With Justice

ScalesMy mother, who is compassionate to a fault and takes care of all living things, even the insects, complains when I don’t tolerate family gossiping about me because she is more committed to order than justice.  She wishes I would try harder with people who have told me I never should have been a mother.  This is a divide between the two of us.

I stand alone, with justice.

My husband, who is loved by many and is the definition of unconditional love, very adeptly uses humor to navigate his way through treacherous situations.  He does it even when he really should confront people who treat him like shit.  Because jokes are easier than saying, “THIS RIGHT HERE.  I DON’T LIKE IT.”  I see this, and I remind him of it, and he smiles uncomfortably and changes the subject.  This silence is a cavern I can’t scream across.  I am alone and mute.

I stand alone, with justice.

My friends find “the love of their life” and I know this very concept sets them and the rest of us up for failure.  I watch them change their names on their wedding day, badges of honor to them, a small stab in the side to me.  I am sad.  I am sad these women, who are full of wonder and guts and determination and CHOICE and degrees, have simply thrown away their identity.  They respond to me defensively, “it was easier”.  They say, “I didn’t want people to be confused about who my child was.”  They say, “I hyphenated it!  Which is a good compromise,” but I know the truth: that the scale will not balance itself out until women give their names to their children for thousands of years.   Until they take the time to examine the patriarchal systems they are too tired and stressed to look at.

I stand alone, with justice.

I am, at heart, a little white girl from the Massachusetts suburbs.  If I feel this alone with justice, how do people of color feel?  People who are not cisgender?  How do all the mothers of black teenagers in hoodies feel?  Knowing that the only way they can talk to their son is through a picture?  And hearing privileged white men and women shout back “All lives matter” after you just told them your baby was gunned down?  Are they seriously going to steal the damn attention back? Their damn children are ALIVE.  Their damn children are the norm. Their damn children can fit in anywhere. Their damn children will hold implicit bias towards my children even if their parents are fucking woke.

She stands alone, with justice.  But so alone, it’s suffocating.  So alone, she gets angry and then you accuse her of things you think her “people” just have, because they’re THEM.  But you made it. You played a part.

My alone ain’t anything compared to hers.

You see, we all have a choice.  What are you more committed to?  Order, or justice?

From personal experience,

justice is damn lonely,

but you’ll never sleep badly at night.

Daughter, Be Lonely

IMG_0227Parenting today is brutal.  I don’t even have to say a word; you already know.  We balance gymnastics with soccer and gastrointestinal specialist visits and occupational therapy and  PTO events and business ownership and – most importantly –

a wealth of emotional knowledge that a significant amount of our parents didn’t have.  To take it a step further, I will wager this is due to our parents’ natural generational deficit.

Taking care of anyone’s – ourselves or our kids’ – emotional needs is draining.  It is WORK, plain and simple.

So when my five year old recently came up to me, lip curled over, and said,

“Mama, I have to tell you the truth about something.  I’m lonely a lot” –

It sucker punched me to the gut, when I probably should have been leaping for joy.


Growing up, I was lonely often.  I was the product of an alcoholic household; I was filled to the brim with shame and made myself smaller physically to show you all how much I was hurting.  I was made to stand up during lunch because no one would let me sit with them, and the teachers did nothing about it.  That was the 80’s for you.  Never mind I didn’t have any Z Cavaricchi’s to help me fit in.

Because of the kept-quiet eating disorder, and because of the ensuing alcoholism in my 20’s, and because of the endless years of therapy and transformation and self-help meetings –

I became scared to death when I was pregnant with my daughter.  She’ll turn out like me, I worried as I shifted my large belly in my sleep.  When she didn’t sleep as an infant, I was paranoid she had caught the family disease.  And I swore to myself then and there that I would do everything in my power to stop anything in her environment from affecting that.

I enrolled her in gymnastics, and I put her in swimming.  I gently pushed her through every low self-esteem moment possible the way I wasn’t pushed. I made playdate after playdate and stepped out of my comfort zone to get to know Moms I felt inferior around.  I did it so she would be known; I did it so she wouldn’t be that weird kid that everyone didn’t know; I did it so she would be happy.

And I received affirmation after affirmation, at least for awhile.  “She’s so happy!”  “Oh my gosh, she was RUNNING that playdate up there!”  “She is so brave – she just walked up to that Hell’s Angel and said hi.”  (True story).  I felt like we had mastered things, at least a little bit.

