Thanks for the spoiler alert

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One weird aspect about being a therapist is hearing news from my clients.

Sometimes “news” means spoiling a movie or TV show I haven’t managed to finish yet. Can you believe that not only does the dog die at the end, but then she also jumps in the woodchipper because she can no longer live with herself? That reminded me of my childhood trauma…

Me: Uh, had that on my Netflix queue, but thanks for the spoiler alert, lady. Also, let’s examine your media choices given your childhood history.

Other times, it’s actual real-time news I’m hearing because I’ve been seeing clients back-to-back all day and I’ve spent the 2.5 minute break in between sessions to go pee and then try and summarize the work we did in my notes without having time to check my phone or browse the internet.

I remember hearing about Michael Jackson’s death from a client – that was interesting to process.

These days, I’ve been trying to limit my exposure to the news (I used to watch the national news on network TV pretty much daily) and to be more mindful of exactly what news I choose to consume (my former therapist would be SO PROUD.) But of course there’s always those bits that trickle in, from social media feeds, from friends. From clients. I have a few clients glued to the news because their anxiety tells them they need to be informed of everything and then think through every possible scenario because that’s what will keep them safe and I GET. IT. I’ve been there, too. This means I hear details about the news I am not otherwise hearing, and I’m hearing it during session for the first time, in front of a client where the focus is on their feelings and their ability to process. And here I am, a human processing this information that this person was recently elected and this vote to release the Epstein files and these shortages on turkey sausages and I have my own reactions. While having said reactions, I keep them to myself as much as possible – I say as much as possible because I don’t have a poker face, which is part of the reason why I found myself being a therapist but that’s a story for another time, and I listen to my client’s reaction, feelings, thoughts, interpretations while holding space for them and helping to catch and reframe cognitive distortions and all those fun things people pay me for. It’s tricky.

Some news is whatever. It’s harder when the news is devastating. I remember, I first heard about the shooting at Sandy Hook from a client during session. It was a Friday and it was sunny. At first I didn’t understand what she was telling me and what had made her so upset. She made a reference to “all those kids.” What? Where? …Oh, my god.

Clearly, she thought I already knew, and then she had to back up and explain what had happened, which is hard and that hurts. And I’m juggling all the feelings, right. Mine and hers. Being a good therapist means this time is not about me. But good goddess, for a few minutes there we were two humans having a human moment together. As I look back on this moment, I am thankful that I wasn’t a parent yet at that time, because I know how getting news like that feels now and whhoo boy, that would not have been pretty. To get through session as it was, I had to put my reactions and my feelings and my grief in a pretty little box and put it on a shelf in the back of my mind. The box has a pink bow on it.

As soon as session ended, I turned my chair around and got on Google. Surely, she had been mistaken. Can’t be possible.

I had about 7 minutes to process before my next session.

Unfortunate blood splatters

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“COME HELP ME HANG MY BLOODY SHEET!” I yelled at my husband. My patience in a professional setting can move mountains, but when I want something done at home, I want it done yesterday.

The wooden siding in our entryway was just too hard for nails and I needed a drill. “Here you go,” my kind, loving husband said. He handed me a tool that had a shiny, metal, cylindrical attachment screwed onto the barrel, along with some very cloudy and scratched up safety glasses.

Dear Reader, please take notice that my darling husband had the good sense not to question why I had a bloody sheet and, additionally, why I was attempting to hang it. In the field of couples therapy, we call this love and understanding.

“What’s with the silencer?” I paused, looked around, and lowered my voice. “…do we need an alibi? Blink twice if you need me to call my cousin the lawyer.”

“It’s a drill attachment. You’re welcome.” my husband said as he walked away.

He came back later to check on me and my progress as a modern, feminist, independent woman.

“Hey, looks great! Wait, what are these doing here?!” He picked up the safety glasses I had discarded off to the side.

“They were the exact opposite of safe, because I couldn’t see through them. I set them over there so I wouldn’t trip and fall. See? Safety.” I thought for a moment. “Hey! We could make safety videos together for, like, home improvement projects! And cleaning up unfortunate blood splatters!”

