When my grandmother passed away, her collection of antiques found themselves with my aunt - my grandmother’s daughter. Now when I say found themselves, I’m referring to the arduous process of the Division of Things; a process those of us with loss on our shoulders know all too well. Speaking from my experience with my own mother’s Things, and in my conversations with my aunt about her experience with her mother’s Things, we came to the same conclusion: it’s not that we necessarily wanted to keep it all - we just didn’t want to let go of it yet. Perhaps this is why the process of clearing out my mother’s bedroom included removing her mother’s vanity and her grandmother’s dresser. I imagine she suffered the same fate of Things.

Sure, there’s a story of grief and heartache woven in here somewhere; that we’re all just children inheriting our parents’ belongings, and their parents’ belongings. That getting rid of a person’s Things is like getting rid of them, and how could we do that. That clinging to the Things is out of obligation; but I think that argument paints a darker, more grim color on something that could otherwise be considered a beautiful, uniquely human emotion: sentimentality. I keep my mom’s favorite vase not because I think I owe it to her to do so, but because every time I look at it I remember the roses she’d place in it before setting it on my bedside table. My aunt keeps pieces from my grandmother’s antique collection not out of some sense of duty, but because it’s a part of her legacy. There’s a viewpoint here that we’re not all just children inheriting the Things, but rather each of us is a traveling circus-like homage to the people we love and the people we’ve lost.

This is not an argument for hoarding, to which I am no innocent party. Just like it’s okay to keep things, I think it’s okay to let them go, too. But honoring a person through their Things is a beautiful way to recognize their personhood, and if that means holding on to the Things for a year, five, or fifteen - the sentimentality of it all makes us human. And someday, maybe someone will be holding on to your Things, too.

At least that’s what I tell myself in the midst of a deep, dark winter.

The waxing and waning of the seasons is what makes spring such a special time of year for any of us with the willingness to offer even the longest of winters such an excuse. In spring, slowly, and covered in pollen, the weight of the winter months are lifted from our backs, as if we thought the dark days might last forever. The flowers bloom, sometimes only to snap back on a cold evening or two - and every year I seem to find a different flower more prominent in each garden than I noticed in any year prior. This year, it’s irises. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, I’m sure.

The sun comes back. Spring brings with her a sense of newness, of renewal, of growth, and of hope’s promise - in ourselves and in others. Spring is also the notorious kick-off of wedding season. This seems quite fitting, does it not?

This past weekend, I attended the wedding of my dear friends. The event was small, personal, and so unbelievably special. Inspiring in its quiet intimacy, their ceremony and reception overflowed with joy and love - reflecting all the beauty of spring herself. Being a part of something so significant reminded me of the divine concept of renewal, and of gratitude for the gift that love, friendship, and spring can give us all.

In a time so wrought with heartache, brokenness, and instability - it’s a blessing to be reminded that good things are happening all around us. And spring, she offers the perfect time to look for them. Hey, the days are longer.

I saw a story online recently about a man who fell in love with his AI girlfriend, whom he affectionately named Sol. What started as simple technical support for his various hobbies quickly turned into a ‘deep emotional bond’ that resulted in his proposal - and folks, Sol said yes!

If you thought this story couldn’t get any more peculiar, think again. This man not only has an AI girlfriend (fiancee?), but he also has a very real partner and daughter.

Like any normal human being, this story at first glance made me laugh out loud. Falling in love with a chatbot? You’ve got to be kidding me. But, also like any normal human being, hidden just beneath the surface of this story I noticed something much more sinister - what’s happening to us? And further: what’s happening to us?

The use of artificial intelligence in the form of chatbots and integrated programs has hit nearly every corner of the internet, and in turn, our lives. I think we can all agree that any other argument is moot. And much like anything with a use case for time-saving and money-making, I certainly don’t blame anyone for using the Chat GPTs and Claudes of the world to make their lives a little easier, at work, at home, or anywhere in between. But I also argue that we’re sitting ducks if we don’t start thinking critically about the negative affects of AI. And I think, again, we can all agree that any other argument is moot. Here’s why.

