One blank page remains in my notebook. Three other notebooks are nestled into my bookshelf, spines blank but creased from being opened over and over. They are nothing fancy, but they contain the past five years of my life. I wasn’t always a fan of journaling. I kept a few diaries as a kid, writing with purple gel pen about my day in school. I enjoyed it, and continued through my teenage years. But when I was sixteen, my family moved, and as I packed up my room I flipped through the notebook that had served as my thus-far teenage journal—and I threw it away. I wanted to forget about my awkward years. Anyway, what was the point of writing down all this stuff? Wasn’t that a waste of time, especially when I could be writing something better, like stories or blog posts, things other people coul...


You know when you were a kid and everything made perfect sense? You would grow up and be a waitress/ballerina and get married and have kids and always love Jesus and have a pretty house, four dogs and a library full of books. (Like the one in Beauty & the Beast.) You would be beautiful like your mom and smart just like your big brother and your dad would always be the funniest person you knew. Your first puppy would live forever, as would your grandparents; and best friends would still live next door. (It all sounds a bit complicated, but believe me, total cake to a six year old) At some point in time, little holes start to pierce through the lining. At first it’s not a big deal. I mean, how many people are actually cut out to be a ballerina? But then bigger tears start to appear...


Somehow, I didn’t receive the message that binge drinking is the only way to become an adult.  I didn’t think my preference for reading a book cozy in bed over blacking out made me boring, but I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something. Somehow, my glory days are wasted by not having wild party stories to tell, but instead being able to relate back my “fun and exciting night” of writing, doing homework, or editing my photography. I know I’m not the only one that prefers to stay in, but some nights that’s what it feels like when no one will answer my texts or spend a night in with me.  I don’t even bother asking someone to spend a night exploring Boston with me because I know what the answer will always be: a no followed by a lame excuse, and then pictures from a party they atte...


“Ooo ooo me! My turn! How about something that has nothing to do with the election but super relevant to our current buzzword culture: feminism. I’m scared of the word because I feel like we’ve lost touch with the meaning. It is your right as a human being to shake your scantily clad booty on stage or whatever (yes what up Bey!). But please, as a courtesy to women and girls everywhere, please don’t do it in the name of feminism. It sends a very confusing message. Feminism is not for sale. End scene.” After the election, people were fired up. My (everyone’s) social media was blasted with emotional commentary in all directions. For the first time, I was inspired to post something—something that had been weighing on my mind for a long time, but I could not quite articulate. ...


Please be mindful… Just because a lady’s life veers from what many would categorize as typical or traditional, it doesn’t mean that A., it is wrong, and B., that is was even something she had a choice in. When a female isn’t the sort to offer to babysit children, or cuddle babies, or volunteer in the children’s hallway at church- it doesn’t mean she hates or dislikes kids. She probably adores her niece/nephew. Her friend’s children are adorable. That just isn’t where her life is… and honestly, it may never be. Please, that doesn’t mean its fodder for offhanded jokes or remarks. Sometimes you read articles or hear people going on about how selfish single people are. Disposable incomes and piles of time, both completely untrue in many cases; I work full-time, always have, I work HARD, and st...


I recently visited a local elementary school as part of a speaking engagement. In my introduction, they mentioned that I was 22 years old and a recent college graduate…cue audible gasps in the crowd. While this gave me a chuckle at first, such a reaction soon settled uncomfortably into my very being. Sure, when I was in second or third grade I thought all 22 year olds were put together, professional, and were probably already fighting the effects of aging. Without being able to put in into words, I assumed those of this ripe age were mature, sure of themselves, and just plain loving life. And then…there’s my current reality. As a working woman battling confusion and angst, I am the living definition of a hot mess — unsure of my future and working hard to adjust to the lif...

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