I’m not going to write a whole thing about what kind of year this has been because y’all already know. But I will say that this was the year I fully embraced reading romance, and I give it a lot of credit for helping me get through the uncertainty and anxiety of these past many months. Stories of joy, of vulnerability, of identity, and yes, falling in love made me laugh, smile, swoon, and sometimes cry. They make up the bulk of my list.

First, shout out to audiobooks for making my reading life possible.

I was going to stick to just my top 10 books, but I loved too many, and I’ve leaned hard away from restraint this year. It just doesn’t serve me anymore. We all deserve a little indulgence in our lives. So here are 20 books I loved in 2020 in no particular order, except like the first few, which are definitely at the top.

Beach Read by Emily Henry

She’s a romance writer, and he’s basically Guy from Your MFA and her old college nemesis. They strike up a challenge to write in the other’s genre, which also prompts them to guide each other through their process. She takes him on a bunch of fun, romantic dates, and he lets her in on his research and interviews. It’s beautifully written with sparkling dialogue, tight pacing, and evocative language. Josh also read it, and he said it was funny and made him want to write again. If you’re coming from literary fiction or women’s fiction, this would be a great first foray into romance as it’s also on the more grounded, realistic end of the spectrum (aside from one coincidental plot point that makes them neighbors early on for ~RoMaNcE rEaSoNs~). This was one of the rare books that I started all over again right after I finished it and purchased the paperback. And the audio is wonderful.

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel

Early in the pandemic, I felt pulled to read a pandemic book. Morbid curiosity, I suppose. It just so happened that my friend, Chris, had recently read it, and then on a whim, without realizing I was interested in it, he sent me a copy. It’s a sprawling novel that covers multiple POVs and long spans of time, beginning with a pandemic and following a traveling theater company, people stranded in an airport, a cult leader, while weaving in the past. I almost never cry while reading books. I can count on one hand the times I have. But this one got me multiple times. If you can’t tackle it right now because it feels too close to reality, I get it. But I will say that this book is deeply human, fundamentally hopeful, and cathartic to read.

The Hating Game by Sally Thorne

I don’t know if I first read this book in 2020 or 2019, but I definitely read it multiple times this year. This is the tropiest, swooniest, funniest romance I’ve probably ever read. It is pure joy. Lucy and Josh are rivals working at a book publisher that has just merged from two distinct companies into one. They play various games to get on each other’s nerves like the staring game and, when things really escalate, the HR game. They’re up for the same promotion, naturally, but as they compete with each other, they also, you know, fall in love. It’s a prime model for enemies to lovers, and it has a really distinct first person narrator in Lucy. It is my ultimate comfort read.

99 Percent Mine by Sally Thorne

This one seems to be a hit or a miss for people For me, it’s a hit. The intricate layering of character and plot is so masterful in this book that I studied the text from a writing viewpoint and broke down all the ways I think it works. In true Sally Thorne fashion, the first person POV is distinct and almost claustrophobic — you have to read for a while before you see it working, but the payoff is *chef’s kiss*. Darcy has been in love with her childhood friend and best friend of her twin brother, Tom Veleska, for basically her whole life. The perfect man, she calls him. Now he’s leading the renovation on her recently deceased grandmother’s house. If you read only one Sally Thorne, go with The Hating Game, but if you like that one, maybe give this one a try.

The Roommate by Rosie Danan

Okay, listen. The premise of this book is going to sound… silly? smutty? Just… hold your judgment. Clara moves across the country to finally try to make a go of things with her long-time friend and crush. She’s supposed to be moving into his house, but when she gets there, he’s going on tour with his band and has gotten her a different roommate named Josh. And Josh is… a porn star. When I tell you this is one of the most emotionally deep romances I read this year, I mean it. Also, I low key learned a lot about the porn industry?

You Deserve Each Other by Sarah Hagle

I don’t know what it is about this book exactly, but it felt very different from anything else I’ve read. These two are engaged to be married, but somewhere along the way, they’ve fallen out of love and are now actively sabotaging the wedding, hoping the other will be the one to call it off. It’s lovers to enemies to lovers, and it’s funny and moving and hopeful.