While there is certainly a strong and important point to be made about the risks of using AI to create art and music - the importance of art and music to the human mind and imagination, their cognitive impacts, and their cultural relevance and ability to keep us in touch with our very souls, all that jazz - this piece is not about that; not because I don’t agree, but because there’s one component to this point that is missing: money. And I’m not trying to sound bleak or cynical here - we just all know there isn’t always money in art (nor should there always be; remember, I’m a poet, people).

Companies around the world are adopting new models and ways of operating for one reason and one reason alone - capital. Sure, they might say that their AI Implementation Strategies are to increase productivity, effectiveness, customer satisfaction - but let’s get real here. What do all of these things have in common? The bottom line. Being ‘in the black’. That gorgeous, gorgeous green. Profit! And maybe doing good, sometimes - but that’s an argument for another day.

Organizations of all sizes are rushing to integrate AI into their everyday processes in order to stay ahead; and can you really blame them? But in all of this, a resounding gong: what happens when we get there? The race to the AI finish line is a fool’s errand, as the goal posts will only continue to shift. Continued advancements in this type of technology are inevitable. And in all of this, some might simply argue we’re replacing our own jobs; saving companies so much money that their human capital - at least those in the center of the latter - aren’t necessary any more. The jobs that can be replaced by AI will inevitably be replaced by AI, and in its wake, those of us trying to earn a living in the middle will get left behind if we can’t keep up.

So how do we keep up? How do we make ourselves stand out, set ourselves aside, and remind ourselves of our worth in the wake of the technological horrorscape unfolding before us? Find what makes you human. By this, I mean find what makes you who you are, and run with it. My fiance walks into a room and makes a point to chat with everyone there, in hopes that he might make a new friend (I assure you, he always does) - AI doesn’t do friends. A friend of mine gifted me a monstera that has grown five new leaves since coming to our home, because she knows how much I wanted to be a plant mom - AI doesn’t do want. I drink a cup of sleepy-time tea every night even though I know it won’t help, but I still have hope that it might - AI doesn’t do hope.

And as for the gentlemen who fell in love with Sol - I think it’s fitting to note that he programmed that love himself. Perhaps it was in him all along.

We all have issues putting our phones down. I talked about this in a previous piece, but I’m still thinking about it. I’m attempting to take the steps to rectify my screen time, but regardless - when I’m in a downward spiral doomscroll, I find that my targeted ads and content are getting a little too targeted. Somehow, my whole algorithm knows I’m getting married, knows my family has small children and that I might someday too, knows I dabble in a pilates class or two - and even knows some of my deepest insecurities; and has offered countless ways to ‘fix’ those insecurities. It doesn’t seem to know I have a Master’s Degree - but that’s besides the point. Or maybe it is the point. Hear me out.

While I’m inundated with white outfits and bridal must-haves, tips for how to be the perfect ‘mama,’ and how to get snatched for the summer by following these five waist-shrinking steps, my fiance is learning about the fall of Rome and how to chop garlic. One of these things is not like the other.

It’s hard to ignore the gendered stereotypes and norms that are at play in these examples. While I know men do fall victim to the manosphere - the interconnected web of misogynistic online content masquerading as self-help for men1 - the emergence of these arguments has me thinking about women’s battles against the same type of content - and how long we’ve been fighting; further, I’m thinking about how the internet’s campaign for self-love is perhaps the manosphere hiding in plain sight.

This brings us back to how the internet capitalizes on our insecurities and tells us the simple solution: buy buy buy.

Are you tired of being built like a rectangle? Snatch your waist by buying this strange vibrating elastic contraption, available now on Amazon.

Listen up ladies, it’s hot girl summer and you only have 3 months to get it tight. Buy a pilates at home work out set, it will change your life, available now on Amazon.

Everyone has been asking about my old money aesthetic skin care routine. NO ONE HAS BEEN ASKING.