“…only you’d be the one ignoring all the safety rules.”

“I prefer to think of it as exercising discernment.”

“Of safety?!”

“Everything is relevant. If you insist, you can focus on your definition of safety and I can focus on cleaning up bodily fluids and eliminating evidence.”

“I only insisted you wear the damn glasses. How did we get here?”

“You’re the one who handed me a weapon with a silencer. I’ll get the bleach!”

Disclaimer: this portrayed conversation is based on a true story, and I have taken creative license to infuse additional drama.

Also, please note that this is a work of dark humor. I do not think actual violence is funny.

Steaming Pile of Overpriced Donuts

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Hello, internet.

Not sure how I should re-introduce myself because a whole lot of shit has gone down since I last posted. Too much to mention.

Lately, in the past week or so, I’ve felt a steep drop in my energy level, in my ability to dredge up hope. It’s still there, it’s just…buried. Part of it is the PNW weather. The turning of the weather each Fall always feels so abrupt, and mixed feelings come with it. Each year, I can feel it creep in, a little chill here, a leaf drops over there, and then BAM – on this year it was September 30th, Halloween-month-eve – it got dark and gray and rainy and cold. It was fun and spooky and appropriate timing, but I worry. How long will this last? When will I see the sun again? Will the rapture ever be accurately predicted because some of us are planners?

Adding layers on top of this is the steaming pile of garbage that is the news and the current political climate. Late night comedians getting censored. Gun violence is rampant. And, more locally, the national guard marching their way into Portland for no fucking reason whatsoever. Enjoy the overpriced donuts, y’all.

It got to a point where I just needed to let out some feelings so last night I put on my fuzzy Harry Potter onesie, put on a sad, sad movie…and cried.

This morning, I found myself telling a client struggling with these exact same issues because we are not alone and everything is connected to focus on what they have control over, however small it may be. Go out into the world and be kind to strangers. Give people the benefit of the doubt. When merging on the freeway, let someone in even though PNW drivers can’t merge properly to save their lives.

And then I heard the words coming out of my mouth. Ugh. Ok, fine, therapist me. Maybe you have a fucking point.

This is hard, you guys. It’s hard and it’s okay to not be okay.

I’ve been wanting to get back into writing for a bit now. We’ll see how this goes.

Mommy’s Busy.

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It has been a HOT MINUTE since I last blogged.

You guys, I’m working again and it FEELS SO GOOD.

Going into this transition, I was worried it was going to throw me and my family for a loop. I worried the house would get cluttered and shit wouldn’t get done and I wouldn’t have time and I’d get stressed and anxious and start yelling at everyone. And that’s just on the home front. For work, I worried that I’d be drowning in imposter syndrome and what the hell am I doing and all the new shit I’d have to learn and oh my gosh I’ve forgotten how to do therapy go away I can’t help you.

But…it honestly hasn’t been that bad. The transition as a whole has been overwhelmingly positive, actually. Has the laundry sat for a week…or two…or more…without getting folded and put away? Yup. Have the dirty dishes sat overnight…or for the rest of the next day before I got to them? Sure. Did it bother me? You bet. But I got it done. Eventually.

And I had forgotten, but when one is first starting to build a caseload, it means that every new client one sees is new (duh). But that also means that it’s an assessment, and a diagnosis, and a bunch of documentation. All on an electronic charting system I had never used before. For my first two weeks of work, I was walking around with a glazed look on my face, and I had to stay up late most nights so I could finish my documentation before seeing several more brand new clients the next day. Whew. The dishes had to wait.

But oh man. My schedule is flexible and I get to do a hybrid of in-person and telehealth and I got to choose which populations and what ages I wanted to work with, all of which I’ve never had before. Before, if some of you remember, I worked at a nonprofit where we had little choice what hours we worked, there was no telehealth, and we tried to serve the most in-need populations with the fewest resources as best we possibly could. I am so thankful that I have landed where I am.

