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To Be Present

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August is on the downward slope and September will be here before we know it. I’ve seen any number of memes about the pull to the coziness of fall–hoodies, warm beverages, nestling under blankets amidst the soft glow of low lamps when darker evenings appear. Kids are going back to school; parents are mixed with relief and grief. It’s such a challenge not to plan, be forward thinking, eye always on the future, but every season is rich unto itself.

Last night I took the fixings for a tarte a la moutarde to my cousin’s and her family. Now don’t tune out yet. Yes a “mustard tart” sounds kind of gross and a little insane, but it is probably one of the most exquisite summer dishes I have ever made. Dijon, gruyere, herbes de Provence, salt, pepper, and fresh garden tomatoes sliced up all on a crust with the edges rolled up. The combination of flavors is heady. As my good friend Holly would say–“restaurant quality.” The time at table with their family, my family, was so good.

In conversation with my cousin, we discussed “being present” versus “flow.” As introverts who value solitude, I could relate to her struggle with longing for flow–that place where we step outside of chronic consciousness into body, creation, and spirit (best I can do) and be physically, mentally, emotionally attuned to this moment in time. Many of these moments in time are brutal for reasons stemming from the personal to the collective. Some of them are boring and tedious. Some of them break our hearts. Bryan talked a lot about the importance of “being here now.” It takes discipline and effort. I find all the easily available tools of dissociation right at my fingertips. I’m not immune. But dissociation is neither presence nor flow.

What can I conclude? To continue to hunt for the joy nuggets of the moment and savor them in real time like we did those tarts last night–ripening tomatoes, produce to share, flowers in glorious reveal, eye contact with a friend over a bawdy joke, phone calls and texts from nieces and nephews, puppies, saying I love you–these help keep us grounded in the right now in ways that comfort our hearts.

Pumpkin spice, cozy blankets, and dark evenings will come soon enough and they will be worthy of savoring, too. Right now, every hot, dusty moment of August and the bucketloads of tomatoes will be plenty of joy unto itself.

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Blackberry Picking

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It’s August in Southeastern Washington and that means one thing–blackberries! Last weekend, I had to pivot to a new weekend plan. I had every intention of going to Portland to visit my cousin when my mechanic friend and co-worker recommended I’d better put that plan on pause until I get a few repairs done (another story for another time). Disappointed barely scratches the surface. I’d already missed out on a fun scheduled weekend with Mary, her Mom, and her godmother–the infamous “Moms Weekend”–to Portland a few weeks prior due to a savage bout of Covid. Ugh. Thwarted. Twice. Talk about bummed. In an effort to rebound, and redirect, I went for a walk at Mill Creek Friday evening–always a recentering. Saturday morning I enjoyed some coffee and classical music on my back patio. Then I decided to do something outside my more normal routine. Was it a fun trip to Portland? No. But it was good.

Years ago, Bryan took me to a place just past Waitsburg on the way to Dayton, up in the hills on an old gravel road near wheat farms. On a bend in the the road up a ways there’s a great place to park and a whole swath of blackberry bushes fairly easy to access and not terribly picked over. He had told me, Sara, Mary’s mom had shown him this place years ago. I made sure to wear a long sleeve flannel button-up, jeans, and socks and tennis shoes (in August!), giving the brambles less of a chance to tear into me. Anyone eavesdropping might have heard a rainbow of colorful expletives worthy of a sailor’s blush combined with an updated version of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” There might have been some prayers and minor begging for snakes not to find their way to me as well. As you can see from the photo above, my quest was successful. Later that day, I turned these berries into two pies. The next day I took one to my dear cousin and her family who live in town (yes, I have a LOT of cousins.)

I often think about solitude, loneliness, rugged individualism, and all that jazz. It occurred to me on a day where I was very much alone physically that I was in reality surrounded by people, by memories, by love. I started with a phone consultation to my baking mentor, my big sister. When it comes to pie, I’m going to refer to her expertise before the internet, before Betty, before anyone or anything else. She makes more pies in one session than I might for a couple of years. She doesn’t mess around and she’s honed her recipes and technique. Add fresh lemon zest and juice, you don’t need more than 3 1/2 to 4 cups of berries for an 8-inch pie. A pinch of cayenne will enhance the flavor. While she wasn’t in the kitchen with me, she was very much present.