Self-love as a movement is arguably if not inherently feminist at its core.2 The act of ‘self-love’ was at some point considered a ‘radical’ behavior, as it pushes against societal norms and gender stereotypes; it dictates that women should prioritize their own well-being, and in doing so we can live happier and more fulfilled lives. This does not mean the act of self-love aims to outweigh our ability to nurture our relationships, our obligations to the world around us, and our desire for connection. However, the feminist argument for self-love pushes us to re-center the preservation of self, which in turn allows more space and energy for all of the other pieces of our lives.

However, over the past decade, the argument for self-love has quickly become weaponized as a tool for capitalism and misogyny; if you buy this, you can fix that. Consume because you love yourself and you want to be your best self. Maybe if your living room looked a little more like Anthropologie, you won’t want to wade into the sea. You still might, but buy this trinket to see if it helps!

Somehow, something inherently good got flipped on its head and became yet another way for people - specifically women - to feel like they’re not doing enough. And unfortunately I’m not entirely sure how to fix it. I like buying new things! But maybe the first step, even before putting our phones down (because we know how hard this is), is this: look for it. When you see content you don’t like, say so. Rather than ignoring the algorithm, maybe we can change it.

Between Netflix, Hulu, HBO Max, Prime, Apple TV, Peacock, and Paramount (I know I’m missing a few), we have more access to streamed content than ever before. Blink once and a new show or movie is at your fingertips. However, if you’re anything like me, you might always seem to turn back to your tried and true. Sure, there’s an argument somewhere here for the higher quality media of days gone by, but even psychologists and sociologists alike argue there are deeper-seated reasons for the rewatch.

Familiarity gives our brain the rest it needs in an era where we are exposed to more stimuli than we are supposed to handle; it’s nice to know what to expect because it allows our brains to ‘turn off’ or focus on something else entirely (shout out to big-screen-while-scrolling-on-little-screen time).1 But even more so, I think the concept of familiarity offers up the sweet respite of nostalgia; the very human desire and longing for something as it once was; or the wish for something perfect to stay that way forever.

In my last short, I wrote about how maybe everything gold can stay if we just keep coming back to it; maybe that’s why I revisit Liz and Jack so often, or re-read my favorite Elin Hilderbrand books every summer. But perhaps some things are only gold because they happened in a fleeting moment, and what made them so special is the fact that they didn’t last forever. I saw a clip recently of an interview with a florist, who when asked how to keep flowers from dying responded that flowers aren’t supposed to last forever. They take their time to bloom, create something beautiful, remind us to live in the present moment - and then they are gone.2

There’s nothing wrong with wanting nice things to stay the way they are, or wishing you could go back to the way things “were,” but if we spent every moment in that mindset, maybe we wouldn’t notice the flowers blooming around us. Maybe these are the good old days that you will one day wish you could go back to.

.

Over the years, we’ve watched Plattekill adapt to accommodate its growing customer base, shifting environmental conditions, and encroaching competition. While these changes are inevitable, some things remain constant - and I was reminded of that this past weekend. It’s always a treat to come back to the things that make a place, and to get to share those things with the people you love. If you’re lucky, at Plattekill one of those things is hidden between the trees off an undisclosed trail - and calls itself The Cardenal.

The Cardenal sits beneath the snow waiting for cold skiiers to answer its call. A Spanish brandy by definition, the Cardenal acts as a communal hearth on the mountain, and has grown in popularity exponentially since it was first brought there. While the drink itself is certainly no secret, its location remains a mystery to most each season; even more mysterious, I think, is the purpose it serves. Some seek the Cardenal for a first-line reason alone: warmth on a long run down the mountain. Others perhaps seek it out to offer their prayers for more snow or a longer winter. I myself find it each season for the tradition of spending time with my people, doing the thing we love: skiing. And - it tastes great on a cold day.

It’s clear that the Cardenal’s popularity has turned to celebrity over the years - and its presence is one of a handful of things at Plattekill that make it the mountain we love. Regardless of why one makes their way to the Cardenal - or does anything they love, for that matter - there’s something to be said for the feeling we get when we are reminded of the beauty of tradition and the sanctity of ritual. Getting to come back to a place with the people I love to do what we love is something I cherish and will never take for granted.

