But before “parasocial” was a buzz word in the gen z lexicon, there was an earnestness to blogging. Real women sharing their real lives with no other incentive except that they were bored while the kids were at school and the husband was at work. We are used to this now, and a lot of my readers probably can’t remember a time before it. But this is my Roman Empire. The advent of blogging and the effects it had on womankind. Try to imagine the catharsis!!

I think of women finally sharing the burden of how lonely motherhood can be. How lonely marriage can be. The monotony of housework. The nagging feeling that there’s more to life than washing dishes and making dinner. But then, more importantly, tips and tricks on how to make the process easier or more enjoyable, since we all know it has to be done. We all know it has to be us to do it.

I think of women talking about sex for the first time. Or their cycles. Abuse they didn’t know was abuse until another woman named it for them. Mental health issues and symptoms women before would have taken to the grave out of fear of being lobotomized.

For thousands of years, woman around the world believed these burdens were theirs to bear alone. Suddenly, the channel opens up. The secret is out.

We are all. feeling. the. same. things.

From there, a new era was ushered in. The birth of the influencer. The connection built from sharing their real lives bred a certain trust between these women and their followers. The early pioneers of social media marketing, if you will. (A lot of mormon imagery going on here) Advertisers caught on quickly. They realized that the mommy blogger sharing her current favorite lipstick shade was doing more for sales than the Super Bowl ad they spent 6 million dollars on. Even better? They also realized that she’d be happy with a free lipstick as payment. But before (well deserved) compensation was even a real conversation, it was pure, genuine word of mouth power.

Just,

holy shit you guys have to try this

And it worked. But does it anymore?

I’ve been doing this for a decade now. Content creation / social media influencing. I know the back end. And I think that’s why I’m stuck right now. I know too much.

This existential crisis all started because I was writing a post about makeup recommendations. For years, like any girl with a substantial online following, i’ve been asked for my routine. Only until the last year have I felt secure enough in my techniques. But I can’t help but cringe as I list the overpriced products.

The truth is, most of the items from my tried and true list were bought in a moment of insecurity. I didn’t care how much it cost. In fact, the higher the price point, the more I was convinced of its transformative powers. I needed THE BEST of the best foundation. The ONLY blush worth balling out on. Tell me whatever Nina Park used on Emma Stone at the globes and i’ll hand you my card no questions asked. My prepping serum purchases stemmed from a panic about a picture where my smile lines were too obvious.

How can I hide it better? How can I hide me better? How can I look more like her?

And then what? I did it. I searched high and low for the dewiest clean girl routine and over time I found the one that works and I practiced until I could pivot to part time beauty guru if all else fails. I figured it out. I figured out how to look less like me and more like her.

How do I transition into telling you that?

I want to tell you the best self tanning formula on the market (an area I’ve studied intensely) without making you think you need it the way I did when I bought it from another influencer link.

Is it wrong to show you my findings after a long search for the perfect concealer to cover my permanent eye brow tattoo I naively got at 18?

Is it pointless to pretend I’m any sort of role model with this stuff?

This is where I freeze. What is the point?

I’ve been the talent rolling my eyes at the AI written script I’m not allowed to deviate from. And I’ve also been the brand crossing their fingers that the influencer they spent $3,000 worth of product to, is going to post.

But we’re forgetting the most important perspective. The consumer.

I can tell you, the reason I was ever successful as an influencer, or a brand owner, is because of my storied experience as a consumer. I didn’t win best shopper in 5th grade for nothing!

But now more than ever, when my time as a business owner has ended and my time as an influencer has halted, I'm confronted with the bleak reality of what it means to be a consumer in 2026.

Personally, I automatically dismiss anything I can perceive as an ad. I don’t even realize I’m doing it, either. When realistically, I know from experience that there is a possibility of influencers meaning what they say. Backing a product or brand they actually believe in. I mean, maybe the #sephorapartner tiktok of the girl promising the serum she’s holding up is really what “CHANGED THE GAME!” and actually gave her the glass skin i’m hypnotized by. Maybe she loved it so much, she reached out to the brand herself for a seamless partnership. She already loves and uses it, why not team up? What’s wrong with a baddie getting her bag?

But I’m sure you and I can both agree, it’s just not the same anymore. As much as we want to believe word of mouth, how much value does it have when we know the reality? The reality that these influencers are getting a big ass paycheck, true or not. And this is coming from someone who has both sent and received those big ass checks.

But if I’m feeling this way, surely you are too. Maybe you, like me, naturally tend to be more influenced by a micro influencer with no advertising money attached. No hash tags, no script, just,

holy shit you have to try this

Because that’s what works. It always has. I don’t even know if that strategy is sustainable in this day and age. But I still think it’s worth a try.

I’ve had this draft sitting for a few weeks because it feels a little all over the place. I’m not sure how to wrap it up, or exactly what point i’m trying to make.

I know I need to lock in. I am the breadwinner of my family. I am responsible for giving not only my sons, but myself, the life we deserve. I know that influencing / making money online is a viable option for me while I figure out what to do next.

But it felt wrong to give you a product list without telling you how weird I feel about it all. I’m not going to pretend that I don’t like makeup and clothes and materialistic things. I’m not some altruistic leader for the cause of capitalism and overconsumption. But my goal in sharing what I’ve discovered over the last decade of trial and error, comes less from a financial motivation and more from a genuine, sisterly desire.

I don’t have an older sister. Growing up, I didn’t even have older cousins to consult. I was the first granddaughter on my Mom’s side and any older girl from my Dad’s lived across the country. So ever since I came into this world, i’ve been figuring out how to exist as a girl within it.

And at 29 years old, I’m ready to share my notes with the class.

Yes, that means notes on heartbreak, finding and losing yourself over and over again, navigating friendship breakups, faith transitions, and dragging yourself out of rock bottom.

But I think it also means telling you about the underpainting technique I learned that “CHANGED THE GAME!” and the highlighter I will never deviate from. I don’t just want to tell you about my favorite products on sale. I want to teach you the routine that healed me last summer in the thick of postpartum depression. How I draw hearts on my face with concealer before blending it in. And how that tiny step infused magic and whimsy back into my being.

This is the type of influencer I want to be.

Teaching through experience, not just a routine. But the fulfillment that is to be found in our routines when we are focused on the creative act, instead of explicitly trying to disguise ourselves. There is poetry that exists inside a girls bathroom while they all get ready together. Sharing counter space and setting spray. I want to talk about that!

But mostly, I want to talk about how the ritual of beauty is not vapid or self centered at all, like I spent my whole life believing. Being a girl is fun. Getting dolled up is FUN! Changing the way I viewed the process of getting ready for the day was such an unexpected superpower when it came to liking myself.

Most days now, I put on makeup, not because I don’t feel beautiful. But because I love feeling beautiful. Does that make sense? I want to talk about how there’s nothing wrong with that. Wanting to look pretty. Feeling good about yourself when you do.

So I’m going to. Just talk. About all of it. Because thats what works. And because if I know anything about women, and anything about the internet,

I know you probably feel the same way too.

Ind

• Little Miss Sunshine - I had been meaning to rewatch this for the last year. For some reason it kept get pushed to the bottom of my list. I think this was the first indie movie I’d ever seen. Watching behind the couch while my parents thought I was asleep. Had to have been 2007 or 2008. But it changed something in me. It was the first movie that made me really truly FEEL these emotions too big for my little body. The first time I remember being so touched by a movie score. A lot of you might remember the video I made announcing my pregnancy with Seven. The song I used is called The Winner Is from The Little Miss Sunshine soundtrack. It hit me so profoundly, I held onto it 12 years. Waiting for the perfect moment to use for my own art.

  I sat down to watch the other night and as the first notes started to play, tears flooded my vision. I think I had been putting off rewatching out of fear of the emotions that would come up. You ever do that? Avoid a song or a movie or a book that you love so much but it hurts to revisit? I wanted to run but I made myself stay. And I’m glad I did. It reminded me that I’ve always had a little Olive in me. (a lot.) It reminded me how brilliant Toni Collette is. And it reminded me that the suffering years are the best part.

  

• Paul Thomas Anderson’s filmography - I started a PTA marathon in March, inspired by his long overdue Oscar win. Magnolia is high up on my favorites of all time list, so I started there. Then I I finally saw There Will Be Blood FOR THE FIRST TIME! I wish I could bottle up the feeling I had actually witnessing Daniel Day Lewis in one of the greatest (for sure greatest, right?) acting performances of all time.

  Phantom Thread, Inherent Vice, Licorice Pizza, and of course Boogie Nights. This film is a masterpiece that gets better every time, though it’s particularly fascinating to watch post 27. Paul Thomas Anderson was 27 when he directed it and it’s all I could think about. Insane.