Call of the Wild + Free by Ainsley Arment

I read this right after we decided to homeschool our kids, and I credit it with eliminating my anxiety and bolstering my confidence, much like finding the right mom friends helped me find my footing in motherhood. It’s on the crunchier, gentle parenting, free range side of the spectrum. It made me feel well-equipped and excited to tackle homeschooling but ALSO to more deeply connect with my kids.

Bringing Down the Duke by Evie Dunmore

This is the first book in a series called The League of Extraordinary Women, so you know it’s feminist AF. It’s a historical, and the heroine is a blue stocking in one of the first classes of women admitted to Oxford. She’s also a suffragette, (as is the heroine of the second book, A Rogue of One’s Own, which is also great). She spars with and then falls for a young duke who has the power to actually change the laws restricting so many women. It’s very funny and smart.

The Simple Wild by KA Tucker

Calla, a sort of shallow city girl, flies to rural Alaska to reconnect with her estranged father before he dies from cancer. He’s a bush pilot, and so is Jonah, his surrogate son, who hates Calla on sight. (If you’re sensing that I’m a sucker for a good enemies to lovers story, you’re on to something.) Calla comes to love the Alaskan wilderness and works through some big family and identity issues, but of course, she was always going to leave again, and her father’s illness is terminal. So yeah, it’s sad at times, but it’s handled with sensitivity, and the angst is earned.

The Worst Best Man by Mia Sosa

She’s a wedding planner who was once left at the alter, and now she’s trying to grow her business with an opportunity to be the in-house wedding coordinator for a big hotel, but to get the job, she has to work with her ex-fiancé’s brother and best man. There’s some fake dating, an Only One Bed situation, and a lovely cinnamon roll hero in this one.

Well Met by Jen DeLuca

Do you want your romance set at Renaissance Faire? This one follows a heroine helping her older sister and niece following a bad car accident, which leads her to join the local Ren Faire as a chaperone for the niece. There, she meets the grumpy English teacher running the whole production who bristles at every small improvement she tries to make and seems to judge her every move. But once she understands why he has such a tight hold on the Faire, she changes her mind about him. Bonus: it’s a series, and book 2, Well Met, is already out.

Long Shot by Kennedy Ryan

Technically, I think I read this one on like December 30th of 2019, but it won a Rita award, and it’s an ambitious book. The story puts domestic abuse and violence on the page, so please consider whether this is a book for you or if you need more info before you take it on. The romance, obviously, does not occur between the same couple as the abuse. It’s also a sports romance. The couple is essentially destined to be together, but their paths diverge, and when they cross again, she’s with someone else. I wouldn’t trust just any writer to tell a story involving domestic violence that also has an HEA, but I did feel like Kennedy Ryan handled it sensitively. This is also the first in a series. The second book, Block Shot, is also good.

The Bromance Book Club by Lyssa Kay Adams

I rolled my eyes a little at the premise of this book (and series). It’s about a group of guys who read romance novels and help each other learn about toxic masculinity and how to be worthy of and honest in all of their relationships. I’m just saying, at times, that struck me as some high fantasy. Did I always find the guys’ wokeness and commitment to their education believable? No. But it’s presented with enough skepticism from other characters to kind of pull it off. Anyway, believability aside, all three of these books have some surprisingly profound emotional moments and A+ dialogue. The first book is a second chance romance between a pro baseball player with a lifelong stutter and his wife whose life has gotten swallowed up by his job and their kids.

How to Raise a Wild Child: The Art + Science of Falling in Love with Nature by Dr. Scott Sampson

This is the only book on my list by a man, and it may very well be the only one by a man that I read all year. Men. I don’t miss them. Back in the fall, when I was trying to navigate homeschooling and reading all this research about the importance of time in nature for kids, I literally googled “how to love nature” because I’m… not a big fan of Houston in August. This is the book that came up in my search. It has some practical tips for introducing more time, and more meaningful experiences, in nature to your kids. Also, have you ever watched Dinosaur Train? Scott Sampson is THE Dr. Scott the Paleontologist.

The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, and the Horse by Charlie Mackesy

This is the book we all need to get through this year. I’m not sure if it’s technically a children’s book or not. It has beautiful illustrations and a lovely message about resilience and friendship and difficult emotions, and I bawled when I read it to my kids the first time.

