Honestly, I can think of few things more difficult for me than to pen an about me piece. It feels icky to me for a lot of reasons. But, I’ll try.
I love vintage finds, thrifting, and most all things outdoors. I never have a shortage of books or true crime podcasts and Audible memberships are by far my favorite gift I have ever gotten. If this were a bad Tinder bio, I’d say I like quiet evenings at home watching documentaries in pajamas with red wine and my favorite pup on the planet. …
I made my first $1K from writing here on Medium in March. In the same week, I was told to f*ck off. Does that mean I’ve made it yet?
I’ve been trolled before. So much so that I’ve taken pieces down both here and on other platforms. It’s the risk you run when sharing your opinion on the internet. Sure, I could stick to fluffy pieces on neutral topics like dog breeds, writing advice, or money to avoid backlash. But it’s not who I am.
This piece isn’t about the money. It’s about who I am as a writer. Who…
You don’t remember that correctly.
You need help.
You’re too sensitive.
Why are you so dramatic?
You’re the one who got in trouble last week for lying. Not me.
I never did that.
If you think I’m so bad, you can leave.
I never said that.
I’m your mother, I would never lie to you.
This is what it sounded like growing up with my narcissistic mother. Between marriages, divorces, and kids, I got caught in the crossfire.
I am the product of my mother’s first short-lived marriage (of three). That leaves me with 3 sets…
I grew up in a home where relaxing was damn near forbidden. I learned to link productivity with my self-worth. Then I learned to use alcohol to achieve the elusive state of relaxation. It rarely worked.
I’ve worked hard to reclaim my life in the last year. I’ve worked hard to reclaim Sundays. A full day that I give myself permission to lie on the couch and mindlessly consume rotten television. Read books. Take naps and stay in pajamas. A full day dedicated to learning how to relax.
It’s silly the parts of basic self-care you can be conditioned to…
In my Appalachian upbringing, I went to church 3 times a week. There were no excuses to miss either. It’s small there. And because of it, 4 generations of my family attended the same church. Misbehaving at church resulted in punishment at home, too. Sunday dinner was with my Sunday school teacher.
Prominent members of my family were also prominent leaders in the church. As a result, I was held to a higher standard than other kids. If I failed to meet this standard, I was misrepresenting the image my family maintained. Existing within these thin margins was difficult; especially…
I won’t reiterate how awful 2020 was for most of us. I don’t think anybody (including me) needs to rehash that. Still, the reality is that despite differing circumstances and degrees of misfortune, we’ve all dealt with it. Family trauma, death, grief, broken relationships, and economic hardship. Even this list isn’t all-inclusive of every downtrodden thing humans have experienced in the last few years.
I read somewhere once that the last 4 years were supposed to be ones of great upheaval. According to that astrological perspective, the next 4 years are supposed to be ones that are prosperous and revealing…
Notebook page full. Ideas, snippets, stories, memories all bumbling around. Fighting for their space at the forefront of my mind. Words and phrases. Thoughts of how I could spin them. Descriptive adjectives I haven’t thought of in a long time. A random list of words that I hate for no good reason.
Scribbled on post-it notes. Trello boards. Headline analyzers. Statistics page and fancy plugins. Followers, subscribers — what makes the difference anyway? I should probably quit while I’m ahead, huh?
Have you ever felt like this?
I have. Some days, the page brims with words. Other days, I type…
About a week ago I received a long text from an old friend. The message detailed all the ways in which I had failed to support her through a difficult year. Pregnant in a pandemic, personal tragedy, parenting stress. Telling me her delivery with a baby that now shares a birthday with my stillborn son was “very traumatic and I needed you but you were too selfish to support me”. She forgives me though, the message went on to say.
Our relationship ended a year ago, also with a text. A message excitedly informing me she had timed her last…
Do you have a support system? What’s your support look like? Who is in your support network? Lean on your support system.
Almost two years ago, my son was stillborn. I’ve been asked these questions about my support system 9 ways to Sunday since then. Little checklists and the like.
And you know what? I lied every time.
For the first several months, I checked “Yes” on all the support system questions because I believed it was true. As the hours turned to days and the days to months, it became more and more untrue.
Hurtful comments about how this…
The internet is screaming about how old we are. Gen Z is taking cheap shots and coming after the laugh-cry emoji. We earned the anxiety to overuse that jovial gesture!
We’ve been busy this last decade-plus. We had to kill a lot of industries to make room for these new things. The cat food, funeral, and diamond industries to name a few. All so those little shits could enjoy looking like they walked out of a Kidz Bop video and make fun of us on TikTok. So thank you all very much for not appreciating our hard work and contributions.
Resident black sheep. Generational trauma explorer. Survivor. Advocate. Old enough to have a skincare routine.