  Another first timer for me was Punch Drunk Love. So good and only hour and a half if you haven’t seen it yet. Adam Sandlers magnum opus??

  Finished it out with The Master, which is so rich and dense, I think I need to experience it another 3 times to fully appreciate. But wow.

  My main takeaway after watching all of his work, is god, what a storyteller. My second takeaway is god, what a loss is Philip Seymour Hoffman

• The Big Lebowski - Another movie I’ve long been embarrassed to admit I’ve never seen! But advice to anyone else feeling that way about classics you haven’t seen/read - I think there’s so much to be said about being old enough to appreciate the art and what its trying to say. Yes, I wish I would have experienced a lot of these films earlier in my life. But so much of it would have gone over my head. The art translates deeper now that i’m older. And every single moment of this movie was savored. I love the Cohen brothers. I love the nihilists. I love Julianne Moore. (Especially after watching so much PTA.) And damnit, i’ve been in love with Jeff Bridges since I saw Stick It at age 10.

• Forbidden Fruits - FUN. I couldn’t sleep the other night and was scrolling to see if there was anything good. I turned it on thinking i’d fall asleep and could finish in the morning. Next thing I know it’s 3 am and the credits are rolling and i’m wondering how tired I’ll be the next day if I start it over and watch it again. It’s campy and funny and enjoyable start to finish. The sacred mean girl mall trope was served honorably. I was actually so impressed by Lili Reinhart and unsurprisingly obsessed with Victoria Pedretti. Also hi Emma chamberlain!!! A star!

• Beef (Season 2) - Loved it. I’ll watch anything with Carrey Mulligan. Really liked how they played with the themes of capitalism and privilege. That hospital episode?! I don’t know if I’ve ever had a real PTSD trigger before, but halfway through, I completely broke down. The begging of someone to believe your pain. ugh. Such a vivid and nauseating depiction that is the hell of our healthcare system.

• Project Hail Mary - It’s not necessarily that I had overwhelming expectations, just that I knew it was going to be great. I prepared myself for greatness and greatness was delivered. It was such a fun experience to see the movie directly after reading the book. Ryan Gosling is the backbone of our nation, and I thought he played Dr. Grace effortlessly. And rocky!!! my baaaaby!!!

  I expected to be emotional, but I could not have ever predicted when. Basically the entire last 30 minutes. But what stands out to me is the scene where they discover the planet Adrian. The visuals, the score, the tangible feeling of awe. I was so unexpectedly moved, I could not pull myself together.

• False Prophet - My absolute favorite from April, maybe all of 2026 so far. It’s a Netflix documentary about a woman who infiltrates a fundamentalist cult. I wasn’t eager to watch this one, because honestly, I feel like i’m pretty well versed in my cult documentaries at this point. But I kept hearing such good things, and sure enough, I binged all four episodes in one sitting. Could not stop watching. I thought I had reached the depths when it came to my fixation on fundamentalist mormons, but holy shit. This is truly the best documentary i’ve watched since The Jinx, which is my gold standard for documentaries. It’s mind blowing, jaw dropping, heart wrenching and ultimately the most powerful story of hope. I still get chills thinking about it. What. A. Story!

• Girls (rewatch) - I have been reading Famesick by Lena Dunham for the last few weeks. I really admire Lena and her voice. She’s a huge expander for me. Reading the origins of Girls had me itching for a rewatch. I think it’s important and even crucial to do this every 5 years or so. The insights I’m gathering this time around are making me buzz. (I could write an entire essay on the time capsule of 2012 fashion alone.) The first time I watched, I cringed and rejected the images projected back to me. But as an almost 29 year old, I can now see and appreciate the characters as deep, rich, raw, real, GIRLS. I feel proud and endeared to relate to them.

• Euphoria - I’m so glad season 3 of Euphoria is airing right now. When I have the chance to experience it as an adult and appreciate it for what it is and not let the fickle opinions of gen z TikTok tell me what to think. I hate Sam Levinson as much as the next chronically online girl, but I’m also secure enough to admit I like something when I like something. I miss Labrinth. I miss Fez. But I’m on the edge of my seat. I love my girl rue down. It’s GOOD!

• They Will Kill You - Another movie I started late at night with no context or prior knowledge except seeing a TikTok telling me to go in blind. I watched twice I had so much fun. It’s another campy tarantino-esque action/horror. And the gore is plentiful.

  The gag is that I am the biggest horror movie fan, but I cannot handle gore. Not even a little. So admittedly, my eyes were closed for a decent portion of the movie. But the story takes you for a ride. You can truly never predict what is going to happen next. And plus, there’s Patricia Arquette. I’d watch Patricia Arquette read the morning paper.

• The Drama - Saw this one in theaters, alone and it was fantastic. The editing!! The apartment?! The only problem with seeing it alone is that I had no one to talk about it with! Such a good movie for discourse. (Team Emma)

READ

• Famesick - Lena the voice of a generation you are!

• Project Hail Mary - 5/5 stars - I did half kindle, half audio book and the audio book was as good as they all told me it would be. humanity!!! friendship!!! hope!!! amaze amaze amaze!!

• Gone With The Wind - I’ve been taking my sweet time with this one. About 350 pages in, after two months. I used to get overwhelmed by the idea of these 800 page classics. But then I learned that it’s a story I can pause and revisit whenever I want. I realize I don’t want to rush through it at all. So about once or twice a week, i’ll pick it up and let it take me where it’s supposed to. I have so many books I want to read, but I always find myself craving to come back here.

  My mom named me India after India Wilkes, from the book. But ever since I was a little girl, she told me I was more of a Scarlett. The more I read, the more I understand what she meant. The more I read, the more I understand myself. Scarlet O’hara I see you!!

LISTENED TO

• Cocteau Twins

• The Cranberries

• The Marias

• Mk.gee

• Ethel Cain (LIVE!! Coachella & SLC)

• Blood Orange (LIVE!! Coachella!!! went to heaven)

ON REPEAT

• Heaven or Las Vegas - Cocteau Twins

• Sea, Swallow Me - Cocteau Twins

• I Know - Fiona Apple

• Mashita - Mansur Brown

• Guilty as Sin? - Taylor Swift

• That’s So True - Gracie Abrams (Sev’s favorite right now)

• Lullaby - Grace Ives

• Caribbean Blue - Enya

• At Home - Crystal Fighters

• Doctor, My Eyes - Khamari

• Under Your Spell - Desire

• Slide - Calvin Harris ft. Frank Ocean & Migos

• Big Yellow Taxi - Joni Mitchell

• Spring Into Summer - Lizzy McAlpine

• I wanna get closer and closer and closaaaahhhh - Justin Bieber Coachella performance TikTok audio

YOUTUBE VIDEOS / ESSAYS

• Why I Watch Little Miss Sunshine When I'm sad

• Chromakopia and the Consequences of Selfish Art

• How Spongebob Explored Existential Nihilism

• The Answer is not a Hut in the Woods

• The Best Part of Pop Culture is Gone Forever

• Toni Morrison 1988 Interview

• "Her" Wasn't Fiction - It's Real

• the zero hour technique

• How Dune Explains Political Power

• the creative power of invisibility

• Joan Didion: The Writer Who Replaced Capote's Voice

• a guide for when nothing feels inspiring

• why selfish women heal society

• 500 Days of Summer: Anatomy of a Situationship

• Elio fireplace crying scene Call Me By Your Name

moodboard monday maybe?

Everyone hates me! There is no end to the suffering! Everyone who I love will eventually leave!!

anyway!

I’ve been really hard on myself lately. I’ve noticed. I’m mainly disappointed that I haven’t been writing more. Well - here’s the thing. I actually write a lot. But in the two months I’ve started sharing publicly again, the impostor syndrome has taken the drivers seat. I can’t press publish.

I have so many drafts of almost done posts. Really good insights and stories I’ve tied together beautifully. But I can’t seem to post anything. I can always convince myself it needs another run through. Maybe leaving it for a week and coming back with fresh eyes.

But as the drafts pile up, so does my shame.

What’s wrong with me?

What happened to me?

Why can’t I ever be who I say I’m going to be?

All of this is what just went through my head as I sat staring at my laptop screen, willing myself to say something. I have so much to say but I choke on the words. The self doubt eventually blocks me from saying anything at all.

And then I had the thought,

So just say that!

I guess the point of this post, is to be vulnerable and tell you that I’m feeling quite insecure when it comes to sharing myself online. Trusting myself. Wondering if what I have to say makes any sense. Or if it hasn’t already been said a million times by a million smarter women. I really get stuck on if anyone cares at all.

But what I feel right now in this moment, is that I do care. Deeply. Of course I do! The evidence is 20 substack drafts long. I’m doing this because it’s my life’s work, being a writer. In 10 years, I (hope) I will be off social media. But I promise you I won’t stop this. I won’t stop translating my thoughts. I was born to express this soul. I will make you see life through my eyes.