Love Her or Lose Her by Tessa Bailey

Another second chance romance with a heroine who yearns to open a restaurant and really make something of herself and a hero who has closed off to her and hopes handling practical needs is enough to fulfill his duty to someone he fears has outgrown him. It’s the second in the series. They’re all good, but I felt like this one did the heaviest emotional lifting of all three.

Girls & Sex by Peggy Orenstein

I can’t say I enjoyed reading this, but it certainly opened my eyes to what girls today are dealing with when it comes to sex. I’ll probably revisit this one a little further down the road.

When He Was Wicked by Julia Quinn

Well, I couldn’t very well put all the Bridgerton books on this list, but yes, the series is good, and if you liked the Netflix show, I think you’ll like the books. The show will never have dialogue as sparkling as JQ’s. This is the most depressing book in the bunch, which is absolutely on brand for me. Francesca Bridgerton’s husband dies. His cousin and very close friend and long-time admirer of Francesca, Michael, inherits his title. Heads up that there’s obviously loss of a spouse but also miscarriage in this one. If you love a guilt-ridden, pining, somewhat self-loathing hero, give it a try.

It’s in His Kiss by Julia Quinn

Book 7 in the Bridgertons series is Hyacinth’s book. There’s an attempted jewelry heist and cross-dressing and a hero with big dad issues, and Hyacinth is the most delightful of all the Bridgerton siblings. Fight me.

Perfect Tunes by Emily Gould

Laura is a budding young singer-songwriter who moves to NYC and strikes some small success in an impromptu band with her best friend, who is beautiful but not really a musician. Meanwhile, Laura has a whirlwind crush/relationship with a musician whose band is just taking off in a big way. Their relationship is short and results in a child, which changes the course of her life. This books is so perceptive about motherhood, friendship, art, and what it’s like to hold onto ambitions and talent for years, never really getting the chance to go all in on them.

So, that’s it! The books that made a big impression on me this year. I hope you also got to enjoy some stories this year. Feel free to yell at me about any of your favorites, and let me know what you think if you read any of my top 20!

Happy reading in 2021!

Last January, I was coming out of a long mental health crisis/slow recovery related to health anxiety, intense isolation, and on-going postpartum/maternal depression. I was finally ready to get back out into the world. I resolved to be more social, make and maintain friendships, and write a book in 2020. 

You can guess how my plans turned out. Stuck at home all year. Limited contact outside of immediate family. Full-time family presence and eventually homeschooling my 3 kids put writing on the back burner. That these are the worst of our complaints in a year that brought so much loss and struggle to others puts all of this into perspective, of course.

Something happened on January 7th that I had no idea at the time would be so significant for the year to come. 

A cat turned up on our driveway.

She was stunningly pretty and friendly. We fed her, and nearly every day afterward, she came by to see us. We named her Cece. 

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Before the pandemic, my son went to school and my 4-year-old twins attended morning preschool, during which I wrote and spent time with Cece. Sometimes I sat outside petting her for a full half-hour while I had my coffee. It was calming. And I felt special because she kept coming back to hang out with me. 

But I’m allergic to cats. I’ve always thought I could never have one. After petting Cece, I washed my hands thoroughly. I was careful about not touching my face. (Good practice for COVID, I suppose.)

I bought cat treats and food for her and settled into the idea that she was kind of ours, but I expected our relationship to remain as it was. We’d feed her and see her when she came by, but she couldn’t live with us because of my allergies and our old, fearful dog. 

Plus, she was so friendly with us, we assumed she had someone else taking care of her as well. We never thought she could be 100% ours because of this. 

The pandemic hit, and we locked down. During that initial transition, I spent a lot of time outside on our driveway. It was so lovely to have this little visitor. She was my only in-person friend. I felt very lucky to have her. 
At one point, I suggested to my husband, Josh, that we take her to the vet for a checkup and maybe even get her spayed, but since we didn’t know if she belonged to someone, we felt it wouldn’t be right to potentially spay someone else’s cat. 

Then, in April, she started to look… chunky. 

It didn’t take long before we felt pretty confident that she was pregnant, though we didn’t know how far along she was. I recalled seeing her running around with a local tomcat in late February and assumed she’d been in heat then. 

For my birthday, I bought a fancy outdoor cat house, thinking she could have shelter there and maybe have her kittens there. My husband started to see my mind working. Now that she was pregnant, I was THISCLOSE to fully claiming her as our pet. 

