The following is an essay I wrote over six years ago and captures the very essence of the book.

It’s lunchtime on a Monday. Our kids have the day off school and he has the day off work. We spent the morning hiking in the country, about an hour away from home, and are now grabbing lunch. There are women everywhere.

“Woah,” my husband says, taking in our surroundings. “What’d we do? Walk into some mommy-and-me playdate?”

I noticed the diaper bags and ponytails the second we walked in, like how you suddenly see the car you just bought on the road every few miles. Or how pregnant women are everywhere the second after your own test is positive.

Like sees like. Self recognizes same.

The air smells of grilled chicken and baby shampoo; voices babble and tiny fists smack freshly wiped tables. My family of six is an oasis of calm in the middle of a bustling dining area full of highchairs and sippy cups. All four of my kids sit on chairs, drink with straws, and feed themselves. I do not worry, not for one second, if anyone will choke.

I raise my eyebrows with a quick head nod and a wistful smile in answer to my husband. I take a bite of my sandwich and chew.

He looks at me, then pauses, like he’s seeing me for the first time: “This was you.” My heart grabs itself by the edges and squeezes tight.

“Yes, this was me.”

***

My first child is three months old. All the help, the out of town family, have gone back to their own homes hundreds of miles away. By this point in my maternity leave, I know I’ll meet with my boss and tell her I’m choosing to stay home with my daughter.

But I’m lonely, even in this life I want, this life I’m choosing.

I stand at the windows of our third-story condo swaying, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. We live in a planned community and share walls with our neighbors. The building across the street mirrors ours exactly and retail shops line the first floors. I hold the baby I still don’t know how to get to sleep in the room I painted asparagus green.

From my perch, I watch dads in suits parallel park and dash into the daycare for a drop-off. A woman in a blouse grabs a sandwich from the store on the corner. An older couple cradles an overpriced bouquet from the florist.

I’m an eagle, my eyes on the coffee shop

I know they exist: other moms. I’ve seen them at the park, in the grocery store, walking the sidewalks in pairs. I don’t know any of them personally, but I know they drink coffee.

I kiss my daughter’s velvet forehead, stare at her fluff of hair and smile. She is my everything. She fills me to full. But our days feel like they are almost-nothing and never-ending. They empty me completely.

I return to my window.

Strollers! One big—an expensive two-kid jogger. The other is smaller, known for its maneuverability in the city. They’re parked outside, to the right of the coffee shop door.

I wait and watch and later when I lay my daughter down for the nap she won’t take and devise a plan.

The next day, I pack up a stroller with wipes and diapers and a nursing cover and walk the 100 feet across the street to order a small half-caff. I sit on a brown velvet couch and wait. If a mom walks in, I will awkwardly try to make eye-contact. I will pray she asks me how old my daughter is and if I’d like to be her best friend.

In the next few weeks, I have mild success. Wow! Look how much hair she has! and Oh! She’s so cute! But no one seems to need me as much as I need them.

On my way back home one day, a small woman with brown curly hair stands by the bulletin board at the entrance. She works with military precision and efficiency. A messenger bag lays at her feet, a cup of coffee waits for her at the counter, and a little boy with matching hair circles her legs.

“Excuse me,” I smile, trying to get past her and not run over her son. My eyes dart to the flier she just posted. In bold letters across the front I read: MOMS Club. “Excuse me,” I say again, but in a different tone, “can I ask … what’s your flier about?”

She stops and turns to me. “Oh yeah. I’m actually the president of our chapter. There’s a moms club in the area.” She goes on to tell me about age-specific playgroups and planned outings into the city. They host a monthly meeting with local speakers on topics central to moms.

Structure without obligation. Support without responsibility. Most importantly, it’s a way to meet other mothers without pressure.

Perfect.

Up until this point, I’d always had connection and friendship built into my life—whether it be through the structure of school, or church, or work. But everything was different now. “Community” didn’t just appear the moment I had a baby and quit my job.

She ends our interaction by saying, “Come to one of our meetings. Or a playgroup. See if you like it.”

A week later, I pull on the brown maternity pants I’m still wearing and a cream shirt I don’t like, but it fits. I drive to a coffee shop I’d never been to before and am welcomed with smiles and a seat. We talk about our kids, mainly as introductions and points of connection, but then one mom brings up a show she recently watched and wants to recommend. The kids crawl, bounce in our arms, rest on our chests. The remainder of the conversation centers around us, the mothers, and I leave refreshed.

I join the club and my blank calendar soon fills with weekly playdates and coffee shop meet-ups. We go to the pumpkin patch in the fall. DC landmarks and museums in the winter. Community sponsored parks in the spring. My daughter, and later my son, will remember absolutely none of these outings, save the pictures I took.

I go anyway.

Because I’m not doing it for them, I see that now.

Being with this group changes me.

I go from utterly unsure, to still unsure but at least someone else is around if I need help. I go from scared, to still scared but knowing there is always another mom with an extra diaper/wipe/onesie/snack/hand if I run out. I no longer feel lonely—the kind where you are actually alone but also the kind where you feel like the only one. My days are no longer full of the nothingness everyone is telling me to savor.

It’s probably dramatic to say those moms saved my life.

But if life is composed of a million tiny moments and an accumulation of days, if what I needed, longed for, survived on with babies and toddlers was relationship and acceptance and encouragement and You-can-do-this-ness; if what makes me me is connection and authenticity and the confidence and motivation to leave my house, maybe it isn’t that dramatic to say.

In fact, it’s the whole of the truth.

***

I walk into a coffee shop, a vibrant, buzzing, urban, and oddly inspiring setting. In the far corner, a group of moms and a barricade of strollers corral a herd of toddlers whose shrieks pierce through the humming space in unpredictable intervals. I see my friends, ones I’ve known since those early Moms Club days, sitting a small table—as far away from the kids as possible.

I’d left my house earlier in the day weighed down with thoughts of what I should be doing with my kid-free time, reluctant to show up, despite saying I would. We say hi, order coffee. Decide to split food. We catch up with each other. Laugh. Then we update, and wipe away tears.

I’m not the only one; I’m not alone. I’m so glad I came. I’m so glad you’re here.

We finish our coffee while it’s still hot. We talk and do not rush. We notice the flavors in the sandwich and we do not create, ignore, or over-tip a mess of crumbs on the floor.

Afterward, I walk back to my car and soak in the sunshine. I notice how full my heart feels. I’m anchored down, but floating.

I don’t struggle in the same way with the same things as I did when I was a young mom. And even though my days look much different than they did a decade ago, my needs haven’t changed. I still crave friendship and community. And this plan, to spend just a little time together today, brought capital L life into what could have been another busy and draining week—taking care of everything at home, driving to practices, and sitting in front of a computer working.

I’ll forever be grateful to the moms in that club who made those early years of motherhood not only tolerable but enjoyable.

And I’m still grateful.

Because there are moms who—even now—continue to save my life.

This essay was first published on Coffee+Crumbs.

How’s everyone doing? Anyone else cycling through a steady stream of

and

?

I started writing this post almost a month ago, right after my birthday.

The Olympics were on. We weren’t at war. Spring sports hadn’t started yet. I had finally adjusted to the fall time change. Feels like a year ago.

The night before my birthday, my husband Chris paused during the post dinner routine of kid shuffling and kitchen clean-up to say that even though he had a busy schedule the next day, he would make himself free to take me out to brunch.

For my birthday.

The next day.

The one starting in just a few hours.

I started to laugh. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

A short pause. A centering breath. “You really think I would leave making plans for this birthday till the night before?”

As some of you know, I was turning 48. A real no-big-deal birthday age, save for one very personal fact: it’s the age my mom was when she died.

When you’re eighteen, forty-eight seems like a lifetime away. When you’re turning forty-eight, you can’t believe how young it really was.

I wasn’t sure if I’d be overwhelmed with emotion, if I’d be fine, or what.

Without going into specifics, let me embarrassingly confess that for many years, I’d end up disappointed on my birthday. Might as well throw Mother’s Day into this category. And yeah, Christmas, too.

The thing was (with some exceptions) it wasn’t for lack of effort.

It was, largely, because * I * didn’t know what I wanted and wouldn’t, for the life of me, have been able to put a finger on naming what would actually make me feel happy/ loved/ appreciated/ or cared for. It’s not fair to expect someone else to figure that out for you.

There’s a big difference between being disappointed and being completely disconnected from yourself.

Two years ago, when my daughter was the same age I was (18) and in the same stage of life (senior spring of high school) when my mom died, when it felt like I was simultaneously re-living the expereince as both a mother and daughter, when the dates synchroniciously aligned—Thursday May 30, 1996 / Thursday May 30, 2024— I desperately asked my therapist, “What should I do?” on the anniversary of my mom’s death. Most years, I’d done nothing. That year, I wanted to do something.

A pause. A centering breath. “You know,” she said with confidence. It was an invitation to turn inward. To listen. To trust.

But I didn’t know. And I had little experience listening. I was used to other people dictating the terms. Or, better said, more truthful: I didn’t know any differently than to believe other people dictated the terms. I wanted her to tell me what the best way to take care of myself and honor that day and my mom. I’ve had a lifetime of listening to other people.

But she insisted.

So I did. I went for an 8-mile solo hike. I wore hot pink socks pulled up to my knees. I saw a snake and survived. It was, minus the snake, a pretty perfect day.

When my friends asked what I was doing for my birthday this year, I told them how I reached out to a few farms in early January. My plan was to take a riding lesson and then spend half a day at a Korean spa. (IYKYK.)

Then I said something that wasn’t throwing shade. It just felt so honest—and so full of agency.

“I’m in charge of my own birthday magic.”

I love being treated well and celebrated. (Who doesn’t?) But on landmark days like this, when I take care of myself, the pressure is off everyone else. And everything else, then, becomes icing on the cake.

Or, in this year’s case, cupcakes.

✨ P.S!!!!!! Coffee+Crumbs wrote a book and I’m in it! You’re In Good Company: The Gift of Friendship, Motherhood, and Showing Up releases into the world on March 17th. You can pre-order it now!

Just then, Bruce Banner, the mild-mannered nuclear physicist who unpredictably turns into the raging monster Hulk, putters up to the group on a beat-up motorcycle. The battle rages all around, but he gets off his bike and casually walks over to the other good guys, to his friends.

“So …” he says, “this all seems … horrible.”

There’s a short conversation, but soon the metal beast is being led right to where they stand. The stakes are, at this moment, so, so high. They don’t need a good-natured buddy. They need the Hulk—his strength, this power, his rage.

“Dr. Banner,” Captain America says in a measured tone, “now might be a really good time for you to get angry.”

Banner gives Cap a look, a smirk almost, and it’s like I recognize myself.

“That’s my secret, Captain,” Banner says, turning away for a moment. He then looks back at his friend and right before turning big and green simply says, “I’m always angry.”

***

let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God.

***

In a truly excellent cinematic moment, before Banner is even done speaking, all his rage is channeled into a punch that lands squarely on the metal leviathan’s face. The monster curls up on itself and Hulk releases a primal roar.¹

My mouth drops open slightly. I lean towards my husband, Chris, and whisper, “I’ve never felt so understood in my life.”

He laughs as if I’ve just told a joke.

I laugh too, wishing it weren’t the truth.

***

I only have two children here, and we live in a 900-square-foot third-floor condo. The kids and I come home from a morning out. I open the door and am hit with an overwhelming smell of feces.

Without a word, I walk inside slowly, holding the kids’ hands to keep them close. In my memory, they wear raincoats and galoshes.

It only takes a moment before it registers: our dog, Mia, a short-haired black lab mix that would whine like a dolphin whenever she got anxious, had had diarrhea. Everywhere. Brown spray on the carpet. In the living room, the playroom, the bedroom. On the rug. In the kitchen. The bathroom. In that small of a space, everywhere is not hyperbole.

Maybe it’s because we don’t live near family and I am a young mom who needs more support. Maybe it’s that at this point in our lives, I feel disconnected from Chris and deeply alone. Maybe it’s grief. Or nurture. Or trauma. Or the state of the world.