I'll write fiction, children’s books, horror stories, movie screenplays, poetry on the back of napkins, and you know what? Sure, I’ll ghost write for Drake’s comeback album in 20 years. I’ll write a play. Jokes for late night tv. Songs for pop stars. I’ll fill up 300 journals over the course of my life.

And someday, i’ll finally be able to write my own story.

Having a public substack is keeping me motivated and accountable. But as much as I love you, dear reader, I have to remind myself that this is for me.

I’m still in the trenches. I’m still grieving and mourning and falling apart. Of course all of this is hard. To sit down at the laptop and face the blank page, to face my own mind. It’s unbearable at times.

But it’s a baby step on this long walk back home.

Opening the laptop is a baby step. Spilling my heart into a draft is a baby step.

Publishing it and letting whoever needs to read it, find it — that’s a big girl step.

So i’m going to make a promise to myself, and to my sweet little crew of readers. I promise to show up. I’m not promising poetry every time. I’m not promising perfect grammar. But I’m gonna show up and tell stories. I’ll post the drafts, even if I swear it could use another edit. I’ll tell you the truth, as much as I’m allowed to. I’ll be honest with the fact that I have no idea what I’m really doing right now. No comeback in the works, no new brand, no Secret Lives of Mormon Wives cameo.

No “big things coming” for this girl at the moment.

This is it right now. I’m figuring it out as I go. And fuckkkkk, it’s really scary when I think about it. But I promise. I promise to let you witness this walk back home, and in doing so, I hope we both find that the company actually makes the journey pretty enjoyable.

Thanks for holding my hand.

I was getting lonely

Ind

You say you’re a winter bitch but summer’s in your blood, you cant help but become the sun

I am also a winter bitch who was born in the middle of June. It’s in my blood. I can’t help it. I come alive in the warmth. I felt it today, reading out on my deck. Golden hour. String lights on. Baby down for bed. 60% in to Project Hail Mary. 55 degrees. I paused to soak it all in.

These are glimmers. They happen to me all the time. It’s just that, a moment that makes you pause long enough to appreciate it.

It’s basically just a gratitude practice but I prefer the whimsy of calling it a glimmer.

Gratitude works. That’s one of the things they were right about. I have a running list in my notes app where I write down anything that fills me with that warm feeling I had on the deck tonight. My glimmers of hope. Because there’s so much to be in awe of. Even (sometimes most significantly) in my tower moments.

I’m looking down at my nails right now and they’re new and fresh and red and they look so cute tapping away at my keyboard.

I’m thinking of the look on my baby brother’s face as he stood across from his bride last month, sobbing during his vows. How I saw his six year old face in that moment. How I saw my son’s face in that moment.

I had a glimmer the other day when I woke up at 4 am panicked thinking I had overslept. I checked the time, and then the baby monitor and snuggled back into my pillow when I realized I had a good three more hours left.

You ever have the feeling of crawling into bed when you’re not completely exhausted, just excited to rest? When you find the right spot to place your arms. The room is the perfect temperature? Ugh. Get me to gods country.

Doing the dishes - this is fun ?

Something I’ve been thinking about lately, is the sing-a-bility of a good song. Is there anything better? Especially when the weather gets warmer. It’s like yeah drugs are cool - have you ever screamed the words to FourFiveSeconds with your windows down at golden hour at full volume, adrenaline and hope pumping through your veins?

How beautiful is it to experience music so deeply! - a recent glimmer from my notes app.

The feeling of finishing a good book. The feeling of finishing a book in general!

Yesterday I asked Sev if he wanted to help me open packages. He says, “Sure! They’re all for you sweetheart.”

spring ! walks ! outside ! sunshine !

I had a burst of love for my cousin Hallie the other night. She means more to me than just about anyone in the world. There is nothing more special about someone who knew you as a kid. She came over and we ordered pizza and didn’t stop talking for 5 hours straight. We both have two kids now and yet we still find time for each other no matter what phase of life we are in. 28 years. The most consistent and loyal friend I’ve ever had. I was just floored with love for our deep love. To know someone so well and to be known in return. It’s the magic of this life, I’m sure of it.

There is so much to notice. So many resources to lift our own spirits. And it can be as simple as noticing how cute your bright red nails look dancing away at your keyboard.

right now my i’m having a glimmer for all of you reading this right this very second

I love you

ind

A few days with my favorite girls and a great view. Exactly what the doctor ordered.

It’s a weird thing. What to do with photos that hurt too much to look at.

Photos that once - that still mean everything to you. But photos that must come off the walls nonetheless.

Rachel took my wedding photos. Thats how we met. We all became friends and stayed in touch and they both flew out a year later to document moving into our new home.

It was beautiful to have these significant life moments captured by such an artist like Rach. Moments and memories that mean more to me than just about anything.

The proof that I got my dream.

And now, the painful, searing reminders of what I have lost.

We caught up on life, ate great food, Maia knit in every corner of the house, and I cried a lot.

But I needed that too. I needed to be held and heard and seen by these women.

I needed to hear that I was going to be okay. I needed to see their tender love, their off the grid sanctuary, their sweet little life, to know it’s still possible for me too.

These friendships are the most healing. Friends who expand me, who inspire me. Friends who guide be back to myself without even realizing it.

Just being around Rachel gives me the itch to hold a camera and always have one on hand. At my core, at my purest most authentic and joyful self - there is always a camera within reach. Ready for the perfect moment to reveal itself. Because it always does. And god I forgot how fun it is when it does.

Someone sent me this message and reading it felt like a warm nap in the sun.

It instantly hit me how much this specific picture will mean to me someday.

It represents something equally as monumental and precious to me as any other memory Rachel has captured. My wedding pictures. My dream house.

Someday I’ll look back at this photo and think of the weekend we went to Nashville and danced and cried and frolicked and how it was the trip where I remembered that I am an artist.

I’ll recognize the smile and feel the electricity and raw power that surrounds a girl who is just starting to remember who she is.

Someday we’ll both be okay. And I cannot wait for that day to come, when I can look at this photo and tell the girl with the camera in her hand,

I told you so!

love you

• The Great Cosmic Mother - Monica Sjöö

• East Of Eden - John Steinbeck

• A Room Of Ones Own - Virginia Woolf

• Women Who Run With The Wolves - Clarissa Pinkola Estés

• The Creative Act - Rick Rubin

• Just Kids - Patti Smith

• Who Cooked The Last Supper - Rosalind Miles

• Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

• Letters To A Young Poet - Rainer Maria Rilke

• The Surrender Experiment - Michael Alan Singer

• Sula - Toni Morrison

• Circe - Madeline Miller

• Bittersweet - Susan Cain

• Piranesi - Susanna Clarke

• Wintering - Katherine May

SHORT BOOKS

• The Awakening - Kate Chopin

• Small Things Like These - Claire Keegan

• Giovannis Room - James Baldwin

• The Death Of Ivan Ilyich - Leo Tolstoy

• Do Walk - Libby DeLana

• On Tyranny - Timothy D. Snyder

• The Stranger - Albert Camus

• Metamorphosis - Franz Kafka

• Letters To A Young Poet - Rainer Maria Rilke

• Madonna In A Fur Coat - Sabahattin Ali

• The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald

FOR THE ARTIST (WE’RE ALL ARTISTS)

• The Artists Way - Julia Cameron

• Becoming A Writer - Dorothea Brande

• The Creative Act - Rick Rubin

• The War Of Art - Steven Pressfield

• The Creative Habit - Twyla Tharp

REQUIRED READING

• The Creative Act - Rick Rubin

• The Surrender Experiment - Michael Alan Singer

• East Of Eden - John Steinbeck

• Laziness Does Not Exist - Devon Price

• Wintering - Katherine May

• Men Who Hate Women - Laura Bates

• Song Of Achilles - Madeline Miller

• The Internet Of Us - Michael P. Lynch

• Brave New World - Aldous Huxley

• Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

• A Room Of Ones Own - Virginia Woolf

• On Tyanny - Timothy D. Snyder

• Untethered Soul - Michael Alan Singer

• Unlikeable Female Characters - Anna Bogutskaya

• One Day Everyone Will Have Been Against This -

• The Wisdom Of Insecurity - Alan Watts

• The Mountain Is You - Brianna Wiest

• Letters To A Young Poet - Rainer Maria Rilke

• Braiding Sweet Grass - Robin Wall Kimmerer

• Bittersweet - Susan Cain

• Amusing Ourselves To Death - Neil Postman

• The Art Of Every Day Ecstasy - Margot Anand

• The White Album - Joan Didion

SPIRITUALITY / PHILOSOPHY

• The Great Cosmic Mother - Monica Sjöö

• The Art Of Everyday Ecstasy - Margot Anand

• Destiny Of Souls - Michael Newton

• Journey Of Souls - Michael Newton

• Braiding Sweetgrass - Robin Wall Kimmerer

• The Internet Of Us - Michael P. Lynch

• Women Who Run With The Wolves - Clarissa Pinkola Estés

• Anxiety: A Philosophical Guide - Samir Chopra

• Awareness - Anthony de Mello

• Meeting The Madwoman - Linda Schierse Leonard

• Amusing Ourselves To Death - Neil Postman

• The Wisdom Of Insecurity - Alan Watts

• Do Walk - Libby DeLana

• Soul Of Money - Lynne Twist and Teresa Barker

• Tibetan Yogas Of Dream And Sleep - Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche

