Little Bits of Joy

Sometimes, my chest feels heavy, like there is an invisible weight pressing on my ribs. I can’t see it, and I can’t touch it with my fingertips, but I can feel it there, sinking down, deflating my lungs.

Sometimes, my brain feels messy, like there is a thousand strands tangling together across my cortex. I can’t unravel them, can’t untie the knots they make, but I can feel the chaos, tiny strings of thought snarling together and taking up valuable space.

Sometimes, my soul writhes, like it is yearning for something I am afraid I will never have. I can’t calm it, can’t satisfy it, and so it continues to thrash somewhere deep inside, sucking my energy and dimming my mood.

The clouds roll in for us all sometimes. The world is not always a kind and joyful place like we all know it should be. We feel intense emotion, and for some reason as adults we often feel we must hide it away or ignore it all together. I validate the way you feel. Your emotions are yours and they are real and they are always, always valid.

When the light seems too dim and when the clouds seem too gray, find the little bits of joy along the way. The tiny things that bring us a smile can lift the heaviest of spirits and cast light in the darkest of corners. When I feel that weight or that mess or that writhe, I pause to breathe and search around me for the small fragments of life that bring joy when life gets rough.

This Face.

That perfect grilled cheese.

These flowers.

This thing.

These babies.

That movie.  

These eyes.

Always remember to find those little bits of joy. They’re hiding in plain sight and give hope just when you need it most.


The Identity Crisis, Part 2

Last year, I wrote The Identity Crisis, and wondered if passion could ever be profession.

I’m still wondering.

But not even a year later, my focus has shifted.

“And here lies the identity crisis,” I wrote. There are two things I want more than anything in this world, more than I want to be a leader or a manager. To write, and to be a mama.”

I’m no longer worried about choosing between the corporate ladder and my creative calling. Instead, I’m reaching out into the dark, hoping to grasp something that I was meant to do.

I can feel in my soul that I’m supposed to be a writer, and even deeper than that, I know I’m meant to be a mama.

But sometimes it feels like I won’t ever accomplish either of these things, and it is daunting.

The literary agent rejections and the negative pregnancy tests are beating me down, like boulders tumbling uncontrollably down a mountain. I am drowning in failure as I sink deeper and deeper into dark waters that I don’t know how to navigate. This is not the map I illustrated for myself.

This is something else entirely.

I can’t write. My novel has seen no success, and there’s no room in my headspace to create something new. I simply can’t wrap my mind around building a new world. I can’t dedicate the energy, because I am facing my worst nightmare: infertility.

And it’s draining.

It’s all I think about.

Sometimes, I feel so lost.

I have steps to take. Things to do. There is nowhere to go but forward, and forward I shall go. One day, one hour, one word at a time.

But who am I, if not a writer?

Who am I, if not a mama?


And here lies the identity crisis, part 2.

Burns and Blunders

Valentine’s day snuck up on us this year, and to be honest, Mike and I really don’t care much for the “holiday”.

“Sooo, I just heard on the radio that tomorrow is Valentine’s day…?” Mike ventured as he came inside at 9:00 pm on the 13th. He shed his Carhart bibs and looked over at me. I was playing Breath of the Wild and pretty engrossed.

“Yeah…?” I responded, only glancing at him. “And?”

“I just didn’t even realize it,” he said as he trudged across the house.

“Who cares,” I scoffed before cursing at a Moblin in the game.

“Well we can just spend some time together tomorrow.”

“Like we do normally,” I verified, rolling my eyes.

It hit me some time later that this very well could be our last Valentine’s day as an empty nest couple. We’ve really been getting our adulting shit together lately, and I’m not sure why this seemed like such a profound epiphany, but I woke up on the 14th ready to make the biggest breakfast spread ever for my man.

We’re talking pancakes. Toast. Eggs. Bacon. Sausage. Coffee.  All the things. I had all the gas burners running and the bacon was in the oven.

Let me just preface by saying I really hate my gas range. From a cooking perspective, I totally understand why so many people prefer gas. But from a safety perspective, I am uncomfortable with the idea of an open flame, and I hate that I could bump the knobs, causing a gas leak. When I impulse purchased new appliances back in November, I was sure to order a new, fancy electric range that would not only look sharp (oh my lord I sound like my father) but make me feel safer, especially for when we have kids one day.

Unfortunately, the new appliances have yet to arrive.

“Smells amazing,” Mike said through a yawn when he emerged from bed. “What’s the occasion?”

