Please note: During our trip to Ireland, our priorities were hiking, the most beautiful scenery, pubs and live music. We also rented a car. You won’t find much in these posts about fine dining, shopping or the public transportation, though I’m confident there are great resources for these topics elsewhere online. I have also included some resources at the bottom if you’re planning a similar trip.

I have wanted to go to Ireland forever. No, I don’t have any familial ties, I just think it’s enchanting. The mossy cliffs, the baby sheep bouncing across pastures, the rolling valleys showcasing every shade of green the human eye has ever seen. A few years ago, Hank and I took the girls to a cabin in southern Indiana. One of the owners was from Ireland and I mentioned how a visit was on my bucket list. “It’s the closest thing there is to heaven on earth,” she said.

We decided we would never actually go unless we picked a date. This fall marks our 15^th wedding anniversary and my 40^th trip around the sun, so 2022 was the big winner. An acquaintance of Hank’s happened to mention that her and her husband had gone and had a great experience. She gave us the name of her travel agent (linked and listed below) and things started becoming official.

Then, on August 16, ten days before we were scheduled to head toward heaven, I started to feel … off. After more than two years of dodging the inevitable, I tested positive for COVID. Even more inconvenient, Hank followed in my footsteps on Friday, the 19^th. That sassy little virus took us down! There’s definitely a 48-hour period during that week that I just don’t remember. We quarantined, we pushed fluids, we pulled out our laptops and we started planning out hikes. Because, gosh dang it, nothing … and I mean, nothing, was going to get in the way of the trip I’d been dreaming of for my entire adult life. Not Omicron. Not any of his punk little sibling strains. Nothing.

The day before we left, I finally got a negative test and Hank started to turn the corner. We got a pack of these breathable little buddies, had our youngest sit on our giant suitcases, zipped ‘em, tipped ‘em and got ready to head to Chicago.    

Chicago to Dublin

Honestly, the hardest part of the flight to Dublin was navigating Chicago O’Hare International Airport. The lot we wanted was full, so we were directed to another parking garage, which we couldn’t find and knew would be more expensive. Absolutely everything was under construction. It’s just crazy there! Big airports like that remind me of hectic cities and send my anxiety into the rafters. The people watching is on point though. (Highlight: A young gal wearing a legit bra as a shirt, a la Seinfeld’s “The Bra-less Wonder”.)

I was really impressed with Aer Lingus®. Each passenger got a blanket, pillow and adorable little earbuds with clovers on them. I popped two regular strength Dramamine and turned on “And Just Like That …” We were a bit delayed taking off, so the pilot announced we would be making up for it in the air. They brought around a snack, and I was still awake. Another episode of Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte. Then a meal. I was still awake. Before I knew it, we were eating breakfast sandwiches and the pilot was getting the cabin ready for landing. I never slept. Neither did Hank.   

Breakfast in Dublin

We left Chicago around 3 p.m. their time and landed in Dublin at 5 a.m. their time. The Saturday morning sun was piercing through the broad windows of the Dublin airport as we made our way through customs and to baggage claim. We picked up our Wi-Fi candy (portable Wi-Fi hotspot) on the lower level and went to get our rental car. This was the moment Hank had been dreading for months. He wouldn’t say it, but I could tell.

Shockingly, rental car places just give you the keys to a car and a little GPS screen and wish you all the best on your holiday. You know, the holiday you’re having in a country where everything from a vehicular standpoint is done entirely backwards. We forced our gigantic stuffed suitcases into the back seat and rear hatch – after we figured out how to open it – and climbed into the VW Polo. We spent a little time in that parking garage, as Hank tried to familiarize himself with the lights, the seat (initially pressing him up into the steering wheel), the buttons. She was a sweet little foreign girl. And she was fully covered in insurance and ours for the next ten days.

I did a quick search for the best breakfast in Dublin and found a place called Lemon Jelly Café with a thirst trap photo of a foamy latte. I punched it in and we got on the highway. Initially, it all felt a little wild. Sitting in the driver’s seat, but not driving. Seeing my husband adjust and respond in real time. At one point, I looked up and saw a spider hanging over his head. My instinct was to swing it at it like a savage killer. Hank couldn’t even look at what I was doing, he was so zoned in. But it was when we got off the highway that the real fun started.

We definitely drove in some circles, per the GPS. “Left to left,” Hank kept saying out loud as he rotated the steering wheel. We only made one major mistake though, when we turned onto a street with rails and realized no car was meant to be there. Would a train come barreling toward us? Who knew! What an adventure!

Eventually, we found a parking garage near where we believed Lemon Jelly to be and got out to walk. I got lemon crepes and sourdough toast, and Hank went for the traditional Irish breakfast, for the first and only time. The coffee lived up to the hype.

Time awake: 23 hours

Dublin to Brandon Hill

We left Dublin and headed toward Freaghana, County Kilkenny, and the trail head for the Brandon Hill summit walk, a suggestion we’d come across when we were sequestered and scrolling. The drive was just over two hours. Hank used AllTrails to find the best place to pick up the trail and we punched it into the GPS. When we initially exited the highway, Hank made a comment about how the roads were a little narrow. As we followed the prompts and the sparse signs for Brandon Hill, navigating our way to carpark A, deer park, the pavement kept shrinking, until we were down to a single lane. No shoulder. Branches and slumping vines battering the sides of the Polo.

“This can’t be right,” Hank said. And then a few minutes later, “I mean, this just can’t be right.”

This was our first taste of the bittersweet side of chasing down the best trails. Is a car coming down the mountain? Maybe! What a ride! When they come around the corner will they stop and back up or will we have to find a way? We’ll have to wait and see! The surprises are endless!

After the longest half mile of our lives, we came across a house. There were clothes on the line and vehicles everywhere. A gate was propped open just past the yard so we, hesitantly proceeded through. A few seconds later, Hank stopped.

He came back to the chorus. “This can’t be right.”

A car stopped behind the Polo and I ran back. “Hey! I’m sorry, but I think we’re lost. We’re trying to get to the trailhead for Brandon Hill.”

“Yup!” the woman in the passenger seat smiled. “This is just Ireland roads!”

OK, then. Giddy up!

We came to the carpark shortly after and changed into our hiking shoes. A few young families were standing around the map, strategizing; the dads smoking cigarettes in preparation. Brandon Hill is a loop, up a gravel road, through a shaded pine passing and then either straight up to the summit, or a more gradual pebble-packed path. To reach the top is to climb the highest mountain in Co. Kilkenny at 1,690 ft.

We opted for the direct path on the way up. The summit is covered in these purple plants I’ve spent a good amount of time Googling and have officially decided to list as furze and heather, with 70% confidence. Whatever the flowers are, they blanket the top of the mountain, and bees absolutely love them. A constant buzzing and my labored breaths were the only instruments in the orchestra as we trudged up to the large cross at the top.

“You’re almost there,” Hank kept taunting. We weren’t.

And then we were. The 360-degree view from the peak of Brandon Hill is breathtaking. The patchwork quilt of pastures, divided neatly by historic stonewalls and orderly bushes. The sand-hued fields of barley, large boulders peppered across the horizon. The sky was a brilliant royal blue, streaked in wispy clouds. After decades of dreaming about these views, lusting after the Wild Atlantic Way, I was here, standing on top of a mountain. And I cried.