• In Defense Of Witches - Mona Chollet

• The Book - Alan Watts

PAGE TURNERS

• My Brilliant Friend - Elena Ferrante

• Piranesi - Susanna Clarke

• Penance - Eliza Clark

• Bunny - Mona Awad

• Tender Is The Flesh - Agustina Bazterrica

• I Who Have Never Known Men - Jacqueline Harpman

GIRLHOOD IS A SPECTRUM

• My Brilliant Friend - Elena Ferrante

• Lilith - Nikki Marmery

• The Great Cosmic Mother - Monica Sjöö

• Meeting The Madwoman - Linda Schierse Leonard

• The Feminine Mystique - Betty Friedan

• When God Was A Woman - Merlin Stone

• Who Cooked The Last Supper - Rosalind Miles

• Circe - Madeline Miller

• Women Who Run With The Wolves - Clarissa Pinkola Estés

• Men Who Hate Women - Laura Bates

• The Awakening - Kate Chopin

• Little Women - Louisa May Alcott

• Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë

• A Room Of Ones Own - Virginia Woolf

• I Who Have Never Known Men - Jacqueline Harpman

• Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn

BOOKS THAT GENUINELY CHANGED MY LIFE

• Letters To A Young Poet - Rainer Maria Rilke

• Destiny Of Souls - Michael Newton

• The Great Cosmic Mother - Monica Sjöö

• The Art Of Everyday Ecstasy - Margot Anand

• Women Who Run With The Wolves - Clarissa Pinkola Estés

• Soul Of Money - Lynne Twist and Teresa Barker

• The Wisdom Of Insecurity - Alan Watts

• Amusing Ourselves To Death - Neil Postman

• Wintering - Katherine May

• Bittersweet - Susan Cain

• On Tyranny - Timothy D. Snyder

• The Creative Act - Rick Rubin

• The Artists Way - Julia Cameron

• The Surrender Experiment - Michael Alan Singer

• East Of Eden - John Steinbeck

• Laziness Does Not Exist - Devon Price

• A Room Of Ones Own - Virginia Woolf

• Untethered Soul - Michael Alan Singer

• Unlikeable Female Characters - Anna Bogutskaya

• One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This - Omar El Akkad

• The Feminine Mystique - Betty Friedan

• Who Cooked The Last Supper - Rosalind Miles

• Little Women - Louisa May Alcott

• Blue Nights - Joan Didion

MY TOP 3 BOOKS OF ALL TIME

• Women Who Run With The Wolves - Clarissa Pinkola Estés

• East Of Eden - John Steinbeck

• A Room Of Ones Own - Virginia Woolf

BOOKS TO MAKE YOU FEEL SOMETHING

• Sula - Toni Morrison

• On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous - Ocean Vuong

• Blue Nights - Joan Didion

A GOOD BOOK TO GET INTO IF YOU’RE FEELING RUSTY

• Madonna In A Fur Coat - Sabahattin Ali

• Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn

• Penance - Eliza Clark

A BOOK I WOULD BRING IF I WAS STRANDED ON AN ISLAND

• Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

• The Princess Bride - William Goldman

• Letters To A Young Poet - Rainer Maria Rilke

A BOOK I COULD READ OVER AND OVER AND OVER

• The Creative Act - Rick Rubin

• The Surrender Experiment - Michael Alan Singer

• Wintering - Katherine May

FOR THE GIRL IN HER TWENTIES

• Unlikeable Female Characters - Anna Bogutskaya

• Laziness Does Not Exist - Devon Price

• Just Kids - Patti Smith

FOR THE GIRL IN HER ALMOST TWENTIES

• The Mountain Is You - Brianna Wiest

• Little Women - Louisa May Alcott

• Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë

IF YOU’RE ON A SPIRITUAL JOURNEY

• Untethered Soul - Michael Alan Singer

• Journey Of Souls - Michael Newton

• The Art of Everyday Ecstasy - Margot Anand

A BOOK I TRULY READ IN ONE SITTING BECAUSE I COULD NOT PUT IT DOWN

• Piranesi - Susanna Clarke

• The Death Of Ivan Illych - Leo Tolstoy

• The Stranger - Albert Camus

She’s behind every “i’ve been thinking of you lately” text.

Every “I just keep having the feeling to reach out” text

Every “this song reminds me of you” text.

She sends her thought fairies to whisper these ideas into our heads. And it’s all by design. I can’t tell you how many times a “Hey, just keep having the feeling to reach out” text has turned around my whole day. A time or two, these kinds of messages kind of saved my life.

A stranger on instagram, an aunt or cousin I miss, a dear friend, another young mom in the check out line. It always seems to be exactly what I needed to hear, at the perfect time, from the perfect messenger.

And thats this whole thought mother concept I came up with. Nothing is ever out of the blue. When you get the urge to be kind, when you get the urge to check in, when a thought persists, it’s probably on purpose. I like to think it’s the thought mother seeing one of her children in pain and using her other children to help.

Over the years, i’ve been recommended a show or a book or a quote or a kind gesture that changed my life. These seemingly small moments were so profound that it’s become foundational to my character. I pay attention now. I listen. I act on what I receive.

When I hear a good song and think, Sam would love this - I send it to Sam because, what if the thought fairies are using me to get that song in her orbit? What if she needs to hear it and they know she trusts my music taste? Because when Sam sends me a song, it’s like getting an airdrop from the thought mother herself.

Her, Maia, Cat, Jessie, I take all recommendations from my girlfriends very seriously. The thought mother uses the people closest to us for that reason. Because we trust their judgement, we trust their taste. When we aren’t listening to ourselves, she knows we just might listen to them.

We are all employed by her.

I’m on the clock when I follow the prompting to buy my mom the book I just read.The whole time, thinking Mom needs to read this. Because, what if it’s not an accident I kept having that thought? What if it’s on purpose? What if it ends up being her favorite book of all time? What if the thought fairies know how transformative this story will be for her? What if they need her to read it so badly, they are utilizing me to get it to her quicker?

I take this role as a messenger very seriously.

One of my main goals for 2026 was to never suppress a generous thought.

It’s a principle I’ve tried to live by, but I really wanted to center it this year. If I’m at a restaurant and the server has a gorgeous full beat, I get the thought to tell her I love her makeup. But then I overthink it. What if it’s awkward? What if she gets uncomfortable? I make it a bigger deal than it needs to be and a lot of the times I end up saying nothing at all.

But sometimes I also think, what if she just had the worst day of her life?What if she just watched a tutorial and tried out new products for the first time? What if she just needed to hear it for whatever reason?

The simple act of saying, “I love your makeup by the way” has the potential to turn her day around. It could be a moment she reflects on for years. Or it could just lift her spirits for an hour or two.

Maybe it does none of that. But isn’t it worth a try?

The thought mother works in tandem with our intuition which is why it’s equally important to receive these messages as it is to give them. How is she trying to help you right now? What are you ignoring?

I have little tips and tricks to receiving. When something comes in threes, take note.

All throughout last year, East of Eden kept coming up for me. In tiktoks, in book stores, in random conversations. Finally after months of ignoring the pull I felt towards it, I finished and declared it the best book I’ve ever read in my 28 years of life.

I can almost see the thought fairies rolling their eyes.

Yeah girl. We know. We tried to tell you

I’m telling you about this practice I live by, because I know she uses me to help you guys too. In a way, thats the only really cool thing about having an online “platform.”

I’m giddy at the idea that I can share my favorite things with you, and in turn it might affect you as deeply as it did to me. I’m going to start posting recommendation lists, and I want you to pay attention to what jumps out at you. Where are you pulled to? What did you notice?

So follow what calls to you. And act when intuition reminds you of someone else.It could very well be the fairies needing your help, to help this person. A text checking in, sending a song, a quote, a movie or a YouTube video. These small acts have a monumental impact.You could possibly turn someone’s day around. Introduce them to their favorite book of all time.

Maybe even save their life.

And you’re telling me magic isn’t real???