The entire drive to the berry thicket, Bryan was with me in my heart and memories, journeying over roads we’d been on so many times, laughing, reminiscing. Sara was there too in a place she had shown him so many years before–a gift given to him then given to me. Later, in the kitchen, I pulled down my Betty Crocker cookbook with the broken spine. It’s one I found at a thrift store or yard sale. It had reminded me of my Mom’s and I had to have it. My Mama used to quote my great Auntie Iris when someone would compliment a baked dish or some culinary delight “Just Betty and me.” There was my Mom, my auntie, and Betty. The crust I make is one passed down from my sister’s mother-in-law, Erma Torretta. She worked in the kitchen of the old Walla Walla General Hospital. Her oil crust recipe was designed to make a large number of pies at once. Cut down to it’s smallest iteration I still end up with one 10-inch and one 8-inch pie. So there was Erma in my kitchen, too.

I can get so wound up in my pity parties of how alone I am without Bryan. And you know what, it’s a worthy thing to be sad about. I miss him. I miss the spirit of fun and teamwork and humor we shared. He was so interesting and smart and full of life. Kind. Good. Loving. The house is quiet without his presence and I often feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of all that has to be done. But this past weekend was a good reminder that I’m not truly alone and that even when things don’t go exactly as I planned or hoped, there is joy to be found and connections to be made.

Sunday, laden with garden tomatoes, basil, mozzarella, balsamic vinegar, blackberry pie, and vanilla ice cream, I headed to my cousin and her family’s house on the Old Milton Highway to enjoy the consummate Walla Walla brunch in August–caprese and blackberry pie a la mode. It was bliss.

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The Stories We Tell

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When I was little, I remember my Mom saying my oldest brother, Todd, was the artist in the family. He showed early talent and seemed to enjoy it. I guess that settled it, role of artist filled, go find a different thing. Upon reflection as an adult, I don’t think my Mom was trying to exclude anyone else from the idea or opportunity to be an artist. Rather she was trying to encourage my brother who had a lot of self-doubt, as teenagers often do. Nevertheless, the act of restating that story had an impact. I couldn’t be an artist. Todd already was “THE” artist of the family. Turns out, all four of us kids are creative and like to make things whether it’s painting, pottery, woodworking, jewelry-making, or music. Sometimes the stories we tell don’t tell the whole truth or paint the full picture.

This past Saturday, cousins of mine on the Moore side of my family put a lot of time, work, effort and love into putting together a family reunion. We haven’t had one in over 30 years. Right now, that’ll be part of the stories I won’t tell. It was great seeing many cousins I hadn’t in a long time. Overall, it was a positive experience; I’m glad I went. While there, I was reminded of one of the stories we were told and apparently folks still tell that I’ve decided to reconsider and look at as an adult. “Aunt Trudy was so spoiled” is one refrain I’ve heard all my life.

Was she, though? Aunt Trudy, my Dad’s baby sister, was the youngest of eight children. Those eight kids spanned a lot of years. (Rawr, Grandma and Grandpa…GET IT!) Anyway, she was born in the early 1950s. Things were a little more stable economically in our country than the 30s and 40s. She had indoor plumbing and flooring as opposed to an outhouse and dirt floors. She also had one niece older than she was and many nieces and nephews near her age or just a little younger. They were often dropped off at the farm for Grandma to watch while their parents worked. In the stories I’ve heard, Aunt Trudy wouldn’t share her candy, she got to have nicer things, etc. From a little kid’s perspective, that would seem grossly unfair. From an older siblings perspective, it would seem this kid had all kinds of luxuries.

I started thinking about it from Grandma and Grandpa’s perspective. How would I want to communicate or demonstrate to my child that they were not the same as a grandchild? What would I do to make sure she knew where she fit as lots of kids were coming in and out of her home, dividing her parents’ attention away from her? Would I let her have more privileges than the grandchildren? Would I let her keep some things to herself? Why wouldn’t a parent’s first obligation be to their own child? That makes sense to me and I think Grandma and Grandpa did admirably.

It really does come down to perspective though. Nowadays, dropping the kids off for the grandparents to offer free childcare is a lot more rare. I don’t know that Grandma was compensated for her labor. I don’t know if the older kids brought extra groceries to help out with the food bill. I do know that my older cousins got the privilege of spending a lot more time on that farm with grandparents who were younger and had more energy. Spoiled is a relative term.