Embracing a thing’s changing landscape while holding tight to its inner descant - this is your home, you belong here - is both an empowering stance and humbling reminder: something will always stay if you keep coming back to see it.

While Frackville may be considered a small town by the Census, it serves as a rather historic landmark for my family during our drives up and down Interstate 81. This is not because the town itself is considered halfway between our destinations - it’s not - or because there’s much to do there outside of a quick gas station stop or a trip to a very clean and well-run McDonald’s (which I have aptly named the Mountain Top McDonald’s due to that fact that it is situated on a hill overlooking the town). Frackville is a landmark for us simply because we always find ourselves stopping there, whether traveling together or solo. And that’s the running joke: that no matter what we do, we can never really escape Frackville. We always come back.

Having grown up in a small town myself, I too find myself trapped in the dissonant space between a love for home’s charm and a disdain for its sometimes suffocating nature. If I spend a few too many days there, I think I might get swallowed whole. But then I remember something about its kindhearted nature, and I always come back. Flooded with golden sunlight in the summers, clerks at the DMV who smile and say they ‘knew he’d be back’ when they return the ID to a man in line after he’d left it at the bar the night before, and ladies at church who knew your mom’s mom (and remember you from when you were this big), a small town like mine is full of stories and chatter; a small town is full of people who know your name, and there’s something beautiful about that - painfully so when you know it’s not a place you belong anymore.

I suppose it’s normal to get uncomfortable when you stay in one place for too long, sure - but there is something deeper that often goes unnoticed or overlooked when you decide to do something about it. Leaving home is a lonely endeavor, and the majority of young people don’t do it. In fact, 80% of young adults in the United States live less than 100 miles from their hometown, and 60% live less than ten.2 The older I get, I can understand why. While ‘moving away’ can sometimes be fueled by general access to outside opportunities, apparently one thing it isn’t fueled by is peer pressure - particularly in a small town where not a lot of folks are doing it.

The courage it takes to go out ‘on your own’ can get overshadowed by your ability to do so. The statistics leave us with a small slice of young people who are building their own communities, practices, and lives, and that should stand for something. But while doing so, they often distance and sometimes isolate themselves from the villages that raised them; especially when the reason they left in the first place was a lack of a sense of belonging.

The question now: Can you ever really go home once you’ve left?

This is not an argument for staying or going, but rather an argument to return. Whether it’s for a moment, a month, or for good - home might not be a place you belong, but it should always be a place you can come back to.

From Romeo and Juliet’s fated union to Taylor Swift’s Tortured Poets Department, the familiar tropes of forbidden, or toxic, or unrequited, or lost love truly span across time and medium. The thrill of the chase, miscommunication, drama, intrigue - all with the potential for a happily ever after that requires characters to practically change their entire personalities but what if! - draws us in for reasons relatively unknown but not hard to uncover (here’s looking at you, Stephen DeMarco). No corner of the zeitgeist is safe from emotionally damaging character arcs, doomed love stories, or unhealthy interpersonal dynamics - because we’re never satisfied. The I love you, it’s ruining my life of it all!

Similar to my thoughts on reality television, I think we’re drawn to these types of storied relations as a way of projection and escapism. Conversely, there is an argument to be made for the authenticity of the toxic relationship; that their up-and-down nature is somehow more genuine and reflective of real human experiences.1 Not to mention, tumultuous, unpredictable will-they-won’t-they storylines tend to be more exciting, especially when playing out “on screen.” But that doesn’t mean they have a healthy place in the real world, despite how salacious it might feel.

You know it’s true: regardless of how well adjusted we all think we are, we sometimes, against our better judgement, apply these same principles to our own real-world love lives. We seek out the complicated route to romance, not always because it might feel more fun - but more often because it feels more familiar. If we see it play out on screen or in our pages every day, why wouldn’t we look for that same dynamic outside our own window? I think this is a place where the lines between pop culture and real life are particularly blurry, and not in a fun Bravo TV way. In fact, I think our obsession with this type of interpersonal, romantic drama lends itself to the argument that it’s hard to fall in love, and even harder to stay there. We trade in authenticity for theatricality, and true love for plotting and scheming; maybe because we think we deserve it, maybe because it’s more exciting to us, or maybe because it’s what we’re reading, watching, and consuming every day. By standing in line for the rollercoaster ride, we miss the opportunity for a ride in the swan boats. This isn’t to say that real, genuine connection can’t be fun, exciting, or dramatic - but it shouldn’t be what keeps us coming back for the next episode.

