Women’s desire, rage, and making a life out of one’s art (February wrap-up)
February was a fever dream of stepping through fear into my power
February was a fever dream of changing timezones and weather and landscapes. It was white powdery sand running through my fingers and sneaking away to be alone with the ocean. It was iced matchas with fresh made almond milk and the scent of the eucalyptus tree in the place I used to call home. It was the whiplash of seeing my hero perform at the most beautiful venue in the U.S. to staying up all night with a sick toddler—can things ever just be good without the struggle? It was Morro rock at night and standing in the dark to hear the waves and the stars. It was lying in a bed of seashells in the sun while my son placed rocks on my body like an offering. It was the scent of California sagebrush and the sunshine-yellow flowers that lined every path to the sea. It was record stores in the rain and cinnamon-dusted golden milk and chasing the salt-crusted dream of home. It was waking up before sunrise, before my son, to walk the beach with nothing but my own longing. It was pizza joints multiple nights in a row and arcade games and my son’s tired face pressed into my chest. It was being overwhelmed by a sob the moment I stepped onto the beach where I used to live—sorrow over leaving, gratitude for returning, all crashing over me at once. It was stuffing my pockets with so much sea glass that both my heart and my pants felt heavy, but it only made me wish I could empty them, wish I could stay. It was taking my son to my favorite beach—the one that appears every time a guided meditation leads me to my safe place—and saying, look, this is it. This is everything. Do you feel held like I do? It was walking through forests of eucalyptus and rows of palms and asking myself, why did I ever leave this place? It was having so many questions and not being satisfied with the answers to any of them. It was standing at the edge of the sea waiting for sunset even if it never came. It was artist friends and their clay-covered hands showing you what it takes to build a life in the city you left behind. It was sidewalk paths flanked with lavender and trees dripping Japanese camellia flowers and stepping through a portal into spring. It was seaside diners with hatch-chile omelets and pancakes soaked in salty butter shaped like clouds. It was committing to publishing my memoir on my own terms and feeling the world receive it in a way that has already changed me. It was city cafes with writer friends talking about worth and asking, will it ever lead us to wholeness? It was chocolate-strawberry milkshakes and my son reading his book on 101 essential rock records at the sticky fast-food table. It was leaving the desert where I grew up without fully processing what it meant to return. It was yelling at my son after midnight too many times, exhausted and overstimulated, then whispering, I’m sorry, I love you—will I ever break free from the patterns of my parents? Will I ever be the kind of mother I set out to be? It was shitty pastries in Moab and taking my son to the desert full of arches and holding the red earth in our hands. It was rock formations that looked like a herd of elephants and waking up in the devil’s garden. It was full days with my dog’s head on my lap and being so fully content with doing nothing. It was art installations in Colorado and guiding a room full of women back home to themselves. It was being inspired by the bravery of other women and stepping through my own fear, being cracked open because of it. It was grief over returning to the mountains and gratitude for returning to space, returning to quiet. It was being overrun with sickness and not being able to do all the things I’d planned to do upon coming home. It cuddling my son in our king-sized bed and saying, at least there’s this, which is the most important thing I could ever do. It was my son’s painted hands and our ever-long days playing make-believe in pretend worlds where houses are built from drum sets. It was getting to the center of women’s desire, how sometimes people get hurt when we put ourselves first, and learning how to be okay with it.
WHAT I’M READING
Nightbitch by Rachel Yoder
I’m in the middle of Nightbitch. It’s been on my list forever—ever since my friend, the insanely talented mother/artist Rachel Larsen Weaver, recommended it to me.
If you’re not familiar it’s about a stay-at-home mom (who once had a thriving art career) who starts noticing changes. Her teeth feel sharper. Her body hair thickens. Her instincts turn feral. Is she losing her mind, or is she actually—literally—turning into a dog? It’s a dark, visceral, and wildly original exploration of motherhood, rage, and the primal self we’re told to suppress. And I think I avoided it for so long because I didn’t want to sit in my own grievances about motherhood. I know books like this are meant to make me feel seen, but sometimes they just make me wallow. And I don’t have time to spiral. I need to name the hard things, acknowledge them, validate them—but I also need to keep moving. Keep going. Focus on the good.
And I was afraid of what was in store for me with Nightbitch.
