The Twins Turn Eight!

Eight years ago today, this is what I was doing (and four years ago today, I blogged about it at my old place. Click over to see that birthday post!):


Dear Abby & Izzy,

On this day eight years ago, you came into my life and changed me forever. You made me a mother, something I thought I might not ever have the chance to be.

It’s been a bumpy road. I’m a far-from-perfect mother. Daddy gets to be the fun one.


I’m all
brush your teeth! did you brush your hair? is your folder in your backpack? eat your breakfast. HURRY UP. get dressed! it’s twenty degrees outside, you NEED A SWEATER over that shirt! please chew with your mouth closed. brush your teeth. HURRY UP. we’re going to be late. where’s your homework? get in the car. put your clothes away. homework first, then you can go outside to play. it’s too cold to play outside. clean up the toy room. NOW. brush your teeth! let me smell your breath. eat two more bites and then you can have dessert. HURRY UP. Nemo doesn’t belong in the kitchen. did you even wash your hands? there’s a hole in your sock, you can’t wear those. seriously? yes, you have to shower tonight, you’re stinky. do i need to put on the timer? just a minute. i’m coming. i asked you to BRUSH YOUR TEETH.

I’m your mom. I’m supposed to nag you to do these things. Sure, it’s hard to listen to. It’s hard for me to listen to myself. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that motherhood isn’t a big deal, because it is. It’s hard and important work, it’s being on call 24/7, it’s being a nurse and a therapist and a housekeeper, it’s being a laundress, a tutor, a grocery shopper, a chauffeur; it’s worrying about you 24/7, taking you to the dentist, the eye doctor, the pediatrician. It’s making sure there’s food in the pantry and clean underwear in your dresser. It’s sniffing your hair when you get out of the shower to make sure you smell like shampoo instead of a wet dog. It’s trying to teach you how to walk the line, do the right thing, set a good example, help others, stand up for yourself, show kindness, ask questions, be brave, try new things, respect your teachers and your elders, and ohmygodthislistwheredoesitend?

It doesn’t.

Because motherhood never ends. I will never stop being your mother. I’m the only mother you will ever have, for better or for worse.

I love you to the moon and back. I’m sorry I’m hard on you sometimes. There’s a lot about me you’re too young to understand yet, and that makes it difficult. Just know that my love for you knows no bounds. And even on my bleakest days…you? are my sunshines.


Happy Birthday, Abby and Izzy.


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Giveaway! Helen Jon Design

Today, my darlings, it’s time for some FUN. It’s getting cold and dreary here in Kansas City, but my friends behind Helen Jon Design are keeping me focused on sun, summer, and all things stylish! Check out the Helen Jon blog when you have a chance. Their swimwear has even been featured in Real Simple (my favorite magazine). I know what you might be thinking, but trust me — Gwyn & Missy have it going on, and I’m lusting after their board shorts and skirts, the Melinda tunic, and OMG THESE BEACH PANTS! My husband would prefer to see me in a bikini, but let’s face it: I’m getting old, I’ve had three kids, and most importantly, (a) the sun is not my friend, and (b) spider veins. Cough, cough.

In a nutshell, here’s the Helen Jon story:

Gwyn Prentice and Missy Neville launched Helen Jon in July 2012 after recognizing the need for a fashionable and functional swimwear brand focused on beautiful prints and colors, and an evolution in swimwear was born. The swimsuits, board shorts, and tunics to mix and match have been inspired through years of travel across the globe and take into consideration all women’s shapes and sizes. Meant to be worn in and out of the water, Helen Jon ultimately changes the idea of swimwear fashion into a lifestyle concept. 

Helen Jon is fully designed and produced in the USA. <–BOOM. YES!

I will be giving away one of Helen Jon’s Reversible Beach Totes in Olivia (the black & white pattern):

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Here’s more information that demonstrates how versatile it is…

  • It is reversible
  • Water-resistant
  • Fully lined
  • Wide, soft straps that are so comfortable and easy to wear
  • Perfect for the beach, to use as a yoga bag, a gym bag, a tote to bring to the market… you name it.


To enter, scroll on down to Rafflecopter, but you can find Helen Jon all over social  media:

Follow Helen Jon Design on Twitter.

“Like” Helen Jon Design on Facebook.

Follow Helen Jon Design on Pinterest.