Then, I happened to see our neighbors from two doors down while Cece was out. They were calling her Mocha. I asked the mom, Katrina, if she was their cat. My heart dropped into my stomach. 

Cece/Mocha, I learned, had turned up in their garage right after Hurricane Imelda in the fall. They’d started feeding her and even tried to keep her in their house, but she kept getting into trouble and fighting with the cat they already had, so they settled on having her as an outside cat. 

I was initially devastated. If Cece was really theirs, then I was kind of a cat abductor? I admitted we’d also been feeding her and had fallen in love with her but we didn’t want to take their cat. 

Katrina agreed that she’s beautiful and a special cat, and she very graciously said she was thrilled we were also caring for Cece, that she had two great families looking out for her. We also gushed about the potential kittens on the horizon and agreed wherever she had them, we’d let the other know.

She also confirmed that she’d seen Cece with the tomcat in a compromising position. She and her kids call him Big Poppa or BP. Big Poppa also has a son who hangs around that they call KJ — “Kitty, Jr,” because he looks their own cat, Kitty. 

Weeks dragged by. I’d been wrong about when Cece conceived by about two weeks, so we were ready and waiting forever. 

We had a maternity photo shoot. 

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Cece got bigger and bigger. She stayed around our house almost exclusively. She slept a lot. I started offering her bedding, boxes, a nest in our garage, the door of which we left open for her. 

She explored lots of places and seemed to like the garage. I hoped she’d have her kittens with us, but I also still didn’t imagine having her or them in our house. I sort of thought they’d just chill in the garage, and then we’d adopt out the kittens the neighbors (and I) didn’t plan to keep. I mean, in retrospect, I truly had no idea what having a litter of kittens would be like.

And yes, I was ready to keep a kitten or two or three after successfully petting and being around Cece for several months and having only minor allergy problems.

I paid for a tarot reading from my friend Mariah at Harvest Moon (she’s wonderful!) specifically about how best to support this pregnant cat. She’s extremely independent, and I was worried about her feeling trapped anywhere. I wanted her to feel safe but with freedom to do what she needed to do. We settled on letting her have constant access to our garage.

 
Around the time I expected her to have her kittens — I could feel them kicking, and she was HUGE — we needed to replaced our fence. I pushed the project back a few days, thinking she was definitely going to go into labor at any moment and not wanting to scare her off. It would be loud and a mess, and we’d have strange men around. 

She didn’t have her kittens before the fence guys came, and sure enough, Cece vanished that first day. 

The next morning, she returned, though. She seemed… different. I let her into our laundry room, which was the furthest she’d ever come into our house. I had a box and blankets in there for her like the one in the garage. 
Suddenly, it was happening. Yowling, rubbing, sticking her butt in the air. She kept looking at me like she was panicked and expected me to DO SOMETHING. 

I’d left the laundry room door open because I didn’t want her to feel trapped, and she ran out and straight into the garage. I decided to go in and close the door so I’d know where she was having them and if they were all okay. The fence guys showed up minutes later. 

I planned to keep my distance and observe quietly so I didn’t disturb her, but when I first peeked into the box she’d chosen (not the one I’d set up), she head butted me and rubbed against my hand and seemed to want me to pet her. I got a towel under her and continued petting her. I told her she was doing great like any respectable cat doula would.

The box she picked was from our generator. On the side, it said Predator Generator, which I thought was a delightful coincidence.

Over the next couple hours, she successfully birthed five kittens — three gray/brown tabbies, an orange tabby, and a little tuxedo. 

I made sure they were all okay before I let the kids come in briefly and quietly to see them. Then I told the neighbors, and they came. 

At some point at the start of all this, when I asked my husband if he was cool with having Cece and her kittens in our care, he said, “I don’t care what you do as long it doesn’t affect my life.” 😂

For the next two weeks, I spent most of my time sewing masks (because pandemic) and taking breaks to be with the cats. We had to get a litter box, as we’d never had Cece inside before. She was very at ease with me around, but the limited visits made her nervous. She would jump out of the box for pets but wasn’t thrilled with others paying attention to the kittens. 

I didn’t touch the kittens at all during this time, worried that it would upset her. After the initial first few days, I could tell she was getting restless in the garage, but we kept the door closed so she wouldn’t take the kittens out and expose them to danger. 