At the end of the day, Aunt Trudy busted her chops raising her kids primarily alone. She often worked two jobs. I spent the summer with her before her big surgery and I watched as she got up early to fold clothes and keep the house tidy, work a shift at the Forest Service, come home and do a couple of therapeutic massages as her second job, make sure the kids were fed, the house was picked up and folding more laundry before bed. She maybe slept six hours a night if she were being decadent. She always decorated her home for holidays and made the best treats, peanut butter fudge or tapioca pudding were some of my favorites. She was fun and made sure her kids had fun memories. She was kind. And she died in her early fifties of brain cancer. In my opinion, if anybody on this earth had a right to be spoiled it was her.

I used to think my older three sibling had it best because our parents were together, young and energetic, and the kids had each other as best friends and playmates, but they also had hard times that I didn’t experience. On the other hand, I got benefits and privileges as the youngest that they didn’t, but I know of a certainty not one of them would have traded places with me in my adolescent years. Perspective, grace, and gratitude are the antidotes to feeling like you didn’t get as much as someone else or something you felt like you were owed.

Cookie

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[This is a short story I wrote during the pandemic. Does it verge on the melodramatic? Yes. Does it capture a sentiment I still hold? Also, yes. It sadly still seems timely considering current events…]

Sue Avery’s Aunt Marie had just died. Her only aunt. The one she shared a studio apartment with. Sue was only 14 and had nowhere to go. She had seen enough of the foster care system before she finally got to her auntie’s six years ago to know she’d never go back. She was alone, poor, and pretty enough to be in danger all the time. She had exactly $4.32 in her back pocket and she knew going home wasn’t an option. She went to the local corner mart and got a small package of vanilla wafer cookies. They were cheap and sweet and the only thing she could grasp onto in the horror of the moment she found herself.

            After she had made her purchase, she went outside to sit on a bench and enjoy the tiniest bit of sweetness she could muster from this bitter life. While she was carefully pulling apart the layers to make the cookies last longer, she heard a woman’s voice. The woman called her over to what she could tell was a very expensive car. “Young lady, have you ever considered modeling?” Um, yeah, that doesn’t happen, Sue thought. Stepping out of the Mercedes, the tall brunette with short hair came to sit by Sue on the bench. She smelled wonderful, like the expensive perfume counter. The one where the clerk gives you dirty looks. “You have incredible bone structure and symmetry. I’m telling you, I’m a scout for a major agency and I find hidden gems like you.” Sue was leery, but the tiny package of wafer cookies was the only thing that stood between her and starvation, so she started asking the lady question. “Oh yeah, which agency?” “Marquee, my dear girl. Have you heard of it?” Of course she’d heard of it. All the best-paid models came from that agency. She couldn’t afford the expensive fashion magazines, but every once in a while the neighbor lady would give her the old ones that had all the perfume samples torn out.

            “Come with me and we’ll do some preliminary headshots. I’ll be sure to have you home by dinner.” That comment made Sue visibly tense up and the brunette’s eyes narrowed, almost as if she knew she’d landed a big fish, a vulnerable young girl with no strings attached, just like the boss liked. “You’ll need to throw out that package of cheap cookies, though, I’m afraid we mustn’t get any crumbs in the boss’s new car,” she said with a wink as she grabbed the remaining cookies and threw them in the nearest trash bin.

            That first day with Camille was a blur. Sue remembered the glimmer of hope she had when she got in the car. It seemed like an impossible dream, but that’s because it was. Oh sure, she got headshots that day and was fed well and told all kinds of fanciful lies. And she also got told that one of the responsibilities of all the models was to do massages at fancy parties and of course, she had to be checked out as to how good she was. She was forced to give the head of Marquee Modeling a massage immediately. No, Sue was fed and given a place to stay, clothed in nice things and made to feel mostly comfortable. So when her time came to give Jordan Thibault his massage she sort of knew what was coming. All the other young models said it was no big deal, he kept his underwear on, you bagged $300 or $400 depending on how well he liked you and then you didn’t really have to think about it much. That sounded gross, but not unmanageable. She’d dealt with worse than that from groping strangers on public transit.