Please follow Helen Jon on Instagram. <–couldn’t squeeze this puppy in on Rafflecopter, but it’s another great way to see what’s up!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

A winner will be chosen at random a week from today, Wednesday, November 27, 2013! I’ll send your name, address, and information directly to Gwyn and Missy so that they can ship your tote to you!

Good luck, and thanks for entering and spreading the word!


Posted in Musings | Tagged , , , , , | 23 Comments

Judy Blume Project : I Think I Made You Up Inside My Head

Dana of The Kitch Witch & Kim of West Coast Posse are the brains behind the #JudyBlumeProject. Go there to read more! Below is my first ever attempt to join them.


Dear Diary,

I can’t stop reading this Sylvia Plath poem, Mad Girl’s Love Song.

I’ve had a crush on Liam for 754 days. Yeah, we’re friends and stuff, but today something happened and it was scary and exciting and really I just don’t know what to think about it at all.

I was over at his house and his parents were out running errands. As usual we did some homework (but I hid my Latin so he couldn’t see how confused I get declining the nouns — why the hell does it have to be so hard?) together and before I could finish putting my books into my backpack, he was ON me. Tickling me, pinning me down while I squirmed and squealed. It was fun, but of course the entire time I just wanted to scream, “WHY DON’T YOU JUST KISS ME? HOW COME WE’VE NEVER KISSED?”

He got up suddenly and locked the door to his room. I swallowed hard, hoping this meant something different.

He came back over to me, playfully shoved me back onto the worn brown carpet. His hands inside my shirt, running up and down my back, underneath my bra strap. His breath coming harder and faster as the “wrestling” resumed. Could he tell my body felt like it was on fire? The warmth between my legs spread as he began rubbing up against me.

“Let’s make love, quick!” he hissed.

I think I laughed out loud only because it was so ridiculous. Diary, you know we’ve never even French kissed before. We’re 15.  And I was just realizing what all the girls at school were giggling about when they whispered about “hard-ons.”

My shirt slid up. His mouth moved down to kiss my tummy.

“Shit!” I yelped.

He looked right into my eyes for a second and then I looked away because I was embarrassed. I didn’t know what to do. But for sure I didn’t want to make the first official mouth move and get rejected. I yanked my shirt down but Liam stopped me.

Then he grabbed my wrists, pinned them down with his large hands so I couldn’t move. I saw stubble on his upper lip and remembered a can of shaving cream sitting on his bathroom counter. I was on fire, aching for something I couldn’t even name.

I didn’t know what to do, Diary. I felt stupid and partly scared because I really was stuck. His little sister must’ve heard us because she started banging on the door asking what we were doing.

I went home feeling ashamed. And it only got worse after Emma called me. Liam asked her out on a date over the weekend. She knows I have a crush on him. He must know I have a crush on him. So why did he do all those things? Am I just a blow-up doll to practice with, his toy?

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me, moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head) ~Sylvia Plath

I’ve decided I’m not good enough for him, for this to be real. I’ve made it up inside my head that a part of him likes me back because he does these things with me a lot.

The proofs we have to do in Geometry class that I have so much trouble with? Are just like Liam in a way. I fail at them both. My stupid fucking protractor and Liam’s game prove I’m just dumb and inept and gullible.


Posted in Judy Blume Project, My Fiction | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 23 Comments

Hunger, Health, & The Thanksgiving Project

Many of you know Jill Smokler, a.k.a. Scary Mommy. If you don’t, head over to her blog and Scary Mommy Nation. She’s a mom, a mover and a shaker, and with her large, loyal following, she’s a force to be reckoned with. She’s a woman to watch.

Jill means serious business. Especially when it comes to her annual Thanksgiving Project.

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See those numbers? They make me yell BOOYAH and dance. I donated to Jill’s Thanksgiving Project via Paypal — easy. It felt so good (except that Paypal IS NOT helping Jill or these families out with their fees, which is unfortunate). After reading Jennifer Ball (The Happy Hausfrau) ‘s post, “Those People,” on Jill’s blog, I made a conscious decision to donate healthier food to local food pantries. Organic food. Even kosher and gluten-free food. Lots of things from my local Trader Joe’s on Ward Parkway.

Screen Shot 2013-11-15 at 2.31.15 PMCONFESSION: before reading Jennifer’s piece (which is scheduled to appear soon in Family Circle magazine! plus she’s a regular contributor to The Huffington Post), I was likely to donate whatever was in my own pantry, and/or things I found cheap and on sale. Generic brands. Nothing super fancy for the most part.