And then she discovered feeling lonely.

And I remembered – because I knew this, but had forgotten along the way – that I can’t shield my kid from feeling.  That it would be a disservice to her if I did.  That even I, a therapist, someone who prided herself on being a balanced, realistic parent – had fallen trap to the disease of the new millennium –

the-never-let-your-kid-be-unhappy-trap, the-keep-them-so-connected-and-busy-they-never-have-to-feel-badly-trap.

So I looked at her, and I felt all of her pain, the way that only our emotionally-enlightened generation really can.   I envisioned her on the playground at school, alone, with no one asking her to play.

And I put it the hell aside.

And I remembered how my independence wasn’t built on being at all the best parties in my hometown.  It was built on knowing I had myself, and only myself to rely on.  And I remembered that my keen observation and intuition wasn’t built on being outgoing, but that it grew in the shade of insults thrown at me and thrived in my shyness.  And that my demand for more realistic body standards for women didn’t happen because I had a Kim Kardashian waist or butt.

It was because I was overweight.  It was because I had an eating disorder.

So I looked at my daughter again, and I wanted to tell her –

BE lonely.  Feel every last drop of it.  Make art about it and walk along the Charles when you’re in your 20’s and contemplate why you’re here.  One day you’ll be all the more interesting for it.  Don’t get invited to every playdate, so you know that you can be alone and be just fine. That you can tolerate it.  That you don’t have to immediately hook yourself into something, or someone to cure yourself of that feeling.   For feeling happy is just the yin to loneliness’ yang; there is nothing inferior about either, and both need to be fully engaged in.

Be lonely, daughter.


I Don’t Want You to Say “I’m Sorry”

chainsTrigger Warning: Sexual Assault

His name was Adam.

He sat next to me in music class in the 4th grade.  He was tall, painfully thin, and seemed to slither across the hall.  I was overweight, awkward and oily.  Despite this, I liked fashion, and I wore leggings to school.   Other classmates of mine called me a slut for wearing them, but I did anyway.  The ones I wore the day the day he touched me were black and satiny.  I can only remember that, and his voice whispering, “You’re so sexy in those black pants, Brucie,” as he slid his hand up my leg.

I was desperate to run away, but I couldn’t move out of the uncomfortable attached desk and chair. I inched away from him, pushing his hand away, but he kept doing it.  I couldn’t understand how no one, in a class of 20 or so, didn’t see this.  My face was hot, I was mortified, and I was full of shame.  I couldn’t – and can’t to this day – tell if he was mocking sexual advances because I was overweight and unpopular, or if he did this to everyone.

That was the first time I was sexually assaulted.

The last time was 5 years ago or so.  I was at a memorial service for my husband’s uncle.  Fiona was 3 weeks old and I was exhausted.  I stood in a circle of people who were waiting for food.  One of John’s in-laws came up behind me, inebriated.  He grabbed me by the hips and pushed himself into me, whispering something about me being sexy.  Like, all of himself.  I stood there, half-paralyzed, and half-not shocked as this same man had tried to flirt with me every time I had seen him before then.  I walked back to the table, plastered a smile on my face, and continued to present Fiona to smiling relatives.  I didn’t process this for five years.

But I don’t want your “I’m sorry’s”.  “I’m sorry this happened to you, Amanda.”  No.  Nope, no, I’m not sorry this time.


In between 4th grade and the memorial service, I was assaulted a bunch of other times, in various ways.  Unfortunately, this is not an uncommon experience for women, as we are all now aware by brilliant movements like #metoo.  And I’m willing to bet all the other women who are conscious of being sexually assaulted do not want your “I’m sorry’s”. Especially the ones brave enough to speak up about it.  “I’m sorry” feels trite and dismissive and not very worthy of suffering  experienced by women across the world resulting in eating disorders, anxiety, depression, PTSD and more.

I can’t speak for other women, but here are a couple of other things I do want you to do instead:

1.  Use appropriate names for body parts.  When we call a vulva “girly bits” – we teach her that part is full of shame and shouldn’t be addressed directly.  The ugly word, “vulva”, should be hidden, right?  We also decrease the likelihood that she will report any sexual abuse to a trusted adult.

2.  Challenge your notions about victims and victimizers.  At the end of the day, I believe that boys and men are victims of the patriarchy too.  Yes, as women we have had to endure catcalling and rape and other horrid things, but being raised to express oneself only through anger and forced sexuality can’t be a cakewalk either, especially if you’re a sensitive male.  Ask yourself how you can raise your boys differently.  Adjust your expectations of boys.  Let them have their feelings.  Know we’re all undermined by the trauma cycle and the patriarchy, and don’t demonize one sex over the other.