Time awake: 29 hours    

Brandon Hill to Kilkenny

We played chicken with a tractor on our drive back down from the trailhead. “I just drove a quarter mile in reverse on a one-lane mountainside on the wrong side of the car in Ireland,” Hank commented after finding a field to duck into so they could pass.

The roads eventually returned to two lanes as we made our way to Hotel Kilkenny. The first thing I noticed when we finally got to our room was that there was no air conditioning. (American girl problems.) It was so stifling as we unpacked and got situated. We both knew that if we gave in to the temptress covered in fresh sheets and pillows, we’d never leave the room, so we quickly showered and headed out for dinner.

“How do we get to the restaurants?” I asked a lady at the front desk.

“Oh, it’s easy,” she said. “Just turn right and walk until you see the castle.” Something you don’t hear every day.

The area around Kilkenny Castle is charming. Rows of brightly colored shops, art boutiques and restaurants punctuated with vibrant flower boxes are the perfect backdrop for pedestrians, coming and going, in and out. Hank remembered he needed distilled water for his CPAP, so we ducked into a pharmacy before dinner.

First, I must say that the individuals who work in pharmacies in Ireland are the most dedicated, caring people. They ask questions and they genuinely want to heal what’s ailing you. This wasn’t your typical impersonal Walgreens or CVS interaction. Upon our request, the pharmacist came back with a jug of distilled water and rang it up. It was $17. Hank looked at her, blinking. Turns out, distilled water is a hot commodity in Ireland and comes with the price tag to prove it. Hank referred to it as his “liquid gold” the rest of the trip.

We came over the bridge and saw Matt the Millers Bar & Restaurant and remembered the recommendation from a friend. We sat on the second level and ordered drinks immediately, an Outcider for me, Smithwicks for Hank. Now, let me offer you an insider tip that my husband got too late into our trip. One that will make this whole blog post worth your time. The “h” and “w” in Smithwicks are silent. So, as a kind-hearted bartender finally told Hank on the seventh night of our epic pub crawl, it is pronounced “Smiticks” or “Smih-dicks.” You’re welcome. I got fish and chips (the first of many) and my date rolled the dice on a chicken dish with black pudding. Everything was good, but honestly, we were too punchy to really absorb much.

Our sweet waitress invited us to come back for the DJ. “Where you’re sitting will be the dance floor and he’ll go till 3 a.m.” We smiled graciously, knowing we’d already be asleep back at Hotel Kilkenny by the time his fingers touched the knobs. She also told us about her three jobs and the housing crisis in Ireland. How expensive things had become and how much people were struggling. This theme in conversation, along with the breaded haddock, would become a trend for our trip.

Hen parties came in, sloppy and sublime. We congratulated a bride-to-be and we gushed a bit over each other the way buzzed up women do. Everyone wished us the best holiday, and we cashed out so we could go cash out.

We had to stop by Kilkenny Castle since we passed it on our walk back to the hotel. Hank was a history major, so the thought of moats and windows placed strategically for shooting bows, and dungeons and medieval lore made him light up like a Christmas tree.

We were zombies by the time the elevator opened to our floor. I fell into bed and immediately started sweating. I didn’t get much sleep, but we had made it.

Total wake time: 35 hours

Quick reference details for those planning a trip to Ireland

Travel agent – We worked with Maria Lieb at Discovering Ireland. We were given her name by an acquaintance who took a very similar trip to ours. Maria helped us narrow down locations, the duration of our stay in each town, selected and booked all of our hotel and inn rooms, reserved our car and insurance, and provided travel guides. You can reach her by emailing maria@discoveringireland.com. 

Transportation – We opted to rent a car so we had flexibility each day. We did the full insurance, including tires, and rented the GPS navigation. In Ireland, compared to the United States, the steering wheel is on the other side of the car, and they drive on the other side of the road, which can be confusing, but you catch on. Also, be prepared … some of the roads are very narrow.

Dates of our trip – While most people go to Ireland in June, July and early August, we were there August 26 – September 5, in an effort to still get decent weather but avoid some of the crowds.

Weather – We were spoiled with the weather while we were there! Temperatures were typically mid- to low-70s during the day and the 60s at night. We only had rain two days.

Money – We primarily used our credit card, which was very easy. They will often ask you if you want to pay in euros or dollars. It’s best to select euros. We also used local ATM machines to get cash, which came in handy for cabs and snacks. In our experience, ATMs were better than exchanging currency at the airport.

Things I packed and didn’t need –

• Hair straightener (couldn’t use in any of the outlets)
• Jewelry (wore a necklace one night)
• Jeans (heavy and unnecessary)
• Big suitcase (I’ll pack smarter next time)
• Makeup (nobody cared, and I barely used it)

Things I didn’t pack that I wish I had –

• More of these functional pants from REI – (I also liked these)
• My TEVA sandals (loving these right now)
• Hiking poles

Things I was so glad I packed –

• Versatile weatherproof pants (linked above)
• Hats (I rarely did my hair)
• A buff for my neck or wrist
• Good hiking boots and trail shoes (I took these and loved them)
• A light backpack for hiking
• Crossbody purse (or hip bag) for evenings and days out
• Sunglasses
• Raincoat
• Umbrella
• Moisture-wicking layers (tanks, ts and long-sleeve)
• Small bottles of hand sanitizer
• Hair ties (my hair was in a pony or braided most days)
• Good socks
• Dramamine (If you get motion sickness, this is life in Ireland)
• Notes app or a journal
• Fitbit charger (we averaged 22k steps a day)
• Phone charger
• A mobile hotspot (we rented a wifi candy and picked ours up at the Dublin airport)
• GPS

The flight – We flew out of Chicago, which is about two hours from our home. The hardest part was finding a place to park at O’Hare! We got there about three hours early and had plenty of time. The flight was direct to Dublin and took around seven hours – give or take – both ways. I thought Aer Lingus did a tremendous job of keeping everyone fed, comfortable and happy. Take a little something to help you sleep and you’ll be there before you know it! Our experience at the Dublin airport was incredibly positive. Quick and painless!  

My friend Kim is so incredibly brave. Always has been. For the entirety of the 25 years we’ve been close friends, and the few years before that when she was a light flickering in my periphery, her confidence has been the brightest of her impressive attributes. She was the spark and the kindling and the gasoline to so many of the crazy situations we got into as teenagers, and we loved her for it. If they still printed encyclopedias, and people still read actual paper books, and someone flipped to the hypothetical section on tenacity, you would find a picture of my friend Kim. That’s how much chutzpah this girl has.

Throughout high school, Kim talked about becoming a professional actor. She was going to a big city, and she was going to get on stages, and she was going to lose herself in characters. And, true to form, she did. First in Chicago, then in New York and eventually in Los Angeles. A few of us actually flew out once to see two of her plays, and it was like watching a stranger soaking up their last day on Earth. The girl I knew completely disappeared into a tornado of humor and sorrow and contagious expressions. Homegirl left shreds of her soul all over that stage. Being witness to someone – anyone – doing what they truly love is such an authentic exchange.

But, I’m going down a rabbit hole …   

Anyway, every six months or so, Kim would blow through our lives with an exciting update, some glamorous and some just juicy.

Hey guys! I’m playing a badass female boxer, here’s a clip. We’re crowd funding it and it’s going to be insane! [Insert trailer featuring Kim in an ice bath with a black eye looking fierce as hell.]

My boyfriend was on [an insanely popular sitcom that I won’t mention for privacy purposes, but it was one of my favorites then and now and I completely lost my mind]. Everyone was really nice, I guess.

