Hey, You. Did I ever tell you about the time I was accosted while walking home one day? I probably didn’t since this happened about 26 years ago. I was only a few months out from having graduated college. I had moved back in with my mom and was out running an errand in her car. I don’t remember the specifics of the errand I was running, but the car broke down. I called my mom and she suggested maybe taking a taxi back to the house but I felt like that would have been money wasted. I wasn’t that far from home and my legs worked just fine. I decided to walk. Even though it was broad daylight, I admit that I wasn’t thrilled about walking home by myself plus it was pretty hot, if my memory serves me, but I did it anyway. My mom stayed on the phone with me just to make sure all was well and I’m glad she did because soon enough it wouldn't be.

At some point on my walk I feel a car pull along side of me and I hear a man’s voice say, “Hey, do you want a ride?” I told my mom that someone was trying to get my attention. I briefly looked over and said, “I’m good” and kept walking. Once again, he tried to get my attention in kind of an aggressive way and once again I indicated I was good and kept walking and informing my mom what’s going on. The driver drove a little ways ahead of me and then pulled over. I felt a tickle in my stomach. Suddenly he sticks his head up over the car and proceeds to berate me. “Ay, B$%ch! I was trying to help you out and then you’re just gonna ignore me, acting like you’re better than me. B&ch, FU! (you know normally I like my sentences seasoned, but there were sooo many expletives that I’ll spare you). I’m the one driving the car and you’re out here walking.” I kept walking while he drove along insulting my hair, my clothes, pointing at me and calling me ugly. I remember feeling that this guys was freaking unhinged all because I decided not to take a ride from a stranger. Meanwhile my mom could hear him and was on the verge of calling the cops but I said no. Here is the craziest part of the story to me. I tried to avoid eye contact as much as possible during this man’s tirade, but at some point I glanced over and for the first time noticed that his girlfriend was in the passenger seat laughing the whole time. How did I know it was his girlfriend? Because she also yelled at me saying, “My man was just trying to help you. You didn’t have to wave him off like that. You didn’t have to ignore him. Now he’s busting you.” She was his hype man all the way until the last “Fuck you!” when they suddenly drove off, leaving me standing there hot, sweaty and absolutely terrified.

I remember crying when I got home to my mom recalling everything that happened. I couldn’t understand what I had done to escalate that man’s anger to such a degree and how a woman could stand by and watch it happen with such delight. I remember thinking, “My God, she must never imagine a world in which his anger would ever be directed towards her,” and for her sake I hoped she was right. I think of her from time to time. Wondering what was going on in her life that she saw admiration in what he did to me as opposed to disgust. Did he eventually abuse her at some point in their relationship or were they cut from the same cloth? Two peas in a moldy, decayed, rotten pod.

This morning I was walking on the trail near my house. There were the usual “hello” and “good morning” exchange of greetings between me and passerbys. One gentleman in particular stared at me in such a way that I found odd. I don’t know why but I flashed back to that moment years ago when I was left standing riddled by the verbal bullets of, I imagine, descendants of Bonnie and Clyde. Instead of looking away and avoiding the man I looked him directly into his eyeballs. I greeted him warmly but I’m sure my eyes said, “come at me if you want to. I’ve seen enough Dateline specials to know that I might not win the battle but you better bet my DNA will be all over you.” I’m happy to say the man smiled back and kept on walking.

I highly doubt that there was anything nefarious going on in that man’s head. He probably wasn’t even focused on me when he happened to glance my way, yet here we are in 2026 and I’m still having to steel myself anyway because I know this shit’s still happening. Pretending to be the deer with a knowing that I might have to turn into the lioness at a moment’s notice. It’s maddening.

I think about my children and know that I have to figure out a way to teach my daughter how to stay safe AND understand that there’s nothing INFERIOR about being a woman in any way shape or form, while simultaneously teaching my son how to love himself but not think that being a man makes him SUPERIOR in any way shape or form.

Sometimes I think about what I could have said or done differently to alter the outcome of that walk to my mother’s house. I usually come back to nothing. I had the right to say no. I had the right to dismiss a ride from a stranger because my gut instincts sensed something didn’t feel right. The reality is he could have just driven away. I could have been a story that he told friends later that day, “Man, can you believe I offered a ride to a young lady today but she chose to walk in the heat alone by herself? I guess some people just can’t be helped.” I could have gotten home to my mother and told her that a man tried to offer me a ride but I didn’t want to chance it, even in the heat, and that would have been that. Instead I’m now left with a trauma wound that gets triggered when a man looks at me a little too long. Such is life, I guess.

Luckily the groundhog dirt mounds, the cackling of the parrots, the sweet smell of flowers and yes the people gliding by, remind me that a walk on the trail on a beautiful morning is still worth it.

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**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in any way that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.

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Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about the time I realized I was going to lose my job?

It started with a text from my husband, Peter, while I was on the treadmill at the gym. It read, “Where are you and did you make D’s breakfast?” I was thoroughly confused. It was my husband’s morning to handle the kids, so why would he ask if I made our son breakfast? Also, he knew my gym routine, where else would I be early in the morning? I reminded him that I was getting my flex on and he replied, “Okay.” I wanted to inquire more but I didn’t. I just let it be. I finished working out and then drove home. I got the low down when I got to the house and had a somewhat shocking response.

My son was sitting on the couch reading when I walked in the door. My husband wasn’t in sight so I just assumed maybe he had overslept or was still in the shower. It seemed like one of those mornings where I was going to have to help out so I asked my son what he wanted for breakfast, to which he informed me he already had breakfast. At the same time Peter entered the room and followed up by saying, “He made himself breakfast today.” “What?” I replied. “He made himself breakfast. I thought I heard a commotion in the kitchen and when I came into the dining room, he was eating a bowl of cereal. I assumed you had made it which is why I texted you. But he told me he got the step ladder, grabbed a bowl and the cereal down and then got out the milk. I got him some fruit” Peter answered. I gave my son kuddos and told him to finish his chores and go brush his teeth. “I did that already and I brushed my hair too.” “WHAT?” I exclaimed. Now it felt a little less cool and more like the twilight zone. What made it really eerie was the fact that my usually “Look what I can do!” son was just saying all this nonchalantly while reading his book. I could tell by the look on my husband’s face that I needed to clarify, “Don’t think you can just coast by now. He’s still only 8 years old.” “Oh, no. He’s got it. We’re done now. He can start making dinner now too,” Peter teased. We laughed together and I quickly turned away as tears started forming around my eyes. What the hell? Why would this of all things make me sad? I wasn’t THAT mom…whatever that kind of mom was, in my mind.

The next day my son asked me if I would show him how to make butted toast and wash fruit properly. My brain was excited to mechanically and methodically walk him through the process while my heart was grasping for air. He made his own toast and fruit the rest of that week.

Last weekend we had some friends over for lunch and they asked my daughter to see her art. I watched her describe to our friends in great detail about each piece and her process and style. She was so confident. She had opinions and points of view of someone well beyond her years. She’s beginning to view the world through an artistic lens and Peter and I are A-Okay with that, thrilled actually. I know there’s still this thought that art doesn’t make money but there’s no guarantee that corporate work will either. I’m always going to encourage my children to find a way to do what they love.