3.  Don’t get defensive.  If you’re a male, and you’re a bit overwhelmed by the whole sexual assault overhaul going on, I don’t blame you.  It’s a lot to stomach – whether you’ve engaged in behavior you’re not so proud of, or you’re a guy whose side of the street is completely clean.  Just don’t retaliate, and fall into the #notallmen movement.  You will instantly shut down someone else by doing that.  Sit with your feelings, and put yourself in someone else’s shoes.

4.  If you’re a supportive male, advocate.  Call out your friend’s abhorrent sexual language or behavior.  Don’t, shall I say, “pussy-foot” about it.  (Pun intended).  Call a spade a spade and don’t tolerate it.  Teach your daughter that she – not you – can defend herself.   Speak up for  a female friend who’s being gossiped about at a party for her sexual behavior.

5. Don’t judge us as “oversharers“.  Those of us who share our stories hold others accountable.  Those of us who share our stories break cycles that have been hidden under codes of silence for centuries.  Those of us who share our stories are not weak, or attention-seeking, or borderline.  We are truth-tellers who cannot be satisfied with anything less than forward.

So please, don’t tell me you’re sorry.  I’m not.  I’m quite pleased, actually, with the way the world is headed right now.  Women are simply telling the truth for once, and it’s causing a revolution.  A revolution in which I hope you take clear action in.

What’s your story?


Part One

The worst kind of traitor is one in sheep’s clothing.

This isn’t a new story.  Which is why I’m all the more disgusted I was duped.

Duped into thinking she was the saint.  You see, here’s the thing.  There are no sinners, and there are no saints.  Rather, it’s not split into two plain categories like that.  It’s not either…or.  There are legend comedians who sexually assault women and women who show up to every PTA meeting but cheat on their spouse.  There are people who are the heart of their communities, the kind whose funeral leaves lines down the street but their immediate family scowling in front of their dead body.

She would always scowl at the news when she saw the latest criminal being charged for the latest attention-grabbing headline crime.  “Disgusting,” she would say.  Maybe she meant the behavior, but it felt like she was always looking for someone to blame.  Looking for the face of evil.  There, there it is, she would think.

From a very young age, I always wondered how that criminal got to that point.

I always thought, especially later, that it made me strange.

I pontificate because I have noticed that the majority of people do not live in the dialectic, in the both…and.  That someone who induces a panic attack in one can calm another.  Most people live in black and white, a color system that braces and maintains their narrow value set.  This makes it fit into easy categories that don’t threaten their beautiful Facebook photo depiction of their obvious spiritual perfection.

I can see that there is more to people than a divergent pick of extremes. Even for her.

But I don’t feel it for her right now.  Which, perhaps, speaks to the infuriating humanity of the situation.   All I feel is anger.  And I’m sad.  I’m really, really sad.



Why I Stopped Trying to Have Another Child

Time to rest.

Last night, for the 414th time, I heard it again:

The unintentionally-offensive-you’re-lucky-you-only-have-one-kid remark.

You know the kind.  It also comes in the form of, “Is she your only?” and “only children are so lonely and spoiled” and “I would never do that to a child, have them be the only.”

This time, instead of a meltdown, it was nothing a knowing grimace from my husband couldn’t fix.  This time, instead of letting it stab me like a knife, it was a momentary wince and I moved on.   I watched my daughter trot from house to house, collecting candy gleefully.


Today, I was thinking about how much I’ve had to fight.

First, I thought about how much I’ve fought to have a second child.  I tried for two years.  My husband and I tried having sex every other day, at points.  We got pregnant – to have it end in miscarriage, and to have a D&C I had to fight for because it was a holiday and no one wanted to stay late at the hospital.  I paid $1600 for acupuncture that wasn’t covered by health insurance, took herbs and stopped running.  A family member paid $500 for a failed IUI that wasn’t covered by health insurance, and since we don’t have 7,000 extra to spare, an IVF or even extra IUI’s were out of the question.

Second, I thought about how much I’ve fought in my life thus far.

In early school years, I fought to understand why the students at school hated me because of my weight, and I fought to understand why I was being touched by a classmate inappropriately in the fourth grade and why no one was doing anything about it, even though I told them.   I fought to understand why drug paraphernalia was in my house at a young age.   I fought to understand why people wouldn’t just leave me alone as I became smaller and smaller, since it solved everything anyway.

