Not Nothing

On slow progress, quiet moments, and the things I still like

I’ve been in a cynical mood lately.

Not in a dramatic, everything-is-falling-apart way. Just tired, and not even in a way that feels worth explaining. Things just feel flat more often than not, like I’m putting in effort and it’s not really going anywhere fast enough to matter.

There’s always something.

My weight loss is slower than I hoped. The migraines are still there. The balances are going down, just not fast enough. It’s all effort, and the return on it feels pretty minimal lately.

I’m not trying to spin that into something positive.

This isn’t a “find the joy” phase or whatever people call it. I’m not waking up grateful. I’m not reframing anything. I’m not sitting here thinking this is all part of some bigger meaningful process.

But there are still things I like.

Not big things. Just small ones that happen anyway.

The first sip of my McDonald’s Diet Coke in the morning. It’s always the same. Cold in a way that feels sharper than anything else. Crisp and reliable. It hits exactly the way I expect it to, every single time.

Finishing a book is another one. Turning the last page, closing it and sitting there for a second. Updating my reading tracker, my counters, seeing the numbers move. It’s small, but it feels like progress. Like something I can point to and say I actually finished it. And then there’s that brief flicker of excitement, figuring out what I’ll read next, knowing I’m about to step into a completely different story.

At night, when the kids are asleep and nothing else is being asked of me, I get into bed and turn something on. Lately it’s been true crime, documentaries, or going back to Grey’s when I don’t feel like thinking too much. It’s not productive. It’s not important. It just feels like mine for a little while.

And then there are the moments that don’t make any sense at all.

The other night, Holden looked at me, completely out of nowhere, and said, “Mom, when you turn 40, you should be a beekeeper.”

No context. No buildup. Just said it like it was obvious, even though I hate insects. And it made me laugh. Not in a big, meaningful way. It just caught me off guard enough to break through everything else for a minute.

None of this fixes anything. The bigger stuff is still there. The frustration, the waiting, the feeling of being stuck in a version of life I didn’t plan on staying in this long.

It’s not a transformation. It’s not a turning point. I don’t feel different. I don’t feel better. But I also can’t say there’s nothing good at all.

These small moments keep showing up. Not enough to change anything. Not enough to fix it. But they’re still there. Even when everything else feels like it isn’t moving.

And right now, that’s what I have.

Not happy.

But not nothing.

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Play it Again, Mom (One Minute Memoir)

A Memoir of Flutes, Feelings, and Coming Full Circle

Setting: August 2023 — The summer Holden fell for Celine and I relived 1997.

My parents always said they spent hundreds of dollars for me to learn to play “My Heart Will Go On” on the piano. It was my big recital song, months of lessons leading up to one minute on the church stage.

I never practiced. Not once.

So imagine my surprise when Holden, at five, took a sudden interest in the Titanic. He couldn’t pronounce it quite right, but he could rattle off facts like a tiny tour guide. He even had a captain’s hat and a shirt that proudly declared: Just a Boy Who Loves the Titanic.

Then he discovered the song.

“Can you play the Titanic song?” he’d ask. And then again. And again. Every day for weeks.

And I, a millennial mom who lived through the 1997 Titanic obsession in real time, complied. Naturally. Because who am I to deny Celine Dion?

So I’d cue it up.

The opening flute. The tragic yearning. The ocean of childhood feelings that floods in like the iceberg itself. Instantly, I’m back on my bedroom floor, surrounded by notebooks and folders, carefully writing "I ❤️ Leo" in the margins like it meant something, like I was part of it somehow.

The song would end, and Holden’s voice would follow, right on cue:

“Can you play it again?”

I’d sigh. I’d hit play. Again.

And again.

Eventually, the phase passed. But every now and then, when I hear that familiar flute, I still think of him — a little boy in a captain’s hat, the ghost of my own childhood looping softly behind him while he asks for it on repeat.

Some things, it seems, really do go on… and on.

This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.

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Month in Review: March 2026

March 2026 in Review

March felt like a month made up of moments. Not one big defining thing, but a collection of nights out, small wins, kid milestones, and a few unexpected highs that ended up meaning more than I thought they would. It wound up being a fuller month than expected. Here's how it all shook out.