            That first night came and she was told to wear just a bra and panties. Ewww. Okay, well, this will be over soon, she thought. She was directed by Camille to go upstairs of the ornate mansion, disrobe and wait for Jordan in the third door on the left. That part she never forgot. The THIRD door on the left. Don’t enter ANY other doors, she was warned. She entered and found Jordan face up on the massage table. No one prepared her for that. “Come closer. There we are. Oh my dear, that vanilla scent you’re wearing is so tacky. You smell like a cheap cookie!” He laughed. “I’m sorry, I can go wash my hands if it really bothers you.” “No, no,” he reassured her. “That will be your gimmick, Cheap Cookie!” He laughed at his own joke while she was confused, insulted, and increasingly terrified. “They’re going to love you, my sweet, Cheap Cookie.” Everything she’d been told about what to expect was a lie. She could barely walk back down the stairs in the jacket she had to throw over her naked body. Camille came to collect her and was sharp and irritated when she tightly clipped, “Get in the car and don’t make any noise.”

            The next four years were a bit of a blur in terms of day to day life. Sue, who was given many different names over the course of that time period, was referred to as “Cheap Cookie” by every man of power, privilege and distinction she had to service. While she was spared the worst job, recruiting other girls like herself, she still had to attend lavish parties and pretend to enjoy the company of men so depraved and high on their power they disgusted her. Camille and Jordan disgusted her the most, but her survival and the time to execute her plan made them necessary evils. For with each sweating, pawing, backroom meeting with a dignitary, district attorney, businessman, judge, commissioner, or politician, Sue began to make a list of exactly who would pay.

            May 22nd was her 18th birthday, and Sue knew the time was drawing close for her to begin her future outside the House of Marquee and ultimately her revenge. A few weeks earlier she’d heard of a bakery opening up in a neighborhood near the university district and it was run entirely by drag queens in full regalia. She wanted to treat herself to a box of cookies, something she was forbidden to indulge in while she had to maintain her model image. Upon entering the bakery, every sense that had been shut off to her, were reignited. Color from the decorations to the costumes to the ornate cakes, pastries and cookies filled her eyes. The scent of warmed sugar and butter made her feel like there might be something hopeful in the world again. Her ears were flooded with the sounds of laughter and some singing. Over in the corner, one drag queen dressed like a dolled up 1950s house wife with rolling pin and apron began singing Barbra Streisand’s “People.” Sue was in heaven. She went to the counter to look over her options. She now had plenty of money all her own—she’d earned it. Where to begin? A warm, honeyed baritone called to her, “Look sugar, I can promise you it’s all good, every damn bite. So you can’t make a wrong choice here.” Sue looked up to see the kindest eyes she’d seen since before her auntie passed away. “It’s my birthday,” Sue said, “and I wanted to treat myself.” The Lucille Ball look-alike came around from the other side of the counter and gave Sue a hug, the kind that is all giving and no expectation, held tight until every last tension disappears. Sue couldn’t remember the last hug she’d ever gotten that someone didn’t expect something from her and she melted into this one. Lucille smelled like a cherry popsicle and the starched ruffles gently grazed Sue’s cheek. “Honey, I was the most feminine boy in the entire state of Iowa. I know what heartache and fear look like because that’s what stared back at me in the mirror every day I lived there. And if I know anything, you’re heartbroken and afraid. I promise you this, at Heaven’s Bakery, you will always be loved and safe.” And Sue believed her. “What’s your name, sugar?” Um, well, people call me lots of things,” Sue replied. “Well, I’m going to call you Cookie, because you sure are one tough cookie and sweet, too.” It was different hearing that name from Lucy. It meant something different. Sue was no longer cheap; she was tough. Tough cookie—that had a nice ring to it. So Cookie she became.

            Within a week, Cookie was sharing a one bedroom apartment with Barbie and Lucy, the co-owners of the bakery, sleeping on the pull-out couch, learning make-up tricks, and how to roll out pie crusts.  Mastering lip-liner and short crust pastry came easier to Cookie than she expected it would. She really began to love life, but she still had a plan in the back of her mind. She just wasn’t quite ready yet. She needed to learn more. Fortunately the bakery was smack dab in the university district and Cookie had an idea. By the number of college students stocking up on their baked goods throughout the day, Cookie was certain that evening delivery would increase their profits while also giving her access to the knowledge she so desperately craved. With a poster board and some stapled reports, Cookie pitched her idea to Barbie and Lucy who fell in love with the notion of evening delivery to the college campus, but they worried about safety. Cookie assured them she would keep to the public areas and make sure she carried her mace, assuring both that she’d grown up in the city and knew how to take care of herself.