I fought harder still in college to understand why I couldn’t drink like everyone else, why guy friends had to carry me home after I insulted or hit one of them.  I fought to understand why my father refused to accept that I had an eating disorder, as a social worker confronted him in treatment.  I fought to educate family members, close ones, that I needed to eat at certain times during the day right out of treatment, and that I just wasn’t trying to be a nuisance to older family members.  I fought to stay sober, one day at a time, and fought to make family members understand that my sober anniversaries were actually a big deal and something I wanted to be recognized for.

I unsuccessfully fought to have extended family members unconditionally love me after I spoke my truth about our family, and fought to have in-laws see me as something more than “that antisocial girl who’s too serious”.  I fought to understand how the bomb near the finish line my husband stepped on somehow didn’t detonate during the Boston Bombing.  I fought to get my dad’s brain researched after he died, just like he wanted, packing ice around his head.  I fought back snarling insults as I felt others’ judgment about choosing to live with my mother and bipolar brother.  I fought tooth and nail to climb in my chosen career, only to live paycheck to paycheck.  I fought for my marriage in couples therapy as it floundered.

So yes, I guess you could say I’m tired of fighting.

And I’m good with fighting anymore, for anything else, including a child.

In fact, I’m all set.

If you want me, come and get me.


I’m gonna go ahead and liken infertility to a regular old loss.  It doesn’t hurt any less as the years go on; you just get more used to dealing with it.  You get used to the remarks, seeing bright, shining pictures of families with at least two siblings beam at you from Facebook, and you feel that old, familiar pain.  But this time, it’s in the rearview mirror.

I have a family.

And I have me.  And I tell the truth.  And a lot of people don’t like that and never will.

And despite what a lot of people think, I’m fucking remarkable.


A Letter to Veterans from a Black Lives Matter Gal

FullSizeRender (1)Today, our country went crazy because a mentally ill man in the White House made a sweeping statement that was an attempt to divide the NFL, and ultimately, the country.  It was also probably a distraction from current findings about Manafort and Russia, but it ignited and highlighted our polarized country’s differences nonetheless.

Before I give my opinion, let me tell you a little about myself.  I’m a daughter of an Air Force Veteran – one who was stationed during the Korean War and also witnessed Black sisters and brothers being segregated, and then slowly and painfully, desegregated.  I am also an Licensed Mental Health Counselor who can make an accurate and informed judgment (see above) about our POTUS.  I’ve worked with and counseled some veterans, and I want to tell you something:


I see the suffering you have endured.  I’ve heard it through countless therapy sessions.  I know you had to watch your friend die violently.  I see that you’re paralyzed.  I see that your  war injury makes you limp and it will be a limp you endure until the day you die and you STILL show up and teach your daughter how to kick a soccer ball around.  I know you had to give up seeing your family for months on end.  I know that you had to keep horrible, horrible secrets from loved ones, ones about the safety of our country and its citizens.  I know that all of this literal shit you’ve had to endure has caused some of you to turn to alcoholism, and drug addiction, because the pain of seeing a kid die in Afghanistan was too much for your brain to process.  I see that.  I hate that it did that to you.

I hate it so much, that I choose to challenge the way we’ve done things in our society.  Historically, we have fought wars to manage problems.   We have chosen a very stereotypical masculine way to address conflict.  With force and division and might and colonialism and torture and death.  Instead of unification and communication and art and growth and compassion.  And every time I’ve disagreed with a vet on a thread, and he starts to spout out choruses of, “You snowflake cunt!”, I feel heartbroken underneath layers of pride.  Why?  Because I know the anger is a mask he’s been taught to wear to survive.   Or he’s the victim of a traumatic brain injury.   And it’s such a goddamn tragedy.

And I know it’s not simple, and I don’t have an immediate solution.

I still think the masculine system is bullshit, though.

I hate that you aren’t protected.  That your healthcare sucks and you feel invisible.  Undervalued.

Sort of like people of color.

