December

On Now: End-of-year book stacks, breaking the cycle, and following inspiration

December was learning how to fight for my dreams and surrender at the same time. It was trying to be both writer and mother and fully embracing the paradox of these opposing truths. It was standing in a field full of donkeys and feeling like I’ve come home. It was watching the hawk in the walnut tree and wishing I had their patience, their precision, their freedom. It was trying to make the most of the moment while believing that something better is coming. It was hugging my son and saying I’m sorry, I love you, I’m still learning how to feel my big feelings. It was committing to sitting up straighter and believing I can make a change at thirty-eight even if I only move the needle 1% in the right direction every day or week. It was my husband holding me for a long time in the dark and wishing it didn’t hurt to be held. It was following the tiny whispers of intuition until they became a thing that lives and breathes, a dream exploding into reality. It was crying in the car on Christmas after visiting my Grandma—the woman who raised me—because, for the first time, she didn’t recognize me and screamed at me to get away from her. It was being caught in the space between hope and let down and still trying to find the love, the joy. It was my son learning the word exquisite and telling me every day how exquisite I looked—whether I was in my Christmas dress or pajamas, it didn’t matter. It was breaking down in therapy for the first time in two and a half years and wondering if this is what healing feels like. It was showing up—to write, to mother, to love—and learning how to find the flow. It was sitting alone in the theater, long after the credits of A Complete Unknown had rolled, to listen to Bob Dylan with my eyes closed. It was conversations with strangers in record stores about music and being drawn toward where the passion lives in myself and others. It was rooting into gratitude for my brother and finding peace in the deep knowing that it’s always been us and always will be, no matter who else does or doesn’t show up. It was persimmon ice cream and handmade wreaths smelling of pine and making Christmas ornaments shaped like vinyl records. It was getting clear on my vision for next year and making space for all the things I can’t yet see but hold hope for.

WHAT I’M READING

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver

I’m currently halfway through this book, and I was excited to dive in since Demon Copperhead remains one of my all-time favorites. So far, though, this one isn’t hitting the same mark for me. The main themes are strong, and the story itself is compelling, but the shifting perspectives don’t feel entirely necessary. It takes a long time to say what it’s trying to say—which, ironically, feels like the theme of my Substack haha. Still, it’s not quite what I want from a novel unless the prose is so beautiful it makes me want to pause time and live in every line. Who knows—my perspective might change by the time I finish. We’ll see. Maybe I’ll end up loving it.

Good Inside: A Practical Guide to Resilient Parenting Prioritizing Connection Over Correction by Dr. Becky Kennedy

I’ve been following Dr. Becky since my son was born and have always appreciated her insights on parenting. Still, I was hesitant to pick up a parenting book. I wanted to protect my intuition over following someone else’s idea of what’s “right” for my child. But after diving deeply into Internal Family Systems (IFS) in therapy—and realizing Dr. Becky incorporates this modality into many of her teachings—my trust in her grew. Then I heard her on a podcast discussing whining, why it’s so triggering, and how to approach it differently. That single conversation shifted my entire internal world and changed the way I respond to my son’s whining. Time and time again, her work has helped me become a better parent—not just to my son, but also to my younger self.

This month, I finally felt ready to dive into her book. I chose the audiobook because I knew I could commit to listening during my walks, and oof—every walk left me choking back tears.

The book illuminated so many ways my parents didn’t show up for me. It reminded me of all the times I wasn’t met with compassion or empathy, but instead with frustration, exasperation, or avoidance. I needed patience and presence, and for someone to let me cry, to let me be sad or angry. I needed someone to say, I’m sorry for yelling. I’m sorry for not showing up when I said I would. Fuck, that last one hit hard. Even now, as I write this, I have to take a moment to cry into my hands. Why did no one ever show up for me? And why, even when they didn’t, did they never say I’m sorry? I realized how far those words could have gone—how much healing could have come from even the smallest efforts to repair the fractures.

Every chapter flashed my childhood before my eyes, and all I could see was loss. I know there was more than just heartache, but I don’t think I’ve ever truly let myself feel the depth of how much my needs weren’t met. I protected myself from the feelings of sadness and grief, from fully processing the loss. But listening to this book, I let myself feel it. I allowed myself to sit with the emotions that were never okay for me to express as a child.