One day, she moved all the kittens behind an old mattress and box spring. I figured if she needed a little more control, that was fine. A couple days later, she moved them INTO the box spring. Still, I thought, fine. Whatever she needs. 

As a mom myself, I was probably projecting how I felt postpartum. I wanted no visitors, no one else touching my babies, so I got it. I wanted her to feel supported, not traumatized. 

Then, at two weeks, I walked into the garage to feed Cece and found her and only one kitten in the box spring. The others, we soon realized, were up in the rafters in a box on its side, the opening inches from a pretty big fall. 
We had to intervene at that point. So, following a very harrowing rescue mission, during which she grabbed the last kitten and took it up into the rafters as we were taking the others down, we relocated all of them and her to our laundry room. 

Things settled down again for a bit after that move. I cleared out the closet and hung a sheet over the opening and put a box and towels with a draped blanket in there. She kept the kittens on a blanket in the middle of the room for a few days before moving them into it. 

The neighbors came (with masks) for another visit, and Katrina and I talked about how lovely it was to finally know each other after living two houses apart for several years. I learned she was a nurse but taking a break between contracts until the fall. Later, she would take a contract in Florida working with COVID patients for three months, and I’ve thought of her often, hoping she was okay. Getting to see her briefly on Christmas Eve, on a short holiday before she goes back for a few more weeks, was a wonderful relief!

She also pitched in toward food, litter, and eventually surgery to spay Cece. We took care of that appointment and also got the kittens checked up and vaccinated when they were old enough.  

I decided just for fun to name the kittens after Jane Austen characters. The boys were Bingley, Fitz, and Tilney. The girls were Emma and Dashwood. 

Fitz was kind of weird-looking. We called him skunkbat, gerbil, ratcat, gremlin. His namesake, Fitzwilliam Darcy from Pride and Prejudice, was perhaps a hopeful choice on my part. (His ears remain big, but I think he turned out rather handsome.)

After a while, Cece got restless in the laundry room, and we ended up letting her and the kittens hang out in the main living area of our house. This meant constantly obstructing entry points to the bedrooms and playroom because Cece and our dog, Rory, absolutely did not get along. 
After we spayed Cece, we had to also separate her from the kittens at the vet’s insistence so her incision could heal. We had three separate pet zones in our house. It was… not ideal. 

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After a week, Cece discovered where her babies were, and we couldn’t stand to keep them apart anymore. She rubbed her nose raw trying to get under the door. Even though her milk was mostly dried up, she went right back to nursing them, and it was so clearly the right call to let her be with them. Luckily, all she and they wanted to do was nurse and snuggle, and she healed from her surgery without any issues. (We also were totally unable to get her to wear a cone or donut. Like I said, she’s totally independent, and although she’s only ever been sweet with me, I can tell when something stresses her out. We didn’t push it, and she seemed to know she needed to rest.)

At about 8/9 weeks, the neighbors picked their kitten. They loved the name Emma and kept it. Before she left, we held a graduation ceremony.

I wanted Dashwood and Fitz most, and the kids wanted Tilney. We compromised and ended up with Fitz and Tilney and changed Tilney’s name to Ash. I still semi-regret not keeping Dash because I bonded with her early on, but our boys are great in their own ways. Fitzy is playful and mischievous and loves a good belly rub. Ash is the baby-est big cat and loves to snooze all day.

My brother and his friend took Bingley and Dash and renamed them Celes and Achilles. They sometimes have play dates. The only time I went in public for the whole pandemic at that point was into the gas station restroom to pee after driving halfway to Dallas to transfer the kittens to them. 

We settled in with Fitz and Ash. Cece was cleared by the vet to do normal activities, and between her unrest in the house, her absolute mess of hormones, her growing aversion to nursing and being unable to get away from the kittens, and her run-ins with the dog, we let her go back outside. 
She was so much happier. She started with short escapes of a half-hour, and over the course of a few months, transitioned back to being outside a bit more than half the time. She visits her other family a lot, and they are happy to see her again. Before Katrina left for her latest contract, she would text me pictures of Cece napping in their garden and Emma climbing their curtains.

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Over time, all three cats and the dog have settled into a tolerable co-existence. Cece’s hormones have leveled out, and she’s so much more chill and comfortable. She and Rory can stand right next to each other and not freak out. Fitzy pushes it a bit trying to investigate this large creature that is Off Limits. Mostly, he scares her away, but they recently booped noses. It was a watershed moment.