📊 Month by the Numbers

Weight: ⬇️ 6 lbs

Books: 2 

Blog Posts: 13

OMMs: 5

Savings: ⬆️ $570

Debt: ⬇️ $149.17

Runs: 0

Migraines: 8

Highlights

• Two movie nights, two very different vibes: I saw Scream 7 with my two best friends. It was campy, chaotic, and honestly just really good to be back together again. It had been too long. Later in the month, I took the boys to see Hoppers on a discount Tuesday. They loved it. I thought it was cute. We loaded up on popcorn and made a pre-movie stop at the dollar store for candy and pop, which honestly might have been their favorite part.
• Glow Night & school life: Caleb had his school glow dance and both boys had a great time. I also had a productive and helpful meeting with Holden's school that went pretty well!
• Holden’s social calendar: Holden had his first real playdate! We met up with two of his friends to go bowling (slightly chaotic, fully successful). Later in the month, he went to a roller skating birthday party where the skating was questionable but the laser tag and arcade games were elite.
• Bingo, but make it a win: We go to our community center's Bingo night every month. Sometimes it results in tears. But this month? This month delivered. Caleb won in the first round, the boys inhaled questionable pizza, and Holden ended the night by winning the big Squishmallow raffle. A full victory sweep.
• Food adventures (mixed results): We tried the K Pop Demon Hunters meal at McDonald’s (fun, chaotic, lots of nuggets), hit Dave’s Hot Chicken for the first time (too hot, immediate regret), and went to the Chinese buffet with my parents, where Holden confidently explored things no one asked him to try, including crawfish (he loves) and octopus (not a fan).
• Broadway night: My aunt and I saw Kimberly Akimbo and were completely blown away. Funny, weird, and unexpectedly heartfelt.
• Quiet financial follow-through: Now that my credit cards are paid off, I shifted my focus to what’s next. I set up a repayment plan for my retirement loan and re-enrolled in my NYS deferred comp (457) contributions. Nothing flashy, but the kind of steady, behind-the-scenes moves that actually change things long term.
• A moment I wasn’t expecting: I wrote an essay about Cindy — the baboon in Namibia I had followed and loved for years — and shared it, hoping it might somehow reach Ruben and his family (Ruben was her human "brother" who shared her life with people all over the world). I didn’t really think it would, but I tried anyway. I left comments. Tagged them in stories. Messaged his page. And after two days of attempts and with bated breath, I opened my inbox to a message back from him. He had read it. He loved it. He thanked me. Then he shared the link (with his MILLIONS of followers) on Instagram and Facebook with a really meaningful caption. His mom shared it as well. It was one of those surreal, emotional, “did that really just happen?” moments. I lived off that high for the rest of the week. As a writer, this was a really big moment for me with a lot of exposure. But as a human, it was even bigger. I wanted the family to know what she meant to me and how grateful I was to them for sharing her. To know I reached them still delights me to no end. 

📚 What I Read

Only two books this month, but both solid reads.

• The Last Party by A.R. Torre ★★★★☆
• The Family Next Door by John Glatt ★★★★☆

Favorite: The Last Party
Yearly Progress: 9 / 100

🎬 What I Watched

Movies

• Scream 7 ★★★★☆ — campy, self-aware, and exactly what you want from this franchise at this point. Saw it with my two best friends, which made it even better. A masked killer returns (again), but the fun is in how over-the-top it leans into itself. I now need to watch the rest of the series (I've only seen the first three or so).
• Hoppers ★★★☆☆ — cute, easy, and completely kid-approved. We made a full night of it with popcorn and dollar store candy. A light, family-friendly story that doesn’t try too hard and doesn’t need to.

TV

• Grey’s Anatomy — rewatch era continues (rewatch ◦ s:2 e:1–3)

Documentaries & Docuseries

• Death in Apartment 603: What Happened to Ellen Greenberg? (Hulu, 2025) ★★★☆☆ — frustrating and thought-provoking. Explores the suspicious death of a woman and the lingering question of suicide vs. homicide. I'd heard of this case before, but the details were shocking. Really well done... and managed to enrage me. (3 episodes)
• Friends Like These: The Murder of Skylar Neese (Hulu, 2026) ★★★☆☆ — a brutal case involving teenage girls that’s hard to sit with. A look at the dynamics that led to a shocking and tragic crime. This series was well done and interesting to watch. (3 episodes)
• Love Has Won: The Cult of Mother God (HBO Max, 2023) ★★★★★ — completely unhinged in the best way. A deep dive into a cult built around a self-proclaimed spiritual leader that somehow gets more unbelievable the longer you watch. I honestly loved it and could not turn away. (3 episodes)
• Escaping Twin Flames (Netflix, 2023) ★★★★☆ — still fully in my cult documentary phase. Follows a group that claims to help people find their “twin flame,” but quickly spirals into manipulation and control. Crazy and compelling! (3 episodes)
• Tell Me Who I Am (Netflix, 2019) ★★☆☆☆ — fascinating topic, slower execution. A man loses his memory after an accident and relies on his twin to reconstruct their shared past — except not everything is told. (film)

