Twenty Nine

This has been my circle around the sun that has gone the least like what I expected or even had the capacity to imagine. What a thing it is to be thoroughly surprised by a life. 

I’m exactly 16 days late in posting this, but I’m feeling pretty confident that 2020 was the year time was cancelled anyway.

Here’s a random list of things I would have liked to tell myself 381 days ago, if I could hit rewind: 

  1. It’s really important that you speak up about the days that are filled with joy, gratitude and bliss – talking it out does not just apply to the things that are hard. Sharing your light is just as raw and vulnerable as sharing your struggle.
  2. Your biggest relationships have always held up the mirror for you to see and approach your own work. They’re not around to fix anything, like country music and the entire movie industry desperately cons you into wanting to believe. These souls are your teachers, not your saviors.
  3. Sisterhood and chosen family are still the most magnificent pieces of being alive that I’ve known to date.
  4. Even people you love and respect tremendously will not understand or agree with all of your choices. Very well then, it’s probably a very good sign that you’re living your own life and not theirs.
  5. It’s okay – and necessary – to trust your happiness. Buoying above the things that feel too good to be true is a very direct path to not being present for any of it. Hope in these moments is still the most brave and vulnerable thing we do.
  6. Your saying Yes to things that feel like a “yes” inside will allow you to keep living a really interesting story (and well done in this category this year, by the way). Be proud of the yesses that you’ve chosen over the past 365 days solely because your only guide was your own Knowing and apparently insatiable curiosity about the human journey.
  7. This is the year of life you will start groaning unexpectedly when bending down to pick things up – it will catch you off guard and it’s probably easiest if you just accept that that’s where we’re at here. (Also, maybe good to note that it wouldn’t hurt to continue increasing the yoga).
  8. Make all the plans you want, but don’t get attached to the result or the timeline. It’s important that you’re training to move side to side as quickly as you want to move forward.
  9. Very few things were ever made worse by taking two minutes to sit down and focus on your breathing. Exceptions include, but are not limited to: food poisoning emergencies, house fires, operating a motor vehicle.
  10. You get to sign your own fcking permission slip.


I focus my eye on that spot on my ankle that I somehow always miss when I’m shaving. I watch so intently I think I can see the pesky little hairs grow. I watch because it’s simple, still and unchanging. I know exactly what to expect.

I try to feel the wave of breath as inhale turns to exhale, exhale releases and becomes the inhale. Inhale pause exhale. I want to be in the wave.

But we all know that’s just a thing I use in moments of desperation, the thing I want to say works all the time – The thing that cured the fire that lives in my belly.

In reality, we all know my insides are hot lava, my head is stuck in a groove in the record that was never fixed. I meant to take it in and get that worked on, it’s just that it played fine for the whole summer, when the weather was better and the seas refused to be stormy.

So I find myself in the grass, with sweaty legs and sweaty palms and a sweaty brain, if thats possible.

My stomach is in my throat and I swear I’ll never need to eat again. I’ll starve out this beast in my chest that tells me that nothing that’s gold can stay.

I pray for peace, which is a thing to do when you’re about to throw up. But god and I both know it’s not my chosen form of spiritual practice.

So, I stand from my ass print in the grass with itchy, shaky legs and I find all the courage I’ve got and I ask you to grab my hand because I want to be home.

I squeeze tighter and I ask you to keep loving my imperfect self loudly, that I hope to someday be a less frazzled version of me. You tell me you don’t want that version at all, that you want the one that’s here. That version is home.

We throw a housewarming party, because home is always better with family and flowers and a strange tool with which you squeeze your lemons.

All Blended Up

The days are simpler here in Quarantine Town. There are reading sessions on the patio and bare feet in the grass every day.

Friendships grow through all the time we have to talk and virtual happy hours we didn’t make the time for before all we had was more than enough. We wash our hands as often as we check our phones.

Longer sleeps, bigger laughs, more vulnerable cries, and better talks. We have the time and the presence to zoom out.

Hair is streaked with strips of blonde and I’m more concerned about going back to “real life” than living our suspended days…Or maybe this is it already?

Gratitude for health, the roof that protects us, for the big love that keeps us solvent. Also for a shameless nap routine I’ll be sad to see go.

I “vacuum” the floor with fingers through the carpet just because it’s so much more satisfying and where else do I have to be?

Q Town puts everything in the blender – swirly anxiety, freedom, and peace. Exhaustion and monotony with downtime, creative time, and exercise time. Alone time and together time. Work time and laundry time and lunch time.

Thankfully, I’ve always loved a good smoothie.

To The Sea

It gets easier with time, mostly, as things tend to do. Sometimes, though, it still isn’t softer or kinder. Sometimes I wake up made of thorns and fire.