Maybe it is simply who I am.

But for the first and only time that I can remember, I lose complete control. My children stand watching as I scream and yell and rage.

***

We all get angry. Getting angry is normal.

But I’m talking to the ones with anger in their bones.

You know who you are. You know what I’m talking about.

Because you hold it, so precariously, in the space behind your heart. Or in that hollowed-out place within your gut. Or in the back of your throat. Or in your tender hands. You’re the one who knows how to breathe fire, whose fingers burn, whose mouth needs but open to unleash the flames within.

***

I grew up in a very conservative church and like most churches, conservative or not, meekness— in women—and a gentle and quiet spirit, was not only expected, it was rewarded.

but let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which in God’s sight is very precious.

It’s in the Bible. I get it. I agree with it. But the lesson I learned?

Be in control.

Behave.

If you’re mad, handle it.

Sure, take it to God. But from there? I had no idea what to do.

Another movie line, from Elsa in Frozen, comes to mind: Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it show.

So that’s what I did. What I learned to do. What I tried to do.

Would you like to guess how well that works?

***

A number of years ago, anger was the presenting reason I went to see a therapist.

It wasn’t the only reason, of course, but anger is easier to name than grief.

In the office, the therapist had a tennis racket that sat atop a pouf—one of those decorative cushions that could be used as a low seat or a footrest. I’d noticed it on my first visit, and session after session, it sat against a wall.

I eventually learned it was a tool, used as a healthy outlet for the energy of a client’s anger.

You’d think I could have smashed it flat.

But all I did in that room was sit on her couch and cry.

***

If God made us emotional beings, and some of us have bigger, more incendiary emotions than others, What do we do?

God, tell us, what do we do with our anger?

***

I pick my son up from preschool and the teacher hands me a laminated project—a piece of paper I immediately recognize as something I’ll keep forever. In teacher handwriting are his answers to prompts, and the piece of paper was glued to a larger pink construction paper, decorated with blue and green finger-painted hand prints.

My mom is ___ years old. (37)

My mom likes to ____. (drink coffee)

My mom _____ with me. (bakes cookies)

My mom has _____ hair. (brown)

My mom is _____. (a rage monster)

***

There’s a story in the Bible, just one, where Jesus gets so mad, he (in my estimation) loses his mind. A theological impossibility, I realize and concede. And still. In anger (with anger?) he flips over actual tables and uses a whip, a whip!, to drive out the animals from the temple.

Can you imagine?

How fun must it be to crack a whip in righteous anger.

***

Any time I got mad, anytime I raised my voice and was told “You’re yelling, Sonya” or “You don’t need to yell, Sonya” or “Don’t get so mad, Sonya” I’d look at the person speaking to me and think: this is nothing.

Do you know what I’m capable of?

***

“Here,” she hands me the tennis racket and places the pouf in front of my knees. “I’ve been waiting for your anger to show up.”

I hold the racket in my hands, cradling the handle with the loosest of grips. There are one thousand reasons I could be angry, many of which I’ve already named in this room. But all I do is tap the cushion, like I’m patting a child on the head. There, there.

“Why don’t you hit it?” she asks.

I feel the weight of the racket in my hands, but … I can’t. It’s not that I’m embarrassed, though it’s partially that. It’s that I can’t summon the energy. There’s a very long pause. She waits, as therapists are wont to do.

“I think I feel too safe in here,” I say. Then, tears start. Again.

What I’ve found is that my anger is not only allowed in this room, it’s welcome. There’s no moral good or bad to it. No right or wrong. It’s not something to contain; it’s simply information to acknowledge.

Yes, you’re angry.

About what? Okay.

Why? Of course, that makes sense.

In this space, I can just be sad, or scared—the emotions so often hiding underneath the protective wings of my ire.

“But you do need to let it out,” she tells me.

Out? Out where? Out how? All I know how to do is try to suppress it. Control it. And not let it control me. Be angry and not sin.

“This is why people have punching bags at home.”

I laugh. “I don’t have one.”

“But you have a pillow.” The thought makes me laugh again. I shake my head. No, no, no. Not for me. I don’t need help being angry, I need help not being angry.

In a world filled with injustice and cruelty, with a heart painfully sensitive to another’s suffering, not ever getting angry is an impossibility, I realize and concede.

***

The Lord hates six things:

haughty (arrogantly superior) eyes, a lying tongue,
and hands that shed innocent blood,

a heart that devises wicked plans,
feet that make haste to run to evil,

a false witness who breathes out lies,
and one who sows discord among brothers.

I hate these things, too.

***

My friend finds out her husband’s struggle with addiction has continued, despite the rehab, despite the reconciliation, despite every best effort to love and attend to him as he needed. Their marriage is officially over.

‘I will fly out there and set all his [expletive] on fire in your front yard,’ I tell her. Another friend says she’s not only happy to join in, but offers to throw a brick through his window and key his car.

In between tears, my friend manages a laugh. ‘That won’t be necessary, guys.’

Till the day I die, I won’t understand how she could have such a measured response.

***

What do I do with this anger? I’ve asked God over and over.

You made me this way. You made me this way! I’ve yelled.

What, then, do we—the angry ones—do?

***

My husband and I get in an argument on the way to our friends’ house. It’s measured—the kids are in the car—until we simply stop speaking. But I’m silently seething. At the house, we walk in the front door and plaster smiles on our faces. Hey! Yeah! Good! Thanks! My stomach turns as they welcome us in.

Then I realize I forgot, honestly forgot, something at home I said I’d bring. Maybe it was a bag of chips, a serving utensil, a book. What matters is that I insist on retrieving it. I’ll be right back. We live three streets away.

Earlier that week, I punched a pillow for the first time in my life. I felt so dumb. So dumb. I started to laugh at myself, shaking my head in disbelief. Who does this? But also? The pillow took it well. And there was a small bit of pleasure in that punch. So I did it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And the pillow didn’t care.

Maybe if I were stronger, I could have gone on longer, but my arms tired quickly.

And to be honest? The energy of the anger dissipated just as fast.

The issue that made me upset was still there, but it was now isolated, cool to the touch.

Leaving our friends’ house to retrieve my forgotten thing, I get into the car, drive to the stop sign, and after I cross onto the next street, I let out a low-volume “ahhhhhh.” Truly pathetic. I try again, this time louder. “Aughhhhhhhhh!” And then again. And again. And again. Silent seething becomes primal screaming. Full-throated, full volume. Gutteral. Painful. I am positive my neighbors, even inside their houses, can hear me when I pull into our driveway.

I grab what I need from inside and return to our friends’ house. The trip was barely five minutes. My throat will be sore for days, but I walk in, present what I forgot, then relax. Maybe I don’t smile at my husband, we’ll still have to talk through the argument, but something in me has shifted.

***

The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in faithful love.

It’s slow, but it’s there.

And this comforts me.

***

“The Other Side of Self-Care,” the advertisement reads.

“Come Relieve Your Stress by ‘Losing it’ at Lose It Rage Room. You’ll leave feeling better than when you came.”

There’s a reason these are popping up all over the country.

***

Acknowledge. I am angry/enraged about …

Then curiosity. What is my anger telling me? What does this anger want?

What’s it protecting? What’s it defending? What’s underneath?

Then care.

What might it need? How can I work this through my body?

Then action.

What will I do next?

***

What do we do with our anger?

This is the question I’ve been asking too often these days. These months. These years.

The anger we feel over injustice. Over a disconnect between people that are supposed to be unified, but seem to come from two opposing world views. Anger about purposeful and unnecessary harm. Stripping of innocence. Blatant wrong. Let me just throw in murder.

What do we do when all we want to do is scream?

Once, also in therapy, I was asked, “How do you want to show up in this relationship?”

We’d already identified that I often felt like I needed to get big and loud to be heard. To be listened to. If I didn’t, no one seemed to care. Regardless of if this were true or not, it wasn’t serving me—or anyone else.

And never had.

“I want to show up knowing what I’m upset about, yeah,” I said. “But I do want to be in control.”

***

Wind can be a tornado, destroying whatever dares be in its path.

And wind can be harnessed, making a ship sail.

Sunlight can burn.

Or it can warm.

A horse’s hooves can trample.

Or carry a rider hundreds of miles.

Fire can consume a home.

Or it can warm a room.

***

To my fellow angry ones, I see you.

Our anger is speaking to us.

Let’s use it well.

.

Taylor Swift

Bernese Mountain Dogs

The Princess of Wales

So basic. Got it.

Dog training

Restaurant Week (DC / VA)

Indian food in London

Sermon clips from local church

That one female Bible teacher who went there and said that

Oh, a Christian. In DC? Tough times. Or, given … [doens’t have a word in programming to describe the current events] … maybe not. [Recalibrates.]

Horse riding in the English countryside

Horseback riding in France

Horseback riding in Wyoming

Diamond jewelry

Adult ADHD

Let’s throw her this clip of this “Christian” thing and see if she bites.

More dogs

Bunnies

Highland cows

Otters

Oh, okay, she wants escape. Fluff. Easy-peasy.

International news sources

Representatives [from both political parties?]

Weight lifting

Racial justice.

Still?

That woman who teaches online about civil government processes based on Constitutional law

Per our filters, this searched person bases her information on facts. And is, objectively, unbiased. Interesting. [Recalibrates.]

Penguins

Perimenopause

Oil painting

Faith leaders who teach directly from the Bible

Okay, um… let’s place this other kind of “Christian” thing and see if she bites.

She watched it!

Hold up. She’s going to multiple different news sources, traditionally accepted as least unbiased, to compare and verify? Drat.

Poetry

Trauma responses

Switzerland

Spiritual direction

Let’s try more bunnies.

Crocheting

Coffee + Crumbs

Attachement styles

The professional historian who is, in no uncertain terms, relaying to the people that—regardless of who you voted for—it’s time to see that the current leadership in the US government checks all the historical markers for authoritarianism. Full stop.

Book agents

Writing Workshops

High-Yield Savings Accounts

Video(s) of a woman getting shot in the face

Oh! Quick. Feed her more — the more highly emotional and polarized the better — but do both perspectives and see what happens.

But there aren’t two perspectives.

There are not two perspectives.

It’s called a “feed” for a reason.

Wait. She logs off on the weekends?

She just deleted it from her phone?

So boring. Good thing there’s a billion other people here.

[the following Monday]

Hey, she’s back! Cue up otters and political reels.

Country garden design

Beef tallow

Writing fellowships

Sourdough

The DOJ’s Civile Rights Office (202-514-3847)

We traveled to Ohio to visit my family for the holiday and returned home the day after Christmas. Since then, approximately every 4-6 hours, I have asked my kids, “What day is it?”

Sunday again? Tuesday? Saturday?

Most of my work is on break until January, so while I don’t know the day, what I do know is that this is the week when I settle in on the couch for as much sitting and nothing-doing as possible. Relatively speaking, of course. There’s still laundry. Sourdough to screw up. A 6-mile family hike.

But after what’s felt like a year of non-stopness, I’m relishing in this time where we’re all together as a family but not traveling, not sick of each other yet, and there is no formal schedule or bedtime.

It’s also the week when my journal is my constant companion. I love having time to revisit and reflect on the past year, then dream and pray about the coming one.

A general highlight of 2025 was the ocean. One friend, after not hearing from me for a bit a few months ago asked, “Are you on vacation again?”

Which made me feel both insecure and a tiny bit defensive.

Of course, I had good reasons for each beach trip (Nadia’s spring break! A long-planned and Very Special girls’ trip! Visiting Chris’s aunt!). I was beyond thankful to be able to go on each one.

And? Each one also felt like a very personal gift from God — I am positive every drop of salt water kept me whole last year.

Because among a series of hard years, I’ve never been so glad to come to the end of one. 2025 nearly crushed me.