I felt it all. And now, I will—and do—let my son feel it all too.

I’ve instinctively done everything differently with my son than my parents did with me—purely out of intuition, out of knowing his needs, out of loving him so goddamn much. But even so, I am my father’s daughter in the way any emotional outburst makes me want to shut it down immediately. And I am my mother’s daughter in the way that tears or any display of discomfort turn me into a fixer. To me, crying has always meant pain, suffering, sadness—and my instinct, or rather my learned pattern, is to stop it at all costs.

But I don’t follow that pattern. I’ve learned to make space for the tears, to let them be. And now, thanks to Dr. Becky, I’ve found a way to honor even the whining in a way that empowers both me and my son (not every time, of course).

I am my father’s and mother’s daughter in the way conflict makes me want to flee—to leave the room, avoid, get the fuck out of there. But leaving would mean abandoning my son in his sadness, anger, or confusion, leaving him to figure it out alone. It would mean him gaslighting himself into believing his emotions aren’t real or valid because, after all, even Mama doesn’t see it. Surely it must not be real if my own mother isn’t comforting me. Or it would leave him feeling like he’s too much—like he has to chill out, shut up, be cool, be easy, then Mama will stay.

That’s what I told myself as a kid. It’s why I was labeled a “good kid.” I had to be good because if I wasn’t, they’d get overwhelmed. They’d shout. They’d leave. And I couldn’t afford to lose them again.

I am my father’s and mother’s daughter in the way that saying sorry doesn’t come easily. It burns in my throat like bile, lighting my body with shame. It feels easier not to say it—to get quiet, avoid the discomfort, and wait until it blows over. But that would mean never repairing with my son when I get short with him, leaving him to feel like it’s his fault—like my anger, sadness, or overwhelm is on him.

Instead, saying sorry has become a household word. Repair has become second nature. It’s about taking radical responsibility for my emotions and actions so my son doesn’t have to carry that weight or internalize the wrong as his own, as I did as a kid.

I’ve always had the instinct to raise my son differently than I was raised, and most of the time, I was on the right track. But it hasn’t been easy. Dr. Becky has given me a roadmap—a blueprint for how to get from where I came from to where I want to be as a parent.

Her book has changed my life. It’s given me the tools to reparent myself while showing up for my son in the ways he deserves.

Do I mess up sometimes? Absolutely. I’m not a perfect mother, just like I wasn’t a perfect child—no matter how hard I tried to be. But here’s the thing: that’s okay. I’m leading with love and acceptance, for both myself and my son, and our connection is rooted in trust. I see his joy, his confidence, and his ability to fully express his emotions and authenticity, and I know—the cycle ends with me. Against all odds, I’m doing it. We’re building something truly special here.

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Anyway, this was supposed to be about the books I read this year, so here’s my little stack.

END OF YEAR BOOK STACK

• The Blue Years by Erin Rose Belair

• I Love You But I’ve Chosen Darkness by Claire Vaye Watkins (not pictured because I ordered it on Kindle)

• Hang the Moon by Jeannette Walls

• The Giver of Stars by Jodi Myers

• What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami

• Fairy Tale by Stephen King

• What Do We Know by Mary Oliver

• Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin

• MADWOMAN by Chelsea Bieker

• Grief Is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter

• Writing Fiction, Tenth Edition: A Guide to Narrative Craft by Janet Burroway

• The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver

• Good Inside: A Practical Guide to Resilient Parenting Prioritizing Connection Over Correction by Dr. Becky Kennedy (not pictured because I listened to it on audiobook)

• Lo by Melissa Crowe

• Mother Body by Diamond Forde

• Promises of Gold by José Olivarez

• Spoil by Alyse Bensel

I didn’t read as much this year as I wanted to, which might explain why I’ve spent most of it feeling uninspired. And many of the books I did read weren’t highly intentional choices—they were gifts or recommendations from friends, leading me to stories I wouldn’t normally pick up.