The other day, I watched her behind the wheel of our car smiling as Peter was giving her directions. I felt an unease in my stomach, not because she’s learning to drive but because we have come to another stage of parenting called independence. All the other milestones are geared toward helping them function as a human, like walking, talking, feeding themselves, etc. Independent ones move them in the direction of living without you. I’m tearing up just typing that to you which is ridiculously stupid and completely honest. Parenting is like the Hinge App, “..it’s designed to be deleted.” I will always be my kids’ mom but I will not always be their parent. If Peter and I are still parenting our kids when they are adults, we’ve done something wrong.

Of course I suspect they will still ask for advice now and again, as I do with my mom, which will still come from a different place. Our cozy little nest is starting its metamorphosis into more of a runway. Yes, I know it’s not tomorrow, in case you think I’m being dramatic. I just know it’s coming. Like all the stages of my children’s lives, I’ve always been a little stubborn about moving on to the next. But Peter’s been there to give me a good shove, forcing me to let go. He doesn’t do it out of spite or impatience. He does it because he knows that once I fully embrace the next phase, I’ll LOVE it and it’s true.

Our son still asks us to make breakfast sometimes and our daughter is in no hurry to hop on an LA highway and paint the town red. They both are embracing the idea of doing things on their own though, as they should be, which tells me that Peter and I are indeed doing something right.

P.S.

I woke up yesterday morning to discover that my son had made his own breakfast again, the little Jerk….er…I mean…yay!

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Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in any way that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.

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Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about my love/hate relationship with math? Now, I know that i’m not alone in this. Math is a subject that a lot of people struggle with. I hear people say things like, “Oh, I’m not good at Math,” or “Math was my least favorite subject,” or some variation thereof. I don’t believe that’s true. I think that Math is made up of several numeric languages and some you get right away and some are more difficult to understand. Whenever I understood an aspect of Math, I felt like I’d conquered the world! I felt like Tom Hanks in “Castaway’ when he makes fire. It would give me a grandiose impression of myself, the kind that would have me believe if there was an apocalypse, I would know how to survive it. You know what I mean? However, that understanding was always just a ruse. It was a siren song tempting me to take on more challenging ways to interact with numbers and when that challenge ended in failure it would make me question my entire existence.

Welcome to my life. My life has been nothing more than sequences of numbers, shapes, patterns, points on an axis just fucking with me. Every time I think I’ve understood something, suddenly a new rule would pop up forcing me to look at things differently. Now that you know addition/subtraction let’s do the same thing by multiplying and dividing. Nailed it! Now do all of them, only you have to do them in a certain order or it won’t work, so we are going to throw a parenthesis around these numbers so you kind of know to work inwards/outwards….whatever that means. You like puzzles and mysteries, right? Great, now we are going to mix letters and numbers together only the letters are really numbers in disguise. It’s an oh-so-fun whodunnit. You know what, screw that. Let’s measure shapes in weird ways for no reason so you can suck at shop class later. Don’t quit now. We still have to look at distance and coordinates so you can be made fun of during a game of ‘Battleship.’

I want to be good at all the intricacies in each aspect of my life from the beginning. I don’t want to grasp something over here only to discover that it won’t work for this thing I’m doing over there. I want so much to have one formula that rules them all, but I just don’t think that’s how life works. My life has been a series of starts and stops, or more like starts and explosions, that have consistently disrupted any kind of momentum or flow. I am so desperate for flow. I don’t mean a life without bumps or kinks in it. I’m not naive, I know that’s a part of the deal. I mean I’m desperate for a longer period of time to bask in success, in abundance, in bloom and not just financially speaking. I recently got a crash course in the difference between growing a business vs. scaling one and I am very clear I have been in the growth phase of life for an exhausting amount of time. I want to scale.

But the brutal and ugly fucking truth is I want to scale without a challenge. I love the idea of a challenge but coming up against one just makes me feel like a failure, which the perfectionist in me cannot cope with. A challenge may require me to look outside myself for help and if I do that then I’m just a burden to someone else. I’m an intelligent person who can’t figure out how to do something that so many people in my life seem to have figured out how to do. Economics, race, gender, equality don’t matter, I should be able to figure it out on my own..period.

It’s funny to me that my brain really perceives things that way. If Math has taught me anything is that many factors can change a problems outcome. As much as I want to believe, well really society would have me believe, that economics, race, gender and equality don’t matter, they absolutely fucking matter. I have spent more time putting out fires in my life than being able to focus on creating what I want from life. That doesn’t make me less smart than someone it means I’m more resourceful in different ways, and that’s okay.

This weighs so heavily on my mind because of a recent conversation I had with my daughter. Based on her success in a math class last year, her teacher highly recommended she take AP Calculus this year. She was intimidated and excited at the idea, both/and, right? The first day of class her teacher put it all out there for the students. Most of them would not pass the AP exam. Most of them would find the class extremely difficult but if they stuck it out they would be better for it. You can imagine that my daughter came home even more intimidated but still excited. Day 3 they had a quiz. She texted me that she got 100% and in the same text told me that she thought she should switch classes. My body instantly recognized that feeling. Holding success and fear of failing at the same time. I calmly texted her off the ledge and helped her see that there was insufficient data pointing to her needing to pivot this early in the game. She agreed and continued to prep for the next quiz the following week. She also recognized that she had close friends in her class who could help her too, so she wasn’t in this alone.

At the same time my baby girl is figuring out how to prep for something she’s unsure about, I was busy doing the same. I had been gifted an opportunity to pitch my show to a marketing holdings company. I’ve never had the opportunity to pitch any endeavor of my own so I didn’t have the first clue on what a pitch should even look like. I know you’re thinking, “Yeah but you’re an actor. don’t you have to pitch yourself all the time?” Yes and no. Sure if I’m in a meeting with an agent or manager there is a level of pitching myself but as an actor mostly the caliber of our work is front and center. If it were a matter of me showing my show to the company and having a conversation around that, then it wouldn’t have felt so foreign to me. What they were asking me to provide, the data they needed me to show was a different kind of math, if you will, one that was intimidating and exciting. Luckily my director stepped in to help me so I didn’t have to go out it completely alone, just like my daughter had her support system. Also the company provided a detailed packet to help us get really clear on what the heart of my show is about, what we’ve achieved thus far, and the potential for the show in the future. I was proud of the pitch my director and I created together. It was honest and authentic to the Beautiful Mess brand.

About a week later my husband and I had a meeting with the company to see what partnership could look like. We learned that Beautiful Mess the company wasn’t valuable enough to be considered from a holdings standpoint. The company could certainly provide services to help us as we continue to build but not really invest in a way that could provide value for them and really support us in moving the needle forward. On paper, all that totally made sense. Currently, I’m in the “fish out of water stage” with my show so I got it. The pitch was a great outline of where we want to go, a pathway we could take to get there, and confirmation of people who believe in what we are doing. Was that an accomplishment? Totally! Did I feel like a complete failure? 150%. After the meeting, my husband threw out a few ideas of what we could do next and proceeded to make himself breakfast. He had moved on faster than I could close out the Google Meet tab on my computer. I had a catch up date with one of my besties and cried the entire car ride to her house. I didn’t cry because I felt rejected. I cried because I haven’t figured out how to conquer the personal language of Math that governs a career I love so much. Over the years, I’ve watched so many of my friends essentially scale this part of their life where it’s a well oiled machine and I can’t seem to get out of the growth stage. My friends have worked hard. I’ve worked hard. My friends haven’t had it easy. I haven’t had it easy. One is equal to one, right? Wrong.