LOVE YOU TALK SOON

Indy

This will be an ongoing series. Right now, the working title is -

THINGS THAT ACTUALLY WORK

Which could use some tweaking, but you get the point. Because listen, I have tried everything. Talk therapy. EMDR. Meditation. Medication. Reiki. Acupuncture. Equine therapy. Psychadelics. Yoga. Personal training. Religion. Rehab! A lot of it is great. A lot of it is bullshit. I want to give you the real advice from my own experience, on what actually works. And no, Im not talking about lemon water (although we could talk about lemon water) and I’m not going to refer you to a ketamine clinic. Im not a licensed professional in anything. Just a professional girl in her twenties.

My advice will be more like - what you can do in bed when you’re stuck in a freeze state and you barely have the energy to plug your phone into the charger let alone cut up a lemon to squeeze into your Owala. We knowwwwwwwwww we should be working out. And seeing our friends. And getting fresh air and sunlight. That will come with time, but this is for the girls who are stuck. Really stuck. We have to start as low effort as possible.

The first thing I am going to suggest to anyone in this state, is to build a curriculum. Scratch that, step one is delete instagram and tiktok. Then we build a curriculum.

While my life was falling apart, I had no time or energy to be creative. And this killed me. I already felt so unstable, so unproductive. But on top of that was added pressure to make something. And when I (understandably) couldn’t, I hated myself for it. It was a miserable cycle of self sabotage. Months would go by where I completely neglected the book I was writing. My camera collected dust. And the resentment I had towards myself piled on over time until I was a shell of the artist I claimed to be.

So I turned to the masters, my creative teachers, my favorite artists and authors. And they all say the same thing.

There are seasons to create and seasons to consume.

I needed a well to pull from. At that point in my life, my well was simply too shallow. Here’s what I need you to know - from the other side. Having a shallow well is not a bad thing. Whatsoever. Guilting yourself or forcing inspiration is a waste of time. No, this is not a bad place to be, in fact, It’s the most exciting place to be. You get to be a consumer of art! Nothing else.

If you are in a funk, a freeze state, a depressive episode, or even just your luteal phase. Consider this the time to build your creative well.

Lock in sweetie!

When I was at my absolute lowest, I could not stomach to be on my phone. I didn’t want to live in that world. I wanted to escape my own at all costs. So, almost on accident, I became a voracious reader.

Readers are so annoying if you aren’t one. Even if you are a reader, we can be annoying. It can sound pretentious and elitist to preach the benefits of literature. And I will be the first to admit the privilege it takes to have time to devote to reading at all. But I’d be crazy to present any sort of advice on dragging yourself out of hell and not mention reading.

In the beginning, my attention span was fried. I was making it through one book every 2-3 months. So I made it a goal to read just 10 pages a day. Thats all. I could always find time for 10 pages. What always happened was after 10 pages, I wanted to keep going. After about a month, I was reading an hour or two a day with ease.

I cannot emphasize enough, what reading 10 pages a day did for my spirit.

First of all, nothing makes me feel more productive than reading. I can spend my entire day rotting in bed, but if I read even a single paragraph of a book, I consider it a successful day. Feeling good about your day, good about yourself - this is potent fuel for a diva who’s down. It’s so crucial to work towards something, to see your own progress. Reading is such a great way to ease into goals. You can see the pages you have left. You are gradually making your way through the story. You’re learning, you’re absorbing, you’re healing without even realizing it.

“You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, who had ever been alive.”

―James Baldwin

This is an all timer for me. This quote. And it’s the reason I’m bringing up the media we consume very first when talking about how to help yourself. You have to let art remind you that you don’t have to carry everything alone. For thousands of years, humans have faced the harshness of life that you currently stand against. Lean on them. Let them hold it for a while.

I read 55 books in 2024. All genres. One of my greatest flexes that spawned from a trauma response. What I found is my same thoughts and fears about being a woman were described by Virgina Woolfe 100 years ago. My creative mountains were already climbed by Patti Smith in the 70s. The precise and specific grief I experienced was recounted by Joan Didion in more than one of her masterpieces.

None of this is new. All of it is purely human. I’ve dug through the proof.

Another positive side effect from my new reading fixation, was that my attention span was finally primed to handle a three hour movie. So naturally, I became a cinephile too.

I’ve adored film since I can remember. But over the years, and especially during my personal struggles, choosing to watch something good became a chore to me. It required too much mental and emotional energy to sit through a classic, or the new A24 project that was the talk of Sundance. Sad movies or something that would trigger a breakdown were always off the table. I didn’t want to anticipate, get caught off guard, or worse, get reminded of how shitty my real life was. So I'd inevitably end up rewatching Vanderpump Rules for the 17th time. (What? It soothes me.)

It started with Lord Of The Rings. I’d never seen it. An admission that caused a massive reaction whenever it came up. I had a lot more time on my hands not being on my phone. So one week, every day while Sev was at school, I watched one of them. Sometimes I forget how easy it is to watch a movie you always talk about wanting to see.

I started my own list. A curriculum, if you will. I started treating the books I read, and the movies I watched, as serious work. As if I was attending the school of the greats, and I got to choose which classes called to me. A course on David Lynch. Studying under Toni Morrison. A semester on feminism and women’s history. A syllabus on gothic horror. Private tutoring from Rick Rubin.

Once you get going, it’s hard to stop. You remember how good a good movie is. You feel the rush of finishing a book and you can’t wait to start another. You make it through a classic you were once intimidated by, and you battle yourself on which to pick next. A movie that changes you will have you exploring the directors entire filmography. The next thing you know, half of your watch list is from that specific directors letterboxd interviews. Everything leads to everything else.

This post ended up being longer than I planned on. But once again, I have to stress the benefits of taking this seriously. The art you consume. Filling your creative well.

I am only now beginning to see the effects of those 55 books and countless movies I have absorbed over the last few years. I see it in the way I carry myself. The words I use, the eloquence in which I naturally form a sentence. It’s evident in my style and my taste in general. The confidence I have in my own opinions. The vast amount of topics I can bring up in conversation. It’s formed my politics, my world view, my beliefs on life and humanity.

And now? My well is so full, it overflows.

I just finished reading Letters To a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. It’s so quotable, nearly every page is underlined. But this specific quote made me think of what I wanted to convey to all of you today.

He says,

“Get ahold of the little volume Six Novellas by J. P. Jacobsen and his novel Niels Lyhne, and begin with the first story in the first of these volumes which is called ‘Mogens’. A world will come over you, the joy, the richness, the incomprehensible greatness of a new world. Live in these books for awhile, learn from them what seems to be worth learning, but above all love them. This love will be repaid you thousands and thousands of times, and however your life may turn out - this love, i’m sure of it, will run through the weave of your becoming as one of the most important threads of your experiences, disappointments and joys.”

In the coming days / weeks, i’ll share my own recommendations with you and maybe a spark of inspiration will follow. But step one is easy and you can do it right this second. Make a list in your notes app. (remind me to tell you about lists!!) Write down anything and everything I am interested in or curious about. Any book you have ever wanted to read. Any movie you’ve ever wanted to watch. Start as broad as you want, you can refine later.

Right now on my current curriculum, is the myth of Persephone. Watching all of the best picture nominees for the Oscars. Deep diving on Edie Beale. Transcendental meditation. The Vietnam draft.

I want to get better at film photography, maybe take an online course or learn from a friend. I just got a book about feminism in horror films I can’t wait to dive into. I also ordered The Artists Way For Parents. I’m currently listening to the Dissect podcast breaking down Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers. And with that, very high on my list is researching the pattern of all the best rappers in history being Gemini’s.

Make your list, or several lists, and put the ones you’re most excited about at the very top.

Then, it’s on you to show up for class.

Let the world come over you.

Let your well be filled.

I love you!

Ind

I think about the birth of the internet and social media. How for the first time, women were able to share their true stories. Connect to strangers all over the world who shared the exact same hopes and dreams. I was still young when this happened, but damn. I think about it all the time. How incredible it must have been to read a blog from a new mom in a town 3,000 miles away describing your exact postpartum depression symptoms. Your deepest and darkest fears being quieted by the understanding that someone else shared them too.

This is what shaped me and saved me as a teenage girl. The realization that there were people out there, girls like me, who felt just as big. And I found them on the internet. Always on the other side of vulnerability.

I’m old enough now to know that everything is cyclical. Seasons, trends, history, it all repeats itself. And I think we are all ready, yearning even, for the internet to circle back around to what it used to be.

We know. We know, right? We know it’s all a highlight reel. We know it’s all curated. We know it’s all facetuned and beauty filtered. We know everything is an ad. We know scrolling won’t fill the void.

And yet I think most of us know we’re in too deep to get out.

The truth is, being offline IS a luxury in 2026. I used to think it was the answer. To log out forever. Part of me still thinks it is. But not yet. Not for me anyway.