It validated everything I struggle with—the thanklessness of motherhood, the way you lose yourself, how connection with your partner erodes, how resentment creeps in. How they just don’t get it. How I long for connection with other mothers—for someone who can both commiserate and celebrate with me from shared experience. But finding that feels impossible sometimes. And some days feel excruciatingly long. How your body aches from exhaustion, from pretending to be happy while also being a make-believe truck or dinosaur or whatever else your kid is into that day.
What I didn’t expect, though, was how empowering it would feel.
At first, the premise seemed ridiculous. A mom turning into a dog? But the deeper I got, the more I felt the pull—this raw, untamed instinct, the idea that we’re all still animals underneath the performance of being “good mothers.” What if we shed the guilt, the self-doubt, the endless self-sacrifice, and just lived? What if we trusted our desires, our instincts, our wildness?
The book is strange and unsettling—but also the most honest thing I’ve ever read about motherhood. And I’m only halfway through. I can’t wait to finish and then I’m going to watch the movie, which I’ve heard good things about.
WHAT I’M WATCHING
Three Women
This series is based on Three Women by Lisa Taddeo. First, some context.
It’s a work of nonfiction that follows three women and their sex lives—aka their desire. You might know, in some vague way, that we rarely see raw, unfiltered depictions of female sexuality in mainstream literature. But you don’t fully grasp how rare it is until you're holding this book in your hands.
Taddeo spent years embedded in these women’s lives, documenting their intimate experiences. The result reads more like a novel than investigative journalism—gripping, messy, voyeuristic. But if you’re expecting some grand manifesto on female desire, you might be disappointed. The title tells you exactly what you’re getting: Three Women. Not all women. Not a definitive take on sexuality. Just three deeply personal, deeply complicated stories.
We follow Maggie, who had a relationship with her married teacher as a teen and is still carrying the scars (this whole story gave me the ick so beware). Lina, desperately seeking passion in an affair after years in an emotionally detached marriage. And Sloane, who sleeps with other people while her husband watches. It’s uncomfortable, scandalous, often heartbreaking—and impossible to look away from.
Some criticize the book for not being feminist enough, arguing that all three women’s experiences are shaped by men. Fair critique. But Taddeo doesn’t present these stories as empowering—she simply presents them as they are. Through them, she exposes how women’s desires are policed, punished, and shaped by gender dynamics—whether it’s a teenage girl being exploited by a man in power or a wife suffocating in a passionless marriage.
Is it groundbreaking? Maybe not. But is it compelling? Absolutely. And the sex. I’m here for it. Taddeo is brilliant at writing sex from the female perspective, which feels almost radical in modern storytelling.
If you’re looking for a deep sociological study of female desire, this isn’t it. But if you love immersive storytelling, scandal, and the kind of book you devour in one sitting, Three Women delivers.
And the show? If anything, it’s better. They made some changes to make it even more woman-centric, focusing fully on desire from her perspective—what happens when it’s actually honored, indulged. They also added a fourth woman, Gia, based on Taddeo herself. This was my favorite part—following Gia as she interviews these women, fights to figure out what it is she wants to say in her book, struggles to deal with her childhood wounding around trust and love, and understanding her own desire.
I loved the show, even though I had to fast-forward through parts of Maggie’s story (I don’t have the stomach for teacher-student predation). Sloane’s story was irresistible. Lina’s was desperate and heartbreakingly real. And the sex scenes? I’m still thinking about them. Lots of broad shoulders. Lots of shots where he’s in focus, his body on display in all its big-dick glory—which, let’s be honest, film rarely captures. Seeing sex shot for the female gaze instead of the male gaze? Incredibly refreshing.
Would I have loved the show as much without reading the book? I’m not sure. But I do know that if you want an honest look at female desire—the ache of it, the struggle of it, the way it leaves both pleasure and destruction in its wake—you should watch.
Because I saw myself in these women. In each of them, at different points in my life and that alone was a brutal awakening that I’m still processing.
I’ll leave you with these words from Taddeo herself:
"It's the nuances of desire that hold the truth of who we are at our rawest moments. I set out to register the heat and sting of female want so that men and other women might more easily comprehend before they condemn. Because it's the quotidian moments of our lives that will go on forever, that will tell us who we were, who our neighbors and our mothers were, when we were too diligent in thinking they were nothing like us. This is the story of three women.”