That, my friends, is the hard, ugly truth. It’s embarrassing to admit it. But I know I’m not alone, because I’ve seen what’s in those Harvester’s bins at grocery stores around town.

Giving lots of food was good, but I wasn’t thinking; my own head was so far up my ass that I wasn’t putting myself in someone else’s shoes. Bottom line: I figured donating some food was better than donating no food. Yes, I gave canned fruit & veggies, pasta, peanut butter. But I didn’t consider fancy stuff, organic items, and things for those who have Celiac, or those who keep kosher. More hard, ugly truths.

I wasn’t thinking.

So now? I’m making up for lost time and teaching my daughters about the importance of donating, helping those in need, and reminding them that there are always hungry people who don’t have what we have.

And let’s not forget the quinoa.

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I donated LOTS of fancy quinoa to the twins’ school’s food drive! Plus organic & kosher cereal, organic peanut butter, tuna, canned artichoke hearts, organic tomato soup, ravioli, organic ketchup and mustard…

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And our girls helped pack up the bags. They schlepped things to school every day this week, and there was a contest to see which class could bring in the most food.

I don’t know who won. Neither do they.

But that’s not the point.

The point is they’re not too young to learn that they can help other people. That we should always help other people. And that we should help them in the way(s) we wish WE WOULD BE HELPED. Which means we’d want some healthy options on the shelves to choose from, not Kraft Easy Mac 24/7.

If we ever have to visit our local food pantry like Jennifer had to do, I sure hope we’ll find things like we just brought.

Finally, thanks to Queen Latifah for having Jill on her show yesterday, and for donating hundreds of turkeys! Watch the clip:


Donate now. If you can’t donate, help spread the word. Go over to Jill’s site and share her current Thanksgiving Project update status on your Facebook wall. Tell a friend or twelve. Blog about it. Spread the word far and wide.

Be good to others. And teach your kids along the way, let them watch what you do. Encourage a discussion about it, plant little seeds in those little minds and let them grow.

And remember: it’s never to late to learn. I’m still learning every day.


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The Listen To Your Mother Show 2014 Announcement!

Please hop over to the Listen To Your Mother site and watch LTYM Founder Ann Imig‘s short but inspiring video announcing the 2014 season! Or watch it on the Listen To Your Mother YouTube Channel here.

I’m proud to be bringing The Listen To Your Mother Show back to Kansas City along with three of our cast members from last year: Lisa Allen, Sarah Guthrie, and Leslie Kohlmeyer.  Together, the four of us will direct and produce the local show and we can’t wait!

The Listen To Your Mother Show : Kansas City will be at Unity Temple on the Plaza again on Saturday, May 3, 2014 at 8:00 p.m. MARK YOUR CALENDARS!!

We’re excited to have the talented Karen Ledford return as our photographer, and Buck Sommerkamp as our amazing videographer again.

Stay tuned for new details and information, and in the meantime if you have any questions, leave me a comment or email me!



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Heidi Cave & Fancy Feet!



Do you know my phenomenal friend Heidi Cave? You should. We’ve never met in person, but I came to know her through her blog, Fancy Feet, and a weekly writing linkup at Yeah Write I used to do. Here’s a little bit about her in her own words:

In 1998 Heidi Cave was an active young woman looking forward to all the possibilities life had to offer.

That all changed when her car was struck by a reckless driver going more than 100km/hr (60 mph). The car crash resulted in a battle for Heidi’s life that would involve two weeks in a coma, seven months in the BCPFF Burn and Plastic Surgery Unit at Vancouver General Hospital and an additional five months in rehabilitation.

What should have been the darkest chapter of her life became a bright testament to the strength of the human spirit. Heidi is now a wife, mother, motivational speaker, and author. The tragedy of the accident has been turned into a life message of hope. She knows the power of love and courage, and how to impart it to others. Her story has inspired thousands to renew their own hope, and to believe that anything is possible. You can find Heidi’s recently released memoir FANCY FEET: Turning My Tragedy Into Hope in bookstores and Amazon.

Follow Heidi on Twitter.

Read Heidi’s blog.

Find Heidi on Facebook.


Here’s an excerpt from Fancy Feet:

Chapter 1: “Do you want to live?”