The day after the meeting my daughter took her second quiz. She texted me this:

“Well I think I failed my calculus exam but sounds like I wasn’t the only one by far. And my teacher said that it’s expected and it will only get better from here, so if we feel sad or like we did bad we are doing something right. It made me feel a lot better because he wants us to grow and he wants us to not be intimidated by failure and to just strive to understand.”

She told me she had cried and I replied, “ I’m loving all this. AND it’s totally okay to cry and be frustrated along the way. That’s often how growth happens. Metamorphosis is an atrocious process with a beautiful ending.”

“Ooo I like that. That’s a good quote,” she said.

“I’m right there with you, baby. I’m saying it to myself because yesterday, I cried too,” I texted back.

“At least we can struggle together,” she tenderly responded.

In that moment, I understood my assignment. My children see me try. They see me go after what I love regardless of the return on my investment. They see me give my all to everything I do especially if I think someone else can benefit from it. They see the frustration, the tears, the heartbreak, the exhaustion, the disgusting layers of metamorphosis that it sometimes takes to get to fly but at least they FUCKING see me FLY. And okay, sometimes things get tough enough where pivoting makes sense, and they see me do that too. They see me doing life out loud; all of it. Because what’s the point otherwise? Life is made up of seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years and when you add them all up it equals too short. That Math I’m super clear about.

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**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in any way that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.

Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about the time I rushed a soccer field and told a kid, “if he ever talked to my son like that again, a red card would be the least of his worries?” It wasn’t my finest moment. I let my anger get the best of me. It was like an out of body experience. I could see myself rushing the field and sternly disciplining this child, who clearly had no checks and balances about his attitude out side of the game. The most shocking thing of all is no one tried to stop me. Everyone just stood by and watched it all go down. It’s embarrassing to think about it now, which is why I probably never mentioned it to you…that…and the fact that it never happened. I mean it did happen…but only in my mind.

My son is apart of the American Youth Soccer Organization and this summer our region decided to have pick-up games once a week. Basically a bunch of kids and a few coaches get together, divide into teams and play The Beautiful Game for a couple of hours. Given the variety of kids that show up the teams are split by numbers rather than age so it’s a mixed bag. There are older kids, young kids, skilled kids and novice kids. Usually it’s fun, a little hot maybe but fun. My son usually walks away sweaty and gross but with a smile on his face, but not that day. That day he meandered off the pitch with a heaviness that a parent picks up on immediately. My brain started guessing at what could have caused his melancholy. The team he was assigned to only one 1 out of the 3 games played, could that have been it? Normally he doesn’t let a loss bring him down but he was only 8 after all. Perhaps it wasn’t sadness but exhaustion. He hosted a friend for a sleepover the night before and they were up late playing and up early for soccer, could that have been it? When I saw his watery eyes, I got a sneaky suspicion that it was more than that. I took him aside and started to feel him out. He let me know right away that he wasn’t upset that his team lost, which indicated something specific happened. I asked him, “Did Redacted Name of Kid say something to you?” He fell silent and nodded his head slowly. I could feel the Mama Hulk in me starting to tear at my clothes but instead I took my son away from everyone, sat with him on the grass, and let him vent.

Let me be clear, sitting and chatting with my son was the last thing I wanted to do. When someone hurts your kid’s feelings you want so badly to interfere. You want to make it right. All your childhood memories of being rejected come flooding back to you like a great emotional tsunami and you just want to save your kid from that kind of heartache. See that’s the difference between a Mama Bear and a Mama Hulk. Mama Bears operate on instincts and gut feelings to protect their children from danger or predators. Mama Hulks are a lab experiment gone wrong, when neurons wired together from unresolved trauma experiences are suddenly triggered.

After a few deep breaths my son opened up to me about what happened. Redacted Kid Name shouted for my son to pass him the ball but my son knew he didn’t have a good angle to make a good pass, so he didn’t. He didn’t want to risk the ball being stolen by the opposing team. When he chose not to pass the ball, Redacted Kid Name said some awful words to my son. My son continued, “I wasn’t trying to keep the ball I just didn’t have a good angle. Then he yelled at me. But we were on the same team!” That’s what hurt him the most. Someone from his team turned on him. Redacted Kid Name is not a skilled player. So you understand that there’s no bias here, he’s not a novice player either. He has potential to be a good player but his ego won't let him. In this kid’s mind there is no better player on the field than him. He’s NOT a team player. He’s NOT a player that passes to his teammates. He’s NOT a hustler. He’s NOT someone who helps his teammates defend. He IS a mediocre player who only wants to score because he needs the glory. He’s the type of player who isn’t satisfied if someone else from his team scores because he wasn’t the one to get the goal.

We all know this kid. It’s the child that’s told how amazing they are at everything they do, with no specificity. If something doesn’t go their way, they’re not asked to look within themselves to see if there’s something to learn from it. They are not asked to see if there’s something they can adjust on their end for a better outcome next time. They are often told what they want to hear because a parent doesn’t want them to experience disappointment. Accountability and responsibility happens outside of themselves. A loss has to be at the hands of someone else because when you’re amazing, it just can’t be your fault.

Disappointment is unfortunately a necessary evil of parenting. My son’s encounter reminded me about an incident that happened with his sister 12 years prior. Her dad and I were watching her play on one of those indoor playgrounds at a mall. We could hear her going around to different kids asking them if they wanted to play with her and listening to them reject her. We wanted to make those kids play with her or play with her ourselves but we didn’t. Instead we let her keep asking until eventually she found her group. Later we discussed the situation with her. We didn’t tell her how awesome she was at being a kid other children wanted to play with, we praised her for her resilience. To this day I often encourage my children, and myself, not to depend on other people for happiness. Learn how to give yourself joy so that no one else can take it from you.

My son learned a valuable lesson yesterday. Not everyone you work with is for you and you still might have to work with them anyway. Before you think I’m a withholding parent, I did remind my son that he is athletic, fast, skilled at reading the pitch, looks for the pass, and is a great striker. He is by no means the best on that field but his skill-set is unique because of the athleticism he shows at such a young age. Withholding the pass, to benefit the team rather than serving an individual request that would have resulted in a bad play, was the smarter call.

Doing something that benefits all vs. one person is a no brainer. In fact It’s so easy, an 8 year old can do it. Yet, somehow that sentiment changes when we become adults, or I should say seems to, especially in this country anyway. Why do we expect more from kids than we do from adults? That’s what scares me about Redacted Kid Name. In my mind I want to believe that someday this kid’s mediocracy, arrogance, defiance, blame game, and shitty attitude will catch up to him. But by evidence, my heart knows that there’s a good chance he will be rewarded for it. If current circumstances teach us nothing, let’s face it, he’s probably on track to become president one day. I don’t know his home life. I’ve never met nor seen his mother. What little I know about the kid comes from my interactions with his father at soccer games. His father often admits that his kid doesn’t listen to him and does whatever he wants. It made me think about that John Mayer Song, “Daughters.” I feel like there’s a flip side to those lyrics, Mr. Mayer.

