Today is my 39th birthday. And this letter is landing in your inbox at the exact minute I was born—11:59 p.m.

Yup. According to my mom, she turned to my dad at 11:58 and said, “Well, I guess this kiddo won’t be born today.”

And then WOOOSH—she had the biggest contraction and there I was. 8 pounds. 8 ounces of smooshy, exuberance. And wearing a flower on her first day, no less!

I often joke that the way I entered the world is the way I move through it. People tell me what I can’t do—learn to read and write, get into college, graduate college while living with psychosis, survive outside a locked residential psych ward, care for a dog, hold down a full-time job—and my stubborn, oh-so-relentless self smiles mischievously and says:

Oh really? Watch this.

But there’s one thing I haven’t responded to as Fighter Kate.

At least, not just yet.

But today, on my 39th birthday, I am finally going for it…

This year, I’m giving myself the present I have always dreamt of:

finally—wholly, fully—pursuing my dream of becoming a full-time, paid writer.

A writer who does not diminish, romanticize or omit the hard truths I have lived—even though the literary world, the advertising world and the documentary film world have told me time and time again over the last 12 years that I cannot share them if I want to succeed.

I, of course, don’t know where this will lead.

I don’t know whether I can be successful if I share everything that got me locked up in a psych ward 21 times.

I don’t know if the world will accept the level of raw, feral mess that makes me who I am and that made Waffle so damn incredible.

All I know is that this year, for my birthday and for my best girl, I’m going to try.

I’m going to show up here every Friday.

And just like when my mom said I wouldn’t arrive on the 14th, my teachers said I would never write proficiently and my doctor said I would never survive outside a locked residential ward, I’m going to smile mischievously—just like my best girl used to—and say:

Oh really? Watch this.

And now, without further ado, I introduce you to the newest incarnation of this space:

(un)Mentionable

Sharing everything that got me locked up in a psych ward.

Feral PTSD recovery, unrelenting attempts at survival and the madness of trying to stay sane in this broken healthcare system. Oh, and always, always, dogs + dog stories—because they walk me home.

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I do not take you being here with me lightly or for granted. I am so grateful you are here.

AND

If you would like to support me in this next chapter, here are additional ways you can help:

And before I do, because I am me, I share this with the accompanying disclaimer that I absolutely hate capitalism. AND—we live in it. So I am experimenting with the radical idea that my words, my story and my truth have actual monetary value.

Because after all, if NFTs—which didn’t even physically exist—were worth millions and I can’t believe my words are worth $6 at age 39, then wowza—what were those 22 years of therapy even for?

1. Subscribe for free.

The more subscribers here, the more evidence I can bring to literary agents and documentary film producers that there is an audience for the full, raw truth of serious mental illness—and that I deserve a book contract and documentary deal without cutting away the very truths that make the story what it is.

2. Become a paid subscriber.

$6/month or $60/year

Paid subscriptions directly support my livelihood and healthcare—but I make no promises about my personal hygiene. I am getting better at brushing my teeth these days though.

I share this ask with an accompanying

Paid subscribers receive:

• Full access to Maura + Me—the memoir I serialized here about the unexpected friendship that saved my life

• All seven existing chapters of With Love and Wafflenugget—plus every chapter still to come—the story of what happened after I was sentenced to a locked residential ward and how I re-entered the world with hella grit, a dog named Waffle and people who gave me a chance

• All 12 existing episodes of The Patient Is In—a podcast with my family and closest friends about what it means to support someone living with serious mental illness

• Additional personal essays, memoir chapters and occasional podcast episodes—as they emerge

• My deepest gratitude for sustaining this work, my life + one loud, and joining me in a collective mother-duck-you to every system that survives by silencing us

3. Become a Sustaining Human.

$200/year

Sustaining Humans receive everything paid subscribers receive, plus:

• One hour together: a private, hour-long Zoom during your first year as a Sustaining Human. Not therapy. Not coaching. Just two humans meeting—because getting to know one another is one of the greatest beauties of being alive.

• My extreme, I-will-never-have-the-words-for-it gratitude for putting $200 behind this work—and our shared belief that no human should have to disappear in order to survive.

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Additional ways to help:

1. Share my work—with friends, colleagues, therapists or anyone in your community who might value the lived truth of serious mental illness.