“I didn’t get you anything for Valentine’s, so I wanted to make you a nice breakfast!” I explained brightly.

“That’s nice…but I don’t have anything I can do for you.”

“I can think of a few things,” I murmured out of the side of my mouth with a wink.

Mike laughed and shook his head before taking a seat at the table.

“Shit, my bacon.” I could smell it starting to burn, so I hurriedly grabbed the nearest kitchen towel and removed the pan from the oven, not realizing my stovetop was completely full of pans of eggs, pancakes, and sausage. I had nowhere to set the pan that was now burning through my kitchen towel and beginning to sizzle my hand.

“Ow!” I hollered, deciding to unload the pan from my grasp by shoving the eggs toward the top corner of the stove. As I leaned over to release the pan, I suddenly realized the bacon grease-soaked towel I held was swinging in the open flame of the burner. I gasped, dropped the bacon pan where it was, and tore the towel away. As I did so, simmering bacon grease splashed upward and decorated my chest.

“FUCK!” I cursed, throwing down the towel and backing away from the range. “SHIT!”  In my determination to romantically supply my husband with the world’s biggest, hottest Valentine’s Day breakfast, I reverted to my roots of being a complete and utter spaz, giving myself a rather unsightly burn just below my clavicles that now vaguely resembles the Hawaiian Islands.


Within seconds, Mike was pouring Aloe down my shirt as I fought back tears of mostly surprise and embarrassment.

I wasn’t off to a great start for the day. We ate breakfast, then cleaned my mess. Attempting to move on from the fiasco and unfairly blaming the gas range for the incident,  I opened my phone and selected the Home Depot App.

“I should check on the status of the new appliances,” I said. “They’re supposed to arrive on Tuesday!”

Order Status: Delayed.


The appliances were a Black Friday purchase, and it is now Valentine’s day. They’ve been delayed at least twice now and given my already grumpy mood from the bacon grease burn, I was NOT having this.

“I’m calling them to see what’s up, because if we’re just waiting on something stupid like the Microwave, they need to send me what they have.”

As I searched for the customer service number on the app, I found a “Text a Representative” option. Oh boy! Something perfect for my social anxiety! Customer Service confrontation via text. Perfect. I can adult and handle this order, but I don’t have to do so on the phone (because lord knows us Millennials hate the phone). Excellent.

What could possibly go wrong?

The conversation spanned over an hour, as the responses were sparse and far between. I didn’t mind too much, as I continued about my day while I waited.

Texting a rep is great!

The representative explained to me the entire order was available, minus the range. It was on backorder.

Bummer, because I’m pissed at the range I have right now and would feel very satisfied if I could throw it outside to make room for the replacement.

“Can you send me the other appliances that are available?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, we cannot execute the order until all appliances are received.”

I composed several drafts as I tried to work out the best way to respond. (How great is this texting thing?! I sound much more prepared, articulate, and determined!)

“Is there perhaps a similar range that is available? I would be willing to upgrade if it means receiving my order sooner.”

“I’m sorry, we cannot swap out appliances in an online order.”

What the fuck?

Now I was getting a little irritated. I took a moment to gather my thoughts, then decided to text a friend to share the frustration before responding. Telling someone else the situation always seems to release some steam, so it seemed like a great idea, given I had the luxury of time while texting. Man, I’d never be able to do this on the phone! I’m going to text representatives for customer service from now on!

“It’s just the range they are holding on, and cannot process the order until all items are in, so they can’t ship me what they have. I am trying to convince them to let me upgrade to a range that is actually in stock, but they are giving me a hard time. I might just have to rage-cancel this order and go elsewhere if they won’t work with me.”


I will be damned if I didn’t accidentally send that frustrated text TO THE REPRESENTATIVE instead of the intended recipient.

Kill me.

My mouth dropped as I slowly realized what I just did. My stomach sank down to my knees and my fingers began to tremble.

“Oh shit.”

“Whoooops, that message was definitely meant for someone else… my bad. But we do really need to figure something out, because I’ve been waiting since Black Friday for these appliances and I really need my fridge before my current one dies,” I hurriedly texted the representative, feeling like the world’s biggest dick. I sent the message and rested my head on the counter, cursing repeatedly and wishing I could just start the day all over again.

“Ok so we can probably just cancel the range in your order, and you can order a different one separately,” the rep responded, seeming to mostly ignore my blunder.

 “Will that impact the remaining items on my order?” I asked.

“Was it an appliance bundle?”