You see, I see people of color too.  I see that they are killed by our police and they do not get justice.  I see biracial couples are still thought of as “different” in people’s minds.  I see my best friend feeling as if she can’t be as angry as a white male because then she’ll be stereotyped as an “angry black girl”.  I see thousands of white people not willing to have a conversation about two generations before who lynched people of color because they are plainly lazy.  I see that they are seen as the “token black friend” by their white counterparts.  I see the white wives, who so quickly rush to defend their policeman or navy husband, think not a thought about Philando Castile’s black daughter, who witnessed her father being shot multiple times.  Even though their grandchild is a quarter black, they remain silent.  I see it.

And as a mental health counselor, I know this: that there is enough love and compassion to go around.  That it isn’t limited or afforded to one kind of group or people.  That there’s space for everyone’s pain.  Not just yours because you grew up poor, or yours because you were physically abused as a child.  There is space for EVERYONE’S.  And more importantly, I know that one kind of pain doesn’t trump another’s.  Being gang-raped is about as fucking awful as watching your best friend die in battle.

Another thing I know from being a mental health counselor is that people tend to make martyrs out of people.  And this is not helpful, especially when people have choice.  And what I mean by that is:

Veterans today have a choice to be in service or not.  People do NOT have a choice over what skin color they get.

So when you tell me taking a knee is disrespecting the flag, or that they should have used a different time to do it, I know that’s not true.  I know that in some cases, it’s pure racism.  I know that it’s mental laziness.  I know that it’s emotions swaying you.  I I know it’s possible to both honor those who fell, and let people of color exercise all rights of the constitution.  At the same time.

So many people used the Constitution to argue that you can’t pick and choose free speech, but I choose emotions.  Politics is PERSONAL, and FEELINGS, and PEOPLE, whether you choose to see the walls you’ve built up between them or not.

And us white people?  We’re a fairly emotionally and mentally lazy lot.



Why 12 Step Programs Don’t Work For Me

FullSizeRender (1)….right now.

It’s been about a year since I’ve been to a meeting.

For a couple of years, I went to a meeting a couple of towns over.  I was having coffee with my sponsor and another oldtimer, and they were talking about someone who was sharing their trauma history at a meeting.  The oldtimer  was ripping her apart.  I could see the potential outcomes of sharing trauma at a meeting (i.e., triggering others, setting yourself up for victimization if you’re not in a healthy place), and I also left that conversation with a sinking feeling.  It was the age old, shitty, generations-impacting, “You can’t talk about your trauma” feeling.  Rational me knew there were places to go with that trauma – therapy, etc.  But still.  It had that patriarchal, either-or, “you don’t change this rule” vibe to it.

And I sure as shit wasn’t impressed that an oldtimer was ripping into someone with one fifth the sobriety he had.


Let me back up.  I’m eight years sober.  Which means nothing and everything.  When I got sober, I NEEDED something like a 12 Step program.  I hated where my life was going, and I needed a community of like-minded young people I could hang with who let me say and do crazy things.  My mind was spinning so fast then I literally couldn’t speak because my mouth couldn’t keep up with my brain. I remember celebrating my first year sober with my father, then alive, and my group in Brookline.  I met an amazing woman who became my sponsor, and we went through the steps together. It changed my  life, it truly did.  I would not be where I am today without that program and those particular people.

A year in, however, I started to realize there were some “sharks in the tank”.   Five months in, I met a young man at a 12 Step conference who completely invaded my physical boundaries.  Of course, at the time, I didn’t know this, because I was 5 months sober, and I was used to men assaulting me in various ways, quite frankly.  And I wondered why I felt suicidal a couple of weeks later when the romance ended, gazing over the side of the Tobin Bridge.  Now I can see, but then I couldn’t.

A couple of years in, I started to hear some expressions at meetings that made me squirm.  “You either grow or you go.” All-or-nothing expressions that I had been taught in therapy to challenge or ignore.  “You can be too intelligent for this program.”  That initially made sense, when I was a newbie (i.e, you can analyze something until it doesn’t work for you anymore), but I started to see its limits as I moved on.  Sometimes, I’d try to challenge or explore other, more ambiguous options in my growth, and people would dismiss them with the “too intelligent” thing.  I began to see why some people never left those halls.  Because they listened to that.

Also, there was inevitably that well-meaning person who thought they needed to teach me a lesson and tell me exactly what I was doing wrong with my life after a meeting.  THANK YOU VERY MUCH, I would scream silently in my head.  BECAUSE I ALREADY DON’T BEAT MYSELF UP ON A DAILY BASIS FOR LIVING.

And the GOD THING.  Oh God.  I never had a problem with God, but I can count about 10 problem drinkers I know who have purposefully stayed away from 12-Step programs because of the God thing.