I’m shopping a pilot!

You guys won’t believe whose house I’m cleaning. [Again, omitting the celebrity’s name to protect his privacy, but this was a gooooood one, and a highlight in a series of many entertaining texts we got during her stint making extra cash picking up random jobs through TaskRabbit in L.A.]

My new apartment has a giant tree coming through the patio and a bunk bed. I’m calling it the tree fort.

I’m selling my art!

I’m moving to Italy.

Actually, I’m moving to Portugal.

The last text came only a few months ago. In fact, she just flew out, with her entire life packed in half a dozen suitcases, plus her dog and cat, this week.

Kim was able to spend several weeks in Indiana before she officially moved, and it was a dream. I can’t tell you what a gift it is to reconnect with someone who holds space in so much of your history. And believe me, my high school girlfriends don’t just know where the bodies are buried, they have the blisters from shoveling. We did a lot of reminiscing, but we also had these rich, beautiful conversations about life and the future.

And I just couldn’t stop saying, “I think you are so brave.”  

But to Kim, it was just a choice. A huge choice in the eyes of most, but in essence, for her it was a conscious shift. She wasn’t happy with her circumstances, she had nothing tethering her to L.A. or the U.S., so she chose to take a leap. And that’s part of what has always made her such a magnetic presence for me. She’s nonconformist, and highly passionate about pursuing joy, which I find to be rare and refreshing these days. There were a million things that went into her decision, but ultimately, she wanted to be somewhere where she felt awake and inspired and seen and heard. And I think she will feel all of those things in her new home, where she’s sipping a beer and unpacking as we speak.

What it means to be brave

If you’ve been here before, you know that I’m introspective to a fault. Watching someone I love maneuver through such a monumental change in her life, naturally made me question my own bravery.

Do I have the fortitude to chase down my dreams or am I too comfortable?

The snow globe where my soul had been taking a siesta was suddenly shaking violently, flurries of self-doubt dancing chaotically in my limbic system. It was unsettling and, if I’m being honest, distressing for me to admit that my friend’s milestone move triggered such a negative reaction inside me. Not toward her by any means. No, toward her I felt … what … jealousy, no … resentment, nah … whatever resides at the interaction of envy and encouraged, that’s what I felt. An awakening. It’s strange how seeing one person’s backbone exposed makes you want to sit up straighter.

The more Kimmy shared about her plans, the more my thirst for bravery grew. And the more that concept marinated, the more acute my ability to spot courageous gestures became. Of course, just like with all positive qualities, it was easier to see it in others first.

There is so much bravery among my friends, who have tried new things, fought for the family they wanted, walked away from toxic relationships, gone to therapy, shared what they learned in therapy, quit their job when they weren’t compensated or recognized fairly, taken the medication, said “yes,” admitted something was broken, started businesses, put in for the promotion, been vulnerable, said “no,” asked for what they deserve and lifted other women up.

And in my three little chicks, who have gone on stages, taken big swings, decided not to say the hurtful thing just to get a cheap laugh, fought for the open spot, gone a different way, shared their art, started conversations with strangers who interested them and dared to see people for who they actually are rather than who others say they are.  

Last year, I read “Bravey” by Olympian Alexi Pappas. She wrote so many phenomenal little nuggets about what it means to be brave and to work hard for your dreams, but one thing she said is so applicable here:

“Being a hero is a choice you can make, not a cape someone else will drape over you. You make your own cape.”

I always thought that some people were just brave, while others were not. But if you really pay attention, we’re all doing brave things every day, all the time. My choices may not have the flash and boom of relocating to Southwestern Europe, but they come with a modest cape all the same. And so do yours. They feel like nothing when we treat them like nothing, and we need to stop doing that or we’ll never feel empowered. Any decision that feeds joy, brings positive change, feels scary or breaks a cycle is truly a display of bravery. And that’s something to be proud of.  

Inspired by my friend Kim, I challenged myself to come up with five examples of how I’ve been brave so far this year, and I’d encourage you to do the same.

• I’ve pushed my aging body to get stronger.
• I finally booked a trip to Ireland.
• I’ve kept up with my six-month cleanings in spite of my raging dental anxiety. (If you know, you know.)
• I’ve been more honest and direct, and less passive-aggressive.
• I set boundaries in relationships that were not serving me and stuck to them. 

Now you! I’ll wait …

The older I get the more certain I am that people come and go from your life when they’re supposed to, and if you’re lucky the really good ones never truly leave you. Maybe you have a Kim in your life; A bright light who emboldens you or stirs something inside of you or reminds you to pull your cape out of the closet and entertain the notion of something bigger. Because you’re great and why not?

Kimmy is still the spark and the kindling and the gasoline, but these days, her adventures are fueling my desire for my own. Standing close to her flame is helping mine burn brighter and reminding me to stop and recognize how amazing it can feel to play with fire every once in a while. To take a chance or step forward when my instinct is to step back.   

I’ll leave you with one other quote from “Bravey,” and the assurance that you are killin’ it, whether you’re contemplating or confronting something massive or just making it through another day of summer vacation as a working parent:  

“You might be sad or happy or chasing a dream or still trying to find one, but whatever you are, you are the truth. Right now, you are perfect.”

 You are brave.

Earlier this week, I took a master class in the Calm app on radical compassion, taught by Tara Brach. She talked about “the trance of unworthiness,” a nearly constant state of self-judgment, fear and doubt that a lot of us, if not all of us, live with every day.

For you, the trance might be a little punk whisper saying you don’t deserve to take a 30-minute walk until the laundry is folded, or of course that recipe you tried didn’t work. They never do. I usually come to in the trance when I step on a scale or forget the girls had pajama day, which was rescheduled because of a snow day, which was supposed to be a makeup day for parent-teacher conferences, or some such other earth-shattering observance I neglected to put on the Google calendar.  

I won’t spoil the rest of the class for you in case you ever decide to explore Tara’s work for yourself, but there was something she said during the course that I haven’t been able to shake since I heard it. She asked, “Who would you be if you didn’t think something was wrong with you?” I’ve heard similar prompts. “Who were you before the world told you who you should be?” for example.

It’s such an interesting question to explore. Who would you be if you didn’t think something was wrong with you? What would that look like? Feel like?

The other sobering piece of that question is that it forces you to confront the things that you think are wrong with you, and we all have them. I know so many people who, when prompted, could generate an entire notebook of shortcomings about themselves, but maybe just a few lines of positives. We all think we’re riddled with flaws.  

I don’t know about you, but my anxiety about the world has never been higher. Things feel fragile and shaky, and it has hurled me into a dark inner dialogue. If, God forbid, something were to happen, did I live as my truest self? Did I chase joy? Did I explore and stand in awe as much I would like to? Did I love as hard and honestly as I could? Or did I squander my experience imprisoned by my perceived imperfections?

Our society is interesting, in that we put so much emphasis on the grind. Being busy is seen as a badge of honor and respect. Being thin because you have discipline, or you scheduled yourself right through lunch isn’t a red flag. I’m as guilty as the next person when it comes to prioritizing work over a walk or idolizing every body shape but my own. But isn’t constantly striving for what we are not just another form of keeping ourselves busy? Preoccupied with negative thoughts? Sauntering along in the trance of unworthiness?

If no one told me or showed me or suggested that I needed to be smaller, more organized, make more money, have a bigger, cleaner house, put my children on the travel team, get on tiktok, make a reel, read 50 books a year, wear midrise skinny jeans, meditate every morning, give up coffee for matcha, exfoliate, sleep more, do more, be more, keep every single ball in the air without missing a six-month dental cleaning, who the hell would I be?