Not in the “so much work/life is so expensive/I’m so busy” type of way, though all that’s true. Not in the “health struggles” type of way, thank God. Not even in the “big kids/big problems” way. Instead, it was a year where I spent the first six months of it vacillating between angry and devastated, unsure of what life would look like here at the end.

The details of years like this aren’t for public consumption. Root-deep work rarely is. But I share this here because I believe too many of us walk through our Hardest Years thinking we’re the only ones.

Everyone else goes to the beach.

Everyone else sends Christmas cards.

Everyone else makes perfect loaves of sourdough/has a clean house/isn’t sad or mad or exhausted from the effort of simply getting through each day.

Most of us know this truth: everyone struggles. This is just a part of life, whether we admit it or not.

But what we don’t realize is that we’re not the only ones, even in the hardest of years.

This isn’t to minimize what you’ve been through — it’s only to say I see you.

I see you believing—knowing—there’s more: for your children, your marriage, your family, your self. I see your heartbreak. Your desire. I see your faithfulness. I see your cries to God, your prayers in faith, even your wavering faith — and your willingness to mouth the words anyway. (… help my unbelief …) I see your heart. And I want to hold it gently here with you.

There’s not much more to say or do at the year’s end than to reflect and keep going.

And maybe plan a trip to the ocean.

// Some Traditional Year-End Reflections //

Best Yes’s of 2025: Horseback riding lessons. Going to the ocean as often as physically and financially possible. Weekly marriage counseling. Re|engage.

Best No’s: Stopping horseback riding lessons - some things serve us well for a season, and then it’s time to take a break.

Sending out Christmas cards.

Spiritual growth: Books: Dim Sum + Faith. || Praying like Monks Living Like Fools. || Reading/listening through the Bible.

Using a Prayer Journal. (Confession: I make my own now.)

Biggest lesson God taught me in 2025: surrender. Total and complete surrender. Surrendering isn’t as easy as many people of faith say it is. We live with a lot of control.

It truly is not in my nature to surrender. But this year brought me here. Surrendering myself and surrendering my desire for others, even when I believed with all my heart that it was good and right. The only person I truly am in charge of is me. I can’t will change for another. I can’t try to explain or convince or subtly manipulate change into being.

The question I was posed with ultimately became: “If I surrender my expectations, is God really enough to sustain me?”

Interestingly, only at a point of surrender, the answer was yes.

Interestingly, this surrendering in faith led to a profound shift. A shift towards personal accountability, agency, and action.

Creative win: came late in the year, but learning to make sourdough bread.

Unexpected joy: Working 1-on-1 with a writer on her manuscript.

Couldn’t live without: my voxer group, my Virginia girls, my high school friends, the creative women of Exhale. Girlfriends for the win!

On Deck For 2026:

• finishing my book (finally!) … then continuing to pray for an agent and a publisher (That’s an effective strategy, right?)

• YOU’RE IN GOOD COMPANY —> this is the COFFEE + CRUMBS BOOK THAT I’M IN!!! Comes out March 17th. All about food, friendship, and hospitality.

  Why yes, you can pre-order it now! Why yes, pre-orders are so important to writers. And Yes! You will be supporting me by buying it — but no, that doesn’t mean money in my pocket. It does show the publisher that people want it and THAT’S a bit deal in the writing world!

• Hanging out my shingle for more freelance writing work —> a revamped website.

• JANUARY WRITING WORKSHOP: Let the Writing Sing

  MINDSET for 2026: Mental rest + forward action.

Okay, off to eat cheese, drink some bubbly, and be in bed by 10:30p!

Happy New Year, everyone!

Hello friends. How did you fare last week?

Honestly, this was me, sans cig, well before the (dry-brined) turkey was even placed in the oven.**

Not one bite of stuffing or sweet potatoes had crossed my lips and my mind was already swirling—SWIRLING!—with all the Black Tuesday-to-Friday deals I should capitalize on for Christmas (there’s a budget folks!), what to buy for which kid—four kids!, which one has/has not given me a list and why does one child have ZERO concept of money?—everything they want is either 13 or 800 dollars. All that compounded with a flurry of group texts about gift exchanges and party dates, creating a rising panic about how to fit in each upcoming social event, strings concert, swim meet; when I can bake cookies with the kids, let alone buy the ingredients or wrap a gift—or BUY gift wrap—all in between work and volunteering for the Book Fair and nightly Advent reading and m a k i n g d i n n e r e v e r y n i g h t. (Oh yeah, one of my kids also needs black dress pants for a school event — where do we even buy those?!)

I am not one to feel the pressure to make holidays magic.[1]

But I am one who is becoming more and more aware of my specific struggles with planning and decision-making and how easily these pre-action items can feel overwhelming to me.

We decided not to travel on Thanksgiving (for the last 27 years, we’ve almost always done a 6-hour drive for both Thanksgiving and Christmas to see our families) and opted instead to stay home this year. Keep things easy and small. It felt almost scandalous, even at our ages, to say to our family, “We plan to stay put.” But it also felt necessary and right.

We did end up hosting Chris’ brother, so with him here and Nadia home—and given my aforementioned planning/decision struggles + wanting to make traditional Thanksgiving meal (mostly by myself, Costco was responsible for the mashed potatoes and pie) + everyone needing to eat dinner each night leading up to Thursday (why?!), I made a meal plan two weeks in advance.

My friend Sarah had sent a recipe that inadvertently christened a pre-thanksgiving tradition and what I will now and forever refer to as Fancy Sandwich Night.

You guys. Focaccia. Pesto-mayo. As the kids say, it slaps. Or, now that we’re into December, can I say it sleighs?

I had to. It was right there.

Here’s a weird thing about me: Yes, I am relatively laid back. But man, can I work myself up over all the Christmas stuff, because each little thing feels like a brick I have to hold while I’m trying to swim. Pretty quickly, I’m drowning.

AND YET, at the exact same time, I can drop all those mental bricks to dive into the deep end of something new. For example, learning to bake sourdough bread.

A co-worker gave me some starter the week before Thanksgiving, and had typed up simple instructions for how to care for it and make a simple dough. My first attempt tasted good, but it was the density of a flat car tire.

But, oh, the challenge! The possibilities! The crafty creativity of it all.

And who doesn’t want more bread with their stuffing?

So I made loaf after loaf after loaf of sourdough every day last week until one came out of the oven and I gasped, “she’s gorgeous!” I listened to her crust crackle as she cooled and was hooked.

I continued to bake at least one loaf of bread every day until Chris, gently but seriously, told me “Now that you know what you’re doing, I think you can take a break” as he moved two uneaten loaves to the counter.

Listen, nothing beats focaccia for Fancy Sandwish Night — but next time you need a turkey sandwich, try it on freshly baked sourdough with pesto mayo.

And now, the good stuff

Make that sourdough and it’s exactly me.

Mind answering a few questions about Finding Feathers?

If there’s something else you want me to know, write it in the comments.

Thank you!

LAST THING!!!

I’m running my LET THE WRITING SING Workshop again this January. Starts the 12th. (The workshop itself—or Exhale gift cards—make a great Christmas request! 😉)

Until next time!

[1] I also decided not to send Christmas cards this year. I just can’t, guys. Writing it here for accountability (not to do them).

** let me repeat it: dry brine. So so so easy. So juicy. Never going back to anything else. (Also, I cook my turkey upside down. Something about the dark meat needing higher temps and their juices flowing down, breast meat not drying out—I read it somewhere once, so obviously I’m an expert.

Yes, they’ll have another first day, and at some point this year, you’ll learn exactly where that next first day will be, but for now—if it all goes according to plan, their plan at least—the next first day will take place away from you, after they have not slept under our roof the night before and we will not be there to take a picture.

The last Labor Day Weekend.

You debate if you should go away, in an effort to Make Every Day Off From School Very Special, or if you should just stay at home and go to the pool and stretch out the remaining seventy-two hours of summer together as a family.

The last Homecoming dance.

Where the girls take 6 hours to get ready in your basement, slide on a dress shorter than your mind can conceive is possible, take approximately 1 million pictures, go to dinner, and never actually make it to the dance. It has always seemed silly to you, but now, you realize how much you’re going to miss being able to witness this silliness.

The last Thanksgiving.

No. It’s not the last Thanksgiving, but it is a last Thanksgiving.

And it’s the last one where you don’t have to think about how and when to get them home from school. Or when and how to take them back. It’s the last one where going out of town to visit family doesn’t feel like you’re giving up precious time together.

The last high school team tryout.

The last college application sent.

The last Christmas.

And this is where the weight of all the lasts start to compound, where your chest feels heavier, and it’s harder to breathe. This is when each last comes faster than the next, when the days fly by at mind-bending speed.

The last Spring Break.

For the last time every, you don’t have to guess if next year, all four of your children will have the same week off in late March. So you go to the beach and decorate cookies for Easter, and play Uno with giant cards that make you all laugh. And you put together a puzzle and go for long walks and listen to anything she wants to say. And I sit next to my child and stare into the ocean and then memorize the color of her hair and the curve of her eyebrow and cheekbone. We wear matching bracelets. I take 1 million pictures.

The last high school swim meet.

The last swim banquet, when she is the senior and I am the mom holding back tears.

The last club swim meet.

And even though you used to complain about these out-of-town events, where you’d have to spend more money than you wanted on a hotel room and eating out and all those hours in the car, you now soak up the time, steep yourself in it, saturate yourself in her voice, her ideas, her presence.

The last senior night for her club team.

Prom.

Mother’s Day.

When you hiked as a family and took pictures at the summit, then ate pretzels and cheese at a winery in the countryside of Virginia. She will be studying for finals next year on Mother’s Day. You already know this by now.

The last last day of school.

When you take the final picture on the porch by your front door, the one that will bookend her first day of kindergarten, thirteen years earlier.

And then, the all the lasts of the last summer.

Which won’t be the last summer. (But there really are no guarantees that she’ll come home—aren’t there internships and travel and jobs?) So you go on the big trip and you hug her every morning and you sometimes get caught just staring at her face.

We’re happy for our kids. Of course we are. We want them to go, to explore, to grow in independence and maturity. It is such a ridiculous priviledge to raise a child, let alone send them off to college. And they’re not done being parented, I know this.

But like the last chapter of a book we don’t want to end, there is a profound sadness when that last page is turned.

There is a grief in our children growing up.

Not for them. But for us. And this greif is ours to hold, ours to handle.

The last family dinner.

The last “let’s go get ice cream.”

The last night sleeping in her bed.

The last morning she wakes up and eats breakfast at your table.

The next book in the series begins soon. A long list of firsts will follow. Of course, of course. The first texts, the first phone call—where she calls you—the first time they come back home and everyone’s together and your heart honestly might physically burst. For each first, each one I didn’t get to experience myself, I’ve been so grateful.

But let’s not rush ahead, friends.

You’re living out a long list of lasts.

We can sit here in this sadness as long as you need—together.

Hey. Happy November. How are you?

Me?

It’s currently day 31of the goverment shut down and if you don’t live in the DMV (the parts of Deleware, Maryland, Virginia that are connected to the metro DC area) you may not realize just how impactful, upsetting, demoralizing, and outright sad/enraging things are for the people living here.

No East Wing.

The dissolution of SNAP benefits, which feed more people than any of us might realize. Like, people we actually know and love.

As you know, my husband’s a federal employee. At his organization — where scientific research takes place for a branch of the military — the very top person has, at least for the last 100 years (nbd), always been active duty and no less than a two-star admiral. So like, an important person with a decades-long career of service and know-how. Top brass.

This past week, that man was “reassigned” and replaced with a 30-year-old woman with no military, science, or research background.

To say this change has affected life in my immediate day-to-day is an understatement.

Before walking into work the other day, I sat in my car and took a moment. “I’m not great,” I said out loud. I think I was just acknowledging how I was feeling in the moment … about *gestures wildly in the air.* But I’m an adult, so I walked into work and the first thing I did when two of my co-workers smiled, said good morning, and asked “How are you today?” was paste on a smile and said, “Good!”