I blinked, my eyes blurred by tears and bright light.
Mom and dad were near, soothing me, but I couldn’t
understand what they were saying. I knew something had
happened. Something bad. But I couldn’t remember. I didn’t
know. My face hot and stretched tight, the tears kept coming. I
heard a door open and close.


My cries turned to sobs.


I can’t stop.

“You were in a car accident. It’s bad, Heidi.”

It’s Scott.

“You’ve got to fight. Do you want to live?”

Live or die, live or die. I knew it would be easy to die. I was
close to it. My parents, Scott, the sterile room, my tears told me
death wasn’t far.

I answered, “Yes.”

I slipped into unconsciousness.


Pain bled into my dreams, having its way with me. Held
captive in cages, I traveled great distances over mountains and
through valleys. Hitched to wagons, in truck beds, I bumped
over rough terrain and climbed steep hillsides. I was always on
my back, unable to curl up or turn to my side; my body stretched
out, palms up, and tied down. No time to stop. I slept, but never
rested. Sometimes forgotten outside in the cold, I saw my breath
and wished someone would take pity on me and bring me inside.

There were people everywhere, but I couldn’t reach them
and they couldn’t see me.

Reality crept in once in a while, life and dream crossing lines,
blurring together.

A young girl kneeling down, touching my hand, whispering,
“We’re praying for you. Please be okay.” Radio stations being
switched and the sound of static. A song I’d recognize, a gentle
warning, “Heidi, we’re going to pull this out now,” as a tube was
pulled out of my throat, my body arching and then sighing.
Desperate prayers uttered, familiar voices singing to me. These
moments formed lullabies breaking through my medicated terror.
Unable to move, my dreams held me under. Throughout my
childhood, I was plagued by nightmares, and I learned the art of
escaping when I found myself in one. I opened my eyes and shook
off the night. But this time, I was trapped in whatever hell my
body was in, and my mind refused to let me go.


Heidi & her gorgeous family!









You want more don’t you? Well, here’s the thing: if you scurry over RIGHT NOW, you can scoop up a deal on Amazon for your Kindle — get Heidi’s Fancy Feet in under a minute for only $1.99 by clicking here! But you have to move because this deal is only good now through 10/27. Otherwise, if you prefer paperback, you can also get that via Amazon here.


And at the very least? Go meet Heidi virtually, follow her, say hello & introduce yourself! Heidi’s a woman to watch & I admire her greatly. I’m immersed in her book now and can’t wait to finish, but I already know I’ll be giving it five stars. She’s inspiring, her writing is raw, real, and personal, and I have no doubt you’ll love her as much as I do.

Follow Heidi on Twitter.

Read Heidi’s blog.

Find Heidi on Facebook.

Please share Fancy Feet with your friends, family, and fellow readers!

Posted in Guest Posts | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 20 Comments

The Courage to Call Myself a Writer: Stevie Huscroft

Stevie - Joy in the Midst of







Stevie, short for Stephanie, is a self-proclaimed coffee addict, wife, and mother to three fur babies that have taken over her heart and home.  A lover of words and yoga, she blogs at Joy in the Midst of about her quest for joy and learning to love a little deeper, laugh a little more often, and live with more gratitude for all the blessings life has given her.  She serves as a contributing writer and Community Lead for the SITS Girls and can also be found hanging out on Facebook or tweeting away at @joyinthemidstof.

It took me a long time to refer to myself as a writer.  For many years I simply didn’t feel worthy of the title. But a writer I was, from the moment I first learned to put pen to paper. It started with creating simple sentences. I like milk. My mom is nice. Simple sentences that I wrote completely on my own. And then, at the age of nine, I wrote a book full of poetry. Admittedly, it was rife with spelling errors and not really any good.  Nevertheless, those poems were, as my writing has always been, my heart in word form.

In the beginning, there were diaries with tiny locks and keys. Then journals.  Short stories. Spiral bound notebooks full of scribbles, unfinished poems, thoughts, musings.

When my parents divorced and I fell into my first deep pit of suffocating depression, my writing was probably the only thing that stopped me from imploding. Or exploding. Take your pick. It was how I coped, how I processed the overwhelming waves of emotions that crashed over and over inside my chest. You see, writing, feeling, thinking – for me, they are one and the same.