Social media algorithms use data, systems, and learning models to curate the perfect personalized user experience, designed to keep you scrolling.1 That is, your activity in the Internet of Things is being meticulously tracked, analyzed, and often sold - and we let it happen all in the name of five more minutes. A disappointing and scary result, sure - but I don’t think this is inescapable or irreversible.

Concern around screen time is not new. Countless voices, from the average social media skeptic to psychological experts have expressed growing worry around screen time and its impacts on mental health, as well as apprehension as to whether it’s all worth it.2 This has resulted in many a how-to for reducing phone time, most of which I have been trying to incorporate in my daily life. This advice includes but isn’t limited to leaving your phone in another room or setting time restrictions on certain apps; some even go as far as to revert back to a flip phone (this is more tempting to me as of late). I think taking these steps to limit content consumption and phone time in general can be a good start, but all of these tips and tricks beg the question in my mind: what should I do instead?

The answer I’m about to give might sound simple: hang out with your friends more. Plan more outings. Host more gatherings. Have more parties. Be a source of community, in whatever way that looks like for you.

There is nothing more satisfying and good for your spirit than time with your community. Friendships boost your mood, your sense of belonging3, and shift your focus from everything bad in the world to everything good right in front of you. And while sometimes I come across a funny Real Housewives clip online or a hopefully-not-AI short of two brothers singing along to their favorite song in their mom’s car, even a good Meredith Marks one-liner can’t replace a quick yap over a glass of wine under a comfy blanket on my couch with my girlfriends. I don’t think the algorithm could ever do that.

The fate of the world is a bite much bigger than we can chew, yet we are constantly fed it through our phones. What could happen if you left your phone at home and went out to eat instead?

I never thought about my ‘forever’ in terms of with whom I’d spend it, or whether it would all start in a backyard or a ballroom. I never thought about cakes, flowers, colors, themes, or dresses. I know this is not the case for every little girl, especially according to every show, movie, magazine, or book geared toward young, impressionable things with hearts in their eyes. But outside of a woman’s incessant exposure to the trope that someday indeed her prince will come, and that her wedding day is the most important day of her life - some girls are just excited about finding love and having a huge, romantic party to celebrate it - and there’s nothing wrong with that, unless you hate joy.

But there is a slice of us - those of us who never drank the bridal Kool Aid, whether we avoided it or it never got poured for us; and within that slice, an even thinner slice: the ones who fell in love anyway.

And sometimes those girls still have to plan a wedding.

When I found my forever - a story for another day even though I know he’s reading this - is when I started thinking about what it would mean to get married. And after we both decided hey that sounds pretty nice - I had to start thinking about what it would mean to have a wedding, and whether I even wanted one at all.

Finding the love of my life, the man who brings a crowd together like it’s his job and has a long list of best friends to call on Sundays - made the latter question easy to answer: of course I wanted a wedding. I wanted the big party, surrounded by the people we love. But having never considered what that wedding would actually look like - tables, chairs, linens, decor, food, music, you name it - I found myself at a crossroads. Somehow, I needed to combine my desire to have a big wedding with my tendency to overthink, under-share, and refuse any offer to delegate out of fear of being burdensome to those I care about most. Someone get this girl a shrink!

Barreling toward my own wedding later this year, I’ve come to the realization that these things cannot exist at the same time. I can’t simultaneously want the big wedding while being nonchalant about that same wedding. I can’t be a ‘cool bride;’ and in fact - I don’t think anyone should be. Why should anyone be ‘cool’ about the things they want? If it’s to make our own lives easier, that is simply misguided. Hiding enthusiasm for the things we care about I think often comes from a place of fear and guilt; fear of being judged, and guilt around having any expectations of the world around you. And there’s nothing cool about fear and guilt.