After putting my bag in my locker, I walked down the hall where two more colleagues again greeted me with a kind, “Good morning. How are you?”

And I decided to be honest.

Both of them stopped what they were doing. “Are you feeling ok?” “Are the kids alright?”

“My empathy meter is just pinging off the charts,” I said, which I do realize is potentially the weirdest answer to give people you work with. But it was also the most honest thing I could say.

I recently asked a friend who has a Ph.D. in small-scale revolutions — just kidding — in history/philosophy/anthropology to give me the Cliff’s Notes version of where the U.S. is in light of other historically similar government shifts. And then, the question I really wanted an answer to: from a historical perspective, What works? What can I do?

He wrote me an answer to the first question (that included citations).

To the second? Encouragement to organize, vote, and call our representatives.

Then, he offered this advice: go buy a gun and join a local militia. Again, kidding. No, instead, without saying Jesus, my friend echoed Jesus’ words.

Love your neighbor.

From right where we are. When we see a need, do what we’re able. Grow where we’re planted. Make micro-impacts.

Go forth and conquer, my friends. One act of love and kindness at a time.

With so much Love,

Sonya

Well hello, and welcome to day 10 of the government shutdown. If you, like me, are married to a federal worker, or are one yourself, join me in a moment of silence. prayer. screaming. utter Over-It-Ness.

For what feels like 100 months now, I’ve wanted to write here, updating you on my life and just enjoying this space where we can connect. Except One Thing After Another *keeps happening* and every three days I think “better wait a bit.” Aaaaand we see how that’s going.

A “wait till conditions in the world/home/heart are ideal” strategy is obviously not working. Hence, I am here at 6am on a Friday morning, typing this out and pressing send with a little more than a whim and a prayer and a decaf cup of coffee.

Taking after my friend, Katie (whose Substack is a 100% must read), here’s a few things I’d like you to know:

1. I completed a triathlon in August. It was a relatively small community event, a sprint tri. But for the first time since 2019, I did the whole thing myself. I don’t know my time and don’t care. I finished. The last time I did it on my own, it was pre-covid, pre-cancer, and pre-series of surgeries that were necessary but really took me out physically and emotionally. Which is why I wore my itchy pink ribbon socks and felt a huge sense of accomplishment crossing that stupid finish line.

2. I would share a picture, but the only one with me is of our whole family and I’m feeling really weird about sharing pictures of my kids online lately. Trusting that and moving on.

3. We sent our oldest back to college in August. Sophmore year, you guys. I know many of you have younger kids, but I want to tell you what someone told me: that as soon as they enter middle school, life starts to feel like you’ve been launched out of a slingshot. 100% true. Also, incomprehensible.

   

4. I still haven’t got a tattoo. Soooo close. WHYYYYY can’t I pull the trigger?

   (I mean, hello super conservative upbringing, I see you. I do know why.)

5. I spent last weekend in Nashville with women from EXHALE. Two things:

   1. Till the day I die, I will never stop being in awe of these women. They are the most encouraging, supportive, honest group who met on the internet and have become IRL friends. They are my writing vitamins! (iykyk 😉)

   2. If Vegas had a baby with New York, it would still not be as loud and crowded as Nashville’s Broadway.

6. Being a low-key Swiftie is literally the best. All the vibes, none of the drama. Especially in Nashville on an album release day.

   

   And now, some other stuff

Don’t want to sound dramatic, but life has felt really heavy and hard for a myriad of rotating reasons. And I know it’s not just me. Or just living here in near DC, though that surely doesn’t help. Obviously, it’s a control thing, but having a meal plan has made a huge difference in my mental bandwidth each week. Deciding what to make is 99% of the battle. Ina is my muse. You’re welcome.

Thai Basil Beef/Chicken

Ina’s Meatballs

Chicken Picatta

Ground beef and broccoli

Have you tried these yet? Ricotta pancakes

Mojito Lime Chicken (marinade packet at your grocery store) so easy

Lemon Chicken Breasts

Weeknight Bolognese

And when you just need to phone it in, without ordering out but still need someone to say “make this,” here: ravioli, dumplings, quesadillas (rotisserie chicken + black beans), nachos, tortillini, shepherd’s pie/chicken pot pie, herbed butter salmon from Costco. Tacos. Make them fish if you’re feeling extra.

A great pre-order. (It is what it is: pre-orders tell the publisher to keep printing. No matter how good the book, they are a writer’s initial lifeline.) So please, check out GIRL OF LORE by my IRL friend Melanie Dale. A middle-grade paranormal fiction novel for the kids who like the genre, but the YA adult stuff is … too much.

Dim Sum and Faith. Yes please!

My latest essay.

And now the good stuff

xoxoxo. I hope you all have a wonderful weekend. We’re off to celebrate a B-I-G birthday! More on that later.

(Also, what are YOU making these days? Always love your recipe links!)

1. spiders.

2. flying.

3. drowning. As a particularly strong swimmer and student of literary techniques, I’m mostly just afraid of the irony.

4. the number of unread emails in my inbox.

5. getting in a car accident. I’ve been in several and I was also a trauma nurse. I can worst case scenario a lane change like my life depends on it. (Because it might.)

6. icy roads. (See above.)

7. looking directly into my own eyes in the mirror in the dark.

8. guns. My paternal grandfather, due to his religious beliefs, wouldn’t bear arms. He chose to be a conscientious objector during WWI and served under the American flag as a cook in Italy. Raised half a world away, my maternal grandfather, also for pacifist religious beliefs, refused to be a part of the communist regime in the former Yugoslavia. He also wouldn’t carry a gun. So, without telling his pregnant wife or young daughters where he was going (so they wouldn’t have to lie when the soldiers came—which they did—to intimidate and question them), he hid in the forest to avoid conscription. The details, understandably, get fuzzy here, but eventually he was captured. He was given an opportunity to renounce his beliefs, join the party, pick up a gun. He wouldn’t. Instead, he was placed in a communist prison. For years.

   My brother was once given a silver toy gun as a gift, my mother threw it in the trash.

   Many years ago, while visiting my friends’ new house on a chunk of land, the husband—who grew up on a farm and was (and is) a smart, kind, good man—brought out his new pistol to show everyone, because the conversation had gone the way of hunting and then guns. Everyone else had grown up around them. Gleaming silver, barrel long, large and heavy looking, one of my other friends picked it up, held its weight, and—as if aiming—pointed it out the window towards the woods. Without thought—I was in no danger—my heart began to race. Instantly disoriented, cheeks flush, I had to walk out of the room before I could begin to feel normal again.

9. saying what I want to say without first researching it to the point of academic expertise, so as to stand so confidently in my own ability to handle myself should anyone ever want to engage on any aspect of the topic.

10. being a person with deep convictions who, not having enough time or talent or training to know all there is to know about everything I care about, says nothing.

11. snakes.

||| THREE QUICK THINGS |||

COFFEE + CRUMBS Fall Collection is live. My essay, Eye On the Sparrow, is here — If you want to fill yourself up with words that nurture and inspire, spend the morning reading. They are all worth your time.

EXHALE enrollment is open. If you’re a mother with a creative itch, EXHALE is here to help you grow and dream. It’s an absolute diamond in the rough of the internet. The women here are nothing but generous, generative, resourceful, and supportive.

WORKSHOP OPPORTUNITY: LET THE WRITING SING: I’m teaching my lyrical essay course “Let the Writing Sing” starting September 29. What’s a lyrical essay? you may ask. See above for just one example, and come join me to find out … and explore the myriad of others possibilities. It’s open to anyone.

Within just a few days of the other, two very kind and loving people in my life asked me, “So, what have you been up to?”—expressing a genuine interest in what’s happening in my life, rather than how I’m managing the lives of my children this summer.

Both times, the question was asked with curiosity and sincerity. But the question—both times—felt like an accusation.

What have you been up to?

My mind didn’t go blank. I simply didn’t have an answer.

I wished I could share some exciting news about my writing. But I didn’t have any.

I wanted to tell them I started painting. But the canvases are still on a shelf in the storage room.

That I finally hung pictures back up on the wall or even ordered ones from our trip last year? Nope.

It would have been nice to list out cool, fun, amazing activities I planned for my kids this summer. But on the days I’m not working, we mostly hang out at home until we head to the pool.

I’ve tried to keep up with my job, the house, and make sure we have food. It didn’t seem appropriate to dive into the heart of the hard stuff in the time we had, either.

So both times, I sat there in response to their question with my mouth open, paused, longing for something noteworthy to fall out besides “our washing machine died and then our car broke down.”

The van had stopped driving normally on the way home from church one day—it ended up needing a new alternator, a car part I had heard of, but now actually know what it does, what it sounds like when it’s broken, and how much it costs to fix.

Just a few days before this, our washing machine—only two years old—died. When our previous machine stopped working, I had been eyeing a rather expensive, though remarkably reliable model as a replacement, but ultimately went with a base set from Costco and called it good. Well, it wasn’t good. From the very start, it seemed like it wasn’t using enough water. And our clothes never really smelled … fresh. Were they even getting clean?

That Costco machine stopped working right before this past Christmas. But it miraculously resurrected after a repairman took the control panel apart and told us we were better off buying a new one. Instead of listening to him, though, we realized the drum—its size equivalent to an 8-person hot tub—would work if we only did very tiny loads. We did that for over six months.

When our oldest came home from college this summer, she toted luggage and laundry bags full of every article of clothing she’d worn since spring break. All of it, dirty. And yes, we forgot to tell her that the washing machine can only wash 4-7 items of clothing at a time.

I am not pointing any fingers.

It’s just that the washing machine stopped working after she came home. After she washed her clothes. All of them. All at once.

This is one of those fun parts about parenting/being an adult. The parts we don’t think about when we’re registering for swaddle blankets and pacifiers. The buying, or re-buying, of the things that you didn’t want to buy in the first place, but need to buy in order for your life to continue without major inconvenience.

We ended up buying an off-brand alternator, because the guy we trust at the body shop said with the tariffs and the backlog from whatever asinine policy that was recently passed, it would be double the price and a four week wait for virtually no difference in performance. Fine.

But for the washing machine? I told Chris, “I’m getting the one I wanted last time.”

Within a week, my workhorse washing cube was delivered, installed, and we began to chip away at the mountains of laundry that had accumulated in the seven days without one. Load by load, the normal-sized drum agitated and spun and filled with water until everyone in my family was amazed by how nice our clothes smelled.

“I don’t think our clothes have been clean for two years,” I said to Chris. But he couldn’t hear me. He was too busy smelling his shirt.

These two breakdowns happened all around the time I got together with some friends and they had the “fun” idea to set some goals for the upcoming 30, 60, and 90 days. At the cusp of summer, this seemed like a solid way to bring some form to the coming weeks of unstructured time and the general chaos of having all the kids in and out of the house all day. For me, the goals all revolved around my writing. (I’ve met none of them, for the record.)

But I had two other things in mind for myself personally: slow down, have some fun with my kids this summer, and do more physical activity.

Our pool has two tennis courts, which up until this year were janky mosquito sanctuaries. But the courts were refinished at the beginning of this season—with pickleball lines! So now, at least once a week, my whole family will be out there playing pickleball, and even though I’m still quite a beginner, I have this moment where I pause because I can’t believe we’re all there together, moving our bodies and, mostly, having fun.

Our pool also puts on a sprint-triathalon at the end of each summer, which I haven’t done on my own since 2019. Covid and cancer, man, it took it out of me. Two years ago, I watched. Last year, I wished. This year, I want to do it again. And I think I can.

I started training recently, which involves little more than getting in the pool and swimming for a while, and on other days I try to run a little or take a bike ride around the neighborhood.

Earlier this week, I took my dog out for a training “run”—where I mostly walk, until the lady in the app I use tells me to Start running.

My dog is generally the love of my life. But she’s very reactive around other dogs and I’ve come to accept this, and even announce it when we encounter good, well-behaved dogs on the trail. “My dog’s not friendly,” I say with as much objectivity as I can muster, holding her leash short and taught.