2. Tell me what my work means to you—either in an email that I may quote with your permission or in a public comment on a post. In every professional conversation I’ve had about my work, I am asked for words from my community that show why this work matters—and why I should be given the chance to share truths that have never been considered commercially viable before. If you are willing to share them, your words could genuinely make a difference in those conversations.

3. Comment, like, restack and share my posts on Substack. Substack has joined the platform brigade, so the more you engage with my work, the more visibility its algorithm affords it.

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AND HOLY HECK THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR KINDNESS AND SUPPORT. TRULY!

OKAY. Wowza. How was that for some hardcore— ask for exactly what you want—waffle assertive behavior?

But I’m doing it, little kate. I’m doing it. Just like you and Waffle taught me to.

Thank you so much for being here. That—above all—is my greatest gift.

More soon.

With love.

Kindly,
Kate

I was absolutely flattened this week. The events of the week prior completely took it out of me. I slept for two whole days—almost straight. Clearly, it was what I needed.

I hope you’ve been listening to what you need, too—whatever that is. I know it can feel impossible in this current state of the world, but if we don’t care for ourselves, we can’t show up for ourselves or others. And holy heck, that is what we need more than ever.

This week, I’m going to run an experiment. I’m going to share a letter I wrote to Waffle.

I call her Bunny. Dave and I do. We actually have called her Bunny since the very first day she came home because—but, of course—she hopped like a bunny rabbit.

Here is the video of her very first hops—back when she was still afraid of snow and hadn’t even made it inside our cabin yet.

I’ve been writing these letters to Waffle almost every day since she took her last breath. They hold so much power for me. They keep her close and in endless conversation—just like when she was breathing beside me. After writing them for almost eight months now, I realize that these letters are the purest written form of me there is. When I write to Bunny, I am my whole self. And when I write to her, no part of me is ever unmentionable.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to live my truth out loud—to be my full, zesty being in colorful, chaotic evolution. I have wanted people like me—the people in the messy trenches of serious mental illness and disability—to be free and safe to be fully ourselves, at the very least, on the page.

When Waffle came home and made us a family, I finally learned how to do it.

Waffle was just so damn herself. I couldn’t help but learn from her. She never silenced a sassy bark or shrank a stride of swagger. And oh, yes oh, would she paw you for a cookie.

She was just herself—purely, absolutely, completely herself. No apologies whatsoever.

Over the first few years of our life together, she taught me how to be my full self in life and on the internet. Many of you saw it. I shared my suicide attempt and survival. I shared my depression selfies and weeping videos of snuggles on the floor. And I shared the joy too—so, so much joy—the dork dancing and mountaintop hollering and the absolutely ridiculous glee that comes with knowing you survived and found freedom after almost losing both for life.

And then, the trolls found me.

First, they came for my tears. Then, they came for my body. And then, after joining The Dogist, they came for my girl.

I’ve never really talked about it—about how many cruel emails I received. About how Waffle was supposedly a fraud and I was an “ableist POS” for “slapping a vest” on my “fancy pet Bernese mountain dog” for my “BS mild white girl anxiety.”

I tried to block it out. I tried to block it all out. There are always going to be haters, after all. But it’s hard when they find every inbox you have.

It’s really, really hard.

And then Waffle got sick. And Elias restructured The Dogist. And when your lifeline is dying while your supposed best friend is laying off your whole team, how exactly are you supposed to trust the world with your whole truth?

I couldn’t. And so, I didn’t. At least, not the way Waffle taught me to.

I shrank and hid and censored and tidied myself into a job at Harvard.

But that isn’t what Waffle taught me. That isn’t what Waffle taught me at all.

Waffle taught me to be fully me.

She taught me to be brave enough—bold enough—gosh darn terrified enough—to walk out the door and do it anyway because, no matter what anyone says, we are not unmentionable.

Waffle is not walking beside me anymore.

She’s not here barking me through the tears streaming down my face and saying, Hell yeah, Mom. Cry it out. It hurts. It hurts a whole lot. But don’t ever forget—afterward, we’re still gonna take on the world.

There is not a day that goes by when I don’t wish she was still with me. I don’t think there ever will be. And so, I write these letters. I write my truths to my girl.

And today, for her and for me, I’m going to share one.

Because no matter the hate and heartache, no matter the slander and stigma, we are not unmentionable. And neither is my grief.

December 23, 2025 2:11pm — two days without my best girl

Dear Bunny,

I’m so tired. I miss you so much and I am being really strong but I am so so tired.

