jaw. Always with a feeling of, “Okay. One more day.”

“She is unshakable not because she doesn’t know pain or failure, but because she always pushes through…”

That line hit me in the chest. Because I did know pain. I had failed, or at least felt like I had. But I was still pushing. Still showing up. Still trying to create my own light in the dark. I’ve since shared that poem with just about every woman I love—especially those who’ve gotten sick or had a hard time. Those who’ve had to claw their way out of something scary. Those who forgot for a moment how strong they are. It’s not just a poem anymore. It’s a message. A reminder. A legacy.

Then, sometime later, my husband gave me a card. Inside was The Oak Tree poem by Johnny Ray Ryder Jr. I don’t think he knew just how much I needed it. He also wrote a note with it—something private and emotional and straight from the heart. That card? That note? That poem? They became part of my daily routine. My quiet moment. My grounding. Especially on the days when I felt like I was falling apart.

“You’ll never touch [my roots], for you see, they are the deepest part of me.”

And that’s the thing. Life can strip you bare. Illness can take your body. Grief can take your breath. But if your roots are deep—if you are anchored in love, in purpose, in people who see you—you stay standing.

I’ve shared that poem with people who needed it, too. Who were facing their own mighty winds. I wanted them to feel what I felt when I first read it: that I wasn’t alone. That I was stronger than I ever knew.

Both of those poems are now tattooed on me. Not in full, but in spirit. One for Grit. One for The Oak Tree. Not just reminders of who I am, but reminders of who loves me.

Because sometimes, when you’re falling apart, it’s not your strength that gets you through—it’s theirs. It’s their words, their belief in you, their handwritten notes, their unexpected gifts, their poems tucked inside cards.

That’s the beauty of these mantras. They didn’t just help me heal—they helped me connect. They became part of my story. And now, maybe, part of someone else’s.

---

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.”

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 let me tell you—it did not go easy on me. It hurt. Also, I misspoke in my last entry. I’m not at 137 classes. I’m at 133. I felt like I needed to come clean about that because 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 and me, a completely lost single mom. I could not have made it through those years without them. I’m so grateful they’re still in my life. 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, complete with a little water feature, and her husband cooked for us. It was peaceful, easy, and 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, and those three women? They 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 I think she’s doing remarkably well. Thank God, no setbacks. She’s so tiny and carries so much stress in that little body. I’ve never figured out how to help her lighten that load, but I’ll keep trying. She is honestly more family than friend.

That night, my husband and I went to Kenny’s—his favorite dive bar and an old haunt from back in the day. We met up with some friends and told ourselves we’d only be there an hour or two… and didn’t get home until almost 11, which is borderline reckless for us. But it was a great night. Lots of laughs, lots of nostalgia.

Sunday was a full-on do-nothing day, and it was glorious. My mother-in-law popped in for a quick visit, and later 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 the topic of him getting lost again—something he’s still firmly denying—and Matt, clearly uncomfortable, quietly started clearing the table to escape the conversation. We need him to take this seriously. Who loves him more than Kathy and I? Or Matt and Grace? But he’s stubborn. 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 (or Ma’maa, as she says), and there’s no one more suited for that role. That should be what fills her up—not all the other bullshit.

This week already feels like a lot. We’re heading to Denver on Wednesday to visit my sister-in-law—for the first time in ten years. (And yes, she’s kept count.) They’ve redone their house since we were last there, and we’re excited to check it out and meet their new furry crew—our dog nieces and nephew. Meanwhile, I’ve got way too much to finish at work before we leave. I’m hoping to sneak in a glimpse of an Alpine lake or river… maybe a mountain. 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 whole surgery saga, she whisked me off to Sayulita, Mexico—a place I’d never even heard of. 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, and 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 to celebrate in Greece. Now she’s thinking Amsterdam. And 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 hey, we’re manifesting. We joke that if anything ever happens to Matt, I’ll be her housewife. Or that we’ll grow old 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?

Matt loves her just as much as I do. Most people only know her wild, funny side. But I know the whole person. She’s wise. She’s deeply empathetic. She’s weirdly good with money. She’s fiercely loyal and heartbreakingly generous. An overthinker. We love and worry about each other across the miles. And I’m so lucky to have her.

Anyway. That’s the update.

Sore muscles. Full heart. Slightly feral energy. But I’m here.

And I’m damn lucky to have the people I do.

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. It was my favorite instructor, Caroline, and being in her class is like getting a warm hug and a gentle push at the same time. She’s one of those rare souls who sees people. She remembers everyone’s name, limitations and preferences. She makes you feel like you matter. I want her to be my aunt. Or maybe adopt me. Or just let me borrow her energy when I’m dragging. She’s that kind of magic.

But in the middle of class, this little wave of sadness crept in. Because here I am again, starting over. After being off for five weeks, my strength, balance, and flexibility feel like strangers I used to know. It’s frustrating. My body constantly resets without my permission. But I’m showing up. I’m trying. I’m gonna keep showing up. My next goal is 250 classes. I think I’m at 137 now. Slow and steady. And sweaty.

It’s been a bit of a melancholy week.

We lost a friend this weekend. A good man. And even though I wasn’t close to him, it’s rocked our circle. That kind of loss lingers, settles in like a heaviness you carry around. It’s made everything feel just a little foggy.

Work has been chaotic; too many things, not enough hours. And on top of that, my stepmom’s out of town, so I’ve been keeping an eye on my dad. I love him. He’s sweet. But it’s hard. Watching someone you love slowly lose grasp of what’s happening to them is its own kind of heartbreak. He came over for dinner last night, and while it was lovely, it’s just… sad. There’s no roadmap for this stage of life, and I feel like I’m winging it on an emotional rollercoaster.

And then this morning, I heard on the news that scientists have made huge progress in treating mitochondrial disease. They’ve developed a breakthrough treatment for babies. Amazing news, but also gutting. Because my nephew, who passed away last year from Leigh’s disease, won’t benefit from it. It’s too late for him. And I can’t stop thinking about the families who fought so hard, only to watch the cure come after.

Same with my cousin Kirby. She had Sanfilippo syndrome. My aunt and uncle helped pioneer research for that disease. They started one of the first foundations. They fought and advocated and built something from scratch, and now there are human trials. We are this close to a cure. But Kirby’s gone. And that feels so unfair. So bittersweet.

Sometimes I worry that this blog, this whole journal, is just one big sad, self-indulgent pity party. That I’m dragging people through the mud with me. But the truth is, this is my therapy. This is how I am processing. This is how I keep going. People don’t have to read it. But I need to write it.

So yeah, today my thoughts are kind of all over the place. From Caroline’s encouraging voice in Pilates to the ache of grief, from dog hair on the couch to medical miracles that came too late… it’s just a lot.

But I’m here. Still showing up. Still stretching. Still trying to live, laugh, and get those damn feet in the straps.