Perhaps I could’ve called myself a writer when I started to give poems as gifts.  Or when some of my work was published in my high school literary journal. It would have been fair to claim the title during my stint writing for my college newspaper. Maybe even when I started submitting short stories and poems to literary magazines only to receive a rejection notice in return; what can be a more true writer’s experience than that? But even then, I couldn’t call myself a writer.

I had a lot of fear. I desperately wanted to be a writer, but was terrified I wasn’t good at it. I shuddered to think of the cognitive dissonance that would sweep down on me if it turned out I wasn’t decent at the one thing I obsessed over excelling at. And given the fact that my depression and anxiety were still largely untreated, when it came to my writing, I couldn’t see straight.

My depression was a constant undercurrent, ebbing and flowing unceremoniously like the tide. In the back of my mind, I knew I needed medical treatment. I was afraid of what that meant; that I had failed somehow because I couldn’t find a way to fix myself. On a deeper level, I worried I wouldn’t be able to write anymore. What if I couldn’t write when I was happy?

But as it turns out, medication was not only the best thing I could’ve done for myself, it was also the best thing I could’ve done for my writing. I have described my emergence from depression as going from seeing the world in 1 bit color to 32. And that only gave me a broader spectrum of color to write about.

The eve of my 30th birthday I started a blog. I’d been on medication and living (relatively) depression-free for nearly four years and I had a whole new outlook on life. I wanted a place to chronicle my new journey. I was on a quest for joy, trying to love a little deeper, and live with more gratitude.  Joy in the Midst of was born and I started tapping back into that inner creative energy. I was writing again regularly, and it was delicious. In fact, you might even say it made me whole.

It took me a while to acknowledge it, but at the very core of my being, I am a writer. It’s not only how I think and feel, it’s how I learn. Finally, after 30 years, I have the courage to say: my name is Stevie, and I am a writer.


Read Stevie’s blog.

Find Stevie on Facebook.

Follow her on Twitter.


Posted in Guest Posts, Show Us Your Roots Guest Posts | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 41 Comments

Someone Like You

I’m joining Heather today for Just Write # 98.


Listening to Adele’s Someone Like You always makes me cry. I love the video of her walking in Paris.

It’s about love, such a precarious thing. A falling, a trickling down, a catching. An ever-changing thing, just as the people who are in the thick of it. It can be taken for granted. It can be a chameleon. It can sit like a coiled snake in the corner, waiting to bite you. Or it can be warm cookies with milk while watching back-to-back episodes of Homeland curled up next to each other.

couple on the couch
photo credit

Someone Like You is also about abandonment. Being left alone. A love lost. I always have this fear. I don’t know where it comes from. It applies to everyone in my life, not only my husband, but also my friends. I’m afraid they’ll decide they don’t like me and they’ll walk away. Leave me. I’m sometimes good at holding myself at a distance in advance, just in case. Like preparation for the inevitable.

People change. Expectations change too as we grow and evolve. Adjustments are made. Or aren’t. Is there always room to expand? Or can we run out of room and find ourselves crammed into a space that no longer fits?

I’m not the same person I was 10, or 20 years ago. I have wrinkles and facial fuzz and some pink hair. I have a fleur-de-lis tattoo.

I saw a woman walking yesterday. She had on a coral skirt that showed off her tan, shapely calves. Nude heels, a handbag with a matchy-matchy scarf tied around the handle that coordinated with her top. Her hair was soft and wavy. She walked tall and I thought to myself, “I will never look like her. I will never be her.” I imagined her sneering at me. But she didn’t even see me.

Some days I’m okay with that, my invisibility vs. my assumptions, people watching, etc. Some days I’m not. Because although I can clean up real good, most days I’m just me. I struggle with the inside vs the outside, me as a writer, an entrepreneur, a worker bee, a volunteer, a mom, a Jew, a wife, a sister, a daughter. Those are all inside things mostly. I claim them. Mostly. But the outside me…I don’t know how she appears. She’s a chameleon.

If you’re not okay with that, I guess you’ll find someone new. And I’ll wish nothing but the best for you.

I hate to turn up out of the blue, uninvited. 

But I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it

I had hoped you’d see my face and that you’d be reminded

That for me, it isn’t over yet

Never mind, I’ll find someone like you

I wish nothing but the best for you, too

Don’t forget me, I beg, I remember you said

Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead, yeah

Nothing compares, no worries or cares

Regrets and mistakes, they’re memories made

Who would have known how bittersweet this would taste?


