This week was a lot. I want to start there because I think sometimes we skip past that part and go straight to the lesson or the silver lining and I’m not quite ready to do that yet.
Marisa had to say goodbye to Nala on Monday. If you know, you know. If you don’t — it’s grief. Full stop. It doesn’t matter that she was a dog. It matters that she was hers. I can still remember when Nala came home — brought in as a companion for Dandy after they lost Woody, because that’s what you do when your house gets too quiet and your heart isn’t done yet. Dandy didn’t stay long after that. And then came Buzz, because Nala’s breeder called and asked if Marisa knew anyone who wanted the last male yellow lab and the answer, obviously, was Marisa. Mina followed a year later. Three dogs, all close in age, all siblings, all one litter apart. I remember thinking at the time — with love, with a little bit of dread — that the grief ahead of her was going to be staggering. She knew it too. She did it anyway.
I didn’t expect to feel her loss the way I did. It wasn’t specifically for Nala. It was that grief women carry in general — the empathy that allows us to remember exactly how it felt to hold it together for everyone else while we were quietly falling apart. She said it herself: “I can handle and manage my own pain, but the pain for the kids crushes me.” I know that sentence in my bones. I recognize that strength and I feel the heaviness of it with her, knowing that her heart needs that same love and consideration she gives so freely to everyone else. Grief waits. And when it finds you, it brings everything with it.
The portrait series letter has been delivered. She has her reflection questions. She has my heart in an envelope. And life — real, tender, unpredictable life — has reminded us both that there’s no rushing what needs to unfold naturally. Her piece will come when it’s ready. That feels right.
Meanwhile, I am packing for Chicago. Impatiently. Aggressively. The bag is not packed because I will absolutely overpack if I do it too early and I have enough self awareness to know that about myself. My sister and I are seeing Florence and the Machine and I have been looking forward to this with my whole chest for months. I did, however, do the math and discover that “Flo” — not Florence Welsh, the other one — will also be making the trip. I have not wished for a period to be late or aggressively early more times in my life than I have this week. It is not cooperating. If I have to be an emotional wreck in another city, I genuinely could not ask for a better soundtrack.
In the interest of full transparency, Nick watched me cycle through approximately every outfit I own Sunday as a very committed packing exercise. What looked like chaos was actually a highly sophisticated system — interchangeable pieces, comfort-based, thoughtfully curated. He nodded in agreement with the choices, was more than obliging when assistance was requested, and is fully on board with my excitement for this trip. He is a wise and wonderful man. The pile currently lives on the floor next to my closet, fully organized, simply waiting for the carry-on to be ready.
The quart size bag has been tested, refined, and approved. Makeup is minimal and intentional. I am not bringing seventeen products to cry at a Florence and the Machine concert. I am bringing exactly what I need and nothing more. Jet setter mode is fully activated.
The body this week has been a whole conversation. It’s push week — ovulatory energy is real and I have been in the gym showing up and showing out. My 45 year old body has been keeping pace and also gently, consistently reminding me that it is not 25. The creatine is helping with recovery in ways I want to write an entire love letter about. The scale has moved — four pounds down, which I will absolutely take — but there is a number I have been trying to break through for three years and it is just sitting there, unmoved, unbothered, completely unbothered, like it owns the place. And I’ll be honest with you about why it’s taken this long to get here. It’s not that I haven’t tried. It’s that this is the first time in three years I am fully, completely, no-excuses committed. For a long time I couldn’t step away from the mom guilt long enough to let myself actually focus. This past month though? The stars have aligned. The commitment is here. The plan is being followed. I eat protein and fiber, I intermittent fast, I supplement, I move my body consistently, I don’t drink. I just want to break through. That’s it. My clothes feel different. My energy is genuinely better. And I know those things matter — I do. But after a month of showing up like this, fully and intentionally for the first time in years, I want to see that number finally move out of my way. I’m coming for it. In the meantime, the scale can mind its business.
The weather is, and I say this with full sincerity, bullshit. It is doing nothing good for the heaviness I’ve been carrying in my face and head this week. Add HRT, my own regular hormonal cycle, and the full arrival of spring allergy season and I have been mouth breathing through my days like a very committed, moderately congested woman who is doing her best. Hydration. Rest. Movement anyway. Cuddling with Evelyn whenever possible. That’s the whole protocol right now and it’s enough. It’s Thursday and I’m genuinely trying to decide if I’m going to vacuum the carpets and the couch or just exist in the space and try to breathe through my nose at some point. Both feel equally ambitious right now.
Evelyn is now walking into ChildWatch like she owns the place — with only the occasional minor “I feel blue” moment that we navigate and move through together. This is enormous progress and I don’t want to gloss over it. The gym is back — solo or as a workout date with Nick — and that consistency is everything. Spring break arrives next week, teenage energy returns to the building, and I am choosing to see it as an opportunity for chaos I at least partially signed up for. I also want a mani/pedi and cannot justify the money, and truthfully I’m not even a fan of the upkeep after. Real world problems. Smh.
Nick’s work situation is a mess and I’m carrying some of that in the background the way partners do — quietly, underneath everything else, trying not to let it color the rooms I’m walking through. I’m choosing to name it here and then set it down.
There is also someone in my orbit, activated by spring sport season, who has opinions and requirements and a remarkable gift for making their inconvenience everyone else’s problem. This person has not changed in almost a decade. Not even a little. Not even accidentally. There is always something, and the something is always urgent to exactly one person. What I will say is this — if you require adult communication, perhaps don’t route it through teenagers. That’s not a communication style. That’s a choice. And choices tell you everything you need to know. I have discovered that I do not, in fact, have to engage — and the silence that comes with that realization is genuinely one of my favorite places to live. As Marisa would say: at least they’re consistent. She’s not wrong. Consistency is a virtue. And as Nick puts it — at least we’re a ticker across their headline news, because they are absolutely not on ours. This isn’t Fox News over here. We’ll leave it there.
Also — my adult daughter is planning her first trip overseas and I am doing my very best to be cool about it. I am not cool about it. What I am is cautiously, nervously, enthusiastically supportive while internally running through every possible scenario. The conversation went something like: “Oh that’s cool, you’ll need to get your passport.” “That sounds fun, don’t leave your drink unattended. Don’t go anywhere alone. Don’t talk to handsome foreign boys no matter how cute their accent is. Don’t take any pills you didn’t bring yourself. But have fun!” I have also strongly suggested she watch Taken as required pre-trip viewing, and I want it on record that Nick will absolutely and without hesitation be her Liam Neeson should the situation call for it. Send me the full itinerary. GPS on at all times. Set it for out of country. Have the best time of your life. I love you. Don’t die.
The blanket I’m knitting for Nick is almost done. Chicago is almost here. My nose will hopefully be clear by then. The scale can absolutely mind its business.
This morning I want nothing more than to be warm and snuggled in with my new UGGs — Nick, you are the absolute best — another cup of coffee, and my toddler on a 35 degree day that has no business existing in April. I am also inexplicably craving Chinese food, which I cannot act on because my fasting window doesn’t close until 11am and it is only 8:30a. A cup of tea will have to suffice. Some mornings the whole plan is just that. And that’s enough too.
We’re all out here doing our best. That really is enough. T minus 7 days until Chicago!!!!
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