Cece has always been an independent cat with a sweet but fierce personality. I have always sensed her boundaries and tried to respect and honor them. It’s been lovely to see her settle into her own place in our home and family. Sometimes, when she is fully relaxed and vulnerable in our home, I feel so moved by the trust she has place in us.

And even though I do still have allergies, I seem to have outgrown the most severe reactions or I’ve adjusted to having cats around. Turns out, we could have cats all this time! 😂

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I constantly recall Josh telling me I could do whatever with the cats as long as they didn’t affect his life. They have absolutely affected his life, from talking me down when I was anxious about EVERYTHING to physically climbing up after the kittens in the rafters to buying cat supplies and feeding and changing litter. I’m grateful that he has tolerated and, dare I say, sometimes enjoyed them. I don’t know that he LOVES having two to three cats. But he rolls with it. And mischievous little Fitzy sure loves him. Again, Josh would probably prefer that he DIDN’T. But who could really be mad when such a cute cat chooses you?

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Which brings me back to Cece, the most beautiful cat I’ve ever known, my best friend during the pandemic, the bridge to a wonderful friendship with my neighbor, my imperfect but perfect-for-me soul cat. 

She chose me, and in doing so, she helped me keep some of my resolutions during a year that would have made them impossible. I did make new friends. I did get out of the house more. I stretched my ability to be grounded and present. She brought such joy into our lives with her kittens when all else felt scary and dark, an experience that engaged our family (and more than a few friends via the internet) in wonder and awe and so much cuteness. 

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I continue to feel absolutely special and lucky to be one of Cece’s people. This year would not have been anywhere near the same without her. There was so much else that happened this year, to me and to others, and I could probably never find all the words to write about that. But this was one beautiful, life-changing thing that made it feel like the universe was looking out for me this year, and I didn’t want this time of reflection to go by without expressing my gratitude for that.

 

When I heard the leaked Trump tape, it all came back. The first boy who asked me out — with scissors to my throat. The stranger running a jokey Independence Day beauty pageant who isolated me from the younger girls and older women and exposed me, saying, “We have to see if you’re a woman.” The man asking for gas money in a parking lot who shoved a hand into my pants and I gave him my money because I was afraid not to, and I felt angrier — more justified — in feeling robbed than assaulted. The male therapist, the boyfriend who asked how far I’d parked from the store, a version of “What were you wearing?” The relationship that left me afraid of everything from my phone to flying to speaking to not speaking, the relationship that made me feel unbearably naive, the relationship that closed my heart in ways I’ve never gotten over, the relationship that could have legitimately ended my life, the relationship that left me uncertain who I was at all — it has been picked over, the blood let back out, the pain fresh as this man we just elected our president spoke about grabbing women and spoke about how such speech is harmless.

It has been just a few weeks since we heard him say those things. It feels like a lifetime, and for those of us who have experienced assault or emotional abuse or rape, it is a lifetime because we keep living those events and moments, tethered to them across years and decades. And this whole time, I have been living short of breath. I have been too afraid to even see his face or hear his voice. I have been unable to follow much of the campaign because I see all the men who have hurt me and then brushed it off, not even acknowledged the damage they’ve done.

I have been abused. I feel like my abuser just became our president.

Two weeks ago, a man in my neighborhood slapped my ass while I was walking with my daughters. First, he offered me a business card, and I was polite. Then, he asked about my daughters, and I was polite. He told me there was a mosquito on me, and before I could say a word, he slapped me several times and pulled the waist band of my pants away from my lower back. I was polite and walked away. And when I called my mother, out of breath and shaking, I told her, “I don’t know if there was a mosquito. Maybe there really was a mosquito.”

My heart breaks and breaks and breaks. I have spent my life trying to understand what others’ intentions were instead of looking directly at their actions. I have silenced my own voice so as not to accuse someone falsely or let them think I perceive them in a negative light. I crave connection with people. Not everyone does.