It feels so good to be making a contribution to my larger community, especially after the shared trauma of Covid and social isolation and depression and anxiety, etc. It feels so good to be making my own money, and to be contributing financially to the running of my household in addition to all the unpaid, visible and invisible labor I’ve always done. It feels so great to have my own time and my own space to focus on doing ONE. SINGULAR. THING. WITHOUT. INTERRUPTION. And that thing is honored and recognized by those around me. Ooh, mommy’s busy. She’s got a job.

I’m learning and I’m growing and that feels fantastic. I’m seeing more couples as clients and I’m so excited to get more training in that area. I’m using my brain, I’m using my degree. My DSM is dog-eared again, y’all.

Pair all this with great weather finally hitting the PNW, summer vacations are just around the corner. In the past year, I’ve made several new friends and my kids have grown SO MUCH both in school and out. My littlest one can read now!! Beyond exciting. I stepped up to be the main Girl Scout leader for my daughter’s troop, and while this unfortunately happened exactly when I began my new job, this is my dream come true and I’m doing everything I can to make sure these younglings have a fun and inspiring time learning new things and making new friends.

On this Mother’s Day, I’m thankful. I love my babies and I love my life. Lately, I’ll often find myself surprised that I feel so excited about my day and happy as my baseline. To keep things in perspective, I can’t help but compare this to how I felt a year ago, even 2 years ago. The difference is staggering.

I’m so glad I’m here right now.

So do you feel different?

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I’m 40 now, you guys.

And yup, this one feels different, for a number of reasons.

One, I’m sure, is because it’s a milestone birthday and for that reason I want it to feel different and so it does. Another reason is that going through Covid – and coming out of Covid – has changed my perspective and my priorities. Another is that I emerged from the worst depression and anxiety of my life this past year. Sitting here and now, I can remember just how shitty I felt and how content I feel now by comparison.

My life is changing. This past Fall, I finally started job searching. I interviewed for jobs the week before Christmas (do not recommend) and accepted a position in January. I start in two weeks. I haven’t worked outside the home in NINE YEARS y’all. Holy crap, do I miss it. And, as I told one interviewer, this long break from doing therapy has simply reinforced my feeling that this is what I want to do professionally. I’ve craved it.

Backing up for a second, another indication that I’m feeling different these days is how I approached interviewing for this job. Granted, my position in life is different since I last interviewed for jobs 15 years ago. Back then, I was out on my own for the first time, attempting financial independence. I needed the income to live. I felt I had something to prove. Everything to prove, in fact. I felt like a kid playing house, playing dress up. Mommy’s too-big heels and stolen smeared lipstick. This time around, I find myself with more privilege. I’m financially secure, I don’t need this job, and I don’t have anything to prove.

One job opening asked for a cover letter, and I hate writing cover letters, so I just sent in my resume and wrote a short email introducing myself. They requested an interview. During interviews, I blurted out true answers and I wasn’t afraid to be honest about what I’m good at and what I’m not. I was still thoughtful and respectful, of course, but I was also authentic. I don’t want to work for anyone who wouldn’t respect me and accept me as I am, here and now, anyway. Here I am. Take it or leave it.

It felt so liberating.

I’m all the feels about going back to work: excited, terrified, anxious, curious. I know it’ll be a big adjustment for everyone in my house. We’ll have to see how it goes, but I know we’ll all find a new normal sooner or later.

Working aside, lately I’ve been mindful about not making room for bullshit and drama. You have feelings about how I conduct my life? Cool, you get to keep those. They aren’t mine.

I suppose I owe 40 a huge thanks. Thanks for giving me permission to be myself and to experience joy and to set healthy boundaries regardless of how others may feel.

So far, 40’s been pretty great.

What if it all works out

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It’s been a hot minute.

I’m happy to report that I am feeling so much better overall, and have been feeling better since around…June?

It’s weird to look back on one’s own mental health journey because my memory is all warped and anxiety/depression lies. I notice little things that are different (which are really big things), like feeling excited for the day instead of dreading having to leave my house.