            Heaven’s Bakery delivery service became a critical aspect of the business and Cookie proved herself in no time. Whenever she ventured away from the bakery she disguised herself well with a different costume each time—partly to keep the college students guessing, but also to keep her former abusers at bay. Certain study groups became regular customers and invited Cookie to join in for some of their conversations, or shared their syllabi. The public library let her check out most of the books on their lists and she devoured them. Art History, Law, and Psychology were her favorite subjects which coincided with who bought the most late-night cookies. The math and engineering tables were also good customers, but they largely ignored her, not quite sure of what to make of her flamboyant outfits and over-the-top make-up until one brave soul struck up a conversation with her. Ben was a math and engineering double major. He was earnest and kind and as innocent as they come.

She almost felt guilty when he asked her out the first time. What would he do if he knew? How would he treat her? Barbie and Lucy refused to let her give in to worry and so Cookie and Ben went on their very first date, a quirky museum and ice cream to follow. It was heavenly. They chatted and laughed and kissed and it was perfect. “Has anyone told you how incredibly witty and intelligent you are?” he asked at the end of the evening. Cookie just smiled, winked and said, are you trying to tell me I’m a smart Cookie?” They both laughed and then he kissed her one final time before she went into her apartment. Their courtship progressed in the same way and Cookie found herself the wife of one Mr. Ben Farly.

Married life suited Cookie. She made regular visits to the bakery and worked with Barbie and Lucy on how to expand the Heaven’s Bakery brand. Ben started as an entry-level engineer in a green energy start-up that took off and eventually went public. Ben’s ideas and inventions had wide-scale implications in dealing with climate change and the market rewarded him for it. Between the two of them, their wealth began to increase exponentially. Everything seemed perfect until one morning, Cookie heard over NPR a voice from her past giving an interview.

One of the judges that frequented Jordan Thibault and Camille’s parties could be heard over the alarm radio in the other room. “It is an honor of a lifetime to be considered as the next Supreme Court Justice by this administration.” Cookie’s heart dropped to her stomach while ice ran in her veins. Judge Kevin Brant’s laughter at her nickname “Cheap Cookie” still haunted her. He had mean eyes and he like to torment the younger girls the most. Eventually, Cookie aged out of being scheduled with Brant. Judge Brant and his wife vacationed on the coast near the Farly’s summer cottage. The interviewer asked where Brant would be spending time before the congressional hearings. Brant mentioned he might take some time off on the coast before heading to D.C. “Ben?” Cookie called down to the kitchen. “Ben, I need to go the cottage to work on the cookbook.” “Okay, sweetie, do you need me to join you this weekend?” “That sounds great, sweetheart,” she added.

Cookie remembered some of Kevin Brant’s evening habits, particularly when his wife and kids weren’t around. He had arrived at his vacation house alone. Cookie watched him for a few days before she made her move. She knocked on the front door with a big smile. Brant opened the door and asked if he could help her with something until he saw that she was wearing a loose-fitting trench coat over red lingerie. He ushered her in quickly trying to make sure no one noticed her. Perfect, thought Cookie. “I remember you from Thibault’s parties and I knew you were in town. I had to see you one more time,” she cooed. Brant looked nervous and intrigued. “Why don’t we have a drink?” Cookie continued. Brant got out two tumblers and a bottle of bourbon. He poured himself a quick drink before pouring one for them both. Ever the selfish horse’s ass, she thought to herself. Brant started getting nervous with all the drapes open, so he went around the main floor closing things up. Good boy, thought Cookie. While he stepped away, she flicked a ring open and dropped some white powder in his drink, swirling it around, as she kept him distracted with flattering statements. “Wow, Supreme Court Justice, oooh, all that power, all eyes looking to you.” Blah, blah, blah, thought Cookie.

Brant returned to Cookie’s side and downed his drink again and poured himself a third. She had a limited amount of time to get him into the bathtub before he collapsed. She asked which way to the biggest tub and Brant grinned sloppily and led the way, banging into the wall on his way down the hall. Cookie hurriedly help Brant disrobe and get him into the tub. He did cop a feel or two, but Cookie had to stay focused. Nice warm water, bath oils, and as Brant slid into the water, Cookie reminded him who she was, what they had done together, how he was implicated in a ring of crooks and criminals and child traffickers so repulsive, the American public would revile him and he would NEVER be confirmed as a Supreme Court Justice. The jolt of fear gave him a spark of clarity before the drugs took over and he slid down into the tub, to drown a few minutes later. Before Cookie left the house, she opened one cabinet in the kitchen and left a small package of vanilla wafer cookies.