Yo, I bought these like, 3 months ago. How should I know?

“Possibly,” I replied. “They were a Black Friday purchase.”

“Oh, if they were a Black Friday deal, I can just go ahead and cancel the range for you.”


“Yes please, that would be exceptionally helpful.”

The nightmare was ending.

I was SO jazzed up about being able to text a representative to better manage my social anxiety, and I fucked it all up and nearly had a panic attack from sending the wrong message to the poor representative.

I am such an asshole.

I will never do the text thing for customer service inquiries again. I ruined such a good thing. I will have to suck it up pick up the phone in the future.

Like an adult.

Happy Valentine’s day?

Bomb Pop Microphone

“I’d rather be dry, but, at least I’m ali-ive!” I sang slightly off key with Lady GaGa as I wiggled my hips in the center of my kitchen. I held a nostalgic Bomb Pop in one hand and was loading the dishwasher with the other. I took a lick of patriotic flavored ice between verses.

“Nananana lala bop bop innoce-e-ent!” I belted with Arianna, using the Bomb Pop as a microphone. I loaded the final plate into the dishwasher, tossed in the soap pod, then slammed the door. I danced in a circle a few beats before pressing the “start” button and moonwalking away.

The song on my stereo ended as I licked my popsicle stick clean. The silence between tracks was unexpectedly filled with a mechanical growl.

“What the…” I muttered, muting the stereo and cautiously returning to the kitchen. It sounded like a blender, then like unlubricated gears grinding together inside my dishwasher. I studied it a while, stained popsicle stick hanging from my mouth, eyes squinting as I assessed the situation.

“Oh, shit,” I cursed as the sound grew louder and angrier. I leapt forward and tore open the dishwasher, expecting to see dripping water and steam.

It was bone dry inside.

The popsicle stick fell from my lips and clattered on the ceramic tile as I realized the appliance was broken.

One minute I’m a care-free child, dancing to Rain on Me with a Bomb Pop, and the next I’m adulting, dealing with a broken appliance and a shit ton of nasty dishes from last night’s dinner.

Well, crap.

There are two kinds of adults. The ones who crawl into the dishwasher and fix it, and the ones who stomp over to the laptop and start dumping new appliances into a virtual shopping cart.

You can probably guess which one I am.

Thankfully, my husband is the former of the two and balances out my clicker finger.

Broken appliances are certainly on the “annoying list” of things that mean adulting. I’m thankful it was just the dishwasher, and not the massive water heater (we fixed that last month by hitting it with a hammer). Fixing or replacing broken things is just part of homeownership, and it’s something I’ve gotten used to after owning a home for seven years.

Doesn’t make it any less annoying, though.  

Things break. Adults fix. It’s this unbreakable cycle, just something we have to do.

Meanwhile, I just set my burgers on fire and overcooked the macaroni while I was trying to type this out.

Apparently, I have yet to master the multi-tasking part of adulting.

I’ll work on that.

Anyway. Not really sure what the moral of this story is… but my gut says it’s that it’s okay to sing into a Bomb Pop like a microphone when you’re 29 and breaking the dishwasher.

Let’s go with that.

Show Yourself, 29

I turn 29 today. My “golden birthday,” even. 29 on the 29th.

And I’m celebrating with a Frozen 2 Birthday Cake and Animal Crossing, because the number 29 doesn’t mean a thing.

…Or so I claim.

The truth is, I’m struggling with 29. The last year in my twenties feels a lot like the last chance to finally get it all right. I know that’s all in my head, and we spend our entire lives discovering who we are. But there’s something about the looming cloud of 30 that has me on edge. It feels so adulty, and I wonder how prepared I am to enter that decade in a year.

Really, this meme sums it up nicely:

There is drool dripping down my shoulder from the stalking decade that seems to scream adulthood in a rather dinosaur-like fashion. I have exactly 365 days to prepare for a milestone that seems to mean I’ve reached the peek of adulthood and will successfully execute all the important things responsible individuals are supposed to do.

Perhaps I’m struggling a little because I always thought I’d have a few kids in this house and a book published by 30. From an education and a career standpoint, I am exactly where I always hoped I’d be, and I couldn’t be prouder. But the rest of the fragments have yet to fall into place. I am an unfinished jigsaw with uneven pieces and thousands of colors.

One cannot put a deadline on growth. We are constantly evolving, every step of our journey guiding us toward the unpredictable and the unexpected. The adventure shapes us as we travel, and the phrase “according to plan” doesn’t carry much weight in the grand scheme of the universe. In my experience, trying to follow a tight life plan has really only lead to frustration and heartache.