Son’s often look to their father’s

On how to be, how to act and what to do.

Father’s be responsible and teach your sons to be accountable

So Mother’s don’t have to do enough parenting for two.

My husband and I don’t know what career our children will choose when they get older. All we can do is to continue to help then understand the difference between worthiness and value. Every being is worthy because we are created. We exist. Value in my opinion, is not determined by how much money we make, how many awards we get, or how many goals we kick but by who we become; and that value should never come at the cost of being a good human being.

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**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in any way that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.

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Hey, you. In my last blog, I talked about my desire to be in a relationship with Joy. Before you panic, I’m still in my relationship with Pain. I could never leave Pain. I’ve built a resilient identity around it. I’ve bore babies through it. It is the foundation of my ancestral history. Pain and I are pretty much bound for life. I mean once you say, “I do!” right? Pain and I have decided to have an open marriage and invite Joy into our emotional bed. This won’t be quite the steamy polyamorous read that Dossie Easton and Janet Hardy would probably approve of but hopefully it will still be worth the read. It will be ethical just less slutty, I guess.

Ever since I told you that I wanted a relationship with Joy, I’ve noticed how suddenly I’ve been presented with opportunities to find it. Some of them have been soft and subtle while others have been hidden in weeds and thorns somewhere. The Universe is funny that way. When you make a proclamation it immediately sort of steers the ship in a new direction. In my head-movies it looks like a dramatic fight between a married couple. I say I want something different while the Universe throws all kinds of things at my head while screaming, “Is this what you want? You want this? Here, take it. And take this! And this! Just remember that you asked for it!” In reality I think it’s nothing more than the Universe punching in a few things on a computer and saying, “Okay. We’ve diversified your life portfolio and now you should be getting more returns on this instead of that, but you know it still has to ride the state of the market along the way.” Right now I’d say the market is a little unstable.

The longevity of Joy is so unfamiliar to me. I’ve only known Joy in short bursts. Pain I recognize immediately. Pain has worked its way into every fiber of my being, ‘from my hair follicle to my toe nails,’ as Jill Scott would say. For that reason, I’ve actually had to search for Joy by way of Pain. I’m having to remap the way my brain interprets a situation. You might see it as the bright side or glass half-full approach but for me it’s not that simple. When your eyes have adjusted to the dark, the last thing you want is for someone to suddenly turn on the switch. Your first instinct is to say, “Turn off the lights!” You tell me how to measure the level of liquid in a cup you can’t even see through? No, I have to let Pain lead me to Joy because it’s the thing I recognize and relate to instantly. So that’s what I’ve been doing.

We recently went on vacation with our extended family on my husband’s side.

We decided to do a Zoo day. It’s always fun to watch the kiddos (and let’s be honest, the adults) light up at the opportunity to see animals you would never see otherwise. Our easy Zoo day was anything but. There were parking issues, meet-up problems, hangry moments. It was a comedy of errors. At the beginning my nervous system was all kinds of triggered. My inner critic/gremlin was so talkative, “Not parking in the right place means a different meet-up location which is going to throw everything off. Not everyone arrived on time which is going to screw up the time allotted for this excursion. Now people are hungry because of the late start time. Are you even going to see any animals at all? What a disaster.” This might sound stupid to you but I had to take deep breaths. At some point I had to smile and laugh even though I didn’t want to. I had to make my body do the physical actions of Joy so I could find it. When we stopped to get a snack, I forced myself to specifically eat that Zoo’s version of Dole Whip, not because it was refreshing but because it was a treat. A treat like that is associated with a child and that’s who I needed to find in that moment. I needed little Angel to come out and play because throughout my life, she’s the person I think has been robbed of Joy the most. By the time we left the Zoo I was laughing at everything. When is a gathering of human beings not a little bit like herding cats? How wonderful to have a family that actually wants to be together, that makes a commitment to be together, that can be together? In the dumpster fire climate that is America right now, I’d say that’s pretty freaking spectacular. That’s what I carried with me for the rest of the trip and it was lovely. Then we got home. It was back to summer camp for one kid, pre-season sports for the other one, sustaining a leg injury at the gym, repeated piles of laundry on the bed because of my husband’s obsession with laundry (literally. He has OCD and can’t help it), constantly being the one to hand wash the pots/pans, planning dinners, managing schedules, and oh yeah…tending to my creative career.

Finding Joy within the routines of home is like watching those 3 little dots as you wait for someone to respond back in a text. The moment those 3 dots go away, holy hell! “They must be writing a long response back. Hmm, maybe they just got interrupted. Really, you’re just not going to respond? Are they mad at me? Did I say something that offended them? They should at least tell me. You know what, fuck them if they’re not going to be straight with me. Oh, they just responded. Nevermind. Ha, that was a funny meme,” (oh, don’t you even act like it’s just me). As I was saying, I’ve had to did a little deeper to find Joy within the mundane. It’s pretty cool to watch both of my children enjoy their summer. They get to be just kids. That’s a luxury and a privilege these days. How fortunate I am to have health insurance so I can go see my doctor and make sure there’s nothing nefarious going on with my leg. The feeling after putting all the clothes and linens away makes me feel more organized and keeps me from falling into the pitfalls of clutter that grips the maternal side of my family. The warm water from the dishes feels good and is actually quite calming. To keep it real, the majority go in a dishwasher anyway which again is a luxury. Washing dishes by hands reminds me of when my Aunt Mattie taught me how to do so right before I entered Junior High. In many ways it’s a touch stone to her just like cooking. She was a phenomenal cook and when I make a good dinner I often wish I could share it with her, to see what she would think. Working on my show and writing this week’s mess to you means I have a creative career worth tending to. As an artist, that is a life line.

I believe this new exploration is just what I need to grow into the next level of who I want to be. In my declaration; my choosing Joy, I’ve seen subtle confirmations. Suddenly positive videos or talks are popping up in between the doom and gloom on my social feeds. Lately I’ve been developing more pride in myself since I finished reading 'The Fire Next Time’ by James Baldwin. I told my husband I was in search of my next read and he pulled out a book from his pile called ‘Atomic Habits’ by James Clear. It’s apparently wildly popular but I’d never heard of it. I’m on chapter 3 and can already tell I was meant to read this book too in this moment. Thank goodness I’m the kind of person who believes in expansion and the ability to change so I can leave this world and the beautiful people in my life better than when I was gifted them.

Pain, Joy and I are not a steamy ménage á trois of sorts. No one is having some type of radical orgasm yet. When we invite the other emotions along, I don’t know what type of orgy will ensue, probably not one that turns anyone on I imagine. However, I am actively searching for happiness. I believe it’s overdue. I deserve it and definitely little Angel deserves it and I am nothing if not a woman of her word.

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**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in anyway that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.

Listen to Audio Version Here

Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about my relationship with pain? It’s sort of like my relationship with fear, physical insecurity, and letting go in that it’s not a healthy one. What can I say? It’s like i’m on an emotional app of my life called “Cringe,” and I clearly have a type. I like the bad boy traits that leave you frustrated, exhausted, and single-handedly keeping the Self-Help section of bookstores alive. Last month I watched myself, go from on high, to mid, to low in a way that caused me to look a little deeper into what was going on. I ended up having more understanding and compassion for myself in a way that got these hands back to typing and talking to you.