Things that are helping me step into my power
Art of Alchemy with Kat River
I've joined
’s Art of Alchemy, and I couldn't be more excited to take this leap—for myself, for my art, and for the clarity I’ve been craving. Clarity about my gifts, what I want to offer my community, and how to build something that feels both deeply aligned and financially sustainable. But more than anything, I’m yearning for community—with women, with fellow mother-artists, with creatives who understand the push and pull of making art while nourishing a family.Kat’s course is all about crafting business magic for intuitive mothers—women who want to build something that supports their families and feeds their creative spirits. And that’s exactly what I want. I want to make a living doing what I love—writing, connecting with women, and guiding others through the power of storytelling to help them process, heal, and return home to themselves. I want to step into joyful service, and I know that means getting intentional and clear about what I have to offer.
What drew me to Kat is that she blends practical, results-driven strategy with the kind of magic that speaks to me—manifestation, breathwork, human design. I’m equal parts “let’s get the damn thing done” and “surrender to the universe”, and this feels like the perfect mix of both.
If you’re a mother and a creative longing for community, structure, and a blueprint to show up in the world as the artist you know you are, this might be exactly what you’re looking for. If nothing else, subscribe to Kat’s Substack,
for everything she shares will guide you back to your power.
Words Workshop
I’m joining Rachel Larsen Weaver’s Words Workshop starting March 10, and I couldn’t be more honored to step into this space—to find my words, to deepen my writing practice, and to be in community with women who are committed to telling their stories.
This four-week writing workshop isn’t just about putting words on a page—it’s about diving deep into your stories, embracing the creative process, and building a dynamic, sustainable writing practice that will carry you forward long after the workshop ends. And there’s no one better to guide this process than Rachel.
Just being around Rachel makes me feel more alive, more magnetic, more in tune with the creative energy that fuels me. She’s real and raw, a mother, an artist, a teacher, and—above all—a follower of her own joy. When I think about joy, I think about Rachel. She moves toward what lights her up and has built an incredibly successful business out of her art—something I’m deeply yearning to do.
There’s still time to join if you’re craving a space to write, reflect, and reclaim your voice—or if you simply want to be surrounded by women who are choosing to put themselves and their art first in a world that constantly tells them not to.
Memoirs, month-long road trips, and fighting sickness
We’re finally home from our month-long road trip to California, and I haven’t processed any of it—because two days before we got back, I got the flu, and I’ve been down ever since.
Right now, as I type this, I’m full-on mouth-breathing because both nostrils are completely blocked. I’ve lost track of what day of this sickness I’m on (eight? nine?), but I am over it.
I want to revel in the magic of the trip—to sift through the footage, revisit journal pages, wade through memory, and pull all the pieces together into something that truly captures what it felt like. But that’s not happening in my current state. So, I just have to trust that when the time is right, the story will tell itself.
What I can tell you is that I’m happy to be home.
Living in a camper van with my husband, toddler, and two dogs for a month had all the makings of a nightmare at times—especially for someone like me. I need space. I need quiet. We have a king bed at home because I need a continent between my husband and me when I sleep. On the road? It was all three of us crammed into one bed. I swear I haven’t slept in a month, which is probably why I got so sick.
I’m also someone who thrives on alone time—a lot of alone time. At home, I wake up two hours before everyone else just to have quiet space to meditate, journal, and write. I need at least an hour at night to decompress, to read or just be in my own thoughts. I take daily walks alone with my dogs. But for the last month, all of that vanished. And it wrecked my creative output.
I didn’t touch my novel after day five, despite setting an intention to work on it for at least 30 minutes a day. Now, I’m completely disconnected from my characters and will probably have to reread 30k–40k words just to get back into the world. One day, I’ll figure out how to balance writing and traveling. The problem is that traveling makes me want to be fully present in the real world, and writing—especially fiction writing—pulls me into another world entirely. Balancing the two feels impossible.
That said, I did manage to keep showing up here on Substack. I’ve been posting Notes (and actually enjoying it), and I’ve fully committed to publishing my memoir here. I’ll be serializing it starting March 6.
The support I’ve received here has been unreal—it has me in tears. I’m so grateful I chose to publish now instead of waiting for a miracle or letting the story die.
I’m supposed to be recording the audiobook this week, but considering I currently sound like Darth Vader, that’s going to have to wait. I’ll have it done before March 6, though, so you can listen if that’s more your vibe.
If you want to catch up on all things memoir, I’ve created a new section on my Substack here. The full memoir will be for paid subscribers ($5/month or $50/year), but I never want cost to be a barrier for those who want to support me.
So, I’m offering two discounted-tier options:
$34/year (for those who can afford a little more and want to support a writer-mother building a nourishing creative life)
And if times are tough, I’m also giving away a handful of free subscriptions. Just send me a message—I got you.