And here I thought adults always had a plan.

So, there’s some dissonance here. Something not going “according to plan” brings sadness and disappointment, so I’m inclined to believe I should just go with the flow and let the world take me where I am meant to be. But simultaneously, I’ve come to expect adults to be organized and sure of themselves. These two sides are yanking me in separate directions, and I’m tearing at the center trying to figure out where I should be standing as life whisks around me.

Sometimes there’s a storm in my head. A hundred little things pick up in the wind and spin at the back of my skull. A tornado of words and ideas and ideals spins around my mind and maybe you’ve seen the lightning in my eyes. I overthink. I feel anxious. I become disoriented and am not always sure which direction to head.

I don’t know if I’ll be ready for 30 when she comes next year.

I don’t know if 52 weeks is enough time to collect my missing pieces and settle into myself.

But I do know that 30 doesn’t have to be a cap on discovery, and I’ll spend the next 12 months accepting that.

I know that if I love my hardest along the way, the journey forward will be sweet.

It won’t always be easy.

The balance is rickety.

But it will be a glorious year filled with endless surprises. Mostly because my plan just flew out the open car window as I was singing “Show Yourself” at the top of my lungs.

“Show yourself
Step into your power
Throw yourself
Into something new

You are the one you’ve been waiting for
All of your life
All of my life”

Basket Case

Basket Case, noun.

“Completely hopeless condition.”

“One who cannot support themselves emotionally or mentally.”

“Literally a case of baskets.”

Sometimes I feel like a total basket case. My body is a teetertotter balancing the pressures of adulthood and professionalism on one end with my passions and emotional baggage on the other. It wavers back and forth, up and down.

And the older I get, the more I have a problem with motion sickness.

Like seriously. I can’t sit on a swing anymore without getting nauseous. Rocking hammock? Forget it. Green really isn’t my color.

I am sick from the swaying seesaw. I’m queasy from spinning reality and unknown futures.

I’m finding the more I write, the more my pieces are shifting from lighthearted humor and leaning toward something very raw and personal. I suppose that’s growth; stripping down and examining ourselves piece by piece isn’t easy. Tiny particles of myself transfigure into words that spread across a blank page.

And sometimes, it’s beautiful.

But most days it’s hard to be so naked with myself and I wonder where the humor went. It shouldn’t be this hard, observing the world and myself then stamping it on paper for others to enjoy. But sometimes it is, because I’m running on fumes and second guessing my intuition. There is only so much brain power available. And that damn day job eats up 90% of it. What remains is 10% power diluted with hunger and exhaustion and frustration. There is so much in me I wish I could access. I’m locked out of my own head. It aches as I beat at the door and long to siphon power from somewhere else just to get these creative juices flowing. I can’t do everything, especially when I’m tired and hungry and metaphorically seasick.

And so, I’m a basket case.

 I’m sometimes unstable as I fumble through each day of life trying to figure it all out. I’m a hopeless mess, chaos whipping through nature. I sometimes leave the stove on, the mail is piling up on the counter, the laundry basket is more like a mountain, the ‘rona is raging, I lost my face mask, 3 agents still have my manuscript, I drink too much diet coke, my pre-quarantine pants probably don’t fit, I have 6 meetings tomorrow, I just got bit by a mosquito, I forgot to eat lunch today, the dog wants a walk, part of me wants to give up on my novel, I can’t figure out how to start something new, I try to do too much at once, I’m constantly pretending I know what I’m doing, I’m an adult in disguise, and I’m not really sure my face remembers what makeup is anymore.

I’m a basket case.

And I’m on a teetertotter.

I’m a case of baskets about to barf on a seesaw.

But it’s fine. Because we’re all basket cases at one point or another. We all feel overwhelmed sometimes, and we all handle it differently. I type senseless words until my fingers decide I’m done. Then I read and laugh and wonder who let me become an adult, and I press Post, because I know I’m not alone in how I feel, and I want you to know you’re not alone either.

There’s room in my case for more baskets, if you care to join me.

Stop Asking Me

“So when are you guys popping out a kid?”


PSA: NEVER ask a couple when they plan to have children. You have no idea what they’re going through.

And you know what?

It’s none of your business.

The stereotypical perception of adulting tells us we must be professionals. Adults are organized. They’re ambitious. They’re mature, they’re financially independent, they’re homeowners.