I had a baby, left the program for awhile, and came back to a meeting that saved my ass…for a bit.  My dad was dying, and I was getting married. What a mindfuck. The donuts, conversation, company and commitments distracted me.  I truly loved some people at that meeting.

AND….it was at that point I noticed myself embodying some of the qualities of that young man I encountered 5 or so years earlier. I was using other people to distract me emotionally.  It wasn’t OK, or fair to anyone.  It snowballed and snowballed until I left that meeting, a little over a year ago.  Turns out the program could be just as triggering for me as a bar, at times.

When I stopped going to that meeting, I literally felt as if I was having withdrawals. I missed the meeting and had to do something to distract myself on Thursday nights.  Then, I started to work later, and I slowly forgot about it.  I’d remember from time to time, and wonder what they were doing when it was 830 on a Thursday night.  Over time, I forgot completely.

It was then I realized I was addicted to the meetings, and to people at them.


Over the past year, I have gotten healthier and healthier. I’ve never eaten better. I’ve noticed that my tendency to seek joy or fulfillment through other individuals has decreased.  It’s almost died out, actually.  I don’t think about drinking often, and I’m 100% submerged in my life.  Which does not mean it’s perfect!  IT IS LIFE.  Which means it can be annoying and messy and just plain hard. Especially when my husband wants me to check in more to our marriage or my daughter is pinching or hitting me because I wouldn’t let her watch TV during dinner.  But I’m in it, and I’m feeling shit.

Do I think 12 Step Programs suck?  NO WAY.  They save people’s lives and marriages and families.  Do I think they need some work? Absolutely.  And I think we need to do away with not challenging some tenets of the program, and talk about what’s wrong with it.  Because let’s face it.  What Bill W created in 1935 may have lasted, but it doesn’t fit 2017 so snugly.

So yeah.  The program isn’t for me now, but it might be sometime again.  But not right now.  I do therapy and exercise and writing and other spiritual work as my self care. And where I stand with it makes me no better than you.  Maybe you need it every day.  And that’s cool.

Cause different things work for different people.

(I picked that gem up at this 12-Step Program I went to.)




Why “If Mama Ain’t Happy, Nobody’s Happy” is a Bullshit Lie I Live

IMG_6863There comes a time in you life when you are doing something really mundane, like going on your daily run, when you realize,

Shit.  I’ve been selling out.  I’ve been settling.  I’ve been settling for behavior from others and myself.

And there are layers to these epiphanies.  My first one?  Came when I realized I wanted to recover from my eating disorder.   My second?  When I wanted more from my life than forgetting the night before because of too many rum and cokes.

My 45th came today when I realized I don’t want to yell anymore.  And I don’t want a partner who yells either.


I am a mother.

I am a wife.

I am a co-owner of a business.

I have a shit ton of stress.

Because, as a woman, I’m expected to “do it all”.  So not only do I manage the money, I make the majority of the money upfront, and I also am expected to do all of the housework, manage my child’s appointments, playdates, extracurricular activities AND manage the psychological well-being of my child.

It was very furtive, wasn’t it?  How, in the span of 70 years, men have continued to deftly sidestep responsibility in any way they can.  Shit, I have to chores now? Guess I can still be lazy emotionally.  Sweet.

Before any right-wing idiot or plainly, insecure men jump down my throat, I want you to do something.  Walk up to the woman in your life.  Ask her what she’s worried about.  Chances are, her experience will be more rich than yours. She’ll be worried about being able to schedule their child’s gasto-intestinal appointment in between the clients she sees.  She’ll be thinking about how her husband yelling at their child mimics the traumatic experience she had as a child and how she’s failing.  She’ll be wondering if she can work out while the baby sleeps because somewhere, in the back corners of her mind, a demon tells her to be attractive for her boyfriend.  Now ask yourself if you have those same thoughts.

The pressures are not equal. NOT.  YET.

So when I hear, “If Mama Ain’t Happy, Nobody’s Happy”, I want to scream.


Seems to be yet another misogynistic turn of phrase, so eloquently masked as feminism.  It’s misogynistic, because it puts all the pressure on the female to chart the course, when males are perfectly capable of doing some of the emotional work. They’re perfectly capable of putting themselves first, taking care of themselves so they don’t take it out on their children.

It’s just that we haven’t EXPECTED them to, since the dawn of time.