I wish you were here to nap with me in our room. I don’t know how I am supposed to do this. I don’t know at all.

You’d be proud of me though — I ate protein and went for a walk with Gogo and Daddy. Your dad is truly the best. He taught us all about the trees. The hemlock and the ash. The pine and the apparently rotting-from-the-inside birch. I wish I could have been more engaged but I just missed you so much it hurt too much.

I hope you know that all I ever wanted was for you to be happy and pain free. I’m so sorry if our adventures made it painful later. I also hope you know I wasn’t trying to prolong your suffering by not understanding your collapses. I didn’t know. The vets didn’t know. I guess no one did. I just miss you so much big sug. So so much.

I’m nervous that I will only remember the pain you felt in your later years and not all the joy from our beginning when I was so dissociated. Why did I have to dissociate through the best years of our lives together? Why did my mind steal me from you? Doesn’t that seem like the cruelest part of all? That I couldn’t even get to live that joy with you.

I just wish I could feel all of that just like I feel the end. I wish I could feel the good stuff just like I feel all the hurt. I wish my brain wasn’t this way. Or is it my mind? I have no idea any more. I just know that something steals me from the world and from you. And it stole so much. It stole so so much. It’s like my dissociated mind can only click on when its excruciating. It’s like it can only remember the memories that broke me in two.

I’m so sorry my girl. I’m so sorry I couldn’t stay earthside for the joy too. I just hope you know I am in you. I am in you. So if you were looking for me, I was in you.

And if you miss me like I miss you, just look in you. I am there. I am always there. Like you will always be in me too.

Me and my undying love.

Yours, forever.

Your momma.

Good morning, beautiful human,

It’s been quite a week. And before I get into it, I want to offer a human warning — my version of a content warning.

This piece contains explicit mentions of self-harm and suicidality. Please DO NOT read it if engaging with this story could cause you harm in any way. I care about you. Deeply. So if this statement or piece brings up feelings of crisis, self-harm, or suicide, please call a friend, call or text 988, or reach out to the Wildflower Alliance Peer Support Line.

This week, I came closer to admitting myself to a psychiatric ward than I have in thirteen years. The most confusing part — at least at the time — was that listening to myself and choosing what was right for me was what brought me to its door.

Since I was a little girl, I have falsely believed that being me—being all of me—would feel good inside. I thought that when I finally listened to myself and honored that self, it would feel safe and cozy in every single inch of my being.

This week, when I did that, one part of me wanted to die, and another part of me wanted desperately—so desperately—to self-harm. It was excruciating in every single way, from the headache that pounded in my skull to the vision that bent and blurred, all the way down to the violent clench deep in my belly.

Finally, after I trembled and shook for a good hour in bed, I got myself up and into an ice-cold shower. Mood follows action, Kate. Mood follows action. Get yourself in the goddamn shower.

There, as my full mind and parts came back online, I realized how wrong that belief was. I realized how absurd it is that we are taught that becoming ourselves should feel good.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I do believe that when we have finally unshackled ourselves from the broken systems of the world and untangled ourselves from the many layers of conditioning we were raised beneath, we will find a peace of sorts. At least I hope thats the case.

At the same time, the idea that becoming ourselves is a comfortable thing is downright absurd. Becoming me, after all, is re-wilding myself. It is the act of fighting back on every single front and stepping, absolutely terrified, into the unknown in pursuit of a self I haven’t even met yet.

Scribbling in my journal, naked on my closet floor as Tug lay beside me, a light bulb finally went off. Or maybe I should say that a light bulb turned back on, because I could swear I’ve come to this truth many times before:

Becoming myself is not about growing into a place where there is no discomfort.

What a lie we’ve been told—that discomfort is the enemy when instead it’s the very currency of evolution. Yes, it’s not about being comfortable. Discomfort is a guarantee.

Instead, it’s about which discomfort I choose. It’s about whether I feel discomfort in the act of self-erasure or in the act of self-reclamation.

This clarity got me up, clothed, and safely to my parents’ house, where I wept and broke down for a few hours as I talked about how deeply I wanted to meet my full self—to actually know and trust who that is—and also how deeply I knew I could not do that within the current paradigm of my existence or employment.

I wish I could tell you my parents and I found a neat and tidy answer and that, after I landed on standing in my truth—the truth of what this season of me needs—it was pretty or, at the very least, peaceful.