They’re parents.

Wait. What?

If you’ve gained nothing else from my blog, I hope you take away the fact that there is no solid definition of adulting. No one is doing this perfectly. Adults are not always mature. They might try to be professional, but don’t always succeed. We make mistakes. Our ambitions are all different, money is complicated, and owning or renting your home has nothing to do with your ability to adult successfully. We don’t always know what we’re doing. We don’t all do it the same. And that’s okay! Good, even!

Just because you are an adult does NOT mean you are expected to become a parent.

Somehow, we’re halfway through 2020 and society still squints at a married woman in her late 20’s and wonders why she hasn’t popped out a kid yet. (Popped… Like it’s that simple.)

And there are still those who think it’s okay to come right out and ask you about your timeline for procreation.

“So when are you guys popping out a kid?” a friend asked us over dinner.

I could feel a poisonous concoction of anger and annoyance swirling in my abdomen and I clenched my fists.

You know what, bro, maybe we’re trying to pop out a kid, but haven’t had luck yet.
Or I could have decided that I now hate kids.
I could be heartbroken over a loss.
Maybe money isn’t in order yet, or we just really love saving it.
Perhaps I’m just hyper-focused on a career at this stage in my life.
It could be an overwhelming combination of all these things.

Or, imagine this, it could be NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS! 

Stop asking me.  

“We’re enjoying our money right now,” I responded half-honestly, taking a sip of beer and averting my eyes.

“Kids aren’t that expensive,” he pressed, tickling his own baby’s chin. The child gurgled, and grinned, and I would have thought it was adorable if I wasn’t so pissed. 

“I could afford an entire herd,” I countered, Italian temper flaring with my nostrils.

“She just means we’re enjoying the freedom,” my husband, Mike, hastily clarified as he kicked me under the table. “We leave for vacation in a few weeks.”

“Ah, yes, this is true,” our friend sighed. “You do lose that freedom to pick up and go whenever you’d like.” 

I opened my mouth, a snarky retort sizzling on my tongue, but a glare from Mike sealed my lips. I sighed. “We’ll get there eventually,” I said dismissively, waving at the waitress for the check. 

To be fair, Mike and I are the last of all our friends to have children. I get it. Everyone’s curious. I imagine them all whispering about us, asking what the other has heard about our plans for the future.

“So what’s up with Kaitlin and Mike? Are they planning on having children? Does Mike want children? Kaitlin has always wanted lots of babies. What are they waiting for? What have you heard? She’s running out of time. It must be hard seeing everyone else with children.”

That’s all in my head. Those conversations might be happening between friends and coworkers and family. They might not be. It doesn’t really matter either way, because our plans are just that: OUR plans. Not theirs, not society’s, OURS.

I understand curiosity. I understand we’ve been conditioned to expect the natural progression of relationships. We meet. We date. We fall in love. We get married. We procreate.

I’m not the first woman to point out that things don’t work that way anymore. The modern woman doesn’t have to be married to have a child. She doesn’t have to have a child when she’s married. She doesn’t have to get married at all, ever. She doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to do, and society’s natural progression means nothing to her.

“When’s the wedding?”
“When are you having children?”
“When is baby #2?
“Are you going to try again?”
“How many kids do you guys what?”
“Are you trying for any babies yet?”
“When are you due?” (ALWAYS a bad idea if you don’t know her.)

Sometimes, these questions can be painful to hear, hard to answer, complicated to consider. There are so many factors that influence whether a couple has children or not. We should feel comfortable discussing them when we want, and I don’t want to stop the conversation around the hard stuff, but we should never feel obligated to participate in that conversation and we shouldn’t be pressured to fit into a standard.

The reason why Mike and I do not yet have any children is inconsequential. There may not even be a reason. Maybe I’m fine. Maybe I’m not. It doesn’t matter, really.

Don’t ask me.

And if someone asks you, you don’t have to answer. Talk about it if you want, if you’re comfortable, or shut it down if you don’t. That is yours to own.

We can be badass adults with or without children. And we don’t need pressure from anyone when considering that step.

We’re all paving our own way.

And we’re killing it.

A Steaming Cup of Blankey

It’s official. It happened. I’ve been waiting for it. It has been barreling toward me for a while now. I’ve dabbled in it before, you know, tested it out just a little, enjoyed over-priced substitutions. But at last I’ve reached the milestone from which there is no return. I feel like I’m finally inducted into some secret adulthood club and can actually call myself a real member.

