I watched the Season 2 finale of Ted Lasso alone, on a Tuesday, for no reason except that it was Tuesday and I needed something on in the background while I made dinner. I did not expect it to rewind my whole life. There is a scene near the end
I have never once been part of the starting lineup. I've been the pinch hitter. The one who gets called off the bench when the game is on the line and someone needs a person who can be trusted to show up, swing hard, and not flinch. I&
"What do you mean it's never felt like home?" my friend asked, when I told them I was flying east for a few days. "It never really felt like home," I said. "I just didn't know that until I found somewhere
I've always been in conflict with my body, but last year that conflict got a name. Not in the dramatic sense. In the practical one. Over the past few years, I've had to plan around my cycle the way you plan around a storm system. Fewer
My grandmother called me yesterday. She operates on her own schedule, always has, so the call itself wasn't unusual. She wanted to hear my voice and make sure I was okay. She wanted to tell me how strong I am, how proud she is, for doing something for
I was walking back to my temporary address in the middle of the day, texting my dad as parents and children came and went from school. The sunshine was just right, and the laughter among the families made me grin. Someone had watered their plants, and the smell of wet
California has a way of making risk look slightly glamorous, which feels rude, quite frankly. The cliffs loom over you as if erosion is a lifestyle choice. The hills turn gold every summer, dry out completely, then wait for rain like they haven't been flirting with disaster for
Some songs don't just explain a feeling. They amplify emotion. Jimmy Eat World’s “Higher Devotion” does that for me. It sounds like patience running out. Like wanting to be understood without softening the ask. Like frustration after it has already tried to behave. That energy brings me
Some memories aren't triggered by stories or images. They flood the brain as a scent. Brackish air lifting off the riverbank before a storm rolls in. Dry hay baked by the sun. Honeysuckle blossoms near an old fence line. Woodsmoke from someone’s backyard. One whiff of fragrance,
There are things that I’ve recently realized about my East Coast existence. I appreciate the old buildings, the oak-lined neighborhoods, and the feeling that history is woven into every nook and cranny. I appreciate the seasons (all eight of them) clamoring for your attention. I appreciate that where
I’ve always been restless, though I’ve not always understood what kind. Sometimes it looked like anxiety. Sometimes it looked like curiosity. Sometimes it looked like impatience, indecision, or a practical need to get out of the house and move my body before the chatter in my brain became
I’ve had the Dawson’s Creek theme song stuck in my head lately, since it's been my binge drama of choice, but not in the nostalgic, singalong way. Even if I am singing it in the shower more often than not. It is the opening lyric to