I’ve thought a lot about my role as a storyteller recently. I once wrote about how I discovered it could captivate an audience. My students let me practice on them. But the truth is, I’d been identified as a storyteller long before that. In middle school, a friend once compared me to Rose from The Golden Girls because of the way I talked. Instead of “Back in St. Olaf…” my stories usually began with something like “At basketball camp…” or “At cheerleading camp…” or “One summer

What I did have, though, was an unexpected survival strategy: storytelling.

I continue to revisit favorite songs, artists, and concerts—walking myself back through the chapters of my life where music was always playing in the background. Those reflections have sparked long, nostalgic conversations with friends as we compare the eras and experiences that soundtracked our lives.

This is an excerpt from Chapter 32 of 2.0 You are awesome!

I am grieving the person I thought she was. And I am grieving the person she has shown herself to be.

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to live differently. The course my life would take was decided for me. It was handed to me. There is a big difference in survival depending on which side of the story you stand on. The nuance matters.

True story: I took a polygraph. One Christmas, despite the icy roads and poor driving conditions, we gathered at my grandparents' home to celebrate: my husband and I, my dad, my brother, and my uncle from California along with his somewhat-new-to-the-family second wife. Sascha and I drove up from Lafayette for the day. My uncle and his wife were staying with my grandparents; my dad and brother lived nearby. My uncle, my mom’s younger brother, had been in and out of our lives

Heart racing, I grabbed the ledge. Two fingers on each hand held tight. Fingertips white in desperation. I hear her whisper. She’s just above me. Top ledge. Arm stretched out. Knelt down.

I haven’t always been a good friend. For a long time, I didn’t even fully understand what being a good friend meant. I didn’t grow up with clear role models for friendship. My parents’ social lives were tightly woven into family life. Their friends were relatives: aunts, uncles, and cousins who were part of an established, ongoing cycle of connection. Check-ins were assumed. Presence was built in. Friendship, as a separate relationship to be nurtured intentionally, wasn’t som

It was a warm November morning, the kind where Atlanta forgets it’s autumn. Many neighbors held on to the festive Halloween vibe. Plastic skeletons sagged in folding chairs, foam gravestones tilted in the damp grass, and fake cobwebs swayed on porches. As Lambert sniffed along our morning path on Newton Avenue, I realized, with the kind of clarity that makes you pause mid-stride, that one day I’ll have a headstone, too. Not a prop from a Home Depot, but the real thing. Then c

I didn’t think I would ever laugh again. But I did. 2025 was the darkest year of my life. And the darkest part unfolded in the last six months, mostly in the last four. It’s amazing how you can live life unsuspecting and get blindsided over and over again until you can’t catch your breath.  You can be a person who cares, who helps, who supports, but that doesn’t guarantee you’ll receive any of that in return. You can be someone who shows up consistently, unconditionally, and

I was in a box. Trapped. Closed off from everything I wanted. Limited in what I could try. Limited in who I could be. The lid was tight. Sometimes it loosened. Light would slip in. I’d push against it. Lift it, climb out, and breathe. When asked, I climbed back into the box. Willingly. Respectfully. Convinced the discomfort meant something. That patience would be rewarded. I learned to shrink. But remain hopeful. I stayed quiet. Gripping myself for comfort. I told myself it

Have you ever heard a song that you feel? Not just with your ears, but inside your body. The notes, the beat, the harmony move through you and refuse to leave. Some music makes your heart beat faster. Some slows it down. Some won’t let your body sit still. Other songs dive so deeply into your soul that they become part of you. You cry, smile, dance, or exhale without even realizing what is happening. Music provides color to scenes or lightens the dark. It can transform a memo

October 12, 2018, a Friday evening, at IKEA. My bonus check from the film set had come through, and I needed to start getting my first apartment in Atlanta ready. I had not planned on an apartment and therefore had not planned on having to purchase all of the necessary furnishings. I had been in Atlanta for nearly a year and my husband and dogs did not follow me as I was setting us up with a new life. I was on my own now. Like it or not. I had no choice. I needed everything.

This post contains reflections on a period of acute emotional crisis following a major life rupture. It includes descriptions of disordered sleep and eating, emotional distress, and recovery through community support. Photo cred: Les Go Hiking GroupMe Chat. Since my arrival in Atlanta at the end of 2017, I’ve been looking for my people. It hasn’t been easy. Part of the challenge is that I’ve never been entirely sure who my community is supposed to be. That question has follow

2025 sucked, if I am completely honest. I had the worst year of my life in almost every way possible, but I am determined to scour the ashes of my burned soul and find the lessons that will keep me from ever repeating this level of pain and misery again. No one knows me better than I do. I have a long history of not listening to myself. I have inner dialogues that tell me exactly what to do in any situation, and at the same time I talk myself out of those great decisions. I

I started writing as a kid. I made lists of thoughts, things I liked, things I wanted, people I thought were cute, and my favorite animals and names. Little by little, those lists turned into sentences, short stories, song lyrics, and poems. This cracks me up now because I truly wish I still had those early song lyrics. Kenny Rogers and Eddie Rabbit were my inspirations. I was five. In my pre-teen years, I started recording every “important” interaction with boys. The days be

Twenty-six years ago today, my mom passed away due to complications caused by anorexia , and I miss her today as much as I did the moment she took her last breath. I still remember so many details of that day. It was a Thursday. I was wearing my favorite grey pants and a pink sweater with a white turtleneck underneath. My shoes were funky but comfortable black platform shoes that made me look so tall. I had taken a turkey sandwich with me to school, but since my lunch and pl

Birthdays have always been a tender spot for me. While some people stretch their celebrations into a full weekend, a week, or even an entire month, I can barely muster enthusiasm for the day itself. I’ve never been the person counting down or planning parties. I move toward the day with hope that this year will be different, better, maybe even exciting. I have lived fifty years, yet only a handful of my birthdays qualify as happy memories. Even fewer felt special. Most years,

Grief Still Echoes There is a version of sadness that doesn’t end just because the relationship does. It lingers. Because our love lingered. The sadness, however, rearranged my daily life. It changed the way I breathe, the way I exist in a room, the way I brace myself when my phone dings. Sadness is the kind of grief that keeps unfolding after the break—through the silence, through the unanswered questions, through the responsibilities left behind when someone else walks away