In the last two years, one of the most spoken terms has got to be, “You’re muted.” And, to be honest, that’s a little bit what the trance of unworthiness feels like to me. Like I’m muted. I’m so busy trying to maintain what I have that I’m not really reaching for what I want or think could be.

If I channeled the energy that I exhaust stewing about petty exchanges, my body, my to-do list, relationships that no longer serve me in a healthy way, into big love, big adventures, big, deep, life-giving breaths, I think I might start to break the trance. I might find my voice again.

The truth is – and I’m speaking to myself here, too – there’s nothing wrong with any of us, aside from our belief that our flaws make us unworthy or less lovable.

A body is just the shell of a soul, and it’s that soul that matters. A house is just a shelter for a family, and it’s the love under the roof that matters. Money is a means to more, but it can’t buy the joy that makes it all worthwhile. The measuring stick that we use to gauge beauty, success, and status is subjective. I can define when I feel beautiful, successful and happy.

Self-compassion is hearing the negative, dark voice inside and then offering a counter perspective. A kinder perspective. I’m working on it, being nicer to myself and refocusing my energy. Life’s just too short to walk around in a trance. Let’s wake up.

This month, my parents are celebrating 50 years of marriage. People, that is 18,250 days, 54,750 meals, 13,035 episodes of Jeopardy and 350 major holidays together. Just shy of a 15-year union myself, I’ve had a tablespoon-size serving of the subtle art of sharing a life with another human, so I can admire the marathon these two kids have conquered.

Mom and Dad knew each other for several years before they began dating. But once they started smoochin’ it didn’t take long for them to decide to tie the knot. Six months, maybe. They had a small, simple ceremony on – fun fact – the same day my mom’s father got remarried. (Less than ideal, I’d say.) Their color was red, a bold choice for a bold romance. They had their reception in the church basement and danced off to the theme from “Love Story.”

The road has not always been smooth for my parents. In the beginning they literally collected change in a piggy bank so they could go out for dinner once every few months. My father had two heart attacks at a very young age, one shortly after starting his own business and with a fresh-faced baby at home (this girl!). Their parents passed. Mom battled and beat cancer. But truthfully, these hurdles jumped from the page like boogie men in an otherwise entertaining and joyful pop-up book.

Because my folks truly, sickeningly adore each other. I’ve had a front row seat for 40 of the 50 years they’ve been tethered, and I can tell you, they’re pretty much masters at the whole till-death-do-us-part promise thing. They understood the assignment.

Being witness to two people who are playing the long game definitely gives you some perspective on how to navigate your own marriage. In honor of my parents’ 50^th wedding anniversary, I want to share with you a short list of the lessons I’ve taken note of from the observation deck over the last five decades.

Clearly, you’re nuts.

My parents are almost always together. They work together, they live together, they eat and sleep together. And yet, their views of a reality they predominantly share for all intents and purposes, often differ. Mom always claims she told Dad about an event or appointment, but he never seems clued in. He attributes this to his ability to blend into the background, or, as he puts it, live as a mushroom who’s kept in the dark and fed shit. Mom attributes it to his senior brain.

My father’s ability to recall names and dates from the past is insane, but often comes after an exhaustive back-and-forth with my mom. Watching the two of them retrace their steps to an old colleague or classmate is how I imagine charades play out at a retirement home. We’re gonna get where we’re going, but it might take a while.  

We always say that Mom and Dad need a reality show, though I’m not entirely sure who the target demographic would be there. They get themselves into the wildest situations and do the most ridiculous things. Dad’s known to fight people in his sleep to the point where he flips himself out of bed. He hikes his jeans up to his nipples and can recite every stupid commercial and dirty poem from his youth without prompting.

But his bride isn’t much better. In fact, one might argue she would be the star of the reality show. My brother calls Mom “America’s treasure.” You guys, this woman once ran from her shoelace because she thought it was a snake. She has fallen, tripped, slid, tumbled, collapsed, faceplanted on and over every surface you can imagine. Why she wasn’t, in a twist of poetic irony, named Grace, we’ll never know.

And when you put these two crazies together, it’s comedic dynamite. They love music, and if you’re ever privy to one of their private performances, you’ll notice they start at a low, synchronized hum before eventually building to a bold chorus, Mom always on a 5-second delay because she really doesn’t know the words and thinks that, by coming in late, none of us will notice.

And God help me, I just love ‘em to pieces for all of it. They are my trail mix of choice; full of nuts with plenty of sweet stuff sprinkled in.

Let’s be honest, the cheese is slowly sliding off of all of our crackers. I don’t trust a person who doesn’t look for their sunglasses for an hour only to discover them on their head. Who doesn’t walk a lap with their skirt tucked into their pantyhose or get to work to discover their coffee mug took a ride on the roof. Marriage is about running your freak flag up the pole and having your partner salute, knowing you’re going to salute right back.

Everyone has bodies buried in the backyard.

Hitch yourself to someone who knows where they are, doesn’t care and doesn’t dig them up during a fight. That is all.

Arguments are like farts; best to let ‘em rip in private.

When I was in elementary school, I was at a friend’s house and her parents started going at it about something the other forgot to get at the grocery. I remember thinking, “Oh my gosh, how will she pick which parent she is going to live with?”

Believe me when I say I never saw my parents fight growing up. Now, notice I didn’t say that my parents didn’t fight. I’m sure they did! How could you not? It’s as inevitable as spandex in a Super Bowl halftime show. But I’m so thankful they chose to hold onto it until after we were all out of the room. I came of age, after all, in the days of “Full House” (RIP, Bob Saget) and “Growing Pains” and “My Two Dads”. Couples didn’t break up. Maybe one died or was mysteriously just missing from the plot, but they didn’t fight or get divorced.

It’s a courtesy I extend to others in my own marriage. Let’s be honest, there’s nothing worse than watching a couple fight. It’s uncomfortable for everyone. I don’t know where to look or whether to offer a sympathetic courtesy laugh or eye roll. What am I doing with my hands? Do I run? No one wants to be courtside for your significant other smackdown. Sit on it for a minute and wait until the room clears out.

As they’ve gotten older, and I have as well, I’ve seen my parents get a little feisty with each other on the rare occasion. Nothing too intense but it would definitely keep the reality show spicy.   

Laughin’ is livin’.

When people come around our family for the first time, I am certain they think we’re insane. We love nothing more than to gather around a table and tell the same stories we’ve told a thousand times, maybe with some new spice added, maybe not, and laugh our collective asses off. The more self-deprecating or embarrassing to one of our own, the better the reception.  

In this life, there are moments to grieve and to be somber and to sit in silence, but laughter is the magic potion that fills all the spaces in between and makes processing the heavy stuff palatable. Laughter is the salve for the sore spots, and I truly believe it’s been the secret cement for my parents, and my entire family.

“If you can’t laugh at yourself, you’ll never make it,” Mom says.

Marriage is a team sport

In any good partnership, it’s important to 1) know your role, and 2) be prepared to get called up to the majors with little notice.

My mom is the queen of many things, but for the sake of brevity, here are just a few highlights:

• Making potato salad, deviled eggs, broccoli salad and any meat-and-potato combo
• Gift gifting
• Entertaining
• Problem solving
• Christmas. Full stop.