On this day, while in a running interval, we approach a man standing at the side of the trail with his dog, who is sniffing the grass and wholly uninterested in us. I’m too winded to say anything, but I keep my dog’s leash short, pull her far to my left, creating enough space—I hoped—between us and the man and his dog, who we would pass on my right.

But just as all four of us are lined up—my dog, me, the man, his dog—mine lunges across my path, barking at the other dog. I quickly yank her back to my left. Except as I do, her pace and mine don’t match. Still running, my extending leg collides with her body which is directly in front of me, shortening my stride. Off balance, my other leg isn’t in the right position to catch and correct my forward-motion body weight.

My arms extend, one hand with the leash—I don’t dare let go—and the other one lands on the pavement at the same time as my knee lands in the gravel. Time slows. I am keenly aware of myself still moving, skidding, as if on ice. Except it’s concrete. And the skin on the palm of my right hand is scraping off as I continue forward. And then, painfully, I come to a stop. Arms out, legs out, stomach on the ground. As if I’m just going to take a little nap.

I look to my right, up at the man, who I believe would have been tempted to laugh if he wasn’t so horrified seeing a middle-aged woman nosedive into gravel and concrete. “Are you okay?” he asks with wide eyes, followed by a quick, “I’m so sorry.” I weirdly appreciate this, even though we both know it wasn’t even close to being his, or his dog’s fault.

I stand, take a quick assessment of the raw searing circle by my wrist and apologize to the man for my dog, for me, for all of it. That said, I know he’ll go home and have a great story to tell his wife and kids, or friends he will see later on a pickleball court.

And then I keep running. Slowly. Painfully. Until the lady in my ear tells me it’s time to walk again. Which I gratefully do.

What have I been up to?

That’s too big of a question. Because the answer would either be nothing or everything, depending on the day. We have a home that’s in what feels like constant motion. Coming, going, picking up, dropping off, making, buying, appointments, traveling, seeing, doing. It’s all so very good. But it’s tiring. And every once in a while, life slows down. And in those rare moments when we’re all together and the four kids (or three of the four) sit together around the table, or lounge in the living room, or are watching TV or on that pickleball court, I try hard to just take it in.

Most of the time, though, life has not been like that. It’s more like forward motion until I trip and end up lying flat out on the trail—with stones in my skin and dirt on my clothes, doing all I can to get back up and keep going.

But at least now, I know my clothes will get clean.

And it’s here, in this one singular moment, where my world — if only for a second — stopped.

I cannot remember my 19th birthday.

Maybe in some journal or some old pile of photos or in some relative’s memory there is a record of it. But for the life of me, whatever happened that day, is gone.

What I do remember is the season. Literally, it was winter. Figuratively … I guess it was winter, too. It was a Monday (thank you Google) in my second semester of my freshman year of college. I was either working (I nannied) or was in classes most of the day. I was in love. But I was also sad. All my high school friends and some church friends were away at college, I was often lonely.

I’m sure my dad gave me a hug and a gift and we had some sort of family celebration with my aunts and uncle in the evening. Cake and candles and singing and smiles were likely included. But only nine months earlier, Mom had died. And it seems like any happy event from that life-changing day in May forward — Christmas, birthdays, weddings, graduations, the birth of children — have all carried with it a deep ache alongside each joy.

And while the ache has dulled, as it does with time, it’s never that far away. It’s never a real surprise — Oh yes, grief, longing, sadness. There you are.

She’s not a friend per se, but a lifelong companion.

And now I stand with my daughter in front of me, at an age when I did not have my mother to stand in front of.

Right or wrong, I grew into adulthood and never wished for this. I never wished to have a daughter to mother. I never dreamed of having a 19-year-old to hug. And I never confessed to anyone — not God, not my husband — that I want to live long enough to see these days. Not that I didn’t want to. Or deep in my heart, hoped to.

I did. I do.

But I was too afraid to put it into words. To speak it. To make it a conscious thought.

I was too inclined, too conditioned, too fearful for so much of my life … to dream. Even for this. Because I learned early that life isn’t fair. That it can be harsh. That anything can happen. That you just never know.

Which is to say that I understood (I had no choice but to live through) the reality that God doesn’t promise to give us, or anyone we love, more days than He’s ordained. Or to fulfill any dream that we speak. Or answer any desire that we pray.

I didn’t dare dream, I couldn’t bear the grief of more disappointment.*

I pulled away from my daughter as I made a decision: Say what you want to say. I held her face in my hands, looked straight into her blue-gold eyes and said words that are simple and true. “I love you so much. I am so proud of you. I am so grateful for the young woman you are — and the woman you are becoming.” I kiss the side of her face and get a lipful of her golden hair.

I can’t believe she’s this old. I can’t believe I was that young.

“Thanks Mom,” she sleepy-smiles back at me. I pull her in for one more hug. Which she indulges, because this is a birth day of mine in a way, too.

We’ll walk out of the bedroom and she’ll eat the palaçinka’s** I’ve already made. Later, she’ll get her nails done and have coffee with friends and go shopping before our family heads out to dinner in the evening together to celebrate.

What I don’t say to her here, and didn’t say to her that day, is what I can’t get out of my head. That I didn’t get this — my own mother’s embrace — at her age. I won’t say I’m so grateful to simply be here and watch you grow all the way up. But I will write it down. I will make a record of it. For me.

*I know now that this fear of dreaming or planning for the future is a response to trauma.

** Serbian crepes. They take forever to make because I make them like my dad does, incredibly thin. They are typically filled with yogurt and jam, but we also do lemon curd, cinnamon sugar, and leaning into my husband’s Swiss side, Nutella.

My oldest, on her first day of kindergarten, sat twenty-five feet away in a neat row on the floor behind a sign marked with her new teacher’s name. The teacher, I’d come to learn, was a new grad, a baby herself. This worried me, of course it did. I wanted someone with experience to teach my child. Someone who knew how to manage 28 five and six-year-olds for hours on end. Someone who had voted in more than one presidential election. Someone who would know exactly how to reassure nervous parents that this would be a good year.

Nadia was young when she started school. Not four, like one of her other classmates, but she had just turned five and would remain one of the youngest in her classes for the entirety of this, and every subsequent, year.

But, she was also ready. Social and curious, the idea of school excited her.

On the gym wall, I searched the other parents’ faces. But all I saw were smiles. Smiles. Oh sure, I can smile. I am happy, too. But where, oh where, are the tears? Our babies, my baby, my sweet girl that made me a mother, the child that is so easy and fun, that I never once even considered putting her into preschool until too many people told me I had to, was going to be here, away from me — for hours each day.

The school is 1/3 of a mile from our home. I can hear the overhead announcements. We walked here.

Yes, I’d thought about homeschooling — was encouraged by some, influenced by others — for all of three seconds. I love the idea of it. But if you’ve ever seen me trying to teach this same child where middle C is on the piano, it would be glaringly obvious: I don’t possess the temperament to teach my children skills they don’t already possess.

After 15 minutes of waiting, the 6th-grade safety patrol asks my daughter’s class line to stand. Then, with little fanfare from the students, the faculty, or what seems like any of the other parents, they walk out of the gym and begin the next chapter of their lives.

I walk home, wiping away tears, baffled why more parents weren’t crying.

***

The first day of classes will start a week or so after drop off. Her dad and I have packed our minivan to the brim, full of her bedding, a (“essential”) mattress topper, and too many clothes. She’d wanted to pack something like 25 sweatshirts — first off, I didn’t realize she had so many. Second, no. We had a cubby to assemble, a rolling cart, shower shoes, a collapsible laundry basket, cleaning supplies, laundry detergent, a fan. Almost everything on the list of college packing list essentials.

On the drive there, she sits in a seat behind us and, as usual, falls asleep almost instantly. This gives Chris and I some time to talk, to think, just more time with her in our presence.

A few weeks earlier, I wrote “Firepit with Nadia” on our family calendar. I wanted some intentional time for just me, my husband, and her. Shooing the younger kids away and to bed, we dedicated that evening to speak into her, to speak over her. We wanted to reinforce who she is at her core, tell her the gifts we see in her, and offer what we hope for her.

Truth and blessing, if you will.

True to form, I wrote out what I wanted to say in my journal and read it to her. I spoke all the words I knew I wouldn’t be able to fit into the few minutes of goodbye we’d have after we’d unpacked her into her dorm room.

In one of the sweetest nights of my life, we shared with her what she means to us, told her what we’re always here for you looks like practically, and with our words, sent her off to begin this new chapter of her life in freedom.

The conversation opened up more questions from her than I anticipated, and also honest admissions. And as we spoke well into the night, the three of us — on the cusp of physical separation — were knit even closer together.

Back in the van, she wakes up, laughing at how amazing she is at sleeping. Then we start talking. Playing music. She and I, at least, managing our nervous energy.

On campus, the pit in my stomach grows. We find a parking space, a rolling bin, and one of Nadia’s friends quickly finds us. She and her family begin to help unload our car. The dorm room is assembled in less time than I had anticipated, the girls hanging clothes and unpacking shoes like experts. I climb up onto the lofted twin bed — I’ll do it — I insist, fighting with the fitted sheet.

A mother, instinctively making a nest.

And then it’s time. She’s unpacked. All set up. Her shoes are on the shoe rack. Chris and I are, in this instant, superfluous. I cannot even speak for the lump in my throat. This has all felt so rushed.

The three of us walk back to the van, and while I know I’ve already said everything I need to say, and am grateful for that, and even though I want this for her so badly in the way I wanted this so badly for myself but never got it, my longing to hold her and never let go aches deep behind my heart.

I would never say it, because I really don’t mean it, but I don’t want her to stay here. I don’t want to go. And yet I do — I have to.

We hug, and I’m trying so hard not to sob, so instead, I make the goodbye too quick. “I love you. Be good.” And then I walk to the passenger seat of the car and get in.

Chris hugs her and she turns to walk back to her dorm.

We drive off and I begin to cry — more accurately, reader, to wail — with an emotion all too familiar to me. Grief.

***

This is what I remember: walking Nadia to school, probably holding her hand. She has a short bob and wears a striped knit dress, the kind in which she can still play tag and climb on the playground equipment at recess. I walk her to the gym where I’ve dropped her off every day this year but instead of going in, I give her a hug and a kiss a few feet away from the door.

She walks in and finds her class line, and in a few minutes, they’ll all walk to their classroom at the back of the school.

In a handful of hours, I’ll come back to collect her. All three kinder classes will be out on the field at the back of the school in celebration. There will be popsicles and hula hoops and a kickball game. The kids will run wild, and yet the teachers — inexplicably — still have everyone under control.

I’ll take a picture of Nadia and her teacher, that gem of a woman, who is also wearing a striped knit dress today. Twins, we laugh. Then, I will hand the teacher a little bag with a gift card and a note I’d written her earlier in the day.

After I’d dropped Nadia off that morning, I wasn’t halfway home before I started to feel emotion building in the back of my throat. By the time I was in my kitchen, the tears had come and I stood there, full-on crying — letting go of what I didn’t realize I was holding onto.

She made it.

I made it.

We made it.

Like water, Nadia had also taken to school well. Within mere weeks of her starting, not only was she happy to go each day, but I had quickly adjusted to her being gone, too. Her little brother and I ran errands on the days he wasn’t in preschool and, because I was pregnant, we often napped together in the afternoons.

But something about this first year coming to a close struck me.

I pulled out a notecard and started to write to the teacher:

Thank you for taking such good care of my daughter. For making learning fun and going to school a joy. For being such a gifted teacher.

How does a mother say, explain, express Thank you for caring for my child to someone who doesn’t yet know what it is to be a mother, to let part of her soul exist separate from your own?

But maybe this is what all mothers and children must do — learn to live together but independently, differentiate if you will, even by fractions at a time.

My tears so often are of grief.

But these were tears of joy.

I hand the bag to the teacher, hug her, and tell her Thank you. Then, I collect my daughter and we walk home, ready to enjoy our summer — together.