Coming Up in April

We have another musical coming up (A Beautiful Noise), plans to see the new Mario movie, and, once again, hopes that the weather finally cooperates enough to get back into running. I’m aiming for a bit more consistency this month: something like a few runs, a handful of books, and continuing to chip away at both my savings and weight. Nothing dramatic... just steady progress.

See you next month.

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On My Own Two Feet (New Chapters)

New Chapters ◦ Chapter Three: The Return ◦ Entry 3

This essay is part of my New Chapters series — a collection of personal essays organized into themed chapters that trace different seasons of rebuilding and becoming.

← Previous: Not the Same, Not Yet 

On Stability, Self-Trust, and Choosing What Comes Next. 🌿

There was a version of my life not that long ago that felt like it was being held together with duct tape and adrenaline.

Everything felt urgent. Bills. Decisions. Conversations. I wasn’t thinking five steps ahead. I was thinking about how to get through the week without something else breaking.

During the divorce, my finances were the clearest reflection of that chaos. Credit card balances climbing. Interest compounding. Payments that felt like bailing water out of a boat with a teaspoon.

I told myself it was temporary. That once things settled, I’d sort it out.

In February, the credit cards were finally paid off.

After years of carrying them. After watching them grow during instability. After months of slowly chipping away at them.

They hit zero.

But what I didn’t realize then was that it wasn’t just about the balances. It was about how powerless I felt inside of them.

When money feels unstable, everything feels unstable. You don’t feel free to make decisions. You feel cornered by them. You calculate constantly. You brace constantly. You adapt constantly.

You survive.

Somewhere along the way, that started to change.

Not overnight. Not with a dramatic reset. Just small, steady decisions made over and over again. Tracking instead of avoiding. Paying a little extra when I could. Choosing long-term relief over short-term comfort.

The numbers eventually moved.

But more importantly, so did I.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m one unexpected expense away from panic. I don’t check my account with dread. I don’t feel like my life could tip over because of one misstep.

I built breathing room.

Breathing room doesn’t just change your bank balance. It changes your posture. It changes the way you walk into rooms. It changes how you decide what you will tolerate and what you won’t.

And that breathing room has changed more than my bank balance.

It’s changed how I think about my future.

When you’re in survival mode, you don’t dream. You cling. You make decisions based on fear. You hold onto what’s in front of you because you don’t trust that you could land on your feet if it disappeared.

But when you know you can stand on your own, something shifts.

You stop scanning every decision for danger. You start scanning for alignment.

You start asking different questions.

Not “How do I hold this together?”

But “What do I actually want?”

That’s new for me.

I’m thinking about career growth in a way that feels expansive instead of desperate. I’m not looking for something to save me. I’m looking for something that fits. I’m thinking about where I want to live, not just where I can afford to exist. I’m thinking about opportunities without immediately calculating whether I’d survive the risk.

I don’t feel rescued.

I feel capable.

That’s the difference.

No one swooped in. No dramatic bailout. No external fix.

Just months of quiet, unglamorous work: steady payments. Clearer boundaries. More intentional choices.

It’s strange how invisible this kind of rebuilding is while you're in it. There’s no applause for paying off credit cards slowly. No celebration for choosing stability over impulse. No milestone marker for becoming less reactive.

But internally, it feels enormous.

Because for the first time since my life split open, I feel like I’m not rebuilding around fear.

I’m rebuilding around strength.

The stability isn’t flashy. It doesn’t look like a new house or a fancy car or some dramatic reinvention yet. It looks like spreadsheets and routines and showing up consistently.

It looks like standing up on my own two feet and realizing I’m not wobbling anymore.

I didn’t just fix my finances. I paid off the credit cards that once felt impossible. And somewhere between the first payment and the last, I stopped waiting to be steadied.

I steadied myself.

Visit the New Chapters landing page to explore each chapter and read the story in order.

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What If We Printed One? (One Minute Memoir)

A Memoir on Family Brainstorming, Things We Could Have Bought, and Other Unnecessary Objects

Setting: March 2026

Most evenings at dinner lately, the conversation turns to the 3D printer. Not because we need anything, but because we can. Someone throws out an idea and we all build on it from there.