A few years ago, she slowly started losing mobility. Severe back issues and arthritis made it difficult for her to walk, get up out of chairs or stand upright for long periods of time. As you can imagine, this impacted all of her typical tasks.

Instead of abandoning the meals and traditions our family was accustomed to, my dad came up out of the bullpen and stepped in where he was needed. He started handling the grocery shopping and hauling in the shipments from the North Pole with only mild grumbling.

I guess the point is, there will come a day when your partner gets taken out of the game, be it due to injury (mental or physical), disease or dire straits of a different color. You have to be prepared to get tapped in and take the reins like a boss. Because that’s what it means to really show up for each other.

Love is the only thing that matters.

My dad will tell you he didn’t fall in love with Mom the first time he met her, when they were teenagers. But from the second those feelings changed, his love for her – and hers for him – has been unwavering. It’s one of the greatest truths of my life. As they welcomed each of the three little humans they created and watched our families grow, as adversity roared and subsided, in the face of almost losing each other, their bond never blinked. Not once.

I can’t explain the voodoo of the higher power that pairs people off in this world. I don’t know the magic formula of scent and sight and heart that triggers the chemical reaction of commitment. But I can tell you that the stars aligned for my parents, and we’ve all been blessed to blaze within their constellation.

It’s cliché, I know, but it is a miracle. Two people fell in love and a family was born. A family with three children and 11 grandchildren, 10 gutsy girls and one golden boy. A family tied tightly together in trials and laughter. A family that genuinely enjoys being with each other, because our relationships are an extension of the strong roots planted the day they said, “I do.”   

Happy 50^th anniversary to my two favorite crazy people. Keep being weird and loving each other so damn much. It’s cute.

I’m a Taurus. – JoJo
I’m a Scorpio – Me
I’m a buffalo! – Sloppy Joan
What?! – JoJo
I mean a Hufflepuff – Sloppy Joan

My favorite is Joe Biden. Well … Biden or God, because he made us. And cars. – Sloppy Joan

I love Mrs. Abbs. And when she was little, her name was Julie. – Sloppy Joan

Stop! You’re hurting my penis! – Sloppy Joan

Can you look at my pooples? – Spike
Um … – Me
Is it pupils? Why are you looking at me like that? – Spike

How am I supposed to ride in this? There are like 50mph gushes! – JoJo

Your poop smells like chips and dip. – Sloppy Joan

Are you speaking whale? – Me to Sloppy Joan
No, silly. I only know fish. – Sloppy Joan

We’re a knockoff version of apes. – JoJo

If you had mastitis in 2020 it would be called maskitis. – Spike

Have you ever thought about how your upper body is always just along for the ride? – Spike

When were you diagnosed with pregnancy? – JoJo

Dad, just vote for the sweatiest team. You know they’re going to win. – Sloppy Joan

Give me that construction site paper. – Sloppy Joan

It’s what’s on the inside that counts.– Me
Like the bones and squishy stuff? – Sloppy Joan

I just wait till everyone’s asleep and then I take a piece of mama’s water cup. – Sloppy Joan

I kissed him five times. But the one at school was an accident. – Sloppy Joan
Really, because it kind of sounds like you’re lying. – Hank
I know. – Sloppy Joan

Let’s stop talking about how I pooped in the water. It’s stressing me out. – Sloppy Joan

In heaven I bet they don’t have vegetables, just candy. And when you fart I bet you can see it. – Sloppy Joan

Listen with your ear balls! – Spike

I scraped it, and it stinged like the h word. I can’t even like … It stinged like the h word. That’s the only way I can say it, mom. – Sloppy Joan

I just thought you kissed and passed the pregnancy germs to each other. – Spike

His parents look like the type who like to really party at the fall festival. – Sloppy Joan

I would go to the highest scrape tower … I mean cape scraper. And hide. – Sloppy Joan
Skyscraper, babe. – Me
That’s where you’re going? – Sloppy Joan

I’m an octopus and these are my testicles. – Sloppy Joan

You know what I really like? I like that this conversation is all about me. – Sloppy Joan

I think this is illegal. – Sloppy Joan, removing her shirt for an ultrasound.

They’re going to let you do a makeup class since you were sick. – Me
Do I get to pick the colors? – Sloppy Joan
What colors? – Me
Of the makeup. – Sloppy Joan

I couldn’t help it! Those farts were ready to be born! – Spike

What’s the windshield going to be at 11, mom? They only let us go out for recess if the windshield is like 10 below or something. – Sloppy Joan

Just after Hank and I got married, we did what a lot of newlyweds do. We flirted with parenthood by adding a fur baby to our lives. Hank picked her out from a shelter in the small country town where he worked at the time. They were calling her Aerial, but we decided to go with Mya, after Riviera Mya, where we’d taken our honeymoon.

I remember him walking in with this little tan puppy. She had a dark face, but was mostly ears. She was a mutt, through and through. Some boxer, German shepherd, maybe some lab. Who the hell knows? She wasn’t what I’d expected and everything I’d dreamed of. I adored her instantly.

The thing about dogs before you have children is that your capacity to care for them seems so vast. In those early days, just the three of us, she took up so much space and energy. We bought her Christmas gifts and took her everywhere. I put her in a sweater and boots in the winter to protect her paws.

She introduced us to the shame and embarrassment that comes with unpredictable little ones. We’d scurry about picking up her rogue poo, explaining it away, “She’s been so good lately. I don’t know why she shit on your new carpet.”

One time, when Hank and I had just moved back from Indianapolis and were living with my parents while we looked for our own place, Mya ate an entire brisket off the counter on New Year’s day. Out of fear my father would kill her, my mom told him she’d made up a bunch of sandwiches for Hank to take hunting. My dad shrugged, left the room and Mya was spared from his meat-motivated wrath. We didn’t tell him the truth until years later.

But while she was no canine saint, Mya did the job that all fur babies do. She taught us that we could keep another being alive. We could parent. We could love beyond the inconveniences. The messes. So, we welcomed a daughter. And then another daughter. And another. Each time, Mya put her nose to the car seat and inspected the pink skin of another human in her home. Always gentle, always curious.

Eventually, Mya became a brown blur in the background of our photos. An unbiased witness to our lives.

To me and Hank, she was now another set of tasks. During the phase of life when the pages of your planner are crammed with orthodontist appointments and well child exams and parent-teacher conferences, Mya had become, to us, something else to manage. Had she been let out? Fed? Given her meds? Check. Check. Check. Moving on to the next thing on the list.

But to our girls, particularly Spike, she was a constant companion. She was as patient and safe as any parent could ever wish for their family pet to be.

One night the girls decided to have a fashion show. They made custom clothes out of tissue paper and posed on the fireplace. Mya got a cape and matching hat. Some time later in the evening, we let her out to go potty, and the gate must have been open because Hank came home to our old mutt strutting down the sidewalk in nothing but a cape.

After leisurely weekend breakfasts, I always toss out any extra pancakes for the birds. Mya would cry at the door as soon as she saw them flying through the sky. We’d let her out and she’d immediately collect the carb rounds and bury them in the flower bed. We’d all forget and then days later I’d look out of the kitchen window and see her digging one up to eat it. She’d look up at me, dirt on her nose, and I’d laugh.

Too early for it to be fair, Mya’s hips started going.

“It’s time to start thinking about …” Hank would say. “Not yet,” I’d dismiss him. A few months would pass and she’d have an accident in the house. “Courtney …” he’d urge. “Not yet,” I’d say, pushing him off.