And it reinforces that disgusting, martyr-like dynamic in older women that I despise. “Poor me, I’ve put up with so much from your father.”

EXACTLY.  You put up with it. You’ve enabled it.  Women have enabled it.  And that’s our part.  And that can be changed.


Am I a sanctimommy who expects herself or others to never yell?  No.  But let me tell the truth and talk about yelling, because a lot of us have a ton of shame over it.  And it’s important to talk about during this time of year, when kids are going back to school and transitions are driving us parents nuts.

We’ve been yelling too much in my house.  I know my part – part of me has been justifying my and my husband’s trauma histories.  A refined form of “If we were ok, then she’ll be ok.”  “I’m a good parent.” “I’m doing the best I can.”

Maybe I’m fucking not.

Maybe I’ve been enabling years and years of the masculine approach to things.  The masculine approach of anger, of forcefulness, of yelling.

All I know is, This Mama Ain’t Happy.  Period.  And I’ve been justifying stuff I’m not OK with.   That’s my part.

And it’s my husband’s job to work on his.

How Telling Your Child to Be Positive Is Worsening the Opioid Epidemic

IMG_84791It is a crime to teach our children to “Be positive”.

I’m sure you think I’m nuts.  It’s totally fine.  People have literally thought that about me since I was 5.  I stand by what I say – we do ourselves and our children a disservice every time we tell them, “Hey, it could be worse!” or, “Be the change you wish to see in the world!”

In fact, you could be contributing – not causing, but contributing – to the opioid epidemic that is happening right now in our country.

Now I bet you think I’m really crazy, eh?

Let me explain a bit further.  There are positively viewed emotions like happiness, joy, silliness.  And there are negatively viewed emotions like anger, jealousy and sadness that are typically stereotyped as morally “bad” to experience.  Think about it.  Would you want to be labeled as a jealous husband who rants at his wife about where she was?  Or an angry mother who yells at her children seven times out of ten? No, of course not, because if you’re emotionally abusive you’re in the “bad” category.  Even though the wife most definitely played a part in his jealousy. And if you’re the shouting mom, you most certainly are not as good as all those attachment mothers.

But here’s the thing.  Anger and jealousy isn’t good or bad.  They are simply ingenious little signs our bodies gave us to tell us where to go.   Here’s a little answer key, courtesy of Pixar’s “Inside Out” and Glennon Doyle:

Anger: Tells us when something is not fair.

Jealousy: Tells us when we want something someone else has.

Fear:  Keeps us safe.  Physically and emotionally.

So yeah, negative emotions aren’t that negative, it turns out.   They’re actually pretty fucking vital to our existence, and if you’re making fun of them, you’re living by an extremely outdated code.  However, in a Trump era, where pull-yourself-up-by-the bootstraps-baby-boomer-either-or attitudes exist, this can be hard to remember.  And some people can make you feel like embracing emotions means you’re weak.  This, I tell you, is complete bullshit.  Humans can hustle and work 12 hours a day and still tune into their feelings.

The smartest, healthiest, most successful people I know follow their gut intuition about situations and others.

Let me get back to my point about all of us contributing to addictions.

Say your child got up and started whining about going to school. “Mama, I’m so tired.  I can’t go to school today.  I hate going to school.”

“Honey, you have to go.  I can’t do anything about it.  You can do it!”


“Mama, I’m so tired.  I can’t go to school today.  I hate going to school.”

“Honey, I bet you’re super tired after your first week back. I can’t even imagine.  I feel like that about work too.”

Because the thing is, we do indeed live in a super insane world that doesn’t provide for enough sleep for our children.  And it’s ok to validate that for them.  It doesn’t mean you still can’t teach them the value of showing up for something when they don’t feel like it.  They’ll feel seen and they won’t be taught by you that their negative feelings need to be squashed immediately.  Because what’s one way addicts can start to be addicts?  By having strong emotions, and being told they’re “overdramatic” or to “get over it”.  Then they find tricky ways to numb their strong emotions that their community or society rejects.  Eating a whole pan of brownies.  Drinking their mother’s beer.  Shooting up the next town over.  All because they were taught not to sit with themselves and their strong feelings.  I’m sure some 12 Step programs will disagree, but that’s ok, I didn’t fit in there either.

The truth?  We all have to feel a feeling until it’s done coursing through our brain.  And the more we push it away, the bigger it will come back.