The reaction to the two essays I published last week are proof that I can’t be done yet. And more than anything, proof that we are all craving the catharsis of expressing and witnessing each other. We all want the internet of once upon a time. Where blogs were the mainstream form of connecting and keeping up. That was for a reason, you know. We might not all be writers, but I think we are all storytellers. We all have a completely unique perspective on life that AI could never replicate. We have to tell each other about it. The way it feels for us. The way we see it. We have to get back to that.

Thank you for reminding me of this. I have spent hours reading your comments with tears streaming down my cheeks. The heaviness I felt holding all of that in is now light as a feather after telling you all what’s being going on.

thank you, thank you, thank you

Ind

Pregnancy was a miserable experience for me. Since day one I was sick and over time my symptoms only heightened. But despite how worried I was, every concern of mine was waved off by my midwives.

“Pregnancy is so hard, sweetie!”

On January 7th, only one week into that fateful year, I was life flighted to a hospital for an emergency C section. I was 28 weeks pregnant and in active Diabetic Keto Acidocis, on the verge of a coma. So forgive me if details are hazy. I just remember a crowded room. I remember trying to prepare myself for the worst. I remember the doctor coming in late at night and everyone crying when he said we were going to be okay and no emergency delivery was necessary.

And then I remember the world standing still when he told me I was officially diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.

I had little time to process this life altering news, let alone my near death experience. Because two weeks later, Seven was born. He was still early. Two whole months early. But he made his entrance like it was no big deal and he had done it a hundred times before. He was the healthiest, fattest, easiest baby during his six week NICU stay. We brought him home end of February and a month after that, the entire world had shut down for quarantine.

Life was complete and total chaos. Which is the perfect place for a story to begin.

I laid on my brand new yoga mat, trying to gain the courage to press play on my YouTube video. Like many of you, I too, fell into the yogawithadrienne covid pipeline.

It was easy enough until we got to the push up section which was humbled me to say the least. As soon as I willed myself upward, I instantly crashed back down. I mean, the last pushup I did was probably back in high school cheer. But were they always this hard? I gave it another earnest attempt only to find out I really did use all of my strength on the first one.

Defeated before I even began, I started to cry.

It seems dramatic in hindsight. But there is a reason this moment is seared into my memory.

Because I remember thinking it was the weakest I had ever felt in my life.

In the blink of an eye, six years happened. Everything happened.

Some of my best days were lived. My wedding being top of the list. We danced to Lady May under the Montecito moonlight, surrounded by our dearest people. Me in my big feather hat, Sev in his oversized suit. We ended the night in the pool, fully clothed and I don’t think i’ve smiled so big ever since.

It’s hard to believe that between then and now, my little baby grew up. He is wonderful, wild, curious and sweeter than an angel on earth. He taught himself to read and we’re still not really sure how, but it shows in his vocabulary which is that of a victorian child. His heroes are Eric Carle and Dr. Suess. He can recite The Very Hungry Caterpillar in Japanese. He cries at Christmas songs just like his mom. We fall asleep holding hands. He is the best part of me.

And while he was growing up and studying the works of Dr. Suess, my other baby, my brand, completely took off. I poured my soul into every aspect of this experience and the rest felt guided by some magic force. Our products, but more specifically our message, reached people around the world. The rapid growth led to a flagship store in my hometown, where people drove across the country to visit. It brought people together. It introduced lifelong friends. For a while it was the purest and most exciting form of creative expression I had ever known.

But the house was the pinnacle. Out of everything I had achieved since my life flipped upside down in 2020, the house was the proof that I made something of myself. In January of 2022, we moved into our dream home. A gorgeous modern build overlooking the lake and right across the street from our best friends. I envisioned the event of building a house to be decades away, I could have never predicted signing the papers at 24 years old. But there I was, the first night we got the keys, in complete disbelief that this was my life. I can still see it now, as if I am standing in that empty bedroom in this very moment.

If only bought-a-house-at-24-girl and traumatized-can’t-do-a-push-up-girl could get together for a long talk and a good cry.

If only she could see how good it was going to get.

If only I could brace them both from what was about to come.

“Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting”

― Clarice Lispector

2024 was the year everything began to rot. To give it to you straight, this was the worst year of my fucking life. The year I lost it all. My dream house, my dream life, people I considered family. I lost my creative passions, my identity, my confidence, my relevance, my purpose.

But the most painful still remains the loss of my voice.

The house was never really mine. Nothing ever is. Not the people who I swore would be in my life forever. Not the followers, the status, the small scale fame I’ve acquired. None of it ever truly belonged to me. But my voice was supposed to be mine. My story was supposed to be mine.

The heartache of this specific loss has fully consumed me. It’s apart of me now. We sit together in the silence I have learned to adapt to. In that quiet place is where my truth sits.

Because the truth is, I can’t tell you the truth.

I’m not allowed to tell you the details of what led to some of these losses, only the pain that I’m stuck with as a permanent reminder. And Is that even mine anymore? My pain? How can pain be accurately expressed in the absence of honesty?

What I can tell you is that among the many battles I faced that year, one of them included talking to a lawyer every day. Sometimes our calls were hours long. Sometimes they were 10 minute updates. But it was always just more bad news. Over the course of the seasons, this bad news would erode my spirit. By the time the leaves turned dry, so would the remaining spark I had left. .

Fear, anxiety and anticipation were woven into my routines. My mornings were spent obsessively refreshing emails, making sure I didn’t miss anything after the last time I checked two minutes earlier. I checked the time just as often. Always calculating in my head how many hours I had before the next call. I tried breathing exercises to calm myself down. My therapist and I talked about going to my happy place. But no matter how prepared I felt, my heart still dropped at the sound of the ringtone. I knew once I picked up that phone, there wasn’t much I could do to protect myself from the soul crushing reality check that always followed. So instead, I’d take a big deep breath, answer the call, and quickly mute my microphone so the legal team wouldn’t hear my teeth chatter.

This was my life.

And in the middle of the chaos, believe it or not, we were also trying to sell our house. To put it simply because I have to, our dream house quickly turned into a nightmare. It was a painful decision. To abandon this specific dream of mine. I worked for this. I prayed for it. It represented getting everything I had ever thought I wanted. I loved this house deeply. But walking away from it was a calling I couldn’t keep ignoring.

I could not stay somewhere that wasn’t good for me out of spite. I would not keep betraying myself to prove a point.

So I called our realtor and said,

“Just get us out of here as soon as possible”

It was one of the bravest, coolest, most aligned choices I have ever made.

It was also my first hit of freedom in a while. That rush you feel when you know the right thing to do, you know it will hurt, and you still do it anyway. That’s power. That’s brave. That’s the ‘hurts so good’ soreness after a hard work out. When you suffer temporary pain to do something better for yourself in the long run. The ache of your muscles next day only reminds you of that. It hurts for a reason.

I felt it the day we put a ‘for sale’ sign in our yard. It hurt in a good way.

Like it hurt for a reason.

The urgency to sell our house meant we were also trying to find another one to live in. Luckily, we had an offer accepted early in to our search. We now had to decide if it was worth the risk to move before our current home had sold. We had a few interested buyers already, and our realtor expected it to sell within the next few months. Worst case scenario, we would pay a double mortgage for that long.

At my limit with the details I can share, It was worth it to me.

In that moment, a few thousands dollars for a few months was undeniably worth paying to move on from this place. And that’s all I can really say to shed light on how bad it was.

“Just get us out of there as soon as possible”

We said goodbye on a warm and windy Friday night in May. I promised myself i’d never go back unless it was for this. It had been two months since I had driven through the old neighborhood. Two months since we started our new chapter in a new house. And this new house was finally starting to feel like home. Boxes were unpacked. Neighbors dropped off cookies. Sev and I tested out every park in town to determine which one we would claim as our “new park.” I was still sick with worry over my constant legal discussions, but this felt like a moment to catch my breath. Papers were set to be signed that following Monday, and the buyers were ready to start moving in that weekend. The only thing left to do was honor this chapter of my life with a proper farewell.

At the house, I spent time in each room. Trying to recall a memory from wherever I stood. I allowed myself to mourn the memories that would never be created. I took my time. The ritual of presence offered me a softness I greatly needed. But saying goodbye to the trees was almost too much for my heart to bear. I saved them for very last, and I wept as I thanked each of them. For their guidance, their wisdom, their company.

I exhausted myself with all of the crying and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep that night. When I woke up, everything would change. My new life would finally begin.

I was right about one thing.

‘There was a bad storm last night, the basement flooded.”

This was the first thing I heard when I woke up the next morning. I was on the phone with my husband who had just spoken to our realtor. Half asleep, I tried to make sense of the words I was hearing.

What do you mean there was a bad storm last night? What do you mean the basement flooded the day the buyers are supposed to move in? Can we fix it? How long will it take? Wait, are they backing out?