I’ve made serious gains and had a few breakthroughs in figuring out how to heal from trauma and self-regulate and reparent myself, many of which are hard to describe. One recent example is realizing just how triggered I am by chaos/loud screaming/joyful play by children. To back up, a few years ago, my friend and I were watching our kids play together. It was loud. There was running and screaming and throwing and mess. I was tense. I was on alert. I was gritting my teeth. (but I wasn’t aware of this at the time.) My friend turned to me and said, “Isn’t this great?!” I looked at her like she was nuts. No. No, this was not great. This was the opposite of great.

Fast forward to when I told my therapist this story and she declared that chaos felt unsafe to me. Holy shit. We unpacked this and she introduced the concept of “healthy chaos.” My mind latched onto this phrase. It sounded so foreign. It was an oxymoron.

Anyways, I’ve worked on this enough to be able to, 1) realize I’m being triggered, 2) name my feeling, 3) identify the situation for what it is. (is this truly unsafe? am I ok? are my kids ok? yup, we’re all ok. 4) label it as healthy chaos and self-soothe.

Whaaaaaaaaaat.

Trauma survivors, I see you.

The best part about all of this is that I’m able to take these skills and apply them straight to the raising of my kids. It brought me to tears when I realized that I am saying things to my kids that I, myself, desperately needed to hear as a kid. It’s all connected.

And so, I find myself thankful and more optimistic as of late. Heck, I even bought a shirt that says, “What if it all works out?” because shit, that speaks to me. It’s about time I bought a shirt with a positive saying on it instead of “leave me alone,” “dead inside,” “go fuck off.” You know what I mean.

Even so, there’s a part of me that’s always a bit scared. Scared the bad will creep back in again. With the coming of Fall and cold and darkness, comes this feeling of panic, if I’m honest. But. I have more tools this trip around the sun. I have more insight. I have things to look forward to.

Am I ok? Am I safe?

Right now: yup.

Food and Books

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Early on in the pandemic, I fell into a routine, as one does. Every Tuesday, I’d go and pick up our grocery order. That actually wasn’t new, as I had done that before the earth was ignited in a fervent blaze of stupidity and sickness. Tuesday was the day because I didn’t want to waste my precious kid-free days slumming it with the peasants at the grocery store, and I usually had my little one on Tuesday/Thursdays. Not that you care, and I digress.

So Tuesday-Food-day were the same, but Pandemic Melissa got to go forage for food sans little people because the husband was (at the time) working from home, and presumably there in case violence broke out. Or the need for more snacks. Buuuut, (I’m getting to it, I swear) once the library opened back up for holds pickups, it was like Christmas morning come early. Books! New books! Books that weren’t mine! Anything novel (pun intended) was most welcome, indeed. It was then that I added the library to my epic Tuesday pandemic outings.

I remember the last day the library was open before it closed for about four dreadful months. I hurried over there when I heard the news. (Note that I didn’t make a run to the grocery store when everyone was panic buying toilet paper and kale, but you bet your ass I hauled over to the library to grab as many books as I could carry.) When I got there, people were skittering around like scared mice. The shelves were disturbingly bare. Fear echoed throughout the extra open space. My oldest had just learned to read, so I went to the children’s room and filled my bag and arms with as many picture books and early readers as I could. I had to ask what the limit was for checking books out. “I hope we don’t die of boredom,” I said to the librarian checking me out. Her head still down, she raised her eyes to look at me over her glasses and said, “Or anything else.” We shared a smile that only lovers of dark humor can share.

By the time those four unspeakable months were over, we were all long done with our library book piles. And so it became my weekly Tuesday ritual to first dart into the library, masked and moving with the speed of your typical neighborhood super hero, to grab my previously selected treasures off the shelf, check them out via machine with zero human interaction, and then take refuge in my car where I’d bathe in hand sanitizer before moving on to grocery pickup. I have an even better example for how this went: picture Foxface when she hid at the cornucopia to grab her lifesaving loot first and then disappeared into the woods, deft and swift as her nickname. Only I don’t die from eating the wrong berries. Oops, spoiler alert. (Actually, if you haven’t read that book yet and actually need that spoiler alert, you can stop reading right this second. If you don’t know what any of this is in reference to, this blog also may not be for you.)