Over the course of ten years with no rhyme or reason, many prominent men in positions of power died, some during their sleep, some in strange accidents, some by suicide, like Jordan Thibault. All of them seemed to have one thing in common. They all liked the same brand of cheap, vanilla wafer cookies. After Jordan’s death, Camille went into hiding. Cookie wasn’t worried.

She focused her attention on Heaven’s Bakery and Ben.

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Ooph

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[A head’s up, this post contains the subjects of womens health, mental health, depression, and passive suicidal ideation. If this is too much, feel free to skip and go listen to https://youtu.be/x2bd1zp_q6Y?si=TRB_f28QAZvKY8Jz]

I’ve been sick the last week with Covid. The bilateral hip pain, the fever, the inordinate amounts of sweating, the coughing and phlegm, you know, the symphony of the body’s response to an unwelcome guest–all of it fairly typical. I was sick in February, too, but the difference between these two bouts is night and day. In February, I felt like I deserved to be sick, like I wasn’t good and what was the point in getting better. This time, I felt like I can’t wait to get better and go hang out with my friends, do house projects, have the energy to paint and create. Similar physical symptoms, polar opposite mental and emotional symptoms. Why should this be? Well let me tell you a little story…

Last summer, I decided to get the Mirena IUD. There are lots of reasons for such a decision and this post will be plenty vulnerable and intimate I don’t need to go into that too. Just know, that at the time, it seemed like a good course of action for me. Over the next nine months, I would discover that it was a horrendous match for me. If you’ve been following along here, you’ll remember I had a particularly hard winter and didn’t know why. The response to being sick in February was disproportionate and not my customary reaction to illness.

Since last September, my emotional responses to life circumstances swung wide and wild. Emotional lability is a nice way to describe what felt like hell. I wanted to escape the feelings, the world, myself. It was untenable. The parts of me that developed in chaos in childhood started to take over during the uncertainty. I began to invent things to worry about. Do I have throat cancer? Am I dying? Seriously, chronic intrusive thoughts became ever present. If I have throat cancer and am dying, do I deserve it? What do I need to do to be ready? Make a to do list, Becci.

While all of this was happening, I ended one job and started another. I did house projects. I continued to visit friends and family. I sought solace in art and music and the routine of every-day living. I was also proactive in trying to figure out what was happening. Urgent care visits. Primary care physician visits. Blood draws. Tests. Anti-depressant prescription. Exam room tears. Pleas for help. Calls to my sister who helped me map out when the worst of the intrusive thoughts would happen. Monthly, it so happened. Right around my cycle, to be specific–that’s when the lies in my brain would be the loudest. It’s scary to have thoughts that are so outside the norm to become daily, hourly, common.

Many women have success with the Mirena IUD. They rejoice in no periods. The simplicity of it. 10 years and nothing to worry about in terms of buying feminine hygiene products or worrying about pregnancy. That sounded amazing to me. About 5-7% of women who have used this form of birth control self-report depressive episodes, depression, and worse. Guess who fell into that percentage? This gal. The anti-depressant helped, but the thoughts still came right before my period. At the follow-up to check how the anti-depressant was doing, I explained that I wondered if I should get the IUD out and see if that would help. We schedule the removal and got the sucker out. Within one week I felt more like myself than I had in nine months. It was that quick. I have had loss, heartache, emotional highs and lows this summer subsequent to its removal and the emotional response has been more in line with me, with my personality. Yes, I’m heartbroken, sad, joyful, elated, relieved, the gamut of the human experience minus one thing–I don’t want to die.

What’s the point in telling all this? Being so vulnerable about something so terrible? A friend of mine recently told me my writing gave him space to write and communicate his own thoughts and feelings after a tragic loss. If this post can shed light on something someone else is grappling with and help them fight through it to the other side, then my nine months of agony and understanding it afterward will have been well worth it. Friends, if your body and brain are not behaving like you know they should, don’t stop fighting for yourself. You are your own best advocate for your health, mental, physical, emotional, spiritual. Many of my peers are navigating perimenopause and menopause. The shifts in hormones have a lot of these similar effects. There is the right thing for you. Whether its HRT, diet changes, exercise changes, a move to the seaside or the Kentucky bluegrass, keep searching until you find it. We need all of you here to navigate this world. We need your questions and your curiosity. We need your humor and your insight. We need your problem-solving and creativity. We need your light, your joy, your love. Don’t go. Keep fighting through it. You’re worth it.