But oooooohh baby, it was neither whatsoever.

It was simply more grueling and more brutal—so much so that parts of me experienced both suicidal ideation and the impulse to self-harm multiple times after I found my truth.

But unlike when I was younger, I didn’t give in to these inner requests for salvation from the discomfort. I didn’t avoid or cut. I didn’t people-please or fugue. I felt the discomfort fully. I leaned into its absolute fuckery and used every single resource that I had ever put in my toolbox.

I wrote. I called friends. I drew. I talked to Dave obsessively. I sought repeated, daily counsel from my best friend. I set up multiple emergency therapy appointments. And, of course, I took all the cold showers and kept Tug on my lap, bribing her into a nearly permanent deep-pressure-therapy position with all the cookies.

With that help—with that immense privilege of support—I found the truth within myself:

Discomfort is always there.

It’s either living the discomfort of self-erasure as I bend or break myself into a human I am not—one who meets society’s standards, values, and expectations instead of my own.

Or it’s the discomfort of becoming myself—the discomfort of defying society’s standards, values, and expectations as I bravely choose to live by my own instead.

And holy hell, what a discomfort this is. What a discomfort indeed.

It is scary. It is terrifying. It is new. And it’s finally for me, so that makes it worth it.

With the incredible support of my family, friends, and care team, I was able to stay the course and make the choice my whole body was revolting against:

I left my job entirely.

Yup, I did it. I left the work that had structured and supported my entire life because I could no longer meet myself inside it.

I left my job to meet me.

And as I did — as one part of me screamed for a razor blade and another yelled, “We just have to die, we just have to die and be done” — I did the bravest thing of all.

I turned toward my younger parts, the ones screaming for our end, still lost in an era when obedience to the world had been demanded of us in order to survive. And I did what my best girl — my one-in-a-billion best girl — used to do for me.

I took my own hand, chose not to abandon my adult self in the name of my younger truths, and said:

“You’re right, little Kate. Everything you feel is valid and true. The world doesn’t want us to live this way — it doesn’t want us to live our truth and become who we truly are. And you’re right: for decades, the world told us it would lock us up if we did and that we would lose people we love.

“And you’re also right. The world did lock us up, and we did lose people we love.

“But little Kate, I’m not the world. I’m you — decades later. I’m you after fighting tirelessly to build the world where we do actually belong.

“And little Kate, we actually did it. we actually did it.

“So here, take my hand, and I — yes, I — will walk us home.”

~

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Please know I’m safe and might change my publishing day to Sunday next week — still figuring out what days feels right.

Until then, I love you. Thank you for accepting me in all my seasons.

Kindly,

Kate

Good morning, beautiful human,

It’s been a while, and oh, how I have missed you.

Although my silence may have implied otherwise, I thought of you every single day. You are my people — my community — the beautiful humans who chose to join Waffle as she walked me home to myself, and I do not take that honor lightly.

The past six or so months have held far more than I planned or even expected. I left this space and social media with a very clear intention: to find true quiet and then myself within it.

I wanted to strip away the layers that my experiences, my trauma, and this world had conditioned into my being. I kept saying to myself: I want to do it right, for once. And for the record, doing it right didn’t mean doing it successfully in the eyes of capitalism or society. It meant living with the intention of finding actual alignment within myself.

Waffle was gone, and I would be damned if I did not figure out how to honor her, this life, and the survival she so spectacularly gave me to the fullest possible degree.

My plan, of course, did not go as planned, as my plans never do :)

But the time away from social media, all phone notifications, and most outside expectations of any kind served me well. I found parts of myself that had long been hidden and patterns of existence that had held me captive within myself for far too long.

I won’t yet go into everything that time held: my daily walks with Tug, the many pies I ate, the grant I wrote to build a new project that will hopefully serve all of us, a new diagnosis, and hours and hours and hours of felling trees, raking brush, building terraces, and planting the first home and hillside of Waffle’s Wildflowers. Oh, and listening to Noah Kahan on repeat, of course.

But I will say that the time away brought immense clarity — just not the kind I had planned for.

My time away showed me that I had been living for other people — their expectations and their comfort — instead of living for myself and my own.

I do not shame this pattern of being. I don’t whatsoever, actually. It was entirely adaptive. My fawn response — my need to always put others first — was how I survived grade-school bullies, family dynamics, stigma, and, in the end, being fully institutionalized.