Another little pandemic side habit (ritual? obsession? maybe she’s born with it) I developed was in stalking and raiding local Little Free Libraries. It began when I started to walk laps around parks while my kids played because gyms were closed and so was my heart. As I passed these LFLs, each one looked as if a raccoon shoved books in there every which way, spines covered, upside-down, fucking anarchy. My compulsive need to impose order would not let this go, so I began to organize the tiny book houses. While organizing, I’d often find a gem that I liked or one of my kids would like. Mmm, dopamine. The next day, I’d come back and glance over to see the LFL ravaged again. I answered the call. And so the almost daily dance began. It’s a combo of needing control and tidiness to feel safe, and the primal urge to scavenge for treasure (read: books. play on words INTENDED!) when I felt an overwhelming sense of end-of-the-world scarcity of resources. At this point I can’t pass a LFL and not tidy it whilst looking for books to take home.

Once the library began to open up even further (good lord, the gloriousness of browsing the stacks cannot be conveyed with words) its little used bookstore also reopened. While the bookstore doesn’t need constant organizing, it does require that I visit it weekly so that I may continue to hoard books build my own private library with colorful paper word bricks that bring me such joy.

The book hoarding has continued, and I began shoving them into my already full shelves. It recently got bad enough that I could no longer find what I wanted, so I was forced to reorganize and create some meaningful categories. (I now have a World War Two Female Spy section that makes my ovary do flips and I’m pretty sure I now own every publication and cocktail napkin Brene Brown has ever written on.) During the course of said organization, I found that I had bought used copies of Quiet twice (I really enjoy introvertism, y’all), and I had two copies of Hillbilly Elegy for unknown reasons. Several books I didn’t even remember acquiring; surely I brought them home in a pandemic-stress-fueled fugue state.

Back to my weekly Tuesday adventure! (tangents and graceful transitions are my specialty) I’d venture to the library first, partly because books are more important and partly because food of the perishable and frozen variety needed to be picked up last. Once at the grocery store, a kind stranger would load up my trunk with my pre-selected goods and I would begin the journey home, ready with food for my family’s bodies and nourishment for our minds. It was a supply run, and I was returning victorious with the things that mattered most.

For quite a while, those two errands were the only direct contact my nuclear family had with other human life. It was what was the most important for our survival; worth the risk.

Every Tuesday.

Books and food.

Food and books.

Dared to hope

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Today is my birthday and it is tradition that I blog, spend some time taking stock.

It’s just that there isn’t much to say that I haven’t already lamented about.

I will say this, though: when I heard about California ending its indoor mask mandate, my first reaction, to my surprise, was hope. If Cali-freaking-fornia, the progressive legislative beacon of this country was ending its mandate, then perhaps it was a sign of hope. I dared to hope.

What came swiftly after was terror, surprising no one. It got poured into the pot and swirled around until hope and terror made a gooey weird sludge that is my inner world of emotions.

And so, I move forward into what Brene Brown is calling The Great Awkward with those two primary emotions and others peppered in to taste.

But at least there’s hope.

Pieces of Me

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I don’t really have a history of setting new years resolutions for myself, and on the few occasions I did, I’d approach them only halfheartedly. They’re not really my thing.

I do like the concept of intentions, or choosing a word for oneself. 2020 started out so hopeful and then quickly plunged into survival mode. I entered 2021 with an extremely low bar, and although I didn’t set a word at the time, looking back it was probably something like cope.

I’ve thought a bit about what I want my word or intention to be for this year. I want to keep it realistic and relevant. I’ve decided on self-compassion. It’s high time I give myself a fucking break, stop beating myself up all the time, and start being uber mindful of just how often I cut myself down. It’s almost constant – much more than I’ve been willing or able to admit to myself. The problem is that it’s so deeply ingrained that I couldn’t recognize it until someone else – usually my therapist – would point it out.