If you’ve been keeping up with my shenanigans, you might recall that I wrote a play that centers on some of the loss I’ve gone through in my life. It’s 80 minutes of me on stage being as honest and vulnerable as I can, to leave an audience filled with hope and a better understanding about grief. The play debuted here in LA last year and my team and I did a second run last month. I can’t tell you how proud and grateful I was to do the show again. Audiences loved it. Once again I was encouraged to continue doing the show and perform it in as many places possible. Within four days of the final performance, I went into a depression. Oh the grief that comes when closing a show about grief.

Doing my own show gave me complete freedom over my creativity and performance. I was not at the mercy of a casting director determining whether I could possibly fulfill a need for a character; and if I could, being then at the mercy of the director to see if they agree with casting. For 4 performances, I’ve had the privilege of putting my all into an art form I love and telling a story that’s mine and matters. When there’s no show, I’m back at the crossroads of my industry which is somewhere between hit the pavement and cross your fingers. Please don’t misunderstand. I LOVE what I do…and the day-to-day hustle can be challenging.

I didn’t fight the melancholy. I was honest about it. I sat with it. I felt it until it fueled visions and new ideas of where I wanted to take the show in the future. Slowly my feelings of “ugh” turned into feelings of “joy.” Joy for possibilities. Joy for future audiences and partnerships. Joy for making a difference and feeling purposeful. What delicious elixir did I use as a chaser to that new found joy? A good ol’ shot of pain; wisdom tooth extraction to be exact. That’s right. 16 days after the closing of my show I had my final two remaining wisdom teeth removed. Due to the complications from my last extractions, did my dentists take precautions to prevent any potential issues with the current procedure? They did. Did I still have problems? Yes. Yes I did. Dry socket…again. Gum tissue that wasn’t healing and had to be cut away. Sinus pressure. So much more bruising. Not one but two rounds of antibiotics.

The joy I had found quickly turned into malaise. All I could focus on was mitigating pain and infection. I became a couch potato but without chips or ice- cream because no crunchy crumbly or ice cold foods were allowed. My social life consisted of frequent trips to the dentist office, texting and the occasional Zoom call. One of those Zoom calls proved to be illuminating.

I was on the call with a colleague and we were clearing, or brain dumping if you will, about everything getting in the way of where we wanted to focus our time and energy. With swollen gums and soreness, you can guess what I was rambling about. At some point I said, “Every time I have a moment of reprieve from crazy life shit and can focus on things I really love, something happens that completely ruins it. I know there is the constant ebb and flow of life and yet if feels like the flow gets stuck in one direction too long. You know how people say, ‘ this too shall pass?’ For me, it’s more like, ‘this joy too shall pass.’ If the body truly keeps a score, I am winning at the game of pain.”

Later that night when I was in bed, I thought about that. The gremlin voice inside of me tried to lecture me on what a pessimistic view of life I had. Then to my surprise, I came to my own rescue. I heard another voice say, “Not only is that not true, it’s not fair. Let’s look at the game of Monopoly, which you love. When you get to choose your favorite piece to play with, own the properties and utilities that other players frequently land on, get all the good Chance cards, boy what a fun game! Sure you might have a few set backs every now and then and may even have to pay other people sometimes, but for the most part you own that board and it feels pretty damn good. The Monopoly that is your life has been quite a different adventure. You definitely didn’t start off playing with your favorite piece, in fact you had to play with a piece from a different game all together because in this version there are no “freebies” though there’s no real explanation for how other people got their pieces. I’m sure it probably says how somewhere in the rules that you’re not allowed to read, but hey, you are still allowed to play so lots to be grateful for. You have certainly had some sweet rewards with those Chance/Community Chest cards but compared to the amount of times you’ve owed or didn’t get to pass go it’s not surprising that it doesn’t feel that way. What’s the point in owning anything if people are just going to try and haggle, ignore, or negotiate a way out of treating and paying you what you’re worth? It’s no wonder why sometimes you think just watching other people play seems like the better option; it’s a safer one for sure. And yet..”

I am what they call a Defensive Pessimist. Trauma and experiences have wired my brain and body to be hyper-vigilante to what could go wrong because a lot of things have indeed gone wrong. I’m not talking about missing the bus or forgetting to turn on the alarm kind of things. I’ve been through a lot of life altering moments and before you comment about that not making me special, I agree. A lot of people go through a lot of shit. The grief I encountered was so frequent and compounded that many people in my sphere to this day have yet to experience anything like it. That in itself is very isolating. It’s part of the reason I wrote my play. I don’t want anyone to feel unnecessarily alone.

What I know about me is that I’m not a quitter. I don’t want to rob my body of the pleasure of playing a game, I just want to introduce a new one. I’d love to get rid of my Cringe app but I’m not sure I can. Fear, insecurity, letting go, and pain all think i’m sexy and I get that. However, I can view their profile maybe even chat a little without full on dating them.

I want a serious relationship with Joy. I don’t think it can be a monogamous one because pain and I are trauma bonded, and that’s okay. I just want to make Joy the center of attention which may require me to look for a new game. I’d be okay with that. I do love basketball a great deal. I know what you’re thinking, but I am very tall on the inside. I want to be unstoppable and with my husband, kids, family and friends at my side, I don’t think I can lose. Besides, I’d much rather be a team player than to fly life solo.

**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in any way that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.

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Audio Version Here

Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about the time I didn’t know what to write about? I assume not, because the time I’m talking about is right now. I’m sitting in my bed, computer on my lap wondering where should I turn my focus? It’s not that I can’t think of anything to share with you it’s a matter of what to share with you. Usually when I write, I already have the silver lining of the story. I already have the gold within a lesson to pass on to you, hoping it will help in some way, but not today. I don’t have it all figured out today. I’m typing myself into a problem in this blog, hoping by the end, I’ll by typing myself out of one.

I could tell you about the time my son fell off a stationary bike with a foot still stuck in the strap as the wheel kept turning. How he screamed bloody murder and walked with a limp that prompted my husband and I to get him seen by a doctor. The initial exam showed no signs of a tear but the x-ray indicated the possibility of a small fracture, only time would tell. He wasn’t put on bed rest but leg rest you could say. No physical activity beyond light walking for a minimum of two weeks for our seven year old boy. My kid was found guilty of “playing on shit he wasn’t supposed to,” and given a sentence of middle-childhood solitary confinement. The doctor was asking us to limit the activity of a kid who can’t stand still for longer than two seconds. Suddenly his injury seemed like a much bigger deal to me. He may not have had a clear crack in his knee but I had a clear fracture of the brain. My catastrophizing kicked into high gear. What if my son never played soccer again? What if he walked with a limp the rest of his life and blew any chance of him playing another sport period? What if it stunted his growth? How will I teach him not to have short man complex? Is that even a thing you can teach? None of those questions actually made it out of my mouth. No. After I Fosse-ed, Martha Graham-ed, Twyla-ed, and Madonna-ed my way through each apocalyptic ending, I did what Robin Williams’ character in “The Birdcage” delicately suggested to the dance partner of Nathan Lane, “I kept it all inside.” Meanwhile my husband just told people our son had straight up fractured his knee and went on about his life. Not exactly true but a clean break from uncertainty (pun intended). Yesterday we were given the news that my son did not have a fracture after all. Based on his follow-up exam and x-ray he was cleared to go back to being a kid those Disney monsters harvest for energy. Moments like these remind me of the terrible parent equation. Having children is essentially you dividing yourself by how many kids you have. Your goal then becomes to try and keep all those pieces of you together so you can remain whole. Because if the bigger and older piece of you gives way first, you will still be whole somehow but if the opposite happens then you’re shattered forever (no pun intended).

