Of a moment I don’t want to leave, extended introvert overload, and gratitude as groceries.

  1. I throw my anxieties into the pool one by one and watch them dissolve into nothingness as we sit side by side with our feet in the hot spring water. I wonder if this place existed before today. Where are my notes.
  2. Playing catch-up.
  3. Am I rehearsing darkness or expressing truth?
  4. At some point I realize my seething is because my introvert circuits are redlining. There hasn’t been enough recharge time between outpourings.
  5. Defiance. Rebellion. Disobedience. Must be a day ending in Y.
  6. He can tell I’m boiling just under. I can tell he’s not sure what to make of the long litany of thoughts, feelings, and logistics I pour out when he presses for what’s wrong.
  7. She always looks right through me. I wish I had time to explain all the things I know she sees.
  8. Today, gratitude looks like ten pounds of potatoes, a gallon bag of cheese, three pounds of crudites, and a meal’s worth of taco meat.
  9. It feels like going backwards. Like we’re losing ground. Where is the line between striving and sense?
  10. Tomorrow is a new day.


  1. I try to make myself feel guilty for missing two days of daily work. But I don’t. What overtook them was so much more precious.
  2. Day one of no caffeine. Not too bad so far. (Timestamp: 7:35am.)
  3. In the wake of revelation, the question. What is the next smallest step forward?
  4. An unwelcome stormcloud in the house.
  5. It’s the kind of conversation neither of us wants to have about a problem we both know needs solving. Neither of us has a solution that feels right although we both know the easy way out.
  6. My insides tie themselves in knots, burning up my energy into weak nothing. The timing is suspicious. I crawl into bed wondering if the attack is a coincidence or a red flag for something more emotional than physical.
  7. Two hours, four messages. Instant guilt for being sick.
  8. Everything gets so much easier when you can identify what you do want instead of only what you don’t want.
  9. This feels like giving up.
  10. “You’re being shitty because it’s not Christmas yet.” This is how the Holy Spirit talks to me.


Of impossible accounting, the teacher strike, and why is there egg nog at the store.

  1. Stirring before the alarm, 5am, deep in the duvet, I roll over and over, too cozy to get out, too busy to stay.
  2. Letting go of the need to know.
  3. Time stops when I see the number. Is this what I get for bragging that it’s His math that keeps us afloat? Did I ruin it by saying it aloud? I squeeze my eyes shut against tears and panic. No. That’s not how it works. I lean in and choose what my eyes can’t see over what they can.
  4. It’s a 2-minute conversation instead of a 2-day freeze out. The difference is we both feel safe.
  5. We try to predict how long the strike will last, each of us with varying opinions about unions, but we unanimously agree that the job deserves more respect, more support, more pay.
  6. There it is again.
  7. Black Forest cake and Scripture and art outside my comfort zone.
  8. It is too early for egg nog, Walmart.
  9. The more I step into living my core values, the more they’re challenged.
  10. You’d think I’d stop eating so much leftover frosting that it makes me sick every single time I bake a cake. You’d be wrong.


Of unfair frustration, keeping some things for myself, and getting used to help.

  1. The number on the scale hasn’t changed. Just my feelings about it. Constant vigilance.
  2. My frustration is not fair. It’s a tough gig, and it’s still new to him, and I forget.
  3. Nothing good ever comes from being in a hurry.
  4. The sky is so dark with rain that the lanterns are lit on the wraparound porch, giving the house’s gingerbreading an eerie glow beneath its bower of trees in the grey air. It’s the sort of lo-fi aesthetic I love seeing on Instagram. It breaks up the parade of faces and opinions. I consider getting out my phone to capture and share it, but I take a mental snapshot instead and file it away. A little beauty just for me.
  5. How much of our lives are spent waiting? How much is actually worth waiting for?
  6. Interruption after interruption, each time an opportunity to practice grace. Even if it’s annoying.
  7. I refuse to be triggered by trust anymore.
  8. The gravity of what I’m tasked with hits me all at once. I well up in a cubicle at the back of the library, a mix of gratitude and anxiety.
  9. Barometer headaches are the land version of the bends.
  10. She starts to cry because I didn’t let her throw the chopped mint into the sauce. I pause to reflect before shushing her hurt feelings. Why didn’t I? “I’m sorry, baby—I forgot. I’m not used to having a helper; I’ve always done it by myself, so I just did what I always do. Next time, I’ll do better.” She smiles. Things are different now.


Of telling stories the right away, avoiding the mirror, and sniffing a baby head.

  1. Get up. Just get up.
  2. The scent of nature getting drowsy.
  3. It should be easy, but it comes hard. So much to say yet nothing at all.
  4. I write out half the story before I realize it doesn’t belong there. I move it elsewhere for another time. Or maybe never. Maybe some stories have to be told in person, one-on-one at quiet tables with hushed voices and sparkling eyes.
  5. Beautiful angles. Ugly gait. Two more weeks.
  6. The Return of No Nap McGee: This Time It’s (Straight Up Willful, Not at All) Personal
  7. I casually mention that I can’t look in the mirror because of the state of my hair. I hide the full truth in a laugh because I feel stupid for caring, but when I see his horrified expression, I realize the truth accidentally leaked out anyway.
  8. The experiment.
  9. When I finally hold her, there’s a split second of worry. Will I sniff this baby’s head and get The Urge? But I rock and bounce her, talk to her uncomprehending face, and nothing stirs beyond auntie love. Whew.
  10. I hate it when I hurt my own feelings.