I’ve officially reached the point in adulting where coffee is basically holy water.

Ah, coffee.

Growing up, the aroma was glorious, but when you tasted the dark liquid from your Dad’s mug, you sputtered and gaged, because that’s just nasty. Why doesn’t it taste like it smells? Why do grown-ups drink this crap?

“It’s an acquired taste,” my Dad would tell me.

So… you drink foul black fluid until you trick yourself into believing you actually like it? What’s the point?

Now, sitting here sipping a steaming cup of joe twenty years later, I get it.

A cup of coffee brings an adult comfort like the way our blankey used to bring us comfort. Apparently, when you become an adult, it’s frowned upon to carry around your blankey. So, instead, we keep it in a drawer and we pour a soothing cup of coffee. We inhale the splendid fragrance, and enjoy a taste we used to hate but now can’t live without.

“Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee.”

“Okay, I’ve had my coffee. Now don’t talk to me, because now I have to poop.”

“Okay, I pooped. But don’t talk to me, because I don’t like you.”

Ah, adulthood.

A spectrum of ups and downs and undefined in-betweens that rush us, whirl us, and leave us breathless in their wake.

It’s a lot. Too much, even.

But nothing a steaming cup of blankey won’t fix.

Mechanic Bills and Buying in Bulk

“Get your ass offline,” I messaged my co-worker when I saw her online during her day off.

I’m so professional.

“I’m going!” She replied. “Just wanted to quickly log on and send the team some information… I don’t want to be the reason anything gets delayed.”

I know adulting = responsibility, but is there ever a time this immense weight lifts from our shoulders? Our work culture has evolved to the point where so many of us cannot even relax on a vacation day. Out of a 52-week year, we already only get 2-3 weeks of vacation. Why are so many of us STILL WORKING on those vacation days? Stoppit!

If something good could ever come from the ‘rona, I hope it’s that we learn to re-evaluate our priorities and re-calibrate our work-life balance.

“Fine,” I typed back. “When you’re done, log off and go day drink or play Zelda.”

“Ha. I need to get my car from the shop, then venture to Costco. Talk about a PARTY.”

“You wild animal.”

This is what we’ve become. Our days off are no longer bottles of wine and Nintendo Switch adventures, but rather mechanic bills and buying in bulk. I hope we can all find once again what really matters in life. Take care of yourself, be with your loved ones, and leave time to find those Korok Seeds in Hyrule.

“At least spending $2k on my car will prevent me from going overboard at Costco,” she added.

“Hopefully this will have your car good to go for a while.”

“Fingers crossed.”

Cheez Itz and Diet Coke

The towel unraveled from my sopping hair and fell at my feet. A feeling of insecurity washed over me as I studied my naked body in the mirror. I turned to the side and studied the excessive curve of my shape and the way my thighs rested together.

I knew I wasn’t fat.

I knew that.

But I also felt




I pressed a hand to my belly, tugged at my flab, then sucked in my gut, imagining the way my body used to look.

I lost over twenty pounds just for the wedding.

And worked out three times a day and ate only 1000 calories to do so.

It should come as no surprise that such a lifestyle is not sustainable.

Like, at all.

So, I put it all right back on.

I think I felt ashamed, standing naked in my bedroom with a towel at my feet, because I had worked so damn hard for my wedding body, and somehow, I managed to let it slip through my fingers like sand. How quickly I let that motivation and determination leave my system and render me vacant.

It took me a long time after our nuptials to finally accept that my body simply is not designed to be slender and muscular. It just doesn’t want to be 130 pounds of muscle. It would much rather be a little squishy.

The way his arms hold me at night tells me that’s okay.

Let’s face it: without the motivation of a beautiful dress on a beautiful summer day, it is incredibly difficult to justify slaving away at the gym three separate times a day and living on hardboiled eggs. That doesn’t make me happy. You know what does make me happy? Cheez Itz and Diet Coke. At what point are we willing to sacrifice bliss for the stereotypical perfect body? I may not be slender and muscular like I was (again, for a hot sec), but I am curvy and no less beautiful.

That wasn’t easy to come to terms with. It’s almost natural to get stuck in comparisons of what you once were or what your friends are or what your sister has always been. Once I stopped comparing myself, I could just look at me for me and focus on liking what I saw in the mirror.

What am I saying here?

Love yourself.

You’re beautiful.

Be confident and let yourself shine as you tackle adulting.

And buying yourself a perfectly fitting power suit won’t hurt, either.