I recently started taking Zoloft after struggling with PTSD, major depression, and generalized anxiety for more than a year. I have felt all of the emotions, especially the negative ones. Sadness. Anger. Hopelessness. Nervousness. Fear. Worry. Resentment. However, in a wild turn of events, I got the exact help I needed at the exact moment I needed it most. Within just a couple of weeks of taking my first antidepressant, I was feeling a reduction in my desire to cry every day

Somewhere in my constantly overstimulated brain of ideas, I have known for most of my life that I wanted to be a writer. The problem has always been where to start. I have had more book ideas than I have had pets, which, if you know me, you know that’s a lot. At one point, I wanted to write a book called How to Make Friends in Germany (Hint: You Can’t!). But too much time had passed since living in Germany, and no book had manifested itself. Then I moved on to my next obsess

Having pets in your home comes with so many benefits: a nonjudgmental roommate, a constant cuddle buddy, a link to social connections everywhere you go. And if you have a silly, crazy puppy with a whole lot of personality, you also get a whole book of storytelling content. Think: Marley in Bernese Mountain Dog form. That was my soulmate dog Blänky. Blänky was born June 7, 2002, my last day as a high school German teacher and just 4 days before I moved to Germany. She officia

It sounds like a line after hearing “Knock, knock”, but it isn’t. It’s a question my brain has been asking for over a year. No joke.

As I sit on a bus in Atlanta, I think back to my time living in Germany and all of the bus and train rides I collected in five years.

It happened. It finally happened. I lost control. Total control. I was hostile. Enraged. I could have killed her. I wanted to. Maybe. I definitely wanted to hurt her. No, scare her. Actually, I decided it would be better to hurt myself. Yes. Show her my pain. The pain that has been bottled up for a year. For 7 years. Actually, now it has been more than 8. I shouted. I cried. I begged. Shouted again. Threatened. Scared her for sure. I wanted her to physically hurt me. Fuck t

After my mom’s death and 32 years of marriage, my dad was extremely sad and afraid of being alone. He dated anyone who would date him. The lack of criteria also meant that the women who rotated in and out only met my dad’s need for companionship. Everything else was out the window. One girlfriend was so bad, maybe the worst, that my brother and I didn’t even call her by her name. Since she lived in an apartment across the street from my dad, we simply referred to her as The N

A first encounter that was more meaningful than I anticipated.

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