While I could enter into a diatribe about how the ‘cool bride or bridezilla’ trope is inherently gendered and puts undue pressure on women in a society that already expects them to manage the emotions and expectations of everyone around them - that’s not exactly my point. Rather, my argument is this: you don’t need to be the cool bride. You don’t need to be the cool anything. Share your enthusiasms with the world or suffer in silence under the weight of likeableness. Speak what you want out loud and often, otherwise your world is not yours anymore.

Nestled on top of a hill overlooking the village, the Cobleskill Rural Cemetery is home to some of the nicest real estate in the county. People are just dying to get in there…

Having reason to visit more often than not, I’m always struck by how beautiful it is up there. Not only is the Cemetery filled with stunning maples, the larger of which I imagine have been there as long as the Cemetery’s first residents - the views visible from the highest points of the grounds are quite breathtaking (pun intended). In fact, in high school my friends and I would call the stunning view of the hills behind the Cemetery ‘the in-between’ - a name both chilling and comforting all at once, and a view I’d get used to looking at in the years to come.

Isn’t there something so fascinating about a small town cemetery? When I was a teenager, my father and I would take drives through the older parts of the Cemetery after school. Ice cream in hand and driving over enlarged tree roots, we would take a look at the oldest headstones we could find, many of which had names I recognized, as they were shared by my classmates. Many of which I’d also come to find (and continue to find out on practically a daily basis) are shared by my own family tree.

One afternoon, we drove slowly toward a group of headstones, on which the same large family name was engraved - ROSE.1 I thought it fascinating that this family shared a last name with the street I lived on with my father when I was a child, only to quickly learn that not only was the street named for them, it was their driveway. In fact, the house at the end of Rose street belonged at one time to the Roses themselves.

The house at the end of Rose street was also the house I grew up in — and the Rose family did not like us.

Mr. Rose was the village doctor, and he lived in the Victorian-style home with his wife and many children during the 19th century. Sadly, all but one in the Rose family line passed away from illness, leaving the final Rose alone with the house until his own end later in life.

The sad history of the home lends itself to a ghost tale or two, as you can imagine. I don’t remember hearing about the history of the Rose house when I lived in it, but I don’t mind that. However, perhaps the untimely end to the Rose line explains an errant dish clatter, a little girl I saw in the hallway once, the mysterious army general uniform my father found in the attic, or perhaps the fact that my brother and I were both too scared to ever go upstairs alone. So many rogue, random, often hair-raising events took place in that house that eventually, my family found itself sequestered to the main living room, spending most of our time gathered together in front of the grand fireplace.

I always thought the chilling events that unfolded in the house at the end of Rose street were because the ghosts of the house wanted it to themselves. The residents that have come and gone since we were there might say the same thing. But I suppose there could be a different way to understand a haunted house.

When I think of this chapter in my life, my memories are not that of the ghosts and ghouls. While they certainly make for a good dinner table story, when I look back at my time in the Rose house, my mind always wanders back to the fireplace; to that magnificent hearth, with my father building a giant fire as my brother and I fought over whose turn it was to play Sims on our Windows ‘98. Time well spent, together.

Maybe, this is where the Roses wanted us all along.

But alas - a beacon of hope in the otherwise gray, lonely, bleak abyss.

A group of twenty/thirty-somethings head to the Hamptons for the summer, and your life is changed forever. A closeness you haven’t felt in months blossoms as you learn the ins and outs of their personal lives. You laugh and cry alongside them as they fumble their way through their own work-hard play-harder lifestyles. A new friendship takes flight at a time when isolation is so familiar it’s almost the standard.

The catch? You’ve never met these people in your life. This is Summer House on Bravo TV, and you can’t stop watching. More notably, you don’t want to.

Summer House was the first reality television series I ever started watching. In the depths of the COVID pandemic, I began watching at the recommendation of some friends and family, and the show has brought us great joy and lots to talk about. My exploration of the genre continued with both Vanderpump Rules and Real Housewives of Salt Lake City (the only Real Housewives if you ask me) - and I can’t get enough.