It didn’t happen overnight, the way it does for some, the way you slipped into a spirit to me.

My bones ached a little with guilt that day, knowing that we were supposed to be celebrating you and instead, I felt more like I was hiding from you. It feels disrespectful to those that can’t pick up the phone and call; they’d give anything to hear his voice. I don’t know how to do that, how to share bullet points of my life with you like you didn’t used to be my favorite person. It’s safer to protect my memories, my biggest cop out.

Lucky for me, I’m in love with a human who suggested a morning on the water, an activity just for me. We lugged my monstrosity of a paddle board out to the bay and I climbed aboard. She ain’t pretty, but she’s sea worthy- her and I are a perfect pair. It was a choppy day and more than once, I found myself very nearly going for a chilly swim. I couldn’t have cared less either way.

It didn’t come naturally for me to cry then, with the wind and the spray from the ocean greeting my skin. I stopped being angry for the moment too. Instead, I paddled to the quietest space I could find and I sat perfectly still, with my feet underwater. I put my head back to the sky and simply said “thank you” – for the brightest spots of me that I inherited from you. I celebrated our shared love of solitude and the sea, the trees, coffee that is strong enough to rot your stomach, and also a small bit of the stubbornness that gave me no option other than to say “yes, I can” to schlepping the 12 foot beast into the car, strapping it down with bungee cords.

The best way I know how to celebrate is by being the person you raised. I think I’ll keep her close.

In 2020

The world is new through this lens, 

With distance and focus, intention, all the colors brought directly to the light. 

Never not wondering ‘where could I have been more alive, more awake to the pain of my family in every shade?’

What did we ignorantly take for granted when others struggled to breathe? 

How can I be better now, more in tune with the oneness of the suffering?

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We strive to find a way to capture the brightness of this moment, exposure wide enough to speak only to the contrast in the days of sharp edges. 

With a shutter speed fast enough to tell the story of a blissful revolution, let us remember the moments we all learned to see the world in perfect vision, every image in 20/20.


A few days ago, Jenna took my picture for my Wanderlings bio.

I don’t know the last time I’ve had a picture taken of me, just me, without a prop or an occasion to give context to the photograph.

I’ll be completely honest, it sent me to crazy-town for a moment. It was somehow too intimate – just me, standing alone with my face and my hair and and my acne and my crooked smile. My instant response was to jump back from all of this, to recoil from the show of me-ness in its unapologetic roar. I wanted to be embarrassed, I wanted to criticize. I wanted to call my mother and reprimand her for not putting me in a helmet to correct my asymmetrical infant head, which I would wager to bet was a pretty linear path to my asymmetrical adult head. I wanted to tell her that I know my teeth were straight enough as a pre-teen, but I’m sort of pissed that we didn’t look more closely into braces.

As soon as I looked more closely, though, I started to see and feel something else. That need to jump back from myself, to be embarrassed and critical of the things that will keep me off of magazine covers, was not erased, but joined by a question I couldn’t quite articulate yet.

Going back for another look with an awareness of my ranting internal voice, I noticed first how happy I look. We’re in the middle of a global pandemic and I’m in my sixth week of sheltering-in-place… and I look happy? Then, I noticed how peaceful I look with the trees all around; it looks so normal to have me sitting in the dirt at the base of my dear green friends.

I started to note the peculiarity of this notion that I can celebrate your attributes that make you you and on myself, they’re flaws. I know this isn’t my fault, that we’ve been cultured to seek our imperfections and obsess over them, chastise ourselves for having them, make ourselves small because of them. The hard truth of this is that I don’t get to start helping define a new normal in this realm by exclusively honoring my little sister, my future daughter, or my best friends. Those celebrations are important but the real work starts right here.

I took another look through a new lens with the compassion I’d have for a dear friend. I knew that if I was looking at a picture of a friend, I’d tell her that I like her wild hair, which has never been tidy a single day she’s been alive. I like that it refuses to stay one color that would make it easy to categorize. I’d remind her that, as a person who lives to be outside, why would her wild skin not have imperfections and blemishes from the sun, the change of season, and so much sunscreen? These are her trophies of her wild lifestyle. I’d remind her that her body is wild and strong enough to run up hills and carry a human in some sort of emergency. I’d remind her that her eye color is hard to see because her smile is big and goofy, tending to change the expression of her whole face, and that makes her feel wild too – wildly connected, wildly loved, and wildly lighthearted.

I’d remind her that the wildness of her imperfect physical attributes are just as they’re supposed to be, even if she wouldn’t have chosen them all.

She may as well learn to love them wild.

And finally, I heard the questions loud and clear – Doesn’t the picture look just like me? Isn’t that enough?