A lot of people – including my husband – accuse me of being too cynical, too pessimistic.  Nah.   I’m usually just telling the truth or calling the situation as to how I see it.  I, in turn, think they’re (typically) uncomfortable with the negative emotions I point out because society has socialized them that way.

Humans are these super amazing, instinctual beings who literally know the way like Moana, if only they listened to every emotion.

And am I the perfect parent who meets her daughter where she is every minute of every day? No fucking way.  On a bad day, I push my anger away, which makes it bigger, and then makes me scream like a crazy woman at my daughter.

But I’m shooting for meeting myself where I am.


9 Handy Etiquette Rules for Posting on Social Media

Don't make my mistakes.
Don’t make my mistakes.

If you’re reading this, you most likely have a Facebook or Twitter or Instagram account.  And I’m sure you’re aware by now that certain things are kosher, and certain things are frowned upon.  Things that may alienate you at the next family gathering or work event.  Well, I’m here to help you navigate through that sticky, unpredictable world we call the internet.  Consider my obsessive, overuse of social media as a sacrifice for you.

1. Pretend like everything’s fine.   Nothing’s wrong!  Everything’s fine!  My kids always look like they’ve been coiffed by Chanel’s hair stylists!  God forbid you offend that mom in your neighborhood who can’t deal with anything being wrong or negative.  You know she’s there, breathing down every post you write.  That would be mean if you reminded your social media community that kids are dying in Syria.  Just plain rude.  Don’t be that person.

2. DO NOT TALK ABOUT FEELINGS.  Now, there are many downfalls to this common social media blunder.  In fact, so many I have created a sub-categories.  You’re welcome.

a.  A friend or family member will project all of their discomfort with feelings onto yours, criticize the hell out of you, and accuse you of unethical things.  Speaking for a friend, of course.

b.  You may be labelled a “snowflake”.  Even though this is an uneducated attempt by the right to twist literal chemicals in your body that keep you alive into weakness, you don’t want this.  Believe me.  No-no-no, YOU WEAK LITTLE SNOWFLAKE!

c.  Someone will pity you.  And that’s DAMN annoying.

d.  You will get that reputation.  THAT reputation.  Like, that crazy Mom that everyone talks about on the playground.  “Did you SEE what she wrote about her husband?!  She must be off her meds.  And he handmade a Moana cake for their 5 year old last year!!”

e.  People will immediately assume you meant only this one emotional outburst for the rest of time.  Like, if you said you hated slow Dunkin-Donuts workers, people will immediately jump on your back for being discriminatory against disabilities.  Snowflakes.

3.  Don’t take political sides.  You’re so above that.  Plus like, you live in a small town and so-and-so voted for Trump and your kid is friends with their kid and WHAT IF you got in a Facebook fight with them about how the meme they posted said that it was OK to lynch people of color again.  You definitely don’t want to be the person who stands up for what’s right.  That’s sickening.

4.  Don’t ask for parenting advice.  Aunt Gladys will tell you to slap them, the attachment/Montessori moms you know will scorn you for even mentioning the words “sleep training”, and then there’s the moms who will say in no fewer words that you’re crazy because THEIR kid never did that.  NOT EVERYONE LOOKS BACK ON THE FIRST SIX MONTHS WITH ROSE COLORED GLASSES, OK MIRANDA?

5.  Do not take selfies if you’re over 35.  You will be known as that selfish, self-obsessed Mom who never really grew out of her adolescent phase and people will laugh at your confidence.  The people you know will drink wine and scoff at you.  “Why can’t she hate herself intensely, the way women are supposed to at our age?”


7.  Definitely invite people to Jamberry Parties and make them give you Candy Crush lives.  People love that shit.

8. Do not post song lyrics.  This is sort of like #5.  Half of your friends will think you’re bipolar, and the other half will wonder if a hormonal 15 year old boy hacked into your computer.  Especially if it’s Mumford and Sons.  Also, expressing yourself with song lyrics is way more combative that telling Uncle Rick to f%ck off.

9.  Do NOT have an identity outside of “Parent” if you are one.  How selfish.  Seriously?  I baked like 354 organic lunches for the rest of the year.  While I did Crossfit WHILE balancing the baby in a Boba wrap.  Plus, modelling happiness for your kids is so 1995.

Now, this list is by no means exhaustive.  You may feel it appropriate to add your own experiences that you’ve garnered through piloting your way through the dark corners of humanity  social media.  But, dear reader, remember this, above all else:

Definitely do not be a real, messy, flawed human being.

You heard it here first.