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Rumor Has It, Vol III

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I have friends who need love, support, and help. I’m sharing a few of them with you today and hope you’ll stop in and say hello. Rumor Has It these are some of the most generous, caring, thoughtful people I’ve come to know, whether in person or just through the screen.



From “Miles,” by Lisa Allen at Back to Allen:

I crouch here, too, to chat. I have a line from ‘Hope Floats’ ringing through my brain; there’s a scene where Sandra Bullock is talking to her mother about how she wanted to be a different mother to her daughter than her mom had been to her, and says something like ‘I realize that it doesn’t matter who or what or when or where the hugging happens. Sometimes you just need a hug’ and I kept hearing ‘it doesn’t matter where or when the conversations happen as long as we keep talking’. The voice in my head had that Texas drawl even though I don’t, and I kept begging it to stop.

I kept talking, through the tears, until my thighs burned and my calves cramped and I couldn’t crouch any longer.


From “We Were Seven & Now We Are Six,” by Sarah Reinhart at The Sunday Spill

We’re not all here I cried. We’re not all here.

We didn’t bring everyone home with us. We were seven, and now we’re not. Mitchell, we left a baby in Baltimore.

Because we did. That’s how I felt. We’re not all here.


From “Status Update: Checking in with a Griever,” by Alexandra Rosas at Good Day Regular People

-Day 2 Saturday:

8:01 a.m. Wake up in black dress from funeral.

7:00 p.m. Change from black dress from funeral, into black T shirt.

7:15 p.m. Drive self in black T shirt and slippers for something to eat. Only want ice cream.

8:20 p.m. Friend drops off purple violet plant, my mother’s favorite. Can barely make out velvety leaves through blur of tears.

9:05 pm. Stare at van full of things from mother’s funeral, no room for children. Walk back into house.

9:10 p.m. Turn to FB: van needs emptying. Unable to do. Sage friends advise children empty items into back room, I go through items later.

9:39 p.m. Children empty van.

11:41 p.m. Fall asleep grateful for wise friends on FB.


Not In Kansas Anymore,” by Erin Donovan at I’m Gonna Kill Him

Then my marriage ended, and the levees of my adulthood were tested. Without summons, emissaries of good judgment flocked to my side and began speaking to each other above my head, the way adults do when talking about the insolent child in the room. I now needed a lawyer to tell me how to speak. An accountant to tell me how to save. A realtor to tell me how to live. A therapist to tell me how to feel. A mother to tell me to sleep. A father to tell me to eat. A friend to tell me to stop watching Eat Pray Love every night.

The directional signs – the ones in the airport that illuminated the way when I first became an adult – have all gone dark. I am back to following at the heels of grownups, trusting that they’ll get me where I need to go, which is a route much more complicated than those laid out by any business trip. I have never felt more like a child while, by the same token, never feeling more adult.

I have never been more in Kansas and in search of Colorado.


Day 1,131” By Katy Jacob of KatyDid Cancer:

Right now, we are all fairly sure I don’t have mets. So what I have is the second level of cancer, the level no one ever wants to discuss or admit exists. 

Sometimes, cancer is a chronic disease, a chronic condition. Sometimes, it takes a long, long time for cancer to work its way out of your system, no matter what you do to fight it. This can happen even when cancer is not destined to kill you.

No one wants to hear this. You are supposed to fight cancer once and win. The alternative, I guess, is to “lose.”

There’s not a lot of language out there for those of us who just have to keep fighting, keep sacrificing bits of our healthy selves in some kind of absurd ritual to the cancer gods.

(and then go read the poem she wrote at the end of this post)


I know this doesn’t begin to cover it. I don’t know what to do, how to help. Except to spread the word so we can all pour our love into one giant pot…and give those in need heaping bowls of it, as many refills as they want.

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My Listen To Your Mother Performance (Video)

If you missed it, you can watch the LTYM Kansas City show here (along with hundreds of others) on the Listen To Your Mother YouTube Channel. My fellow cast members’ videos astound me. They’re all rockstars with incredible stories to share. I was proud and honored to work alongside each and every one of them.

It’s been a crazy few weeks, I’m exhausted, and honestly? My video speaks for itself. Please take a peek and share if you’re so inclined.

I still can’t believe I got to be a part of all this. It was a dream come true.

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