The fawn response saved me. And it no longer does. Now, it holds me captive within myself.

So, with this clarity, I reevaluated just about everything and started making some changes. I restructured my role at Harvard into a consulting contract and cut back immensely. I started writing comedy about my trauma instead of memoir, and loved it.

And then, having saved enough, I took a full break from work for two months. My first break from employment in twelve years. It was so needed.

I also realized that my never-ending quest to “find my purpose” was itself a reflection of my conditioning — a false belief that if I did not live perfectly and make everyone else comfortable and happy, I would be locked up once more.

What’s wild is that my body really believes this. It truly believes that any assertion of myself that causes discomfort in another person will mean the end of my freedom.

But the real truth is the opposite. It is the truth I have been called back to again and again since I was a fierce little fighter of a girl:

Only when I assert myself, just as Waffle asserted herself for me, will I truly be free.

Only when I am my full self out loud will I be doing it right.

I have learned and lived this truth over and over again. I fight and fight and fight for my right to exist, exactly as I am, and then my body protects my beating heart by abandoning my true self.

It has happened more times than I will ever be able to count or remember. I have been mocked, punished, silenced, institutionalized, medicated, fired, and worse for being me and each time, the message was clear: it is not safe to be me, and being me has dire, freedom-losing consequences.

When I really think about it, it’s actually kind of incredible that I keep getting back up. This world has beaten me down so many damn times.

And yet — always — I begin again.

I commit to being fully me once more.

That is the practice I am being called back to once more: being unabashedly me — being brave enough to put my full self out there.

But this time, I refuse to package myself into something easier to understand — or something I even understand, for that matter — as I do so.

I also refuse to prioritize everyone else’s nervous system over my own.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

This time, I’m simply beginning again as messy me.

This time, I’m coming back and actually living my full, zesty, uncomfortable, ever evolving truths.

And amazingly, therein lies what I was put on Earth to do in the first place: to be messy out loud with you and invite you to do the same.

Writing that sentence gives me full-body goosebumps because it actually feels right. It actually feels RIGHT! It is not like the nine other versions of this note I wrote, in which I tried to explain my chaos through poetic prose.

And don’t get me wrong — I love poetic prose when it flows through me. But I — me, myself, and Waffle beating inside my chest — I am not poetic prose.

I am a spectacular hurricane. A beautiful disaster.

I am messy me.

And yup, right now that self is smiling the biggest smile through her snot-covered — oh, the snot! — tear-stained face as she walks her dog through the woods and writes to you.

So, my beautiful peeps, here’s the deal: I don’t know what the future of this space will look like.

AND

The following truths are the founding beliefs upon which this space will be built:

There is no wrong way to be human, as long as you are honest and kind.

I don’t have the answers. Never have, and never will.

I love dogs and stories — mine, yours, and all those I have yet to encounter.

When I grow up, I want to be as incredible as my best girl: brave, fearless, bold, kind, sassy, silly, sweet, and always ready for an adventure.

Being brave means getting uncomfortable and I plan to do a lot more of that.

Life is best spent in the here and now — in the moments when we don’t even remember we have a phone because we are so embodied and present with our people, places, and pups that there is nowhere else we could even fathom being.

Life is better together — with you. And because I find you through my computer and my phone, how do I balance being here with you and being fully present in my life? I have no idea.

I want to leave this world a little kinder than it was when I arrived. I want to share what I’ve learned from living through pain and growing through discomfort so that other people do not have to hurt as much as I did — and often still do. I promised Waffle and Maura that I would do exactly that and I absolutely will not let them down. It also might take me a little time to grow back into that level of fighter. And I am okay with that.

I really — really, really, really — want to laugh with you. I want to share my extremely dark, sometimes earnest and heartfelt, often goofy, but always inappropriate sense of humor. I want to laugh at the fuckery, the chaos, and the brokenness of this world — and, above all, at myself. Oh, how I want to laugh at myself. I am not a sad story. I am a goddamn messy hilarious one.

The light gets in when we are brave enough to open the door and meet the world in its uncertainty.

Every single thing that hurt me — the learning disability, the bullying, the mental disorders, the rapes, the hallucinations, the hospitalizations, all of it — does not define me.

My resilience does.

And I survived because, after weeping it out, time and time again, I would begin again in defiance and say, “Oh, really, world? Is that all ya got?”