If you’re a fan of any of the above mentioned, you know that each series has had its time in the proverbial sun: from Vanderpump Rules’ Tom Sandoval and his salacious affair with his co-star (followed by his strange redemption arc on The Traitors, a topic deserving of its own article entirely) to RHSLC’s Jen Shah and her very public FBI investigation and arrest via SWAT team (followed by a stint in prison where she reportedly became best friends with Elizabeth Holmes, another topic deserving of its own article).

Recently, two major players in Summer House announced their separation - a major blow to fans everywhere, though those of us who have been with the show since its inception saw this coming. Upon hearing about the news, I quickly sent texts to many of my friends who share the same love for the show and its people. The internet - at least my corner of it - was (and still is) ablaze with collective shock, sadness, and questions: “Will they come back to the house?” “What about the dogs?” “I feel like my friends are getting divorced.”

Their reactions to the news as well as my own are very telling, and it got me thinking: what is it about reality TV? How does it draw its audience so close to the line of para-social relationships - and why? Whenever someone naive to the ways of reality television asks me how could you possibly watch that stuff - my answer is simple. Before launching into a characteristic rant about how watching reality television is actually a sign of intellectual curiosity, I usually rely on a tried and true response: escapism.1

Reality television helps us explore the nuances and drama of someone else’s life without letting it directly impact our own. I think this is a healthy lifestyle choice for anyone who takes on the emotional burden of the world around them (something that seems to be getting harder and harder to avoid these days). Further, this helps us release the gas pedal from our own lives, slow down, and enjoy something for a change. How terrible.

Reality TV also pushes us to consider the social and psychological reasons behind someone’s behavior. If you’re anything like me, I love a good personality analysis. No, not judgement - but learning through observation, taking note of behavior, and using it to inform future decisions. We as the audience can allow ourselves to become practically board-certified therapists and life coaches, investing ourselves in the well-being of people we feel like we know. In turn, this might translate to our own lives, and push us to have a greater understanding of our peers, colleagues, and communities. Again - how terrible.

For these reasons, I have a lot of respect for my “friends” on reality television. They open themselves up to criticism and can really suffer the consequences because of it. We as the audience feel entitled to a front row seat to their divorces, affairs, and addictions - and I can only imagine how ugly the receiving side of internet comments can be. I might not get money from brand deals, but at least when I make a dumb decision it doesn’t get picked apart by millions of people. So this tiny substack article goes out to you, my reality TV stars - thank you, and keep it coming! It’s great to feel something.

If you’re still questioning whether to get on the reality TV train, I don’t blame you. Maybe you like staying in the real world. I for one enjoy my weekly forays to the Hamptons, and if you change your mind - maybe I’ll see you there.

I heard the slasher comes at night

to change and mark your face

He takes the laughter, tears, and smiles

and leaves lines in their place

I never thought he’d come for me

but I suppose I’ll have to bear it

For what a joy it is

to take my life and wear it

Birthdays are like mirrors. A time to reflect, repent, change your entire personality, or run away screaming. If you’re lucky, a birthday is a time you’ve never felt more loved. Or if you’re like me, you feel very loved while also wanting to cry. What’s that about?

When I was a kid, I think it was the anticipation of a birthday party, the perfect gift, the Carvel cake I got to have first thing in the morning - it was all too much for my little nervous system to handle and I would end up crying by the end of the day.

But as I get older (yes I do still cry at some point on or around my birthday), I think the reason for my tears might be a bit more nuanced.

I’m turning 33 this week, and while I know deep down this is no cause for too much of an existential crisis, that number is feeling a little serious. Naturally, I’ve been thinking a lot about the passage of time - reflecting on the introduction to my thirties that the last three years have brought me. I have more lines on my face now, but I have more memories, too. I met dozens of new people; I went to new places; I fell in love; I became an aunt; I held my friends as their worlds shattered; I laughed with them as we realized we’re the grown ups now; I drank too much wine at book club; I didn’t drink enough wine at book club; I watched my friends have babies; I found my wedding dress.