***

I drive solo down 81 South, the threat of rain looming constantly overhead. The van is empty, save a bag of snacks, a tool kit my husband insisted I bring, and the holy trinity of my mornings: coffee, a bottle of water, and a protein shake. I spent part of the ride in silence, in prayer. Part of the drive listening to a book. And part finally having enough time to catch up with my sister, and afterwards, one of my aunts.

The heavens open up once I hit the mountains. “I’m driving 45,” I tell Aunt Nancy, in explanation of the long pause in my sentence. Just be safe, she tells me, intrinsically understanding.

On campus, something’s off. There’s too much traffic. A blocked-off road. What is going … I see a handful of students wearing graduation robes. No. No! They can’t have graduation on the same day as move-out!

Cars are pulled up and parked on curbs. Graduation traffic on top of parents loading up minivans and trucks and those ambitious ones believing a dorm room will fit into their hatchbacks. I guide the van up a curb myself and park in a spot I believe is close enough — until my daughter informs me there’s a three-hour wait for a rolling cart and later when I haven’t made it 100 feet away from her dorm room with one bag on my back and one in my arms before I’m in a full sweat under my clothes and the rain has drenched me on top of them. I can’t do this.

On this first trip out, we saw a family preparing to leave that was infinitely closer than where I had parked. “Stay here,” I tell my daughter. She drops the cubby she was trying to carry. “Grab it when they go.” I’m not even to the van when she texts Got the spot. Standing in the road. Come quick.

Before long, the dorm room is empty. “Do you want me to take a picture?” I ask.

“No,” she says. The good memories are in all the pictures with this room full.

We stop for food. “This is the best burrito I’ve ever eaten,” she says. I ask if it’s because I paid for it. She laughs, “Probably.”

It will take us over two hours to get to a city that’s normally only 30 minutes from campus. Maybe it was an accident. Or construction. We can’t do anything about it, so we talk. Debrief. I know at some point she’ll fall asleep.

But right now, we’re both in a little bit in awe. Neither of us can believe how fast this year went. We’re truly baffled.

“I’m happy that I’m sad to go,” she says, looking straight out the window at the stopped line of semis in front of us. “Does that make sense?” she asks.

I nod, yes. It makes total sense.

“I had such a good year,” she says.

For once, I have no tears. I just smile, grateful.

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Thank you!

Hello friends!

How are you? Is everyone hanging in there? If you missed it, I wrote a little about what life has been like around here in the DC area lately, and as an update, things haven’t really changed.

Which is why, when my oldest suggested we go away somewhere for her spring break — I jumped at the opportunity. A verbatim recount of our actual conversation:

Her: Mom, do you want to go to Flordia for spring break with me?

Me: [super excited] YES.

Her: Awesome!

Me: [assuming she found out one of her new college friends has a huge oceanfront beach house and that they maybe even have . . . a plane? and wanted to invite a group of girls and their mothers to come down for the week] What are the plans?

Her: Plans?

Me: Who’s going?

Her:

Me:

Her: Us?

Me: So . . . who’s . . . paying for this trip?

Her: . . . You?

After a minute to recalibrate my expectations, I started to entertain the idea of the two of us going away together. We live close enough to the coast and I’ve always wanted to be someone who could say, “Oh, we went away to the beach for a few days” as if it were no big deal — even though going to the beach is always a big deal for me, in the sense that it’s my favorite and I love it and I wish I could do it all the time.

I found a cute little place within driving distance just big enough for the two of us. While she slept in, I planned to work and write. Meaning, this was actually a writing retreat.

Despite promises to be up and out during PTHs (prime tanning hours), sleep ultimately took precedence for her. But I stuck to my plan, finished up some freelance work, and then dipped my toes back into my manuscript. 😬

The beach was chilly. I have a two-inch tan where my socks didn’t connect with my sweatpants. Also, there was also a “beach nourishment” project going on (see second picture) which altered the vibe we were going for.

BUT. None of this could bring us down. Because she had a break from college. And I was writing in the mornings and reading on the beach with my daughter to the sound of the waves (and the construction vehicles) in the afternoons, taking long walks to the pier, making our choice of Trader Joe’s frozen dinners, then introducing her to such cinematic gems as Pride & Prejudice (Keira Knightly version), The Devil Wears Prada, Erin Brockovich, My Best Friend’s Wedding, Notting Hill, and La La Land.

So peaceful.

If you’ve been reading here for a bit, you know just how hard it was for me to walk through the spring of her senior year, as I had little choice but to re-live my own devastating senior year along side of hers.

Her graduating, sending her away to college, and us still having a relationship was something I simply didn’t have a blueprint for in my own life.

So every text I get from her, each phone call, every point of connection — let alone five days together at the beach — felt nothing short of miraculous.

Maybe miraculous isn’t the right word. But maybe healing is.

And then, as life goes, I got home and spent the following week tag-teaming care for the two kids home sick with the flu.

Onto The Good Stuff

⚾️ Katie Blackburn wrote a children’s book about disability that expands the horizons for neuro-typical kids and their parents. It started some good convos in our home after both my younger kids immediatly picked it up to read it. The Very Best Baseball Game is a MUST HAVE for every Christian parent’s home library.

📖 💍 This sermon on marriage. 😬 🧨 I grew up in a really male-centric / authoritative church, meaning, the scripture from this sermon, in practice, felt heavy-handed and demanding when I was young. Had to remind myself to close my dropped jaw while listening live. (If you like it, check out the next one on parenting.)

🐎 Where do I sign up?

🎧 A girlfriend sent me this podcast on aging well physically. Total game changer.

📚 HOW TO BE A GOOD LITERARY CITIZEN. 💞

📝 Ashley took one of my writing workshops last fall then early this year PUBLISHED A BOOK! I am so proud of her! I had the privilege to work with Ashely on a few of the pieces in here. It’s a sweet, quirky, honest, and vulnerable book you can read in one sitting on your pj’s on the couch. Brava!

✨ SPEAKING OF WORKSHOPS: I’m leading Writing With Purpose starting April 21st. It’s for every writing level, so if you are just starting out, great! If you have a manuscript written and want me to edit multiple pieces of your writing, come join us!

Ok. That’s all I have room for. Until next time!

I walk into the kitchen at the clock’s edge between late afternoon and evening, a time when the kids are home from school and my husband has already returned from work. “You still have a job?” I asked when he got home, this is a daily question now. We live in the DC area, he is a federal employee.

I put a hand on the counter, steadying myself for what must be done. Everyone will be hungry in the coming hour, and because we have practices to get the kids to, I feel as if I must conjure sustenance out of thin air.

I’m normally a meal planner. But normal is not what these days have been.

One of my friends had texted me earlier: her husband’s business may be lost due to overnight funding cuts. I can’t imagine the services they provide to such a vulnerable population being considered waste.

My kitchen counters are cluttered. I blame this on the kids, on my job, and because we somehow have less counter and cupboard space in this house than we did in our small condo. It’s hard for me to think though, with the flour and clementines, toaster that wasn’t put away and the Costco-sized honey container left askew. It’s hard for me to think when we have friends who work for the FBI.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO COOK FOR DINNER.”

I say this in the middle of my small kitchen, announce it to no one. To everyone.

I walk to my bedroom and sit down for a minute. Then, I walk back into the kitchen.

From the fridge, pull out butter; from the lowest cupboard, a saute pan and a saucepan; from the pantry, fettuccini noodles.

Last night, another friend told me a multi-million dollar contract, the kind with a number that seems outrageous until you are steeped in this world, until you realize what all will be done with the money, was cut without warning.

Boil water; add the noodles. Heat the pan and add both butter and olive oil. Maybe two tablespoons of each.

My husband has said these have been the worst weeks of his career. Spending so much time out of each day navigating the dynamics of a changing landscape, entire divisions focusing their efforts on what will/will not/oh, yes it will again /oh wait no it’s not happening to the staff, the funding, and the real work that has implications so necessary and far-reaching, at least half of the population would not believe it if you told them.

Chop garlic. Lower the heat and add it to the oil. Stir until fragrant.

Is it possible nearly everyone I know here is affected locally by what’s in the national and global news? Is it possible I know someone who investigated the riot at the capitol on January 6th? Is it possible I cried when I read about a park ranger losing his dream job?

Add cream. Heavy, whipping, half n’ half — whatever you have. No need to measure, just pour enough in. Trust yourself.

By nature, I take on others’ emotions as if they are my own. This can mean that making dinner some days, on this day, feels like a monumental challenge. But every where I turn, someone else I know is affected. We want to know when storms are coming, don’t we?

“Smells good,” one son says.

“Oh, I love this!” my youngest daughter says, walking into the kitchen.

Pour whatever parmesan you have - grated or shredded — into the heated cream. Use more than you think you need. Mix until melted.

One child will go to soccer tonight, another will head to basketball. I will respond to texts and read the news. I have my boundaries, of course, we have to. But I refuse to look away.

‘I just don’t pay attention’ is not an option. I’ve read too many history books.

But I will, though, purposely only read sources in the high-middle of the evidence-based media bias chart. I don’t need someone else’s opinion. I don’t like my conversations being a simplified regurgitation of over-wrought talking points.

When the noodles are done, lift with tongs into the sauce. You want them dripping. Add in the cut up chunks of rotisserie chicken you have in the fridge. Mix all together until heated through.

We won’t all eat together this evening. That’s just how life is these days. But we will eat the same food, at the same table. And this means something. Afterward, I will feel grateful that this recipe exists, so I can make dinner, even on a day when I thought I couldn’t.

Serve with any green you have.

[Me, now, 46, married for *checks notes* almost 27 years, with four kids living in the metropolitan DC area in conversation with Me, 23, married for three years, childless, working as a nurse in an ICU in upstate NY.]

Me, now [runs to embrace my younger self]: HI!!!!

Me, then [runs into the older me’s open arms]: HI!!!!

*Super tight full-frontal hug, held for 23 seconds, followed by us separating, but still holding each other’s hands and staring at each other’s faces, smiling.*

Me, now: [Admires my younger self’s skin, natural hair color, and the body that she always thought was too fat.]

Me, then [bites lip and tilts head as she looks at my skin, hair, and glasses. Gets distracted by my jewelry]: Wow! Upgrades!

Me, now [smiles]: Yeah.

Me, then: And you [clears throat] wear glasses now?

Me, now [a little too quickly]: I got contacts last year. A lot of people my age wear—

Me, then: No, no, no! They look good! The black is … edgy.

Me, now [laughter]: That’s what I was going fo—

Me, then: Ever get that tattoo?

Me, now: I think about it every day.

Me, then: YOU STILL HAVEN’T GOT A TATTOO?

Me, now: I JUST CAN’T COMMIT.

Me, then: Not even ONE?

Me, now: [shakes head] But I’m going to.

Me, then [rolls eyes]: That’s insane. *Grabs my shoulders, shakes me and yells* Who cares? TELL ME EVERYTHING!!!

Me, now: [nervous laughter] What do you want to know?

Me, then: HOW ARE YOU?

Me, now: Um …

Me, then: What? Are you okay?

Me, now: Oh yeah, it’s just that—

Me, then: Oh my goodness do you have cancer?

Me, now: [Opens mouth to say I did, but then stops.]

Me, then [noticing my hesitation]: Ohhhh… is it because next week you’re turning forty sev—

Me, now: No.

Me, then: — because Mom died at forty-ei—

Me, now: No.

Me, then: — and you’ve been thinking about making it past that year since you —

Me, now: —since WE…

Me, then: Excuse me, yes. Since we—

Me, now: Thank you.

Me, then: You’re welcome. Were 18?

Me, now: [looks at the ground and laughs. Says a silent prayer of thanks for all the therapy I finally committed to go to.] No, no. It’s not that.

Me, then: Well, what’s going on?

Me, now: [Looks at feet, then back up to my younger self’s face] Um, things are kinda weird right now.

Me, then: Weird? What do you mean?