Maybe I could tell you how rehearsals for the show are going. We are producing my play for the second time and it does feel a little different. In some ways it’s a lived-in experience. It’s a story I wrote. It’s a story about aspects of my relationship with grief but it’s sitting in my bones a little differently. I’m discovering new things and settling deeper into the moments at the same time. The show is visceral and purposeful. I’m so happy to get another chance at bringing people together and offering a different way of looking at the grief in their life, all while trying to convince myself that doing it now is a good thing. It is extremely hard to justify art when the world is on fire, when it’s under blizzard conditions, when it’s targeting marginalized people, when it’s at fucking war even though, as an artist, we know that’s precisely when art is at it’s best! What I’ve created isn’t going to combat big world problems, (that’s the trap, my thinking that I have to make this huge contribution to the masses in order to have an impact). I’m learning that grief is constantly coming at us in tiny particles and like the common cold, there’s no real cure for it. I’m not in the business of trying to eradicate it. My play is more of a vaccine. It’s not one of those high-priced stock market vaccines that stands to make me a gajillionaire, but it’s a way to lessen the impact grief has on a person’s way of being; on their life, which is equally rewarding. Who knows, maybe if enough people see the show and become more immune to the burden of loss perhaps we will experience a rise in mental well-being. I’d be okay with that.

I suppose I could tell you all the things I’ve learned watching the television screens at my gym. That’s right, I said screens. With my ears I’m listening to an audio book on my headphones while running on the treadmill, but my eyes are darting between multiple TV’s trying to figure out what’s safe to let in. In the past week I took in Chuck Norris dying (he still had a fan base and they were sad), there was a fatality crash on the highway here in LA, the weather is unseasonably hot in the west, March madness is happening, the bullshit war that the US has butted their way into is still going strong, Timothy Chalamet was yesterday’s news..no wait today’s news…no yesterday’s news..the supreme court may uphold their decision to remain assholes, America’s president spits on people’s graves when they die and is an asshole, Israel’s being an asshole, Iran’s being an asshole…oh no..wait, I think it’s just guys with small penises being assholes, a plane crashed and people died because not enough chef’s in the kitchen due to the government not paying them, ICE is still “HERE -TO-BE-FEARED” so get used to it, a penguin was released back into the wild, Michael B. Jordan and Ryan Coogler are still having their moment, Shaw-nae’s House on Staten Island is apparently the best Soul Food Restaurant according to Good Morning America. She’s putting our ancestors legacy on the pedestal they deserve. Airport lines now start forming from airport parking garages, so that’s fun, Chef Alex Guarnaschelli won her show again, Chef Bobby Flay won his show again, I wanted to try a recipe on Girl Meets Farm, Jay-Z was on the cover of GQ, I could get a great deal on a steam mop. I could go on but I’m only in the gym an hour before I have to come home, shower, take kids to school, empty the dishwasher, make breakfast, run errands with the husband, run lines, work on my website, posts some shit on my socials, check in on a friend or two, maybe call my mom, pet my cats, fold some laundry, cook dinner, help kids with homework, watch a show with the husband, and sleep.

I feel like through the lens of social media and constant news sources, life looks like a series of tiny fractures in different places that need tending to in various ways. Some things we need to wrap and leave alone for a while. Some things need examining further to see how big the crack may be depending on the force involved. Sometimes it’s not a crack at all and we’re cleared to resume loving, laughing, jumping, playing and, in my case, writing.

The word fracture means: a broken or cracked bone. Occurring when physical force, stress, or bone disease causes a partial or complete break in the bone, resulting in pain, swelling, and reduced mobility. These days it’s hard to get through a week without a little pain or stress; not knowing what to give my attention to. A little discomfort lets me know I’m alive and if i’m alive then I’m not broken. I might have an occasional limp, but I’m not broken. And there’s the gold.

The first layer starts with, “You worry too much.” That phrase has been said to me from the time I started forming memories. I was known as the worrier in my family. I was sometimes the last to know about any crisis or potential problem in my family for fear that I would become too emotional. It’s not like no one else in my family had anxiety, I was just the one living it out loud.

I grew up with love and care but not stability. I could count on my parents to make sure I was taken care of. I could count on my brothers to make sure no one harmed me. I could not count on whether or not we would have to stretch out already thin groceries for another week or more. I could not count on whether I would walk up to our apartment door barren or with an eviction notice on it. I could not count on whether my parents would be happily reunited after days of my dad trucking on the road, or if they would be fighting over the inability to make ends meet. I could not count on whether I would get to go on field trips at school if there was a fee involved. Dentist appointments were available for cleanings and fillings but something like braces were out of the question. When you have to choose between food on the table or straightening teeth, crooked teeth that could just as easily eat said food…you leave them crooked. Wasn’t great for my self-esteem but definitely easy on the pocketbook. Thank God for elixirs, home remedies and good ol’ Chris Rock’s comedy worthy “Tussin,” because doctor appointments were for vaccines and serious ailments. There was no” It’s probably nothing but let’s take you in just in case” type of appointments. I think you get the picture.

I would live for the days when my mom would say, “Get dressed and get in the car,” and we would end up at some place like the movies, the state fair or the zoo! These trips were sacred to me because I knew the value of what it cost my mom to take my brothers and I there. I knew the road hours it cost my dad to contribute to these outings. In fact, it may be why I love movies, fairs and zoos to this day.

On paper, that time in my life may look typical for a lower middle-class-two-paycheck home but we weren’t a typical lower middle-class family. We were a black middle-class family. At some point I went from a talkative, social, crooked-toothed girl to a “you talk like a white person” buck-toothed black girl and boy does that add a lot of flavor to layer two. This is the time where differences go from being explorative to weapons of caste racial construction. The texture of my hair and products to tame it (products to hide it, rather) became a frequent topic of conversation amongst my white peers. The casual jokes about black people avoiding swimming and water activities related to fear and once again…hair. The stares during American history anytime slavery was mentioned as if to say, “We’re talking about your people now. Does this make you feel uncomfortable?” When all I really wanted to say was, “We’re actually talking about YOUR people now and I don’t think you’re uncomfortable enough!” But by then I had learned all the black rules of safety: just walk away from racial ignorance, be the bigger person, always be polite and respectful, stand up for yourself but not in an aggressive way, watch what you say and how you say it. Pepper in some realities of having to work harder to be taken seriously and to be treated fairly because you’re a girl, with a heavy dose of saltiness when those facts triple because you’re a black one. So I had to learn to work my ass off, be damn near perfect at everything, not to be competitive or get ahead, just to be factored in at all, under the societal constraints of : Be bold and big but not in a way that draws attention, be proud of who you are but keep it to yourself. In other words, “Walk quietly but with a loud burden.”