The majority of the world has hit pause.

For the first time in forever, we’re separated – together.

Our pause is a result of circumstances none of us would have chosen, the effects of which we can’t begin to know yet. Lives and security in more forms than one, have been lost. None of it is fair or sensical and yet, I believe that it is also an extraordinary moment for reflection.

I’m fascinated by the universe-governed detox that has been assigned to us. Like addicts, someone, somewhere in charge called for our intervention and we have to be still and sit back as we heard about all the ways we’ve been ignoring the life that has been waiting for us. We’ve been distracting ourselves from real life with so much busyness, so many shiny objects that keep us numb from sitting with our actual human experience.

It’s possible that we were so caught up in the daily race that we forgot to let ourselves imagine, to create, to dream of how big this life could be.

I’m intoxicated with the reverberations of this pause, this moment we’re in that’s forcing us to focus on the inside worlds right at home. For some of us, that means slowing down and watching the majestic horror of our kids growing up, really seeing them in ways we don’t ordinarily allow for in the swell of everyday chaos. For others, it’s returning to basics, priorities, self-care, sleep, natural rhythms. It’s stripping away all of the extra and coming home to ourselves. It’s breathing in stillness where there is normally so much extra noise. It’s marveling at the Earth starting to heal from the pause of extraneous waste we’ve created. It’s noticing what our habits look like when we want to numb the sharp loneliness that is sometimes there too. It’s treasuring the deliberate efforts made to reach out to the ones that matter most, watching how we show up for each other with humble hearts. It’s being physically separate and less alone than ever before.

I hope to never forget the way this pause has made me feel.

Heart Lessons

More than any of the years before, my 28th has taken my insides on a nonstop rollercoaster –  a consistent peak and valley of emotion in sharp contrast to the relative steady river I’ve always known to be home. I’m learning more from valleys than I do from the peaks, as the story tends to go. I’m practicing breathing during the quieter moments, the breaks in the clouds, to take inventory of what is true and what is not true. 

My lists for today looks like this.

Here’s what is true

Hearts can hurt, and then they heal.

Chosen family is the greatest gift I have ever known.

Pain feels unmanageable in its full roar – because it is. It was never meant to be managed.

Sometimes, unintentionally, our trauma hurts the people that we love.

A heart that hurts is a receipt for the openness we offered. It doesn’t feel like it, but the extent to which we offered it to the world, to another perfectly imperfect human, is a souvenir of courage. It’s something to be proud of.

Relationships end in all sorts of different ways for all sorts of different reasons – some of them matter, some of them don’t. Capital L Love Does Not End.

Sometimes it is my turn to grab your hand and pull you back into the boat, and sometimes it is my turn to reach from the water and let you do the same.

Here’s what is not true

That anything – pain, joy, car rides with the windows down, confusion, inexplicable peace, suffering, summer days, or stomach aches – lasts forever.

All of these tiny pieces in a life are anything less than a miracle, exactly as they’re supposed to be.

Life is easy and there is something wrong with us when we feel otherwise.

We are supposed to be happy all the damn time.

Your choices about where you choose to put your pain are a reflection of my character or my worthiness.

Not actually wanting AnotherFreakinGrowthOpportunity at all will stop it from coming.

We can fix the people we love simply because we want to.

Genuine connection is so rare that you or I, having experienced it before, will never find it again.

An outside stamp of approval makes you or I or our neighbor’s dog more worthy of love. 

The Right Thing for you and the Right Thing for me are the same; I can predict what your Right Thing will look like five seconds from now. 

Any pain, any love, any story is ever wasted.

Just Maybe

I’m scared sometimes when I realize you’re slipping from me. 

Your goofy chuckle, your unique expressions, and the weird tone of voice you use when you’re frustrated and trying not to show it are vibrant and loud. They’re stuck with me forever.

In the quieter moments, I have to admit that I don’t remember if the hazel ring in your eyes that I inherited was on the inside or outside of the green core. I don’t remember if you drank water with dinner, or only before and after. I’m not sure if I remember your shoe size. 

The holes in hearts have a strange place in the world, I think. There is this everlasting collage of pieces that will always be missing. More than anything, I am fascinated by the space they free to love more. I don’t believe that love is finite, that we only have the capacity for so much. But I do believe that the truth of love and loss is that they both crack us wide open, and maybe those cracks are our personalized invitation, meant only for us and our unique but wildly universal pain. 

Maybe losing you helped me in some part to find me

Me in the biggest, purest form  – loving sunrises and books, belly laughs and hard work, showing up for myself and my people as this biggest, purest me. 
I wonder if just maybe the openness and courage of loss prepares us for the openness and courage that will be required of us later.

..because it will be required of us later.