Me, now: So, [clears throat] remember when you said you thought Donald Trump would make a great president — because he’d run the country like a business?

Me, then: I mean, I said that, like, what? Just last month?

Me, now: Yeah. So … it turns out that the country isn’t a business … and he’s actually a terr—

Me, then: You know who’d really make an awesome president?

Me, now: Who?

Me, then: Sydney Bristow.

Me, now [flashes back to pulling out the 12-inch black and white TV from the closet on Sunday nights to watch Alias]: Jennifer Garner?

Me, then: Yes!

Me, now: Honestly, Jen holds up. But … we still haven’t had a female presi—

Me, then: SHUT UP.

Me, now: I know.

Me, then: Are there flying cars?

Me, now: No, but all our TVs are flat.

Me, then: WHAT!? That doesn’t even make sense.

Me, now: And phones? You’ll never believe this … we all carry them around with us ALL DAY.

Me, then [eyes widen]: that sounds terrible.

Me, now: It is. But it’s also really convenient. I can PAY BILLS on my phone.

Me, then [gasps]: SHUT UP.

Me, now: We can listen to music on our phones. WATCH MOVIES.

Me, then [jaw drops, whispers]: It really is the future.

Me, now: I know. Crazy.

Me, then: But it also sounds sort of … lonely?

Me, now: Oh, for sure. But they also made ways for us to connect online.

Me, then: Online? THEY?

Me, now: Uh, yeah. The ones that are now running the governm—

Me, then [interrupting]: Do I ever decide to have kids?

Me, now: Yes.

Me, then: NO WAY. When? How?

Me, now: HOW?!

Me, then: Not how, how. How did I decide?

Me, now: [Opens mouth, but can’t bear to say ‘after your husband has brain surgery.’]

Me, then: How many?

Me, now: Four.

Me, then: FOUR?!

Me, now: I know. One’s adopted.

Me, then: STOP IT. That’s awesome. And where do we live?

Me, now: [shakes head, shrugs] Just outside of DC.

Me, then: DC?! What? Are you crazy? Why? Of all the places …

Me, now [stern]: I know. Listen. LIFE HAPPENS, SONYA. Your husband is actually a federal emp—

Me, then [stern]: BUT YOU HAVE CHOICES, SONYA.

*Intensely stares into each other’s eyes*

Me, then [gently]: Do you feel … stuck?

Me, now [smiles]: No.

[Pulls younger self in for a hug.]

Me, now: It’s just that life’s not as predictable and idealistic as you thought.

Me, then [face smooshed up against her older self’s cheek]: You know I already know that.

Me, now: I know. But you’ll learn just how true it really is.

Me, then: Are you a nurse practitioner or a nurse anesthetist?

Me, now: I never went back to school.

Me, then: [pulls away and stares at my face in shock.]

Me, then: Are you … are you still a Christian?

Me, now [smiles]: Yes. Turns out God also really holds up.

Me, then [looks down]: I have so many dou—

Me, now: I know! And it’s okay! You can keep asking your questions. Challenging the status quo. You know how you feel like you can’t … shouldn’t … trust yourself?

Me, then [starts to tear up, whispers]: Yes.

Me, now: Turns out you can. God is bigger than you ever thought possible.

Me, then: [steps back, grabs my face with her two hands, rubs thumbs across my skin.]

Me, now [reading her mind]: Moisturizer.

Me, then: Ohhhh… I don’t ever—

Me, now: And you need to start wearing sunscr—

Me, then: Just tell me one more thing …

Me, now: —every day.

Me, then [still holding my face]: Tell me you at least wrote your book.

Me, now: — our book.

Me, then [nodding]: … yes, our book.

Me, now [pulling myself in for a goodbye hug]: I’m trying.

I’m not really sure what I need to do, what to write, to get my daughter out of school today. I don’t address it to anyone, mostly because I don’t know to whom it’s going. Dear School? Dear Person in the Front Office? I forgo the greeting and write: Please excuse Nadia from school today at 1:20 p.m. She has a dentist appointment. Thank you.

I sign my name, then quickly add my phone number below, as if this brings some increased level of authenticity. My daughter is not the only one new to middle school in this family, she’s not the only one who feels self-conscious. The note is written on a small piece of paper torn from a hotel notepad, the kind I compulsively throw into my bag whenever we go away. Should it be on personalized stationery instead? Nice heavyweight paper?

While signing my name, it strikes me how I’ve been writing more and more notes lately.

We’re at a doctor’s appointment for Viv. Love, Mom

Nadia, I’m at the school volunteering, I’ll be home by 3:15. [Heart], Mom

Went for a quick walk, will be home soon. Love you, mom.

These are all to my oldest child, the one who gets home the earliest in the afternoons now. The one who strides with pre-adolescent confidence into the next phase of her life. The one who is not as physically attached to me as she once was.

The notes I write are not a big deal.

They’re not.

They’re just a simple way of staying connected in short-form. Of communicating where I am and the plan. Of letting her know she was on my mind, ever and always, and whether she cares or not, how she’s connected to me.

The notes are often written on throw-away pieces of paper: post-its, the backside of her younger brother’s math homework, a receipt from CVS. They’re nothing to keep. Nothing to hold onto.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

When three of my four kids started school this past year, I gave myself a few big tasks to work through during my precious kid-free preschool hours each week. One goal was to organize the back room of our house. We call it the computer room, but a better name would be something like ‘room with all the things we don’t know what to do with’ or ‘young artist supply warehouse’ or ‘paper graveyard.’

I have piles — literal, stackable piles — of adoption paperwork I’ve had no bandwidth to sort through for the last two years. There are doubles of every authentication we had to complete, passport copies in triplicate, our travel itinerary quadrupled. There is a Melissa & Doug art easel that not one of the children has used in at least two years. A clear plastic bin in the corner is filled with anything that could be glued, sewn, painted, applied, bent, or bedazzled, labeled CRAFT CRAP.

One of the drawers in the desk is crammed so full of old bills and bank statements — who gets paper statements anymore? — mixed in with birthday cards, atop stacks of blank CDs/DVDs — again, what? — and boxes, yes, plural, boxes of checks from financial institutions with which we are no longer affiliated, I can hardly open it.

The kids have been in school for at least two months now and here I am, finally ready to tackle this space. But because I never know where to begin, I do what I always do: spend twenty-seven minutes finding the right playlist.

Next, I spin. In literal circles. Like a dog before laying down, looking for the best section in which to start.

I’m a person who gets stuck in potential. I adore optimizing, efficiency, and ease — mostly because it’s everything I’m not. And the idea of having a systematic and streamlined process makes me so hopeful. It’s just that I don’t have any of that. I don’t know where to begin.

Whether I’m cleaning out a back room, writing an essay, or writing a note to my daughter’s school, it’s always the same — lengthy procrastination followed by angst, followed by a search for a perfect playlist followed, finally, by action.

I decide to take the advice I’ve been giving myself lately, to just start anywhere. I’m a golden retriever getting ready to eat an elephant. Paper by paper, I create Kid/Keep piles, Trash piles, Shred piles. I start dreaming up systems and even as I work, create Big Plans to avoid another multi-year paperwork pileup.

No paper in the house! None. Just like that guy I read about who takes pictures of receipts and uses a pro version of Evernote. No mail allowed inside! Recycling bin is my best friend! I’ll be a savage with preschool art!

I curse the institutions who send me paper. I lament over the trees.

And then, hours in, with my back hurting, I sit on my rear end with my legs splayed out wide. I’ve finished sorting one of the biggest paper piles and I lean over, reaching for the container with the white lid I’d pulled out of the closet earlier.

It’s the one I’ve had since high school, the one I packed up and moved with when I got married. It’s full of totally unimportant papers, ones that carry only immeasurable emotional weight for me. Journals, notes, letters. My life before this one.

Move along, don’t open it now.

But I don’t move along. I, for whatever reason, refuse to move along.

Something in me deeply, deeply wants to see inside. To explore. To excavate.

And maybe this is another reason why I procrastinate so often with this room. Why it takes me months, if not years, to sit down with a task that shouldn’t take all that much time, but will, if I give myself over to such things as this.

Under the white lid is a stack of manilla folders with a newspaper clipping from 1983 on top. I was in Kindergarten. I am on the front page of our local paper, in a navy blue dress, pig tails and bangs, decorating a gingerbread man. (We lived in a very small town.) In the folders below that are stories I wrote in grade school, Valentine’s I’ve kept, report cards I don’t need to keep.

I pick up a smooth brown planner that lays in the middle of the bin. Move along, Sonya.

But I can’t.

I know exactly what it is, whose it is. I’m doing this to myself on purpose.

I open it to one of the first pages. It’s full of measurements, printed in Cyrillic script —the formal written Serbian language, my mother’s native tongue.

Put it back. You don’t have time for this.

But I keep flipping.

I don’t know what I’m looking for, only that I’m searching.

I’m always searching.

I flip through page after page of the planner, from the last year of her life. Most pages have little notes written in my mother’s classic Eastern European script. English words are misspelled everywhere. There are recipes, tallies of weekly spending, receipts from the local department store and the ATM. Sermon notes are written on the back of an upside-down envelope. In one section, she’d written short entries, almost like a journal. One makes me gasp.

It wasn’t like I went through the house scooping up physical memories of her after she died. She was still there, then. Still everywhere.

But at some point, I claimed this planner. Her recipe box. And kept a handful of random notes she wrote to me and my siblings.

With a deep breath, for I can only stand this feeling of wanting something I can’t have for so long, I close the planner and place it back in the container. I replace the lid and push it back into the closet. I stack my children’s memory boxes on top of mine.

Piles of paper sit all around me. Much of it is useless, unnecessary.

And yet I hold onto these scraps of my mother’s papers. Physical proof of her handwriting. Of her existence. Of a random day where she wanted to tell my little sister where she was and why.

Without expecting it, a wave of emotion rises up my neck, through the back of my throat, into my face. Tears tumble from my eyes.

It’s how she wrote my name.

It’s how she wrote my sister's name.

How she signed Mom.

How she wrote Love you

And how one day, the notes stopped. And we’d never get another.

The notes I write to my daughter might seem, might feel, might look inconsequential. I’m running to the grocery store. I’m at a doctor’s appointment. Picking up a book from the library, will be home soon. On the surface, they’re just practical. But for me, they carry so much weight. Because if you go just a little bit deeper — what you find is a mother’s love. love you.

And that’s everything.

First off, I want to apologize for … hmmm, what’s it been? Months? Eras? Whatever. For me, it’s been WAY too long since I’ve last written, and this seems to be how I open every letter/text to people I love that I haven’t talked to in a while for the last thirty years. In my heart, I really do a. love to write b. connect with friends and c. find gifs that make me laugh. I have all the reasons for why, but bottom line, I went dark for a bit. Election + work + life. But I miss you. And I’ve realize that I consistently put too much pressure to make this a worthwhile read for you … so instead of writing something that you have the choice to read or not read, I don’t write a thing.

Passive perfectionism* at its finest.

I love the wrap-up of an old year and the fresh possibility of a new one. It’s like getting a new journal, a new pair of running shoes, or a new set of paint. Just more cosmic and grandiose. So chock full of possibility. So much potential. (I’m also a little nervous about what 2025 holds, so, there’s that.)

Every year, for, oh, I don’t know, the last twenty or so, my resolutions consistently have been the following:

• lose 10 lbs / “get in shape”

• do budget

• clean out the storage room

• read more

I’ve been ambitious at times:

• Run a half marathon

And other years, I’m a little more basic:

• buy curtains for living room

But at the end of 2021, I added something to my list that had been there multiple times before, and like those 10 lbs, I’d just never made it happen. (Cookies + Chronicles, man.)

• READ THROUGH THE ENTIRE BIBLE

Obviously, women and men the world over have been reading through the Bible for centuries. Many of you have done this. My husband’s done it, multiple times.