It took about 10 minutes before the answer finally sank in.

“They already backed out. I’m so so sorry, ind.”

I hung up the phone and tried to catch my breath. I knew intuitively that things were about to get much worse.

I often describe what I went through that year like constantly being taken out by a big wave. That’s how this bad news felt to me. The confusion and turmoil. Not knowing which way is up or down. Gasping for air. There was no cathartic relief from this intensity. Just pure panic.

All I could think about was when we were learning to swim as kids and how my dad would tell us,

“if you panic, you die.”

But the ocean is a powerful force. Grief, maybe even more so.

I entered a period of isolation I am still learning how to describe. I could hardly tell a soul about the most overwhelming and pressing weight that I was carrying. What was said on those phone calls to make me shake so violently. That was suffocating. To be all alone with the worst thing that had ever happened to me.

I stopped posting online, I paused all of my brand deals. At that time, being on my phone was a danger to myself. But eventually I stopped going out with friends and then leaving my house all together. I was in constant fear of getting asked a question I couldn’t answer.

And no one knew what to say anyway. The handful of people who were safe to confide in. In the beginning, it’s easy to comfort someone you love. Everyone says the right things.

“It gets really bad before it gets better” is a common one I recieved.

But what happens when it doesn’t get better? Despite everyone else’s certainty?

There’s nothing like watching your own dad lose the ability to comfort you with words. My dad, who has never struggled to articulate the deepest of fatherly wisdom. Even he knew that at some point, there was no point. The break I had been due to catch wasn’t coming. “It will get better” turned into “I don’t even know what to say” and that was good enough for me. The honesty was a salve to my pain in a way that hearing “you’re so strong” was never able to soothe.

Time went on and I remained stranded in my metaphorical ocean. But one day in July, my luck began to change. I looked down in my hands and stared at the words on a tiny screen in front of me.

Pregnant.

It was completely unexpected. Despite my traumatic experience the first time around, I love being a mom. Having another baby was always the goal. But this timing was not apart of the plan. This timing felt terrifying.

Everything in my life was uncertain. My nervous system was destroyed. My main focus of each day was to simply make it through the day. Nothing was stable. And yet, I stood there holding that pregnancy test with a feeling rising through me, warming me through the inside out.

Hope.

I laughed. Amidst all of this desolation, a life was growing inside of me. This wasn’t terrifying. This was a miracle. I was no longer treading water, lost at sea. I had a life raft now. Yes, the waves were still rough. But I had a life raft. This baby gave me a direction, a purpose. Everything that once brought me to my knees with worry, felt instantly manageable with land on the horizon.

I quickly got to work. I would pour all of my energy into this project. The process of nurturing and growing human life. What could be more important than this? I was strict with my diet and meticulous with my blood sugar. In one week I read three pregnancy books. I made vision boards, pulled out the baby name list, and dreamed of the moment Seven got to meet his baby brother or sister.

The anxiety and fear that once controlled my internal world was replaced with gratitude and excitement for the future I was building. Each morning I would cry upon waking up and remembering the good news. I was pregnant! PREGNANT! Nothing else mattered because I was pregnant!

I was completely transformed by this newfound hope.

But just as quickly as it arrived, just as soon as it felt solid enough to grasp, in one moment it all slipped through my fingers.

I looked at my underwear and saw blood. But what I really felt was my life raft begin to fill with water. My heart began to pound and my ears turned hot.

“This cannot be happening” was my only internal dialogue.

I gripped the sink in disbelief. Was this really happening?

I searched online for anyone to reassure me that this was normal. For any anonymous reddit comment to tell me that this happened to them too. That they are fine now! Their baby is beautiful and healthy and perfect! I scrolled and refreshed and opened tab after tab in a desperate effort to keep myself afloat. But the blood kept coming, and the water kept filling and I knew deep down what was happening.

“If I lose this baby, I give up. It’s over. This will be the thing to break me for good.”

I said this through sobs on the way to the ER and I meant every word. This would be my last straw. My resignation to apathy. It had been decided.

Hours later, I miscarried on my own in a hospital bed.

This wave was a tsunami.

This wasn’t about losing the baby. It was about losing the baby when I thought I had nothing else to lose. It was everything from the last two years. Every loss. Every betrayal. Every trauma. Every phone call that knocked the wind out of me.

All of this was compiled into a wall of grief that was angry and powerful and heading directly towards me.

But for once I watched it approach without fear.

Because for the first time, I didn’t care if I survived this one.

I laid there in my own blood, waiting for a nurse to come and confirm the loss. As I stared at the fluorescent lights surrounded by my own emptiness, I promised myself to never hope for anything ever again.

I was defiant in my grief. Devoted to my hopelessness. And entirely embarrassed by my own innocence. How naive one must be to think they’re special enough to deserve a break in this life. To believe that suffering should have to make sense. The recklessness to assume things will get better just because it’s impossible to imagine them getting worse. Of course things just kept getting worse. Of course my body couldn’t sustain a life amidst such profound stress. Of course I lost the baby. Of course this happened.

I was mad at myself. I was mad at everybody.

I don’t believe in God anymore but I was mad at him too.

The next few weeks were spent throwing myself the pity party I felt I deserved. I took naps. Even more baths. All texts were ignored. Tears were shed and pillows were screamed into. I ordered door dash guilt free. I watched Mulholland Drive. Twice. It was fun while it lasted.

But like every party, it eventually ends and when it’s over, god is it over.

Summer was fading quickly. Sev and I tried to make the most of the park nights we had left. And It’s a pretty incredible park. A view of the mountains people all over the world might have on their bucket list and it’s just a 5 minute bike ride up the street. I felt proud of us for our choice after a long and demanding search. Seven was playing, and I was deep in a book. The air was gorgeous in a way that made my eyes water. For just a second it was all perfect.

And all of the sudden I couldn’t help but notice how okay I was.

After all of that drama too. How dedicated I was to never believing in anything ever again. Only a month later and there I was, crying because the air felt so nice on my skin and my son was making a friend.

The waves I dealt with that summer came so frequently and so violently, I had no choice but to learn them. Not outsmart them or tame them. But to study their patterns. To prepare expectations and strategize the easiest way through.

What I eventually learned about the waves was so simple but it ended up changing my life.

I always came back up for air.

No matter how convinced I was that drowning was imminent, I found that it always ended. My worst case scenario was realized. I lost everything I had thought I had ever wanted. And yet, despite my best efforts, I was perfectly okay that night at the park.

From a distance, I heard Seven walk up to an elderly man on an evening walk with his wife.

“Gepetto! Its me! Your boy! Pinocchio!”

They both laughed a little awkwardly and went on their way, but Sev ran back to me in tears because his “papa didn’t recognize him”

I laughed so hard I cried.

How did I ever think it would be possible to remain hopeless with him around?

A Childs hope is boundless. Hope that the tooth fairy will come. That he will have good dreams and wake up 10 inches taller. This ladder to the moon he keeps talking about. How he wants to grow a mustache someday and how he has his heart set on learning to whistle by the time he is a teenager.

He is the embodiment of hope.

And then I see who I am because of who he is and I realize I can’t get rid of it If I tried. Because at the core of who I am is the hope that the world is kind to him. That he gets invited to birthday parties. That his tender heart is never changed.

I had to accept that my nihilism was powerless in the face of motherhood.

For so long, I rationed it. My hope. Using it felt dangerous. Instead of seeing it as a resource, I saw it as the one thing I had left. Being terrified it would run out for good, I eventually hid it deep inside of me. Protecting it. Protecting myself.

But what good is your last shred of hope if you can’t remember your hiding spot?

I thought it was something I couldn’t afford to lose, but through him I learned that it’s free. The cost of getting my hopes up too high only for them to be crushed is imaginary. Yes it hurts when life kicks you while you’re down, but it was always going to hurt. It’s supposed to.

It hurts for a reason.

Loss, heartbreak, betrayal, stress, grief. These things are unavoidable and most importantly, out of my control. I can hope these things don’t happen to me. I can hope that if they do, I am spared of the pain. But life just fucking happens and it fucking hurts whether we want it to or not.

I used to have such a fire for life and I extinguished it to save myself from getting burned.

All it did was make me cold.

“And I feel that I am a man. And I feel that a man is a very important thing - maybe more important than a star.

This is not theology. I have no bent toward gods. But I have a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul.

It is a lovely and unique thing in the universe. It is always attacked and never destroyed - because ‘thou mayest’.”

This is my favorite quote from my new favorite book, East of Eden.

It touches something deep within me. Describing the human soul as a glittering instrument. Because in my opinion, the undying human spirit is the most wondrous function of our kind.

This life is dense with suffering that we are forced to witness in high definition. Constantly aware of the atrocities we are capable of. I am often reminded with an ache in my heart, that my own suffering is embarrassing in comparison to the horror served by my algorithm.