Both of my parents were pro college, especially my father. Being a truck driver and seeing the world through his lens, higher education was the key to getting somewhere in life. What a complicated third layer that turned out to be. By this time I was a full on theatre nerd and proud of it. I walked in nervous but excited to step into an environment that touted itself to be diverse, rigorous, a stepping stone to the career of my dreams. Turns out it was the same shit with an added bonus of a personal deficit….and it cost a lot too (ba-domp-bomp). In addition to grasping higher math concepts, dissecting poetry, creating stage designs, discovering actual African history, I learned that black actors were only lead worthy if the show was written by a black author. Every single character in the show had to be black, otherwise we were more fillers of quotas. Let me not leave out the discovery that though I wasn’t lead material, I was perfect if you were fighting a cause. Oh, if you wanted to bring attention to a problem or inequities, I was your girl. Everyone loved my, “not afraid to call out bullshit” attitude or my willingness to protect other people who were being mistreated. It was not well received if I stood up for myself. Turns out that’s kind of the case for black women (see recent Texas vote for definition). This layer also had a bit more spice to it with the due diligence of preventing rape and pregnancy, all the responsibility of the female, obviously. By the time I left college, I was more deflated and anxious.

Now i’m in adulthood, the juiciest layer of them all. I have added wife and mom to my anxiety ridden body. I’m trying to raise a daughter without as much constraints as I had yet trying to navigate the ones she will have no matter what. The minute my son came out of my body both my husband and I experienced tremendous joy and immediate caution. It matters not that my children are equally black/white because the melanin in their skin takes precedence. Even the complexities of their particular color of melanin is a bonus layer that requires its own blog. On one hand it affords them ways of moving that I will never know and on the other hand leaves them unprotected by shady laws and shadier adults with unchecked anger and rights to bare arms. My husband wants so desperately to take my anxiety away. As a white male, he is coming to the realization that he never will be able to. He can only try his best not to contribute to it and not to dismiss or trivialize it.

I used to think there was something inherently wrong with me. I wanted so desperately to be care-free; to even carry a little rebellion with me but I’ve never been able to do it. It didn’t help having people constantly gaslighting me about my experience as a minority, acting like America’s dystopian past isn’t right here with us in the present. The George Floyds, the Trayvons, the Breonnas, and the now countless others who begat others are “flukes.” When really they are reasons I meditate, I dive into books like, “Stamped from the Beginning,” I dance, I exercise constantly, I perform, I take Gamma-amminobutyric acid, all to quiet the noise and constant hyper-viligance it takes to just be. If you think that sounds exhausting, it is.

No matter how much I’ve tried to keep it in check both of my kids are grappling with anxiety in their own ways. There are days where I make myself wrong for that. But I think about something one of my bonus brothers said to my daughter last year. He said, “It’s okay that you have a little anxiety. We all do over one thing or another. Sure, you may have inherited some from your mom but you have to understand it’s not her fault. We will never understand the weight she carries to be a black woman particularly in this country. What she has to do to protect you and herself, my God. If she didn’t have anxiety, it would be a miracle.” I can’t tell you what that tiny bit of recognition did for me.

I have to extend grace to myself. We talk openly and freely about anxiety in our house to strip away any shame or heaviness around it. I haven’t reached the level of taking up huge amounts of space yet but at least I’m no longer apologetic for the space I do occupy. That is still a defiance. I know my body and mind deserve a break but for now I’ll keep building these interesting layers of life. If I don’t and 2026 continues on its rageful path, I’ll be cooked.

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**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in any way that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.

Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about the time my body thought it was going to be super tall? I even have a few tiny stretch marks around my hips to prove it. Alas it stopped short of about 12 inches from being 6’. The growing pains didn’t stop though, well at least not the emotional ones.

I noticed how quiet she was in the car ride to the party, but I thought her cramps had just kicked in and maybe her stomach was still a little upset from dinner. Meanwhile I was enjoying myself. I was rocking out to the music she’d been curating for us via my playlist. It was Friday. Fridays consist of homemade pizzas, watching movies, eating dessert and sometimes a glass of wine for me. I was over the fact that I had to make dinner a little early for my daughter before she went to hang with her friends. I was past the part where the gluten free pizza crust I always make, decided to stick to the pizza peel, requiring me to re-roll it out before I could get it on the stone. Gone was the moment where I took it out of the oven and realized I had forgotten to add the pepperoni my daughter requested. C’est la vie.

Let it be known, I think it’s damn near impossible not to move your body and sing full out to Zak Abel’s “Be Kind,” and yet she was quiet as a mouse. My mom spidey senses started to tingle. “What’s up? Is your stomach still hurting?” I inquired. “Yeah. I mean the medicine is helping a little bit, I think. But it’s not great.” She responds through obvious discomfort. “Well, do you think you’re going to be okay? Should you go to the party? I don’t want to drop you off just to have you text me in 30 minutes to come back and get you.” She nods in agreement and says, “Yeah, I know. I think I’ll be okay though.” You can probably guess what happened next.

On my car ride back to get her, (great guess by the way), I was desperately trying to let go of the fact that my gluten-free pizza had also stuck to the peel. Did I put corn meal down to keep it from sticking? Yes. Did I use my usual peel? Yes! Was my kitchen warmer than usual? Not to my knowledge. Can we move on, cause you’re missing the point. Anyway, I was trying to let that go. I was trying to dismiss the fact that my fresh pizza would be nice and cold by the time I got back. Meanwhile my husband was in the throws of contending with his delicious homemade glutenous maximus pizza and getting our son started on his movie. Instead of jamming out to music, I spent the car ride listening to two voices arguing in my head, “You could have stayed behind and made him go pick her up. He would have done it. You could have taken a little pressure off of yourself.” “Yeah, but then I would have had to contend with his pizza. Put it in the oven. Bake it for a bit. Rotate it. Bake it for a bit. Take it out. Slide it off the pizza pan and directly on to the rack. Bake it for a bit. Does it look right? Is there a bubble in the crust? All for him to come back and complain that I didn’t quite cook it long enough? No thank you.” The conversation ended with me side-eying both voices.

The car ride back to the house was pretty quiet. My daughter holding her belly in discomfort and feeling miserable, me super annoyed and put out. When we got home I gave my daughter marching orders to get into pajamas and into bed. I set her up with a remedy to try and ease her digestive issues and told her I would check on her later. Hubby and son were enjoying their time eating food and watching tv. I headed to the kitchen in a pissy mood to grab slices of cold non cooperative pizza. At first I asked myself, “Why are you upset? It’s not like she had control over her intestinal track. She got an upset stomach. It’s not her fault.” I took a breath and responded gently, “Well of course it’s not her fault. It’s mine. Duh! Did I know she didn’t feel well before we left our house? Yes! Did I know she didn’t feel well on the way to her friend’s house? Yes! Did I know to turn that car around and take her home? Yes! Did I do any of that? Nope!” Why didn’t I?