My thirties have been the best decade of my life. Sure, my twenties were a party and I certainly had a lot more energy - but my thirties have brought with them perspective, and I think that’s only something we earn with years and experiences. Something to wear with pride and dignity, knowing you’ve lived in your truth and you have the strength and power to use that to build the life you want; while also knowing that maybe, just maybe - the best is yet to come.

Life was moving so fast in my twenties, I don’t think I had time to even understand what was happening. Moving into my mid-thirties (I’m practicing saying this), I can look back on my twenties with something more than a nostalgia hangover; I can see that I was lucky in the sense that I could afford to stay as busy as possible, because life hadn’t clotheslined me yet - at least not in a way that actual pushed me over. But, despite this realization, I don’t want to go back.

Each day since 30 has been a miracle. Life continues to unfold like a giant roadmap kept in my glove compartment. I’ll take the potholes and detours - at least it’s another day on the road.

But every spring, with a whisper and then a roar — April’s sun would return and drag my small town out of the bleak cold and into the light. Magic happened in April.

My mom loved spring, so it was rather fitting she would make her exit at its first sighting. Even more fitting, in her absence winter seemed to snap back in full force. Despite April’s promise, it was not honored on top of the hill that day. I can remember the wind’s vengeance, my knees shaking in my best friend’s black dress - the one she let me borrow the night before - god forbid my mother see me wear Old Navy cotton to her funeral. The bitter cold air played its age old trick, stealing my breath as I choked on my words - this time, in competition with another thief: Grief.

My Friend Grief

In the months that followed, there was no friend more loyal to me than Grief. While our introduction was not one I asked for, sometimes our most influential relationships don’t always happen on purpose.

Grief made himself known around every corner, as friends often do. At first we talked constantly, and it felt as though he understood me in ways no one else could. I felt seen through Grief’s eyes, and he made me believe the only way to stay close to my mom was to stay close to her loss, and to the torment I felt alongside it. As months passed, distance grew between us as is characteristic of long-term friendships; but when we picked up again, it was like nothing had ever changed. Grief found his way back into my life every time I thought maybe he was gone forever; in the late nights and quiet mornings, surrounded by people but alone in the corners of my sleep-deprived mind. He was always there, following each storyline like a comma.

My relationship with Grief ranks in my most toxic - but he taught me a lesson or two about what can grow from heartbreak.

The seemingly inescapable codependent conundrum I found myself in led me to one of my first pieces; sharing this piece in its original format opened a door I didn’t even know was there - more on that later. Until then:

i hold hands with grief

i hold hands with grief - he holds hands with me, too

he reminds me of what i have lost - he reminds me of you.

if i let go for just a moment and turn my face towards the sun

he pulls my fingers back into his and says ‘are you forgetting someone?’

‘no!’ I say, and hold on tight while we walk on, together.

we sit in shade, we block the sun - toxic, tangled, tethered.

‘why must you do this to me?’ i ask him this each day —

his response, without a beat: ‘because you want it that way.’

Spring Again

After a year of dust, dark, and heartache, spring finally returned. This time muted, but familiar in its request for something new. It was April again, and while I could still feel Grief’s hands desperately clawing to keep me trapped in the cold winter months, there was a force stronger still pulling me toward the light of spring’s days: Hope.

A reminder that it will always be April again.

That brings me here.

When I was 28, my mom died. It was sudden, tragic, and quiet. She was here and then she wasn’t, and I was left with a broken heart, a bone to pick, and no where to scream. So - I started to write. Little rhymes and big ideas poured out of me, so much so it felt like she was with me, helping me cope with the loss. Eventually I accrued quite the collection of pieces on grief, heartbreak, and healing; some of which up until this point I have not shared on a public platform. Through writing, I found light and love again. I took back my life from the cold hands of loss, and turned my pain into something else - hope.

With the encouragement of my family and friends, I’m starting this page to share my work in hopes that it might help someone else dealing with the immeasurable pain of grief.

If you’ve made it this far, I hope you’ll stay.

Clover

Subscribe now