My admiration for our fur baby had been rekindled since I started working from home. She was always at my feet. Behind my desk chair. On the basement floor while I worked out. To be honest, it felt like taking in a confused elderly woman. I’d apologize for her snoring and loud farts on Zoom calls. She’d go into a room, seem to forget what she was after, and come back to me. We started finding little piddles here and there.

Then, a few weeks ago, she started having accidents in the house. Horrible accidents. She seemed weak and started falling down the stairs. I could hear my mom’s voice in my head: “She’ll let you know when it’s her time.”

I knew she was telling me it was OK to let her go. I sat down on the cold tile floor with her and cradled her grayed face in my hands. The chicks were at the table eating lunch. “Guys,” I choked out. “I think we need to talk about our girl.”

The thing about dogs is, they tell you a lot about people. In Mya’s case, my people. In our pet’s final days, my three girls were so incredibly strong.

We made the decision to set Mya free from her body together, as a family. On our last day with her in our home, JoJo made her a pancake and smeared it with peanut butter. For lunch, she made tacos so Sloppy Joan could drop cheese on the floor for her to lick up one last time. The girls and I took her for a walk around the back path with no leash. She was galloping, until her body caught up with her and she limped to the doorstep. Then we just sat and loved on her for two full hours, a tornado of love and her shedding hair and tears.

Hank came home around 3:30 to take her. Spike and JoJo decided to go with him. Sloppy Joan and I met them at my parent’s farm, where the girls had picked a perfect spot for our fur baby to rest by the pond. We stood over the loose dirt, a stone to forever mark our dog’s final resting place. We all cried and thanked her, the dry grass and bugs unwanted guests tickling our feet.

No one wanted to go home. That made it real. She wouldn’t be there, waiting for us.

“I can’t believe we really did that to her,” JoJo cried.

“She’s been here for my whole life,” Spike sobbed. “She was my favorite dog and I loved her so much. I just can’t process that she won’t be there.”

All Mya ever wanted was our love. If we were happy, she was happy. If we gave her attention, she was over the moon. She asked for so little and gave so much. We couldn’t have asked for a better dog for our family.

The moment you decide to let someone into your heart, you take a ticket for pain. You know full well that the day will come when a power much greater than yourself comes by to punch that ticket and break your heart open into a thousand pieces. But that doesn’t stop us from loving. From taking tickets.

The thing about dogs is, they come with tickets, too.

The thing about dogs is, you know when you get one that they are only yours for a short time. That they can’t be yours forever.

Mya took up space – sometimes a lot and sometimes a little – in our home for 14 years. I still look out the kitchen window to see if she’s digging up pancakes. Sometimes I think I hear her nails on the wood floor when I’m upstairs. I’ll feel like I’m forgetting something, and then realize it’s the old rituals I had in place to care for her.

I miss her.

I tell the girls that our hearts will heal, and the day will come when we can welcome another dog into our home. And I know that’s true. We’ll take another ticket. We’ll love an animal again the way we loved our Mya. The thing about dogs is, there’s always one in need of a family.

Rest easy, sweet Mya Moo.

When I was in elementary school, I had two best friends. When things were good, it was a harmonious triangle filled with laughter and pegged jeans and singing our little hearts out to New Kids on the Block. And it was perfect, because I loved Joey, my other friend was obsessed with Jordan, and the other was feelin’ the bad boy streak in Donnie. It couldn’t have been better. Except for the times when three became a crowd, which it inevitably always did. Then it turned into having one girl over and leaving the other out, a BFF necklace with only two pieces, etc. so on, you get the drift.

At that age, sleepovers were always like running the gauntlet. At one particularly challenging slumber party, a group of us decided to put a friend’s hand in warm water after she fell asleep first. Classic shenanigans. But when she woke up, sopping wet and completely pissed off, every finger in the room pointed right at the “90210” across my flat chest. They threw me under the bus, and there is no bus heavier than one carrying a gaggle of young girls on a mission to cast someone out. I sobbed to my friend’s mom and begged her to call my parents to come get me, which she did not. Instead, she let me sit in her study with her while she watched Cheers and eventually sent me back out to my sleeping bag and the wolves surrounding it.

This was just one of a thousand examples, blurred by years of growing and giving less and less of a shit about old wounds. It becomes harder to recall the specifics of passed notes, intentional skipped invitations, rumors, sticks, stones, all the typical weapons in the adolescent female arsenal, after you’ve healed and found suitable adult humans to spend your time with.

Until it comes back around.

These days, the shots aren’t being fired at me. They’re being fired at my girls. My daughters. And the burn is so much worse when I see it hit their skin.

I talk to my friends and their daughters are having similar struggles. “She’s just going through a tough time right now,” they say. “You know how girls can be,” they say. And I agree, because I do. We all do.

Decades have come and gone since the last time I cried over a strategic assault against me. An intentional gesture aimed at dimming my light or alienating me from a larger group. But the tactics, the bullets being fired, are frighteningly similar. The goal remains to make the target feel embarrassed, alone, stupid, different, disposable.

My question is this … Who is training the troops?

Where is the next generation getting the playbook for girl-on-girl abuse? Certainly children pick up on patterns and that perpetuates behaviors. When I do “x” I get this type of attention. When I do “y” I feel good/bad. When I do “z” the consequence is … Are we simply not evolving past the instant gratification of lighting others on fire so that we can feel warmer? Is the shine of compassion not as bright and enticing?

On every playground and in every hallway of every school, guaranteed, there are groups of girls assuming roles as old as time:

• Tina is unapologetic and confident. She is the ring leader. When Tina says someone is out, they are out, and you better fall in line. Never question Tina’s actions (or her parents’).

• Sara is obsessed with Tina. Sara rarely experiences turbulence in the group.

• Tammy has a good heart and often questions the things Tina tells her to do, but ultimately does them anyway. This puts Tammy on the bubble when it comes time for Tina to pick a target. Tina’s parents are concerned.

• Sandy has a strong moral compass and often feels conflicted about being included while also being kind to others. Sandy tends to be silly and loud and is a bit of a free spirit. This makes Sandy the most popular target.

Does any of this sound familiar? Personally, I will admit to being a Tina, a Sara, a Tammy and a Sandy at different times in my life, but mostly, as a young girl, a Sandy. My saving grace was my humor, which often helped me diffuse impending attacks, and my mother, who coached me across the battlefield and served as my personal Clara Barton. She would tend to the mental health wounds, gaping and uncontrollably bleeding from a malicious accusation or horrific handwritten note, anonymously slipped into my book bag between classes.   

And now my own daughters are dancing about these disappointing roles and I’m the one with the bandages. And, I have to tell you, it is so frustrating. I am so tired, for them.

The deliverables are different, sure. Now we have online meetups and text messages to sling arrows, but the objectives are largely identical. When girls feel insecure or threatened or uncertain or, I don’t know, bored, they seek out the weakest link or the most vulnerable soul, and they dig in. Different is bad. Individuality is bad. Another’s success is bad.

As a mother, while I make no claims of being perfect, my messages are simple and, hopefully, very clear:

We NEVER make someone else feel bad because we’re feeling bad.

We NEVER make someone else feel bad because they are different.

We NEVER respond to hate with more hate.

We NEVER put our hands on someone out of anger.

We NEVER assume we know what’s going on with someone at home.

We NEVER do something mean just because others are doing it.

We ALWAYS come from a place of kindness and seek to understand.