I know I’m a better writer when I read, yet I found it hard to move through the pages. I spent too much time fretting about money and worrying about why our business was so slow, unable to focus on any story other than the one I kept telling myself—the one that trapped me in a scarcity mindset over and over again.

That’s not how I want to spend next year. I want to create more space for possibility, joy, and creativity. More space to do the things that light me up, even if they don’t bring in money or have a clear goal or path beyond the moment they exist in. More space to write and read simply because it makes me feel alive. More space to expand into the magic that’s already here.

My favorite poetry read this year was, without a doubt, The Blue Years by Erin Rose Belair. It’s a seamless fusion of prose and poetry, beautifully interwoven with meditations on the sea. The Blue Years delves into the intricate landscapes of grief, love, identity, and motherhood while grappling with the question of how we make peace with the choices we’ve made.

I was so captivated by this book that I devoured it in a single day. Time seemed to slow and stop as I became immersed in its world of profound heartache—the kind of ache that consumes your senses. The kind that makes you cry in the middle of the day because suddenly everything means everything and nothing all at once.

This book shook me and held me, breaking my heart and healing it at the same time. It’s the space between heartbreak and healing—the tender, transformative place where we find ourselves again. You can read her Artist Series feature here.

Out of all the novels I read this year, Madwoman by

Chelsea Bieker

was my favorite. It was the one I couldn’t put down—the one that struck a deep chord in me and had me crying in bed well past midnight. After finishing it, I woke up the next morning and, in a stream of consciousness, poured out the bones of a new story, loosely inspired by an old one. It had been six months since I felt excited about writing, and there I was, scribbling furiously, as fast as my hand could move to capture the words on the page.

I was so energized by this new direction, this story that already felt so alive. But then the hurricane happened. And suddenly, working on my little idea felt trivial when houses were floating down the river and hundreds of dogs stranded on the roofs of barns. The inspiration drained out of me, flowing into the river along with everything else.

I wrote everything down in a red spiral notebook and shoved it in a drawer, ignoring it for two months. I resisted opening it because what if what I find isn’t interesting at all? What if I never had anything to begin with? What if I don’t connect with what’s on the page and am left with nothing? What if the inspiration never comes back?

Then, at the beginning of December, I finally worked up the courage to pull it out. I slipped the notebook into my bag along with my computer, carved out two hours in my schedule, drove to the café, ordered a jasmine tea latte, and settled into opening it.

As I read through the pages, I felt the idea taking root in my body again. This could be something, I told myself. There is a story here. But then the doubt flooded in: Can I trust myself enough to actually write it? Can I devote the time, the energy, the focus? And could I do it alone? Or maybe—just maybe—I don’t have to.

When I wrote my memoir, I was so passionate and wide-eyed that I plowed through three years without losing my compass. I believed in it. I believed in myself.

But things are different now.

Mostly, I have a wildly beautiful toddler who I pour my whole heart into, and when I’m not mothering, I’m working. So now, where does the art fit in? When will the writing get done? Here we go again with the paradox of the writer-mother. It’s a paradox because the worlds conflict and contradict each other, yet they’re both true. But I believe they can coexist. Dare I say, even thrive.

My son is three, and I’m still learning how to navigate this paradox. And the key word is learning. As long as I’m still learning, there’s movement. Forward motion. No matter how slow, it all counts.

And maybe that’s just the thing—it’s a forever learning. I don’t know if there will ever be a sense of arrival. Maybe there doesn’t need to be.

It’s funny—one might think I’d have the confidence to write another book. I mean, I’ve already written one, so I should know that I can do it. And yet, I feel like I’m coming to this for the first time as if I’ve never written a word in my life. I’m starting from the very rock bottom of my own doubt. It’s a hard place to be, and I think this time around I’m going to need a lot more support.

I need community—other writers, writer-mothers, readers, women, creatives who are in the trenches, too. People who have been doing this long enough to have the courage to say, “Keep going,” and who understand just how hard it is to get your ass in the chair.

Honestly, I need accountability. I don’t know exactly what that needs to look like, but I know I need support. Check-ins. Connection. Community. If you’re in this place too, or if you feel like you can offer this, reach out to me. Let’s do the damn thing together.