I’ve started doing this thing that I’ve done for clients many times before but never got around to doing for myself: I’m focusing on reparenting myself. I have identified a voice within myself and I have personified this being as my inner loving parent, and this person is going to give me all the judgement-free love and encouragement and sensitivity I needed as a kid and that I still need now. This may sound very woo-woo, but please trust me that the work is incredibly impactful.

Often times it helps to personify this part of oneself in order to give it life and body and meaning. It didn’t take any work, really, because two characters popped into my head once this concept was explained to me. For me, my loving parent is two sides of a coin: on one side, she’d Glinda the Good Witch from The Wizard of Oz. She has a huge puffy pink dress and a magic wand and a soft voice and she giggles and calls me honey. She gives the best hugs and reminds me to be kind to myself. I realized later, after I chose her, that she’s also the one who gently tells Dorothy that she had the power to fulfill her deepest wish the whole time. Go figure. The other side of my inner loving parent is Mary Poppins. She’s a British nanny who doesn’t take any bullshit from anyone and sets firm and healthy boundaries. She also sings the best lullabies and makes the world a more fun and happy place to be. She tells me that my inner critic is complete rubbish and has my back at all times. She can also perform magic.

When I told my therapist about the two connected personalities of my inner loving parent, she summarized them as the comforter and the protector, respectively. Nail on the head.

The personification of my inner critic is still taking shape. While I felt like I had to unearth and go find my inner loving parent, my inner critic is always present. She never fucking sleeps. I picture her sitting in a chair in the corner in the dark, smoking a cigarette and glaring at me while I’m asleep in my bed each night. Mary Poppins would tell her to go take a hike. At any rate, the first image that came to mind was Miss Hannigan from Annie, the original one played by Carol Burnett. She stumbles around and yells. She’s a drunk and she’s miserable and she hates kids. But, I also feel like my inner critic needs to have a more cleaned up side. Meaning, my critic takes the form of an authority figure who is rigid, perfect, to the letter. On my better days, I’m able to shove Miss Hannigan into a closet and lock the door because she doesn’t have her shit together. But my big, bad critic has power and is fucking terrifying. I’ll think more on this. (Just had this idea while editing – maybe something like a Miranda Priestly? That’s all.)

At any rate, I’m working through being mindful of who is in charge of my inner dialogue at any given time. Who is driving my bus, if you will. If I become aware that Miss Hannigan is drunk behind the wheel, I’ll call on Mary to put her back in her place and I might call on Glinda to tell me that I’m safe and she’s not going to let the bus crash into a tree.

Again, I know this sounds ridiculous on some level, but even simply mapping out the pieces of me like this has brought me comfort. I plan to go looking for a little figurine of Glinda and Mary to have as reminders. My therapist asked me to draw her as one person, and that should be fun.

All of this is with the goal of being kinder to myself. I already know that that will trickle down to how I treat others in my life. It’s impossible to give out what you don’t have.

And so. Here’s to 2022. I’m going to be more self-compassionate.

Fool me once

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2021 really sucked. This year was extremely rough, even moreso than 2020. I’ve never been so bogged down by depression and anxiety before. I’ve never been physically injured so badly before. I’ve never felt so profoundly burned out. The word “exhaustion” doesn’t even cut it.

I worked on myself a lot. Physically and mentally. Felt like most of the time I was struggling to break even, to keep going. To get through the day. There were definitely bright spots. Traveling, as simple as getting out of town for the weekend, either with friends or family. That’s the crux, really – the word simple. As the sequel to 2020 in a shitty franchise that goes on forever, I’ve had to focus on the simple pleasures, and honestly that’s been nice.

I really hope 2022 is better. Dear lord I need that, we all need that. I’m also hesitant to place a bet because this rollercoaster has fooled us all multiple times now. Fool me once.

In 2021 I read the second highest number of books in one year in my adult life. This year I read 25 books, three of which were Harry Potter read out loud to my kids, a few pages each night, complete with all the voices. Man, that was fun! Such a joy to read a Quidditch match as fast as I can to try and spark excitement and action. It’s amazing reading Fred and George’s lines and getting laughs. Books are the best.

