I was reading Gertrude McFuzz to Evelyn the other day when I had a very adult realization: Dr. Seuss absolutely knew what he was doing. This wasn’t really a children’s book. Or maybe it was—but he wrote it knowing we’d come back to it later with more life under our belts and far less patience for nonsense.
As a kid, I saw silly birds and rhymes. As an adult, I see comparison. I see insecurity. I see what happens when someone else’s dissatisfaction starts whispering into your sense of self.
Gertrude starts with one feather. One perfectly good, perfectly appropriate feather. Her uncle even tells her—calmly and kindly—that she has exactly the right amount for the kind of bird she is. But then there’s Lolla-Lee-Lou. She has two feathers. She’s not bragging. She’s not trying to make a point. She’s just existing. And Gertrude cannot cope.
So Gertrude asks for another feather. Gets it. And immediately decides it still isn’t enough—because comparison never stops at equal. It escalates to more than. More than her. More than necessary. More than she can actually carry.
She keeps adding feathers until she can’t walk, can’t move, and can’t even enjoy what she worked so hard to get. Eventually, she has to undo it all, removing feather after feather until she’s back where she started. Same bird. One feather. Less weight. More peace.
That story stuck with me because it mirrors real life more than I care to admit.
At first, I thought it was about someone else—the kind of person who makes life harder without ever being direct about it. The jealousy isn’t loud. It’s persistent. The behavior isn’t accidental. It’s intentional. The goal isn’t growth—it’s company. Bless their heart.
But it’s also about blended family life and the anger people expect you to swallow politely while you keep doing everything “the right way.” Nick has pointed out—gently—that I carry anger toward his ex. He’s not wrong. He carries anger toward mine too, but his shows up in quieter ways because mine isn’t especially present. His makes her presence known. Repeatedly. Often at the emotional expense of children who didn’t ask for any of it.
We’ve been through the ringer over the last decade. Trials that would have broken a lot of people. And yet, we keep showing up. We keep choosing the family we’ve built. Not because we’re saints, but because lowering our standards to meet someone else’s behavior isn’t how we operate.
Anger doesn’t disappear just because you’re handling things well. Sometimes it sits there, waiting for somewhere to go.
Which brings me to my hair.
I recently cut it back into a pixie. Again. No announcement. No opinions requested. I just did it—quietly and decisively. I’d been growing it out because I told myself it would be easier, but it was also less me. It weighed down my energy, my movement, my mindset.
Some of it was grief. My mother had beautiful hair. Letting mine grow felt like holding onto her. I’m also letting my gray come in naturally—something she never got to do. But there was another layer I couldn’t ignore.
The comments were derogatory. Calling me a “dyke,” using short hair as a reason to imply lesser worth. I’m not offended by the word. I’m disgusted by the intention behind it. I’m protective of people’s choices. I’m protective of my own. Using appearance as a weapon says far more about the speaker than the target.
So yes, for a while I added feathers—not because I wanted them, but because I let someone else’s bitterness sit in my head longer than it deserved.
That ends here.
Because I’m not Gertrude anymore.
I’m Lolla-Lee-Lou. I’m minding my own business. Living a life someone else felt entitled to but didn’t do the work for. Loving my family. Choosing peace. Showing up. Being happy. And apparently, that alone makes some people deeply uncomfortable.
I also realized something else while sitting with this story. Being angry is just another version of adding feathers. You think it’s protecting you, keeping you upright, giving you something to hold onto—but really, it just makes everything heavier. I can be Gertrude and Lolla-Lee-Lou at the same time. I’ve carried comparison. I’ve carried anger. And I know how exhausting that feels. It has to be so tiring to live that way—to be so focused on what’s missing or what went wrong that you can’t see the beauty right in front of you. To miss gratitude for the life you have now because you’re still angry it didn’t unfold exactly how you thought it should simply by existing.
I hope they find peace in their valley. I hope they heal there. And I hope they stay the fuck out of mine.
They say hair carries trauma and history. Maybe that’s true—because when I cut it, I felt something else go with it. The weight. The anger. The need to explain myself to people who were never asking in good faith.
Today I’m tired. It’s one of those mornings that feels lived-in already. I’m sitting on the couch post-shower, Evelyn curled up next to me watching Blue’s Clues and flipping through Six by Seuss while I write this. Teenagers are teenagers. Toddlers get sick. Life is messy. And somehow, I’m still content.
The source matters. At this age, I refuse to rearrange myself to make someone else comfortable with my existence. I will continue to choose what feels light.
My feathers are plenty. And I’m very happy with mine.
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