But the fact that none of us are spared from the pains of life is what makes us human in the first place. We are united in the fact that the waves come for us all. We are also united in the desire to keep going. It defies logic at times but somehow it’s wired in us. To always come back up for air. And I can’t get over that. I don’t think I ever will.

Some people say it’s just our biological instinct to survive. Evidence of evolution. But I like to think it’s our glittering instrument, the human soul. Always attacked but never destroyed.

On the first day of November in 2024, I held another positive pregnancy test in my hands. This was once again, unexpected. I didn’t think I would get pregnant so soon after miscarrying. This didn’t evoke feelings of joy. I was completely overcome with fear. Every part of me wanted to handle this the way I used to. By detaching all together. Instead of excitement, I felt a sense of urgency. Now I had something that could be taken away. How long did I have until it was taken away?

But equally evident was the feeling of exhaustion rising in me. The understanding that I could not spend 9 months this way. I could not spend my life this way.

I had a choice. Right then and there. I could choose to worry every single day of my pregnancy. To pretend it isn’t happening at all. I could avoid getting excited about things like baby names and surprising my friends. I don’t even have to tell anyone. I could choose to disconnect completely. Or I could choose to hope that this pregnancy would be a beautiful, redeeming experience. That my baby and I would be healthy. Instead of checking for blood every 20 minutes, I could shift my focus to dreams of my first Christmas with two kids. I could hope it all works out for me.

It was entirely in my power to choose.

So I did. And I chose hope.

Not because I am naive, but because I am human. Because I’m wired this way. It’s embedded in me and there is no point in arguing with nature. I know suffering is apart of the deal. The human experience. But so is hope and because of that, I know innately that I can endure whatever suffering lies ahead.

Through gritted teeth and a lump in my throat, I chose hope again and again and again.

Seven months later, that baby was born and laid on my chest in a moment I can only describe as complete and total euphoria.

He looks just like me too. I hoped he would.

This story ends back on the yoga mat where we started. It is now August of 2025, last summer. The old house is finally sold, the lawyer calls have slowed down, Sully is home from the NICU and my body has not been stretched since spring. I unrolled the mat noticing nerves I confused with excitement. Maybe excitement I confused with nerves? Because surely I was excited.

Since the infamous postpartum push up of 2020, yoga had become a sacred ritual for me. It’s something I did 4-5 times a week, even throughout my pregnancy. I craved it in my months of recovery, but had no idea what I would find once my body started moving.

I shook the dust off my bones with gentle love and care, and instantly I was home again.

Hi body. I missed you.

I moved through my practice slowly and intentionally, being patient with what I could handle. Though my limbs ached, I shocked myself when I touched my toes with ease. I continued to surprise myself with my flexibility. Was it always this easy?

Getting a little brave, I dared myself to try a push up. You know. Just to see. I prepared for another unforgettable moment of weakness and promised that I wouldn’t cry when it came. But sure enough, this story starts and ends with me in tears after trying a push up two months postpartum.

Because I didn’t do a push up that day.

I did 5.

One after another, exhilarated by these capabilities I wasn’t even aware of. I was in shock at my own strength. How was this even possible? But tears dropped into the corners of my smile as the realization slowly came over me. This was easy because I had been practicing for the last 6 years. Of course I could handle it now.

This ritual that started as a covid distraction transformed me and I didn’t even know it. The ease at which I moved through this practice, even after having a baby, was a reward for my consistency. Finally being able to tolerate things that used to knock me to the ground.

And I’m not talking about yoga anymore.

Suffering transforms too.

Everything I went through that year, the waves, the storms, the loss. All of that was practice. Practice for being human. Practice for enduring the brutality of life. Every trip to rock bottom and back up to the surface was building emotional muscle. Every call with bad news on the other line toughened me up. The waves ended up gifting me with the only real protection from the brutality.

Thick skin.

Life hasn’t gotten easier since then. I just got tougher. I can take a punch now.

And to be honest, that’s why I was really crying on the yoga mat that day.

Because I remember thinking it was the strongest I had ever felt in my life.

Hemingway says to start with the truest sentence you know and after 10 minutes of frustrated typing, I came up with that.

There. I don’t want to write.

Some of you might know me as a writer. But it’s only in the last few years that I even considered myself one. I thought I needed a degree or a job or anyone with real authority to deem me as an artist. Now, it’s my favorite way to introduce myself.

I am a writer.

But it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want to be one right now. In fact, it’s worse being terrified of who you know you’re supposed to be.

I’m trying to figure out what makes me so scared. I really do love to write. Since I knew how, it’s been the easiest way for me to express my inner world. When I really get going, it feels as natural as breathing. So if this is who I am, if this is what I love to do, what am I so afraid of?

There’s the fear of being seen that always lingers no matter how certain I am I have cracked the code. My vulnerable moments being used as fodder for gossip forums or weapons to wield against me someday. My whole life has been dealing with the pain and rejection of being misunderstood.

But I stopped writing to be understood a long time ago.

So what is it?

I can pour my feelings into a journal, or in a letter I burn on a full moon. Writing for a reader however, adds an element of pressure. When I write something to be shared, I am motivated to write something good. My problem now is knowing that to write something good, I have to write something true. Hemingway told us, remember? Write the truest sentence you know.

Well, the truest sentence I know right now is that I don’t want to write because I want it to be good and if its going to be good then it has to be honest and if its going to be honest then i’m actually going to have to look at what happened to me and i’m afraid if I do that I might die

Is it possible to show you the wound without having to see it myself?

Truthfully, I am still amazed when I reflect on the last few years. The agony I have been through. The canon events that piled up one after another. When I talk about what happened, it still feels like I’m talking about someone else’s life. A stranger. A fictional character. I say the words out loud, I tell a watered down version of the story, but it’s not my voice speaking. It’s only after the words hang in the air that I brush up with reality.

Woah. That really happened.

I often say I have no idea how I survived but then again of course I do. I made it out alive because of one simple reason and it’s because I am a mother. It’s because I had no choice.

Last summer when things fell apart all over again, I didn’t have time to process or grieve or even rot in bed. I had a newborn who was in the NICU and a five year old who was very confused and dealing with profound changes all at once. I had two kids who needed me and they needed me stable. So I put my insurmountable heartbreak in a box in order to get us through the storm. With clearer skies, with some time, it would be safe for me to pull it back out and assess the damage.

I guess thats what this is. Pulling out the box. Because it’s been 9 months and all of the sudden, ready or not, the pain has arrived and it is demanding to be felt.

Back in October, I had an infected cyst that needed surgical removal. I stayed nearly a week in the hospital. I’ve had a few hospital stays under my belt, but this one was significantly awful. Twice a day, the wound had to be cleaned and packed with medical tape. A long q tip inserted directly into a hole in my skin. The pain was so intense I almost passed out every time.

This led to my first real experience with opioids. The hard stuff. I remember thinking “oh I get it now” when I could sense it kicking in. The intensity melting away. A relief I could only describe as a kindness from God himself.

But even more memorable is the panic that took over the second I could feel it wearing off. Knowing what was coming, and how unbearable it was about to be. I’d beg the nurses for more so I could stay numb a little longer and delay the moment of impact.

But eventually I had to leave the hospital and the oxy’s too.

For an entire month, I had to care for the wound myself. It was imperative that I did this so the hole wouldn’t close and lead to a worse infection. My mom drove up every day for the first two weeks because it was too excruciating trying on my own. It was a specific kind of hell, that month. The tape only had to be changed once a day. But the rest of my time was focused on how much time I had left before I had to do it again. I hated it. I shudder to even think of it. But the alternative was ignoring it and I don’t know…dying from sepsis?

I had no choice but to bite down on a rag and face the pain head on.

My point is it had to be done.

My point is, I still have wounds to clean.

Spring is around the corner and it’s as though I can feel my months of anesthetic wearing off. That miracle drug of motherhood that carried me through the most unimaginable grief for so long is gently subsiding, letting me know it’s time.

I feel it in my moments alone. The pain creeping back in. It’s the lump in my throat when I get 20 minutes to shower. The sadness that washes over me in the silence on the drive home from exchanging the kids. It’s the middle of the night nausea when I wake up and remember it’s all real. None of it was a dream.

I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to take off the bandage. I’m too scared to look. I don’t want to have to acknowledge how bad it was.

To write about it is to pour alcohol on torn flesh.

And yet, what is the alternative? A life unlived? A soul unexpressed?

I bite down on a rag and face the pain head on anyway.

Because I cannot stay numb forever. Because eventually I have to leave the hospital and the pain medicine too. Because my best art waits for me on the other side.

We all know the only way out is through.

So here is my substack.

Because I’m a writer. And this is how we make it through.