One of the many side-effects left over from the Pandemic, is my daughter wanting to do things with people outside of our family. She has really great friends and is adored by many yet most weekends her social calendar is filled with things we’re doing as a family: soccer games for her brother, hanging out, game night maybe. It doesn’t occur to her to make plans with friends because her Covid “Pod” comes first. So when she makes plans outside of us, my husband and I will give her the keys to the kingdom to see her act like an average teenager. She and I wanted to the same thing. We wanted her to go and have a good time with people she loves. She and I also ignored the same thing…ourselves. She ignored her body and what it was telling her it needed and I ignored my body and what it was telling me to do. What did this cause? Chaos. Haven’t I been trying to break up with chaos for some time now? Mmm-hm. Here starteth the lesson.

In between bites of cold pizza on the couch, I got this ping of disappointment in myself. Why was I stuck in this Brokeback Mountain loop of not being able to quit chaos? I had done so much work around listening to myself; not ignoring my instincts. I meditated on it. I practiced it in my breath work and in my acting classes. When was I going to be done with this shit? I glanced over at my son smacking his lips on his perfect pizza and for a second I pictured him with his Xbox controller in his hand. During his tech time I often hear him laughing and shouting at his games. There are times where I hear his frustrated and defeatist moans. It is then he usually quits playing and takes a break. Actually I’m usually the one who requires him to take a break and just take a breather. Sometimes he does but most times he just switches the game and moves on until he’s ready to come back to face the challenge. Through it all, he has never once come to me or my husband and said, “I’m done with this thing. You can give it away now.” His playing it outweighs all the disappointments.

I get into these ruts where I just want to master all my stuff. I want to beat the game instead of playing it. That visual of the Xbox made me think about all the other shit I’m constantly trying to conquer: body dysmorphia, fighting the feeling of being unattractive, acceptance of Alopecia, fear of rejection, fear of failing. I’ll look in the mirror with the confidence of a CEO one day and the next day doing everything I can to avoid mirrors all together. If I only hit the gym 4 instead of 5 times a week, maybe my husband may lose his attraction to me. I must work hard to stay fit; to be as attractive as someone like me can be, especially now that I’m BALD, right? If I don’t constantly do stuff for people and put myself last, they won’t see me as valuable and they will throw me away. Who do I think I am? I’m just an actor, and a no name one at that. No one is going to care about my blog, so I shouldn’t write. No one is going to care about the Podcast I have with my husband, so I shouldn’t speak.

Wait a minute. Now that I know I have body dysmorphia, I can look at my insecurities as false. I can pick clothes that feel pleasing to me. I can accessorize for expression and connect to myself from the inside out. Beauty is far beyond aesthetics. I know that to my core. I choose to wear my hair bald rather than wear a wig because it’s better for me and I’ve got a great head anyway. Also, I feel no less unattractive without hair as I did with, so it’s not about the hair. Those are just lies my inner critic is telling me. I don’t have to say “yes” to everything. Saying “no” is also a form of self-love. I am worthy because I am alive. Yes I get scared that I’m going to fail miserably at whatever endeavor I’m up to, but there’s a chance I can succeed and so I can do it anyway.

To win the game means it’s over. If it’s over, I’m dead. To win is to beat the level. Each year I’m alive is a different level. I can’t expect to win 2026 with just the things I learned in 2025. I’m going to need all the skills and discoveries of last year plus some additional tools and bonuses to get through the level I’m on now. We all have a relationship to something that we came here with or developed out of our life experience, and maybe it’s designed to stay with us so we can continue to get better at playing the game. Chaos was with me last year to highlight where I was refusing to say “no” to things, where I was overdoing it, ignoring my needs. Maybe this year it’s going to highlight where I’m gas lighting my own instincts. What would it look like if I took it as a sign of awareness? Maybe I shouldn’t break up with it but go to couples therapy instead?

By the end of Friday night my girl was ten times better. I was able to enjoy a slice of gluten free cake and some hot tea while watching the latest episode of “The Pitt” with my husband, (side note. holy crow I hope to get on that show one day. My god is it good). When I crawled into bed that night all was right again. The growing pains of adulthood had once again dissipated. I used to say, “I just want to be the butterfly without the metamorphosis.” Which is just a form of me resisting the pain, truth and growth it takes to evolve. I think I’ll lean more into being the reptile. I don’t have the capacity yet to shed my skin all at once, like the snake. Instead I can learn to shed a little bit at a time and hopefully admire the growth along the way..and “…here endeth the lesson..”

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Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about the time my little brother got married? Technically he’s my best friend’s baby brother but I’ve known him for 32 years, so he’s mine too at this point. When he called to personally invite me to the wedding, I felt two intense emotions. Number one, was a sort of delicious squeal. My baby was getting hitched! I wanted to immediately squeeze and squish his grown-up face. Number two, was a deep reverence for what he was asking me to come and witness.

Say what you want about marriage being a mere contract or another way for the government to make money or a flat-out scam, love isn’t. Oh, people can certainly use the concept of love to control and manipulate others for nefarious reasons. I’m referring to good love; love in its highest and purest form. I’m talking about that “…stuff, that funk, that sweet, that funky stuff.” You know what I mean? When someone asks you to come to their wedding, they are asking you to be a willing participant and contributor to the foundation they are building upon with another human being. I don’t think we really get how special that is.

Yes, some couples come to that sacred space with many cracks in their foundation. I’m not naïve to that. I think we’ve all been to a wedding or two where none of us felt like the marriage was going to last very long. Which kind of beckons the question, “Why do we still choose to go and bare witness to that?” Are an open bar, dancing and cake more important somehow? No judgement, just curious. I’ll save that mess for another day.

What struck me about this wedding is that most of the people in attendance, all incredibly close friends/family of the couple, were each on the same level of love. We were years into finding that person and still treasured them. These relationships were not taken for granted. They were old but not tattered or torn. They were tended to. They were cultivated. It made sense to me why we were the lucky ones to be invited to this rite of passage. These are not perfect relationships, mind you. They are just good ones. They are full of people who are not afraid to grow and learn from each other. They are willing to do their own work, take responsibility for their actions and don’t mind having a therapist on speed dial. I don’t think speed dial is a thing anymore. I should say they don’t mind having a therapist as a favorite in their contact list.

You know that I’m not a sappy person, but I cried at the ceremony. These were not kids getting married, these were grown ass adults and I cried. The look on my baby brother’s face, was proof he had found his person and my new baby sister had found hers. Holy hell was that sweet.

If I’m being honest, that tenderness triggered me into remembering my own “aha” moments of deep affection for both Peter and Brad and I wasn’t the only one. At the reception dinner, several of us were prompted into telling the story of when they knew they had found the one to walk towards. For some it was by the encouragement from other people, others an unexpected encounter at a grocery store; all the stories involving humor in some way. What I found interesting was that even if an obstacle prolonged a relationship from blossoming right away, every person knew instantly that it was a relationship they were going to say “yes” to.

There’s no guarantee my brother’s relationship will stand the test of time. Everyone in attendance last weekend certainly wants it to but life be out here lifen, as they say. I mean there’s a reason why my company is called A Beautiful Mess. However given the state of American culture and many places around the world, I wanted to share a little more beauty with you this week.

Even amongst all the chaotic nose and hatred being spewed, there are still people out there saying ‘I choose you.” As my friend Amy said during my brother’s ceremony, “I just love love.”

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Speaking of “Love,” my husband Peter and I are cooking up a podcast that’s a little sweet a little savory and a whole lotta honest. It stands to reason that it too will be beautiful and messy. So stay tuned.