This year, I made a point to choose some books with the aim to educate myself on race and the black experience.

  • White Fragility – Robin DiAngelo
  • I’m Still Here – Austin Channing Brown
  • You Are Your Best Thing – Tarana Burke and Brene Brown, editors

All were informative in their own way. You Are Your Best Thing was the most emotional, as a collection of stories and essays from black authors.

I finally finished Barack Obama’s book, which was tough to consume as bedtime reading. Perhaps I should have invested in the audiobook – his voice is quite soothing but would that have made the experience even longer?

  • A Promised Land – Barack Obama

I read a bunch of titles that were just meh for me. I wouldn’t really recommend them. I suppose I enjoyed Anxious People the most out of this bunch.

  • Anxious People – Fredrik Backman
  • Welcome to the United States of Anxiety – Jen Lancaster
  • The Sanatorium – Sarah Pearse
  • Hush – Dylan Farrow

Here are the other non-fiction titles I read this year.

  • The Power Worshippers – Katherine Stewart
  • Year of Yes – Shonda Rhimes
  • Burnout – Emily and Amelia Nagoski

Power Worshippers was about how evangelical and fundamentalist Christians are working in America (and overseas, actually) to infiltrate the public school system and get people elected to public office, among other things. I had no idea how many churches use public school buildings to save on costs, and in an attempt to recruit young members. Anyway, I saw the book on a shelf and grabbed it and it was an infuriating read. Yes was fun to read and learn more about the woman behind all those hit shows on TV like Grey’s Anatomy and Scandal. Burnout was a self-help book, but SUCH a good one. It speaks to women in context of the patriarchy and explains what burnout is and how to complete the stress cycle in our lives. I’m pretty sure it was written pre-Covid, but my glob, it was exactly what I needed.

This year, The Bloggess, aka Jenny Lawson had a new book come out and it did not disappoint. That woman is skillful at chronicling her experiences with mental illness in such a way that is honest, humanizing, and extremely funny. It’s beyond validating to read.

  • Broken, In The Best Possible Way – Jenny Lawson

For my Halloween book this year, I stumbled across Grady Hendrix and he is masterful. He created a slasher book that reads like a movie with exquisite dry humor woven in. I identified with the anxious, protective, badass, sarcastic leading Final Girl and wanted more.

  • The Final Girl Support Group – Grady Hendrix

I am a huge Brene Brown fan. I love her work and I love her, both as me the clinician and me the person. Her podcasts have helped me cope over the past 2 years and her new book should be required reading for being human. I’m fascinated with language and how it’s used, and how that shapes our thoughts, feelings, and behaviors. We need a fan club. What are her fans called? Brownies? Friends of Brene?

  • Atlas of the Heart – Brene Brown

I won’t list every single book I read this year, but these last four are my top four fiction books of the year.

4. Outlawed – Anna North

A friend recommended this one to me, and I knew enough to take her up on it. It’s an alternate history western that is after the “Great Flu” and is feminist AF. Very fun and interesting to read.

3. The Whisper Network – Chandler Baker

Recommended by the same friend, this one is Big Little Lies meets The Morning Show. It’s a group of women working in corporate America dealing with all the shit women deal with…and it’s a whodunit. It’s good, y’all.

2. The Tattooist of Auschwitz – Heather Morris

This one was recommended by a different friend, one who knows my love of WWII civilian life. This is based on the true story of two people who meet and fall in love living in the Auschwitz concentration camp, if you can call that living. It is an awe-inspiring account of the horrors of war and the resilience of the human spirit. Brought me to tears.

  1. The Alice Network – Kate Quinn

By far the best book I read all year. I couldn’t put it down. This one intertwines the storylines of two different women in two different time periods – one is a spy in The Great War and one is pregnant out of wedlock in post-WWII Europe. The way the characters are written are detailed, nuanced, full of trauma. I was on the edge of my seat, and afterward I researched just how true to life the story was. Several of the spies in this book were real people. Real badass ladies.

So there you have it. 2021 was definitely the year to get lost in a good book if there ever was one. Happy New Year, all, and happy reading.