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

Although I expected identity to be precise, I never seemed to find it. Growing up, I didn’t know which friend group I belonged to because I liked a little about all of them. I had a sporty side, a musical side, an artistic side, a nerdy side, a wild side, a conservative side, a confident side, a shy side, a nervous side. In high school there was a spell where I was the photographer or the German-loving girl. Or maybe the one who knew so much about music. My style was also wid

Loss entered my life early, shifting the air around me before I had words for what was happening. In second grade, my great-grandmother died. It was the first time I saw adults cry in that particular way—quiet, resigned, as if their grief was older than their words. I didn’t know then that it was only the beginning, the start of a rotation of painful goodbyes I would learn too early and too often. By fourth grade, the losses came so close together they blurred. My uncle died

Some connections change shape but never fade. The ginkgo, with its golden fall leaves and ancient roots, reminds me that even when everything else shifts, the bonds that matter most find a way to remain. The ginkgo has become more than a tree to me. Like me, it’s a survivor — a living emblem of endurance and grace. Some of the oldest ginkgos have stood for more than a thousand years, their roots holding the memory of entire civilizations. Even after the atomic bombing of Hiro

If you blink, you might miss the journey. I blinked and somehow ended up in Atlanta for eight years and counting. When I first arrived on November 11, 2017, I couldn’t have imagined what these years would hold. I came here chasing change—new work, new community, new meaning—but what I found was more complicated and more rewarding than any plan I could’ve made. This city tested me, stretched me, and ultimately shaped me. There are not enough words or enough photos to capture e

I am the torn fabric. The frayed edge. The thread that snapped mid-stitch. The seam that never held. I have asked the question over and over: how can she live with herself? How can she focus on a new girlfriend when my life has been shredded beyond repair? She had to tear mine apart to build hers, and I’m the one left holding the loose ends. I can’t eat a full meal or sleep a full night. I can’t work, or focus, or date. I barely exist between panic and exhaustion. Every corne

Note: This post contains some sensitive information regarding mental health. My brain's trauma response has been, at the very least, interesting to observe. I have had dark thoughts imagining suicide, I have fantasized about others feeling pain so mine might ease, and I have endured panic attacks no matter where I am—concerts, trivia night, even the Pride parade. One of the most frequent responses comes in the form of nightmares. For one solid week, I had one every single n

One week after I moved to Atlanta, I felt the rug pulled out from under me. He called to say he had to rush Sadie Sammiches, our sweet pitbull mix who genuinely looked like an alien baby, to the emergency vet because she was yelping in pain. The staff ran some x-rays to locate the source. The next afternoon, the doctor called my cell while I was covering the reception desk. She’d tried reaching him first, but when he didn’t answer, she called the secondary number. I sat there

Disclaimer: This is not my writing. I’m too tired. ChatGPT has perspective. Let’s learn. Forgiveness is the conscious decision to release resentment, anger, or the desire for revenge toward someone (or even yourself) who has caused harm, whether or not they “deserve” it or have apologized. It doesn’t mean excusing or forgetting what happened, but rather freeing yourself from being emotionally bound to the hurt. Here’s what forgiveness often looks like in practice, especially