“Caleb, you should print a French horn for your band teacher,” I say.

“Or a whole music staff,” my dad adds.

“Wait. What instrument does she actually play?”

Phones come out. Screens get turned across the table. Someone finds something, passes it over, and the question always follows: “Could you print that?”

At some point, Caleb started keeping a list in the Notes app on his phone. Just a running collection of things to make next.

The funny part is that most of the things on that list already exist. They’re things we could easily buy, usually for a few dollars, and definitely in less time than it takes us to make them.

We’ve already spent hours printing things that fall into that category. A toothbrush holder that took most of the day. Fidget toys. Replacement doll shoes for my mom's collection. Balloon dogs. Small baskets for our book counter numbers. A replacement back cover for a Wii remote we thought was gone for good.

None of it was necessary. None of it was urgent. And all of it took significantly longer than just buying it.

That’s what makes it a little hard to explain.

Why spend hours printing something that already exists? Why wait for it to build, layer by layer, when you could just click “add to cart” and be done with it?

There isn’t really a good answer.

It’s novelty. A little pointless. Completely unnecessary.

And still, every time a print finishes, the boys run upstairs to see it. Sometimes they argue over who gets to scrape it off the build plate.

When we first got the printer, we stood there watching the very first layer go down. Just a thin line of melted plastic slowly tracing its shape. We watched it like it was magic.

Now the house is slowly filling with things that didn’t need to exist. And somehow, that’s not the part that matters.

The part that matters is the moment someone pauses mid-conversation and says, “Wait… what if we printed one?”

And just like that, we’re all leaning in again, turning our screens toward each other, trying to see if we can.

This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.

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A Season of Thrillers

On reading habits, fragmented attention, and the books that pull you through

I’ve always been the kind of reader who moves around.

Whenever someone asks what I read, I tend to answer with “a little bit of everything.” Memoirs. Mysteries. Romance. Chick lit. Women’s fiction. Young adult. True crime. I’ve never been loyal to one genre for very long. My reading life has always been a little scattered, a little curious, a little of everything.

Recently, though, I noticed something strange. Not while reading. While tracking.

I built a new reading tracker at the beginning of the year. I log each book I read and categorize it in a variety of ways. One of the columns asks for genre, which means every time I finish a book I have to stop for a second and categorize it.

Mystery. Romance. Literary fiction. Thriller.

After entering a few books, I started to notice a pattern.

Thriller.
Thriller.
Thriller.
Thriller.

It wasn’t intentional. I hadn’t decided to read a bunch of thrillers. I hadn’t set out to do a “thriller month” or a themed reading stretch. But once I started logging them, it was impossible to ignore.

Nearly everything I’d read this year fell into the same category.

And that made me curious.

Because I still like the other genres. I still enjoy memoirs and women’s fiction and romance and YA. None of those have disappeared from my reading life. They just aren’t pulling me the way thrillers are right now.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that thrillers do something very specific that other genres don’t.

They move.

They are built for momentum. Short chapters. Cliffhangers. New information constantly appearing. Every chapter quietly nudging you forward: just one more.

If your attention is fragmented, thrillers are forgiving in a way other books aren’t. You don’t need long stretches of quiet focus. You can read a few pages here, a chapter there. The story grabs you again almost immediately.

Some books ask for patience. Thrillers don’t. They grab your sleeve and pull. And lately, that kind of momentum has been exactly what my brain seems to want.

Part of it might be escape.

Not the cozy kind. I’ve always liked darker stories anyway. True crime, mysteries, things that are a little strange or unsettling. Thrillers sit right in the middle of all of that. They’re familiar territory.

But they also do something else: they make reading easy.

Not intellectually easy, necessarily. But structurally easy. The story keeps pushing forward whether your brain feels sharp that day or not.

And sometimes that’s exactly the kind of book you need.

There are seasons of reading where you want something slow and thoughtful. Something that sits with you for a while. Memoirs do that well. So does literary fiction.

But there are other seasons when what you really want is a book that simply carries you.

You open it. You start reading. And suddenly you’re a hundred pages in.

Thrillers are very good at that.

I suspect this phase will eventually pass. My reading habits tend to wander, and sooner or later something else will catch my attention. Maybe memoirs again. Maybe romance. Maybe something quieter.

But for now, when I open my tracker and start entering genres, the answer is usually the same.

Thriller.

Right now, they’re the only stories that don’t ask anything from me.

They just take over and carry me for a while.

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