I wish for my kids to be successful in their lives. I wish for them to find their soul mates and have babies and settle into all the joy. But the absolute most important thing to me and their father is that our girls are good people. The people who stand up and change the narrative. The girls who will become women who turn around, extend a hand and pull the next woman up. While I think academics and athletics and all of the achievements we push our children toward are tremendous, I think we have to coach and celebrate their character above all else.

Are my girls perfect? Nooooooo! [She says laughing hysterically.] They are insensitive and judgmental and petty and manipulative. And those all came up before 8 a.m. today. They always complain about what I make for dinner, so clearly they are ungrateful and have zero taste. But we are having tough conversations and trying to break some cycles. What will come of it? The verdict’s still out. But it’s the hill I’m willing to die on.

I can tell within 30 seconds of my chicks walking through the door what kind of day they had. That rehashing and unpacking that happens in those minutes that follow them getting off the bus are critical. I never assume that their version is the absolute truth, but I try to give them the benefit of the doubt that it is, in fact their true perception. I ask questions to help them see all of the other perspectives at play. To see where they could have done things differently. To explore other ways to handle conflict.

Imagine if we all invested just a little bit of time every day to help foster new definitions of the roles our young girls should assume; the peacemaker, the adventurer, the inventor, the connector, the investigator. It’s so much better than just the bully and the bullied. It’s not that our daughters will never or should never disagree. It’s how they handle themselves when someone sees things a different way, or acts a different way, or looks different or sounds different. The first instinct shouldn’t be to attack or alienate. We have to give our girls different tools, instead of weapons. We have to start modeling grace.

I’m sure every woman has a scar from a time when they were young – or maybe even an adult – when a fellow girl hurt her, in that way that only girls know how to hurt other girls. Engaging in that psychological, social, emotional warfare that men and boys will never quite master. Let those scars be a reminder and a motivating factor in your approach with your girls, so that they might have fewer marks to show their children.

When someone sends an arrow flying toward one of my daughters, I no longer offer them advice for how to retaliate or respond. I simply share with them that I, too, have been there. I tell them how it made me feel and ask them how they feel. I try to sit in their pain with them, rather than dismiss or fix it. I ask them to remember how much it stings when someone treats them that way. I set the expectation that the malicious behavior stops there so that no one else has to feel the way that I felt when I was a little girl, or they feel now as little girls.  

Let’s create new roles.

Let’s arm the troops with compassion, rather than cattiness.

Let’s raise kind girls.

At any given moment, in any given household, somewhere near the intersection of sheer audacity and complete ignorance, a tiny human is tucking something sticky into a small space where it will take months to find. 

The clutter and crud of having children doesn’t infiltrate all at once. It trickles in, one Lego and one mysterious stain at a time. Toddlers kindly usher you into the utter environmental chaos that is parenting by gifting you with globs of mashed food paste and snot smears. Eventually, they venture over to the Tupperware drawer and at some point, after the 50,000^th time you restack the containers, you realize (and reluctantly accept) that your home is never going to be the same. At least for the next 18 years, give or take.

Our chicks have an innate ability to destroy a small space with very minimal effort. On a typical school day, they walk through the door at 2:40 p.m. Without fail, by 2:45 I am trudging through a trash heap of book bags, folders, socks, shoes, snack wrappers, water bottles, masks and coats, stepping into some tall combat boots and assuming my role as Sergeant O’ Slop. 

“Whose papers are these?”

“Why is your chromebook in the bathroom?”

“Did somebody step in something?”

“Pick up that underwear, please.”

“Why are your socks wet?”

“How was I supposed to know it needed signed?”

“I don’t care if the dog wants to eat it.”

A few years back – and a good nine years into our life in the landfill – Hank coined a term for this blatant behavior. He calls it “F yo house!”

Since it’s generally frowned upon to completely lose your ever-lovin’ mind over every single mess your precious children leave in their wake, looking at your spouse and being able to sigh and pseudo-swear is a great way to let some pressure out of the cooker. Because let’s be honest, there are times when, in the face of a cushion fort left up five requests to remove too long, or a countertop smeared in Nutella artwork, or a shower curtain left outside the tub yet again, the mind boggles as to how three little humans could be so gosh dang dirty. So deliberate in their disorder. With absolutely zero regard for the tidal wave of bewilderment and turmoil it triggers in the caretakers with whom they coexist and rely on for food and shelter.

You have to find ways to laugh or you’ll cry. Or scream. Or get in your car and drive to the nearest ice cream shop and lose your mind over three scoops of Mint Chocolate Chip. Not that I’ve ever made any concrete plans.

True story, I try to give the girls responsibility and instill a decent work ethic. I put their clean laundry on their beds and tell them to put away everything they can reach and I’ll do the rest. (It’s tough for Sloppy Joan to hit the higher rack in her closet.) I had mentioned to Hank how impressed I was with our littlest chick’s willingness to abide by this simple request, when her sisters often resisted.

One day, while in her room, I saw a sleeve sticking out from under her new big girl bed. I got down on my hands and knees and pulled. And then pulled another sleeve. Then a leg. Then a jacket. I pulled and I pulled and I pulled. This kid had stashed probably three months’ worth of clean clothes under her bed. All the while basking in my praise for a job well done. F yo house!

Karma is real and it has a fantastic sense of humor. I can remember my mom stacking our miscellaneous mess on the steps when I was a little. Surely we couldn’t walk by these items without carrying them up to our rooms. But we did. We skipped a step and went on our merry ways, like the wicked turds we were. Time and time again. Now I’m the one strategically positioning purses and chapter books and pillows shaped like various pets on my stairs. And I’m the one flabbergasted at their determination to dodge the inventory. F yo house!

I don’t think my kids are bad kids. I don’t think I was a bad kid. I think that all children live in a fairy land in which a magical vacuum comes on at night and sucks up all of the toys and trash and discarded clothing, revealing a clean slate in the morning light. But then you grow up and have kids of your own and realize that we are the vacuums. We are the trash collectors, scum scrubbers and shoe finders. And it’s a really crappy part of the job.

When my brother was in elementary school, my mom got so fed up with his messy room, she opened a window, gathered up everything from his floor and threw it out onto the front lawn. For years when they would recount the story, I couldn’t understand how she thought that was a good idea. I mean, it didn’t even really bother him. But now I can totally see it. Raptured by F-yo-house rage, the poor woman was possessed by a power much greater than her patience. She cannot be held accountable for the acts she carried out amid the blinding fury of a mother saddled with her offspring’s indefensible debris. I see you now. And I stand with you.

It’s a burn we all feel every time we uncover a new act of bold, unthinkable negligence.

Every time you move a couch and find a treasure chest of moldy snacks and the match to the sock you just gave up on and threw away last weekend. F yo house!

Every empty applesauce pouch under the coffee table. F yo house!

Every streak of crusty, dried toothpaste that’s been squeezed and spat along the rim and counter of the bathroom sink. F yo house!

Every abandoned scooter, box of chalk, bubble blower, bucket and helmet in the front yard. F yo house!

The discovery of a Gatorade bottle stuck in the backseat cup holder from last summer’s soccer practice. F yo house!

The wet towels on the floor.

The crushed goldfish, every freaking where.

The tissues that miss the trash.

The unraveled toilet paper.

The smears, smudges and full-on handprints on the walls.

The cups with one swig left.

The broken crayons and dried out markers.

Stickers on car windows.

Unfolded blankets.