When this same man found me later on my walk, left the yard work he was doing in my neighborhood, and pursued me further, I yelled at him. I called the constable. I stated what happened, even though I could hardly believe it. My instinct was still to say, “Maybe there was a mosquito. Maybe he didn’t think about what it means to touch a person without their consent.” The man denied that he had intended to intimidate me. I still walk in my neighborhood, but now I look for the maroon truck he drives. I’m afraid I will see him again, not because he will hurt me more, but because I very well may find myself apologizing for making a big thing of a big thing.

Get pepper spray. Get a gun. Get a dog. Get a thicker skin. Get over it.

I’m not over it, and how can I be when a man can so blatantly brag about assault and then be elected our president? 53% of white women voted for him. My sisters, those same women who have held keys between their knuckles at night and sought safety in numbers, left the rest of us to fend for ourselves, and that betrayal is hard to forgive.

I know this man evokes the same feelings of hopelessness and fear and worry in so many cross-sections of people who face worse potential outcomes than I do as a white, cis, straight, able-bodied citizen, and knowing how I feel as I try desperately to separate a history of misogynist terror from today and tomorrow and the next day, I am profoundly sad and sorry for those groups he has invited hate upon.

When I cast my vote for who I hoped would be our first female president, I was first nearly turned away by a man who tried to say I couldn’t take my babies with me. He was wrong, but he didn’t care to be right. Even this small thing — a person giving bad information — feels so deeply personal.

What gives me hope? The woman who offered to hold my babies so I could vote. The woman who pulled over when she saw me crying and yelling at the man in my neighborhood and waited with me well after the constable was gone. My mother, who has always believed me. My friends, who share their voices bravely. My doula, who helped bring my babies into this world and helped me, today, get through an hour more in it. She handed me the note in the picture above before I left. My husband, who just last week defended a young woman being casually harassed by men. My close male friends who are also hurting from all this and want to use their position for change. Writers, who take their uncelebrated gifts and create hope and assurance from the tiny, fragile husks of words. My kids, who don’t understand any of this yet but whom I’m teaching to respect their bodies and other people’s bodies.

My mother told me to get fear out of my body. I’m walking. I’m talking. I’m dancing with my kids even though I don’t feel like dancing. I’m finding anything to laugh about. I’m letting myself cry, for now. I might take a bath. I’m cleaning. I’m killing all these motherfucking mosquitoes that have the audacity to keep living into November and bite me. I’m breathing. I’m standing barefoot in sand. I’m holding my family.

Thank you to those of you who are holding space today, whether out of empathy or experience. Thank you to the ones who are checking in and taking care. Thank you to the ones who aren’t fearful but fired up. I’m getting there, too.

Hi, mothers, moms-to-be, and friends!

I’m running my first workshop this weekend, “In Mother Words: Journaling for Authenticity in Motherhood.” I wanted to share what made me develop this workshop. I know many of you cannot make it because of other obligations — or because you live out of state. I hope to offer an online version of the workshop, as well as other ones on writing your birth story, keepsake journaling, writing creatively from motherhood, and more. I’ll keep you posted as these things take off. For now, here’s a little story about how this all started.

“In Mother Words” is a passion project that grew out of my experience of becoming a mother, struggling to feel adequate and happy through the bumpy transition, and the life-changing decision I made to write my way through it. In talking with other mothers, I have learned that my rough adjustment to motherhood is hardly unique. We all face challenges, and in this culture of social media veneer and an oversaturation of opinions and advice on parenting, I think contemporary mothers, in the United States especially, have a particularly difficult time. We need support, and we need tools to help us steer our own lives and our families in a direction that feels true and good.

As I entered motherhood, I had a lot of ideas about what the experience should look like. I believed I would be a “natural” mother. I had a deeply-held belief that my love as a mother would be fierce, unconditional, and unwavering. My view of mothers was simple. But my experience as a mother was not. Love came with confounding ambivalence. Breastfeeding was painful and challenging. My baby cried and cried, and I often failed to soothe him. I felt alone, overwhelmed, resentful of how my life had changed and how it failed to align with my expectations. I struggled, and in that struggle, I believed that I was not a natural mother, that in fact, I might not be particularly suited for motherhood at all.

This was fear talking. This was a lifetime of messages from the world around me about what a woman, what a mother should be. This was a lack of nuanced perspective on healthy and realistic mothering. Chances are, you also went in to motherhood with a set of ideas about what a “good” mother should be. Maybe some of them guided you in ways that were helpful. But there were likely some, too, that placed unnecessary pressure on you, that led you to compare yourself needlessly and detrimentally to others, that left you sometimes feeling like you were failing at something that should have been simple.