So today, as this note finds you, I begin again — unabashedly me — weeping because Waffle no longer walks beside me, unsure of what lies ahead, yet still brave enough to open the door in search of light without having a clue where I am going.

And I say:

Oh, really, world? Is that all ya got?

More soon.

I love you.

Kindly,

Kate

I keep hoping
Maybe this is just lost time
Maybe this is one of those bouts of long term psychosis — that living nightmare I used to weather and never could wake from

Yes, I keep hoping
Maybe this is a fugue state
A really long one
Maybe this is some dystopian reality of my tormented minds own makin…

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Our best girl took her last breath on the darkest day of the year.

But even though she is no longer walking beside us, sassy barking for snuggles or pawing me back to reality, she is not gone.

No.

Dr. Waffle will never be gone.

She is the beat of my heart,

the breath in my chest,

and most of all,

yes, most of all,

Waffle is the fight for love and belonging for …

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The snow arrived in Vermont this week. It is absolutely stunning. There is just something remarkable about it. The brightness it brings. The clean slate it offers. The deep and true quiet it ushers in. And of course, the snowmersaults and snow smackerels of my one best bear.

I’ve been leaning hard into win…

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Good morning, Beautiful Human,

If you celebrated, I hope your Thanksgiving was kind to you.

By that, I hope your day offered unexpected respite, less stress than initially anticipated, and lots and lots of delicious food that was actually enjoyed — and not served with a heaping side of family drama.

Of course, I’m not as naive as my opening sentence implie…

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If you asked me this question seeking a scientific answer a few years ago, I probably would have been stumped. Likely, I’d have laughed it off and covered up my lack of knowing the exact science with some goofy or poetic frame – They’re me, of course. All of me. My feelings are me and my interpretation of the world… and oooooh, bab…

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Good Morning, Beautiful Human,

I have not had a fugue state in two months. Two months and three days. I mean, it’s not like I’m counting or anything (biggest lol).

I believe this is the longest I have gone without one. I, of course, can’t know for certain because I don’…

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And I used to swear by it.

“Kate, your feelings aren’t facts. Nor are your thoughts. Get up and move. Mood follows action, after all.”

While I don’t disagree with any of th…

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Good morning, Beautiful Human,

I’ll be honest, when I first wrote this, I was completely stuck.

I was lost to grief and absolute overwhelm at our world — at people going hungry, at healthcare relentlessly profiting off pain, and at the reality that our country straight up …

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I’d just had a call to talk creative guidelines with our lawyers for an upcoming cryptocurrency project about, yes, dog NFTs.

Sitting on the floor afterward, Waffle draped upon me in deep pressure therapy, my brain clicked on.

What the actual hell are you doing, Ka…

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Months spent testing and tracking every possible variable I could control at the 24-hour Price Chopper near my part time job. (I was raised by nerds, after all, and statistical …

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Hello Beautiful Human — 

Thank you so much for being here. I never thought I would be read, let alone live outside a locked residential psych ward, so I really do mean that.

This is the story of how, after being told I’d only survive in a locked psychiatric ward, I rebuilt my life by re-wiring my entire brain.

Most importantly, this is the story of how I reclaimed myself — and how love and a dog named Waffle saved me.

To read the story of my life before that time, you can do so here.

Please note: This is undoubtedly a work in process (not progress, I am not here to optimize myself). I live with dissociative fugue and a shattered memory, so I’m writing this through memory reconsolidation work with my therapist, journal entries, health records, and interviews (all names unless explicitly stated are pseudonyms). As a result, it is undoubtedly messy, just like me.

And now, without further ado, enjoy the book I hope to one day call — With Love and Wafflenugget.

As always, thank you for the honor of being seen and read. I still can hardly believe it’s the case, but I don’t take that privilege lightly at all.

So let’s begin here — not with “fixing,” not with regulating our way into permanent calm (be…

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It also rocked me to my absolute core. I wept publicly more times than I can count. I raged. I rallied. And I also — finally — finally found my voice again.

In brief, (because I literally cannot find the words that usually pour out of me, let alone the energy to get out of bed), we had the Creator Summit on Mental Health…

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Do you think I’ll ever start one of my pieces differently during these four years? I’m not sure, but either way, I’m okay with beginning in that truth each Friday.

I actually believe we have to start with that truth — that what’s going on right now is awful, and that it is hard to be human. When we start here, we can always begin anchored in…

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