Opened nail polish.

Hidden remotes.

The lights, oh the lights, always left on when they leave for school.

F. YO. HOUSE.

Hey, that’s just kids, right? If they came out perfect, there’d be nothing left for us to do. God makes ‘em cute so we don’t get rid of them. I’ll miss this someday. All the things. I know, I know.

But so help me, it feels good to commiserate every once in a while. As Hank likes to say, we just aren’t in the stage of life when we can “have nice things.” And certainly the day will come when we have nice things and would trade them for just one more year with our little chicks. It’s probably best to just admire how green the grass is in my own yard for now. Even with all the toys and shit in it.

At my first writing job out of college, I was gifted the opportunity to work under an extraordinarily talented and motivational editor. She was a tremendous teacher, but it was her weekend warrior lifestyle that cast a deep spell on me. She was a marathoner, ultra-marathoner and all around badass lady. I was in my early 20s, she was in her early 30s, and I was entranced by her athleticism and breezy, carpe diem demeanor.

At the time, I was a young professional still teetering on the brink of campus life and struggling to abandon bad habits, but I desperately wanted to be a runner. My editor would sit in her office and talk to me for 30 minutes about the best shorts to get, what to look for in footgear and breathing techniques. I would get so enthralled with my sensationalized, hypothetical running self after those talks, I would almost go for an actual run when I got home.

Eventually, I took the plunge. Kind of. I signed up for the Indy half marathon. Per my typical MO, I talked my roommate into signing up as well. If my memory serves – and forgive me, it’s been more than a decade – I believe we did a handful of training run/walks along the canal downtown leading up to the event. But the sobering truth was that my editor couldn’t run the race for me. And, as luck would have it, one of my best friends ended up holding her bachelorette party that day and, as a member of the bridal party, I just couldn’t miss the festivities. I never ran the Indy mini. I’m happy to report that my roommate did, though. I’m still so proud of that cookie … who turned out to be so, so tough.

A few years later, I signed up for another half marathon, but just a few weeks into the training, I found out I was pregnant with my first little chick and dropped down to the 4-mile route. But I have no regrets. I ended up walking with my parents when Mom was in the midst of her cancer treatments. She wore a tank top that said, “Fuck cancer” and everyone cheered as we passed. That was the walk I was meant to take that day.

And yet, it haunted me. Two attempts. Two zeroes on the scoreboard.

Then I went on a real hot streak. The following year, I committed to walking a local half marathon. I recruited my sister-in-law and when the big day rolled around, we covered the ground and crossed the finish line. I did the same thing the next year with a friend from college. The year after that, I decided I really wanted to run it. Britni, a friend and former coworker, was also in the market for a little challenge. We trained together and knocked it out. Then the following two, I ran the half with Jackie, a friend I’ve had since I was 15. Then we decided to change up the terrain and did a 20-mile trail race together.

The truth is, anyone can finish a race. I know it sounds like crap, but truly, if you want to walk, jog, run or crawl a certain number of miles, you’ll figure it out. It might not be fast or pretty – neither of which are adjectives I’d use to describe any of my races – but you’ll get where you’re going eventually. And really, after first place, all the medals are the same.

I never lost a ton of weight training for races. I didn’t get enviable toned arms or carved calves. But I did gain something so much greater.

Whether I was putting in miles with Britni or Jackie or my sister-in-law or my college friend or my husband, the best part was always the conversation and connection. There’s something sacred about the breathless exchanges that transpire on the trails.

The ritual became cemented in my life a few years ago, when Jackie and I decided to meet as often as we could, whether we were training for a race or not, at a local state park. I think these early runs were among some of my favorites. Jackie is one of my oldest friends, with a soul so sweet and pure you can’t help but cherish her heart and relish her advice. Sometimes we ran 10 miles and sometimes we ran 4. We talked about the trees and our marriages. Our kids and our jobs. Our friendships and plant-based eating. Most weekends we found ourselves at the crossroads of purging and peace. It was better than therapy.

“Want to go to church on Sunday?” she’d text. And I always knew exactly what she meant.

We were worshiping in a sanctuary of trees and on ridges overlooking shimmering lakes. Our prayers were carried from our crowded minds by gentle breezes in the silent moments and our candid words floated from our mouths only to get soaked up by the sun’s forgiving rays. It was a safe space. Sacred.

And then it grew.  

In the last year or so, friends of mine (including Britni) and friends of Jackie’s have found their way into our runs, either by invitation or inquiry. One person showed up one week, and someone different the next. For the most part, everyone who came once, came back again. And now we have this lovely circle of women, all connected through spokes shooting off of two high school friends.

We call ourselves the Gnarly Nubs, because on the trails, just like in life, things pop up and try to take you down. (It’s official now, because we have embroidered headbands.) Our group text thread is a mix of coordinating schedules, injury updates and celebrating small victories. The vocabulary is unique and specialized.

But, you might be saying, I hate running. I have absolutely zero desire to run. Why should I give two flips about your running group? The point is, whether it’s historical fiction novels, knitting, Majong, dissecting the royals (#ImWithMeghan) or bird watching, it’s important to find peers who cheer you on and want to have a shared experience. You need friends, for more reasons than there are words that can be put down and assembled on this page. But more than just that, you need friends who encourage you to keep moving forward.

Sometimes I think people put off joining clubs or groups or gatherings out of a preconceived fear that they won’t measure up. They won’t be accepted. They count themselves out before dealing themselves in. I can tell you that none of us are setting any speed records on those trails. Some weekends, we do more walking and talking than we do jogging. Other days, someone has a great run and finishes 20 minutes ahead. We respect what each gal has in her tank on any given day. But good or bad performance, I don’t think any of us really care about the outcome. We care about the time in the woods, and we always walk out lighter than we went in. it’s not always about being the best, but it’s always about feeling better.

We belong to a sorority of women in a similar stage of life. When we come together, we can talk about our kids, but we see each other as more than just moms. We can talk about our relationships, but we know we’re more than just someone’s wife. We can discuss work without limiting the definition of who we are to just our careers. We can be all of the facets of ourselves without squeezing into stereotypes. We see each other. We hear each other. And we respect each other. I believe that’s a universal need for all women. Not just the ones who like to run on trails.  

When I think back on those conversations in my editor’s office, I can see now that I really enjoyed being in her company and soaking in her energy more than anything else. I loved connecting with her about something other than writing, because I thought she was a cool person. In today’s world of 280-character correspondence and emoji messages so many of us are missing the opportunities to really connect.

I will never be a fast runner, or a thoroughbred as I like to call them. My destiny is to be a trusty quarter horse, slow and steady. Some of my most treasured runs have been at a snail’s pace, where the trail seems to stretch out forever and the conversation is deep and soul-altering. I never mind bringing up the back of the pack because that’s where perseverance likes to play. I’m a better person because of the encouragement I’ve given and received in the final miles, the most painful steps and on the hardest days. And all of that translates, no matter what hobby or pastime you choose as your centerpiece.

My hope is that you find your people. That they bubble up to the surface through an introduction or a rekindled relationship or a random run in. Be on the lookout for the ones who really see you; the ones who align with your vision for your greatest self. And then get them on your schedule on a regular basis. Make them part of your routine, just as you would any other appointment.

Life can be chaotic and heart-breaking. It can leave you threadbare. It’s good to know that at the conclusion of even the toughest weeks, I can take my ass to church and it’ll all be alright. I pray that you, too, find your congregation.