When you grow up in a place where everyone's known you since you were in nappies, you carry around hundreds of versions of yourself. Each person you meet has frozen you at a particular moment - the time you threw up at the school dance, your awkward phase when your voice was breaking, that summer you tried to reinvent yourself and failed spectacularly.
The stuff I thought mattered that really didn't. Top of my list, written in all caps and underlined twice: 'ALWAYS FINISH WHAT YOU START.' I hammered this into my boys from day one. Didn't matter if it was Little League, a school project, or learning to wire a three-way switch. You start it, you finish it. No exceptions. Know what that actually taught them? That being miserable was more important than being smart about your choices.
The bulk of this record was made during the longest single period of my life. I found that for the first time, it actually felt incredible being alone and existing in a space not defined by anyone else. I became fascinated with the concept of liminal space, both geographical and emotional. We don't linger in these transitional, empty spaces long enough and rush to define where or whatever is next.
Codependency is not entirely bad. Much of what we hear about codependency frames it as a bad thing that we should get rid of or avoid at all costs. But it's possible to be in a codependent relationship without needing to leave it. At times, codependency is a way that we are trying to help someone or show love.
I think having success at such a young age makes making work choices a little harder because there's a pressure of a level of success. And I think once I did have kids and, you know, my phone wasn't ringing as much, and I wasn't able to show up to work as much and say yes as often, I ended up just saying no a whole bunch - and not being worried about sitting still.
I grew up avoiding conflict, and I was marrying someone who was very good at making his position on just about anything known. In the gap between avoidance and expression, I was paralyzed. I needed help. My soon-to-be husband rightly insisted I see a therapist.
The truth is, we often resent most the people who reflect our own traits back at us-especially the ones we're not proud of. And nowhere is this more obvious than in our families, where we can't escape the uncomfortable reality of our shared behaviors.
When you're a kid, you don't know you're lower-middle-class. You just know your life; I knew my father came home tired every night from his pipefitter job, hands still dirty even after washing them three times. Moreover, I knew we fixed everything ourselves because calling someone cost money we didn't have, and I knew hand-me-downs from my older brother and that vacation meant visiting relatives.
For a writer, the Jesuits' stress on Socratic thinking was a gift. Question seeks answer, answer sparks new questions, yielding synthesis as the wheel of learning turns. Picture cerebral basketball coach Kevin Trower, a layperson teaching Latin, pacing the floor with furrowed brow, book in hand on Caesar's Gallic wars. Alea iacta est. The die is cast! What does this tell us? Think, boys! Think!
On the first hike, about half-way up the mountain, I reached a point where the path was too slippery, steep and scary. Even though my wonderful guide talked me through the tough parts, I finally realized I'd have to do the same thing going back downhill. So, I stopped. I sat on a moss covered rock. I enjoyed the forest flowers and tree bark and birds and ferns and more.
In Orange County, I was the kind of person who would bury my nose in a magazine to avoid chatting with a hairdresser. I rushed through the checkout line and never said, 'How are you doing?' to someone I didn't know. If small talk was ever forced upon me, I gave away as little about myself as possible.
Living with family as an adult is often framed as a "failure to launch," but navigating grief at home with my mom and younger sister helped me rethink growth. Living at home in my 20s wasn't easy at first, but after my dad died, living together became a lifeline that transformed my understanding of what adulthood truly means.
The people who never feel invisible? They're the ones asking questions. My buddy Frank is seventy-one. When his grandson talks about some video game, Frank doesn't say 'When I was your age, we played outside.' He asks, 'What do you like about it? How does it work?' And he actually listens to the answer.
I spent forty years telling myself I was less than. Less educated. Less qualified. Less worthy of having an opinion on anything that mattered. All because I didn't have a piece of paper with a university seal on it. Started when I was eighteen. Everyone else was heading off to college, and I was heading to a job site with a toolbox.
You can call me a dork, but working in public radio was my dream as a teenager - and the hours I spent mapping out my career path and building up my résumé paid off by the time I was an adult. After graduating from college in 2019, I interned at NPR, then landed a job at my local public radio station. Within a few years, I'd worked my way up to being a beat reporter, the role I'd always wanted.
You can have all the markers of success-the steady job, the decent apartment, friends who think you're crushing it-and still feel like you're playing life on easy mode when you know you could handle expert level. I've been thinking about this a lot lately, especially after a conversation with someone who, from the outside, looked like they had everything figured out. Good career, great relationship, traveled regularly. But over drinks, they admitted they felt like they were sleepwalking through their own life.
Picture this: the wine glasses are half-empty, the main course plates have been cleared, and suddenly the conversation hits that dreaded wall. You can hear the forks scraping against dessert plates, someone clearing their throat, the uncomfortable shuffle of feet under the table. We've all been there, watching a lively dinner party deflate like a punctured balloon, everyone suddenly fascinated by their napkins or reaching for their phones.
Ever wonder why some people seem to crush it in every area of life while others stay stuck in the same patterns year after year? According to Jordan Peterson, clinical psychologist and author of "12 Rules for Life," the difference comes down to one brutal practice: Telling yourself the truth about your weaknesses. Not the comfortable half-truths we usually feed ourselves. The real, uncomfortable, sometimes painful truth.
If you've ever felt a twinge of guilt or wondered if something's wrong with you for preferring Netflix to nightclubs, I've got news for you: You're actually part of a growing tribe of people who've figured out something others are still searching for. The truth is, those of us who choose quiet nights in over loud nights out often possess qualities that others secretly admire. These are strengths that lead to deeper fulfillment, better relationships, and surprisingly, more success in life.
For most of my life, I thought of myself as a fixed entity: This is me. These are my traits. This is who I am. I assumed I was essentially that same person who loved sugary cereal at age 8, fried chicken at 12, and tequila at 21, and who still loves those things now, even if my stomach disagrees. But this is an illusion. Neuroscience, physics, and Buddhism all agree: There is nothing fixed about us-not even close.
Now, listening in late 2025, I no longer felt heroic. Instead, what I felt most strongly was tenderness. Tenderness for that young man who believed he could outwork any obstacle, who thought the American dream was just a matter of refusing to quit. He had no idea what was coming-the failures, the losses, the ways life would refuse his tidy narrative.