It took me a lot of reading, thinking, writing and eventually talking to other mothers to understand that my expectations had set me up for failure and that I could – and should – be more thoughtful and selective about my values. I took inventory of what truly mattered, what brought me feelings of contentment, and what gave me a sense of purpose, authenticity, and whole-heartedness both as a mother and as a human. I have spent these last four years since becoming a mother hoping to give voice to the whole, complex, messy work of raising children. I don’t have all the answers, but I know this work is important for the well-being of mothers and their families.

Before my son’s birth, I started a journal addressed to him where I wrote about my dreams for him, my awe at the magic of pregnancy, promises I hoped to fulfill. I believed this journal would become an artifact, proof of my love. I wanted this little handwritten book to represent everything good and pure about his mother, so he would know straight from my own heart how intensely and irrevocably I cherished him. Maybe I would give it to him when he became a parent. Maybe he would find it in a time of despair after I’m gone, and my words would bring him comfort. The point was, it was a gift. It was always meant for him.

So, when I had a difficult birth, and the days after that were raw and painful and desperate, I struggled to write his name on those pages. I wanted to tell him that I’d fallen in love at first sight and that cradling him to my chest brought both of us a deep feeling of peace. I did not want to admit that I was a little shell-shocked, that I wasn’t moved to happy tears until his first laugh at three months, that I was distracted by a persistent feeling that my life was unraveling. More than this, though, I didn’t want to fail to finish the journal, the artifact of my love. So I wrote half-truths at first. I stuck to the facts of his birth. I followed up my fears and worries with uplifting remarks that I was sure things would feel better soon. Over time, I allowed myself to be more forthcoming, to write less for him than for me, because I found that once I started to open up a little bit, there was no holding back the force of my feelings. I was compelled to write every day, every chance I got.

I finished the journal around the time my son turned one, which was a turning point toward a happier time as he grew out of some of the challenges of infancy and as I was starting to see a wealth of benefits from all that writing. I stewed over my frustrations less; I learned to write them down and let them go. I began to seek solutions to my problems by brainstorming and writing through the possible ways my choices could go. Naturally, this led me to look forward rather than backward, to set goals, to imagine how things might get better and what other avenues would open up for me. I started to interrogate what it meant to me to be a mother, seeing the rhetoric for what it was, keeping what felt right and getting rid of any pressure, any image that felt inauthentic. I found grace for myself. I processed old, seemingly unrelated feelings about my body and healed some long-held upsets. And although I sometimes wrote to complain about my baby, it was this excavation of my life as his mother that helped me to see him and accept him exactly as he was. When I completed the journal’s final pages, I felt more confident, better adjusted to my new life, and excited about my days with my son.

The beautiful thing about my journal is that, even though it doesn’t profess my perfect, pure, easy love for my son, it is still a meaningful artifact; it still proves exactly what I hoped it would, just not in the way I imagined. In those pages are the ways that I struggled, yes, but also how I pushed through. Those pages show exactly the how deeply I love him because they include everything, not just the golden moments that took my breath away. I still plan to share it with him some day, and at the same time, I treasure it for myself, for what it reminds me about my own strength.

Not all mothers go through such a rough stretch, but we do all have days when we struggle to parent as well as we’d like, when we are depleted of energy, when the work of mothering feels less like a blessing and more like, well, work. It seems like we are supposed to do everything, including not letting the everything wear us down. Mothers hear all the time that they need to do self-care. Sleep when the baby sleeps. Continue having date nights and girls’ nights. Go get a massage. But many moms also hear this advice and think, “Great. One more thing I’m failing to do.” While it’s important to make time for the things that center us, it’s smart to have a good self-care activity that doesn’t require much time or child care or money. Journaling can fit the bill. All you need is a notebook and pen.

In this workshop, we will discuss the benefits of self-reflective writing, complete several writing exercises to jumpstart your journaling, and develop strategies for you to implement and maintain the practice. My hope is that you will leave with new tools to deeply explore your motherhood and journey forth with authenticity in all that you do.

Get your ticket and join me on October 16th, 1:30-4:30pm at Rebel Birth Haven in Old Town Spring.