But somehow that year, it struck me: I was raised in a Christian home, made a personal profession of faith in my teens, and despite all my times of doubt, I am a believer in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ as the son of God. I am a Christian who lives her life not according to what some teacher/preacher/church tradition tells me, but by what I read in what I have come to believe is truly the inspired word of God — the Bible. **

BUT I HAD NEVER READ THROUGH THE ENTIRE BOOK OF WHICH I SAY I BELIEVE IS GOD’S ACTUAL WORDS, A BOOK THAT I SAY THAT I FOLLOW.

And so, January 1, 2022, I started.

I used The Bible Recap’s chronological reading plan, printed it out because I am Gen X and analog is the way to my heart, folded it up nice and cute and slid it in the inner cover of my Bible.

I’d read the chapters, then listen to the 6-8 minute podcast on what I just read:

of course staying on track for about 7 weeks before, yes, Chronicles.

But somehow, I kept going.

The ONLY thing I can say that allowed me to keep going was what I’d call compassion. If I missed a day, or two — or ten-to-twenty: NO guilt. No self-condemnation. No ‘just give up because you weren’t doing it “right”.’ (Heeeeeey weird form of perfectionism! You’re sneaky but I see you!)

I’d just sit back down on the little corner of my couch with my coffee and blankie and pick up where I left off.

YES. IT TOOK ME OVER TWO YEARS TO COMPLETE.

But I did it.

And it wasn’t some Christian-girl box to check to prove myself (even though, yes, of course, I did enjoy crossing off each day as I completed it).

It was simply putting my time and mind where my mouth was.

Even if it took two years.

As 2024 comes to a close, I want to thank you for your support of my writing and for your friendship. Some of you I’ve gotten to meet in person this year (🙌🏼), and some of you I already know, and some of you are readers that I may never meet but I’m so grateful to connect with here. Thank you, thank you, thank you. It means so much.

I wish everyone a wonderful holiday and a little time and space to think and pray about what this next year might have for you.

For me, I want 2025 to involve more writing. And painting (!) And more reading. (And I think Chris and I are going to attempt our church’s reading plan. He will, of course, stay on track. #realperfectionist I will, naturally, take another 2 years. #passiveperfectionist) I also think I might try to use my voice in ways I haven’t in the past. We’ll see…

I’d love to know what you’re thinking about working towards in this coming year. (If you aren’t a resolution person, that’s wonderful for you!)

Also, who has a good recommendation for an EOY set of reflection questions to work through? Drop a link in the comments if you do!

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Just Some Things:

🦋 JANUARY 8th, 2025 — Coffee+Crumbs has a new narrative podcast coming out called Making A Mother. The trailer is out now. I had the privilege of being a writer for it and on behalf of everyone involved, please please please check it out and SHARE it with your friends. (please) Real grass-roots marketing efforts here! The stories are powerful and the series is stunning.

👏🏼 “The God of Scripture identifies first and foremost with the least among us. And we’re not that,” he said. “That insight was extremely helpful. Because it allowed us to understand that, if you want to find greater meaning and purpose and depth to your life, then go place yourself among the people that God does identify with, and they will teach you.”

🧢 The book you’re going to want to buy and gift to every family you know. Pre-order now. I’ve already read it and it makes me cry each time. Yes, pre-orders help an author’s book get to the eyeballs —> hands of even more people!

🎄Only God Can Do It (Have watched no less than 30 times. PTL.)

Merry Christmas and until 2025 —

Love, Sonya

Passive perfectionism* - a term I learned recently that’s been really helpful to understand why I don’t do things. Turns out, I have really really really high standards, and when I’m not able to do something the way I want, I just don’t do it. (See: writing, painting, calling my aunts, finishing my manuscript, cleaning out the storage room, writing a post here about what I learned after reading through the Bible titled: What I Learned From Reading Through The Bible For The First Time Even Though I’ve Been A Christian For Thirty Years. Still workshopping the title.)

** another post I have wanted to write for four years but haven’t because I’m positive I can’t do it justice: Why I Beleive That The Bible is True, A Christian Skeptic Gets Her Questions Answered

If you’ve made it to the end, I applaud you.

How are you?

I hope you are well and even if the afternoons are full of carpools and dinner making and laundry folding and you feel right on the edge of overwhelmed and overworked, that your family is happy and healthy and everyone is living under your roof and that the children you have raised are tucked into beds that are very close to you at night and that they still sleep with their blankies and go to school no more than a few miles away and return home to you each day.

This past weekend, we went to visit OUR OLDEST DAUGHTER who, for the past month, has been living away from us, AT COLLEGE.

Supposedly, raising children is all about getting them to some point where they don't need you as much? Something about independence? Lauching? Adulthood?

It’s still unclear to me.

What is clear?

That sending a child off to college is both one of the most wonderful and terrible experiences I have ever had in my life.

In so many ways, wonderful.

But for about 36 precarious hours, it was also very very terrible.

Not for her. Just for me.

Ever since my oldest daughter was, oh, I don’t know, in 5th or 6th grade, just the mention of her going to college brought me to tears. Real actual tears. Something about this phase of life being over, about our family changing forever, struck a nerve even then. It became a running joke with the kids through the years, and anytime they wanted to tease me or see me tear up they’d mention it, except they found out real quick what wasn’t funny about those emotions four weeks ago after we dropped her off and I cried for almost two days straight.

There was a very cute time in life when my daughter said she never wanted to leave home and she asked if she could go to the university down the road and I said something really horrible like, “of course you can live at home as long as you like, Honey. But some day, you might actually want to go away to school.”

I know.

You see, we have these children. Especially our first ones. And yes, I’m including all of you even though I don’t know your situation or personality because absolutely every mother that I’ve got within two feet of in the last four weeks who has already taken an oldest child to college and has found out that I just took mine has reacted in the exact same way: they’ve said “ohhhhhh …” and then their bodies begin to physically curl in on themselves, as if protecting their hearts from the memory of being impailed by an emotional jousting lance.

There’s pity in their voice. And compassion. So much compassion.

So we have these children, right? And we raise them, and then we’re supposed to put our money where our mouth is, as the saying goes, and actually trust God with them like we said we were doing all along. Actually trust that God loves them more than we do, cares for them, has a plan for them, protects them, provides, goes before them. We have to trust that our children will always be our children, but that at the same time, they aren’t always ours, and that this dynamic is good and right.

You guys. It’s as hard as you think it is.

I feel like I should repeat that simply because I want to warn you.

We left our daughter at college and I dissolved into a puddle and disappeared.

It is a terrible wonderful thing to raise a child and send them into this world without you.

(Ohmygoodness yes, yes, yes, it’s also good and exciting, too. I know. But come on. No one needs that kind of positive objectivity when it feels like my heart is breaking.)

After we got to her dorm last month, unpacked her things and I made her bed and her room was all set up (which took way faster than everyone told me it would), we walked back to the parking lot where we said goodbye and I love you and I’ll see you in a month (along with I’m so proud of you and always stay in a group and don’t pick up a drink you’ve put down and buddy system! and have fun and be good… ) But it all felt so rushed. It’s hard to pull a bandaid off slowly when the girl who isn’t hurt is oh so ready to fly.

If this sounds dramatic, then you are on the right track. But there would still be an infinitely wide chasm you’d need to cross to feel what it actually was like. But I’m guessing you’re starting to get the idea.

About a week or so before she left, Chris and I took a page out of Krista Gilberts’s book and set one night aside where just the three of us had a firepit in the backyard. The younger kids came to roast s’mores, but then were then told to leave.

This was intentional time just for us. Of course I wrote some things out, things I wanted to say to my daughter, things I didn’t want to forget to say. The practical. The deeply personal. Things she has heard all her life, I hope, along with words of affirmation and encouragement for this specific change.

We took our time, both Chris and I, speaking into her, telling her what we see as her strengths, her gifts, how uniquely God has made her. She asked us questions, we answered. It was a night I’ll remember for the rest of my life for how simple and sweet it was, even through tears, to bless my child’s wings.

The five of us came home from visiting her for the first time for Parents Weekend this past Sunday. If I could have just held her hand and smelled her hair and kissed her forehead for 48 hours straight, I would have been the happiest, wierdest mom on the planet. Instead, we all ate college food and tailgated and went to a football game and stayed up too late.

But it was only one of us who was startled awake at 2am by a small but ominous black silouette whispering “Mom, Mom …” until I opened my eyes and heard, “I threw up on the toilet…”

“ON the toilet?” I asked, suddenly very very awake.

“On the toilet,” my youngest said.

She led me to the hotel bathroom, to a crime scene of blue-raspberry shaved ice mixed with minimally digested fried calamari, tortilla chips, and Sprite. She had made it to the bathroom (+). She didn’t have time to open the toilet seat (-).

After I put her back to bed with a lined trash can at the ready, I went back to the bathroom for a short pity party followed by an enormous amount of dry heaving.

I grabbed towels I would have buried six feet deep in the woods had I had a shovel handy and then, in that bathroom in the middle of parents weekend visiting the young adult I miss so dearly, I did what all of us mothers do, regardless of how we feel about it — exactly what the moment requires.

Having placed what will add up to hundreds of dollars of bread, cheese, fruit snacks, toothpaste, milk, almond milk, and almonds, along with many other items my children will eat or use this first week of school on the checkout belt, I, still having half a cart to unload — but, aware enough to not want to hold up the line — pull out my membership card and hold it out to the cashier.

Costco is a well-oiled machine. Please pay attention.

The man in a plaid shirt and kind eyes smiles, scans, and says, “Good morning! How are you today?”

I pause for just long enough to blink my eyes and inhale.

How am I today?

Well, it’s a Saturday. And I’m here. Which, if you’ve ever been to Costco, is the last day of the week anyone should ever choose to come, but it’s the day many people have no choice but to come. And I’m here today because my children go to school on Monday and I haven’t been here for a while, and we need some food. Also, my oldest leaves for college two days later and she’s sleeping right now.

This sounds silly. Or crazy? It’s just that I planned this trip specifically to coincide with not missing any more of her waking hours than I have to. It’s not that we’re spending all our time together. It’s just that I want to be around when she’s around. While she’s still around. Because she’s leaving soon.

How am I today?

I’m sad that the summer is over.

In many ways, it feels like I barely hung on: skimming emails and wiping a countertop here and there, grocery shopping, working, loading the dishwasher on the fly. Has any laundry been folded in the last 10 weeks?

And yet our oldest graduated. And we threw a big, fun backyard party.

And we had this family trip Chris and I only mentioned in passing through the years, like a dream — one that felt so real but could never actually come true. Except it did. And we took our children to see the house their grandfather grew up in, and to meet their great aunt for the first time, and to stay with cousins and eat pounds and pounds of gruyere and chocolate and hike trails where all we could see were mountains, belled cows, alpine flowers, and each other.

And of course there was swim team and the pool and friends and an annual beach trip with my in-laws.

But all of this coming to an end means new beginnings are waiting at the door, hand up, knocking.

One chapter of life is over, another has packed up her sweatshirts and is ready to move into her dorm room.

And I’m not great with transitions.

How am I today?

The question lodges in my throat.

I didn’t realize saying goodbye to my daughter’s friends yesterday would catch me off guard, that suddenly, this feels more real. And I do not yet know that later today, after I’ve put most of this haul in its respective places, I, for whatever reasons — or (shall I admit?) for reasons that are small but significant to me — will lock myself in my bedroom and fall apart at the seams.

Even as it’s happening, even as I have the impulse to get it together, I will allow the tears come, to hold the painful ache in my heart with care, because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that emotions shoved or stuffed won’t sit nice and tidy for too long.

And yet, I’m also so happy. So excited! What an experience, what a privilege — to go away to college! The contrast to my own life’s path … it doesn’t take much to imagine how redemptive and healing this feels.

Plus, she’s ready. And summer is over. And, for once, I felt like we were so intentional with these months. Which is helping me be okay.

Able to hold multitudes, aren’t we?

I exhale, look the man in the eyes, slide the card back into my pocket, smile and sum it all up by saying, “I’m good. How are you?”