Repeat after me.
“If at first I don’t succeed…”
Go ahead. Say it.
The correct answer — the aspirational one, the one on the meme — is “I can try again.” Sweet. Optimistic. Functional. And yet what most of us actually hear, regardless of birth order, regardless of the stakes, regardless of whether we’re talking about a soufflé or a career pivot or parallel parking in a tight spot:
“It’s trash. I’m trash. I am NEVER doing that again.”
No notes. We’re all built a little wrong and I find that deeply comforting.
Speaking of things I will absolutely be doing again — last night Nick and I weren’t trying to have a moment. We just had one anyway. Two people doing different things in the same house, phones out, and suddenly we’re almost four years deep into videos we’d half forgotten existed. Evelyn. All of it. Infant Evelyn — the snuggly one, the one with no opinions and no stank face and no agenda whatsoever. And then clip by clip, the slow and magnificent evolution into the fully formed tiny human who now has thoughts and is absolutely not afraid to share them. Nobody warns you that your camera roll is quietly building a time capsule. That one random Thursday night it’s going to ambush you completely and you’re just going to sit there, undone, in the best possible way. We weren’t looking for it. It found us.
And yes, this is the same child who looked me dead in the eyes this week and said “what’s this smell?” with the casual confidence of someone who absolutely knows what the smell is. I am far too trusting. I will not be elaborating further.
On to the things I’ve been watching, because apparently that’s the kind of multitasking I’m doing with my emotions lately. The Bride — chef’s kiss. Does it lull in places? Sure. But it was a full date night win and there’s something to be said for a movie that earns its theater ticket. Go see it. Wuthering Heights — it was… okay. Hot take: the hype was mostly about the casting and honestly? Both leads delivered. But the story itself is unrequited love, an affair, twisted festering anger, and — SPOILER ALERT (if you haven’t read the book at this point that’s genuinely on you) — someone dies. It’s broody, it’s atmospheric, it’s well made. It was absolutely a couch-and-blanket watch, not a “pay for parking downtown” watch. No regrets watching it from my living room.
Now. The body stuff. Because apparently we’re doing this and I think we should keep doing it.
I’ve been doing some digging on those KIND patches. The verdict? The assistance they actually provide is minimal. If I’m building something sustainable they’re not the foundation — they’re more like a throw pillow. Cute, but structurally irrelevant. The MAGPlus+ update though? Still working like an absolute dream. That one has fully earned its place. Still highly recommend — no notes, zero regrets, take it 30 to 60 minutes before bed and not at 7pm while trying to accomplish things. Learn from me.
What’s actually working: routines. Sleep is regulating, which means I’m regulating, which means Evelyn is regulating. The butterfly effect of a mother’s nervous system is genuinely unhinged and I could write a whole separate post about it. Nick and I are back at the gym and we’re choosing ourselves again, which feels like more than a wellness win — it feels like a commitment. I’m back to intermittent fasting too, something I’ve loved before, but this round feels different. More intentional, less desperate. Earlier dinners, evening walks after we eat, earlier bedtimes. It’s working.
But here’s the thing I’ve had to actually sit with: I’ve had four C-sections. Four times a surgeon cut through my abdominal muscle and tissue. A six pack is no longer the goal — honestly it probably never should have been — and chasing surface level fixes was never going to get me where I actually want to go. The patches? Surface level. The HRT? That’s deeper. That’s getting to the actual foundation. And speaking of things we don’t talk about enough — perimenopause and menopause. The conversation is finally getting louder and I am here for it, because women have been white-knuckling through hormonal chaos in silence for generations and that is simply not it.
The evening walks have become sacred, by the way. After dinner, before Evelyn’s nap, rain or shine. I’ve started muttering to myself “getting outside is good for me and for my f**ing mental health”* like a little mantra and you know what? They weren’t wrong about that one. Every single person walking around on this earth has some form of trauma and I believe genuinely and deeply that it takes up residence in us. Our bodies are our homes, and like homes, they hold energy. The stuff we’ve been through doesn’t just live in memory. It lives in muscle and bone and the way we flinch or freeze or fight. The walks help move it.
Which brings me to something I’ve been chewing on — and no, this segue isn’t accidental.
I was vacuuming this morning. Genuinely excited about it because we finally got the replacement parts and there is an unreasonable amount of satisfaction in seeing what you’ve been missing. And I noticed all the dust under the furniture we never move. The stuff below the surface. The stuff we skip because moving the bed is a whole thing and honestly, who has the time?
But what if we moved the furniture?
Not just physically. Emotionally. In our bodies. In the stories we carry. Because yes, it’s a whole thing. It probably spirals into “THAT’S IT, I’M THROWING EVERYTHING AWAY” followed immediately by “oh my god, I forgot about this photo.” It’s chaotic and cathartic and completely worth it. That’s what my portrait and story series is about. I want to hear from women who’ve been through something — something that wrecked them, or humbled them, or changed the entire shape of who they are — and found joy on the other side. Not despite the hard thing. Because of it. I know there’s hesitation. I know it feels like moving furniture you haven’t touched in years — dusty and heavy and a little scary to look underneath. But how good does it feel when the deep cleaning is done? When you know what’s there?
The first in the series is coming in the next couple of weeks. If you have my number or my email — reach out. I would genuinely love to hear from you.
And on that note, if anyone needs me I’ll be at Time Warp Tavern. I did not see myself as a dive bar person — I want that on record — and yet Black Betty wings have a hold on me that I cannot explain and will not fight. Nick is fully compromised at this point and I take complete credit. Some things just find you.
We’re all out here doing our best with our very specific brand of unhinged.
That’s enough. That’s actually plenty.
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