There is a merry-go-round inside my head where I sit for hours each day, spinning around, past, and between the question: what do I want? More specifically, what do I want to do with my time given the things that I must do and how I want to do them and what I feel will give me the greatest chance at happiness or, looked at another way, the best possibility of a living a life of which I am proud and with which I am content, more often than not.

The answer to date: I have no fucking idea.

First, let me acknowledge the uber first-world-problems nature of this question. I have a choice. I have so many choices in terms of what I might do and when and how I might do it. I don’t have to work a full-time job. I could probably get away with mostly volunteering. And, while I do have three small children, I also have a lot of help with caring for them. I am a full-time mom — we all are — but I do not provide their minute-by-minute care day in and day out (praise be).

Counterpoint: money and time and help do not fix anything unless you actively use them to make your life better, like really better in a sustained, worthy, purposeful way.

Currently, I spend my not-immediate-mom-or-other-household-related time at work. I don’t love my job but going to work, even a few days a week, flips a switch for me that says I am useful, to my family and others, I am earning money to pay (some) of my family’s cost of living, I am using the graduate degree I spent years attaining, and pursuing the career I’ve spent over a decade building. Which would all be great, except that going to work is also a massive trigger for my anxiety and depression, so much so that I’ve had to take two leaves of absence in the past three years, one that lasted over a year, and the other of which started after I sent an email asking for leave from a hospital bed in the ICU. Obviously, work is not the cause of my illness(es) but working, especially since my twins were born, has been a major precipitating factor in some of the very worst periods of my life.

And yet, I keep going back, like some punch-drunk boxer who thinks if she just keeps getting up, keeps staggering back to the center of the ring, that somehow she won’t get knocked down again. This time, it will be different. I will take on less, take more breaks, only do certain kinds of projects for certain people, work from home on Fridays, and so on and so forth, as if it’s all a matter of (illusory) work-life balance and not life and death.

But it is a matter of life and death and on the days I can hold that truth steady in my mind and heart, I know I need to quit. And yet, god damn it, I am not a quitter. I refuse to concede defeat. I can do this, this thing where you do all the things and be happy more often than not. I see it being done all around me. All of the lovely lives with make-up and fashionable clothes and eyes that aren’t red from crying, with children who get haircuts and use cutlery and probably don’t have to listen to their mom begging them to please just stop because she can’t, she just can’t right now (or ever). Women with multiple kids, full-time jobs, and husbands who work long hours and travel and, yet, somehow they just can, when I can’t.

I understand that comparison is the death of joy. That I don’t know other women’s lives. But the idea of quitting my job tears open in a me a wound of profound sadness and shame. A wound I want to plaster over as quickly as possible and by whatever means so that I don’t have to feel that pain. The pain of failure.

It was not supposed to be this way. I am not supposed to be this way. Somewhere along the way something went terribly wrong and it must be my fault. This is how it feels when I think about quitting.

But, in actuality, quitting my current job is, at its core, accepting that my life is the way it is and that I am the way I am and that working is not helping me create a life worth living. It is doing the opposite. It is taking the hard parts of my life and making them harder and taking so many of the good parts away.

My life is just as it is and was meant to be for a million different reasons none of which can be changed because they already happened and were themselves a result of a million things that came before. I am failing my life only to the extent that I am choosing not to live it in the way I know will best protect me and provide me with the most happiness. Not walking away from a form of work that continues, for whatever reason, to break me because I am afraid of doing the wrong thing is not merely ironic; it is heartbreaking. I am breaking my own heart.

And I have had enough. I will turn 40 years old in two weeks and I am no longer willing to live my life worried about what other people might think, or, more importantly, what I might think about myself because I can’t tell the difference between what I think I should do and what I actually want. I have to find my wants, to listen and feel for them every day, until I have one in my hand and then run with it, as fast and as far as I can, before I can convince myself it’s not real or good or right. I have to learn how best to love myself so that I can embrace a life that grows that love. I need to quit failing myself by pushing through rather than pulling back to my center. Because I am enough. And I have had enough of my own bullshit. It’s time to get off the merry-go-around, to do the terrifying, first right thing.

A less good dog mom

In 2007, one year into our marriage, my husband and I adopted a dog. She was a one-year-old, chocolate lab. We picked her up in a town north of Davis, California, where she was being fostered pending adoption. She spent most of her time outside in an old horse corral of red dirt. When her foster dad brought her inside, she immediately climbed onto the couch to cuddle with her blue blanket. A blue electric blanket, for obvious reasons. He told us, accurately, that she was very sweet, easy going, and never barked. He also told us she would eat anything, except eggs. This was a lie. She ate eggs.

We drove the hour or so back to Oakland with Sadie in the backseat, cuddled up with my best girl, Stefanie. Except at that point, Sadie wasn’t Sadie. She was Angel. And since that was not happening, the three of us spent the drive rattling off all the people/dog names we could think of until Sadie, and that was it. (We also gave her a middle name, Apples, which was what my husband had wanted to name his childhood dog but had been outvoted).

We arrived home with a new dog and a backseat completely covered in red dirt. I refused to let Sadie inside her new house. Instead, we walked her around to the backyard and gave her the most gloriously transformative dog bath ever. Rivulets of red dirt covered the green grass and when she coughed little puffs of it escaped her mouth. Sadie turned about five shades darker during the course of that bath. She was a dark chocolate chocolate, like 72 percent cacao.

At first, since we didn’t know much about Sadie except that she used an electric blanket and didn’t eat eggs (allegedly), we decided not to give her free run of the house when we were gone during the day. Instead, we would pen her in the kitchen with access to the backyard through a dog door. This idea worked better in our heads. After Sadie had eaten through a variety of impediments, including the backdoor, a soft crate, and part of a bookshelf, we decided to just let her have the house. Apart from her trying to bury a rawhide bone in the leather couch, this proved to be the better approach.

At the time we adopted Sadie, Matt was in business school and I was working obscene hours at a large law firm. I took her running with me in the morning. Matt checked in on her during the day. I did evening walk. Etc. We also hired our landlord’s son to walk her once, sometimes twice, a day. We were extremely eager first time dog parents.

One night, Matt had to travel for a business school competition, I had to work later than anticipated, and I couldn’t uber/tinder/amazon services someone to walk my dog because 2007, so Sadie had to wait. And she did. While slowly eating through three hardcover books, toppling the coat rack, and chewing the foam core of Matt’s bike helmet into teeny-tiny bits. She missed us.

Having no human babies, I was very enthusiastic about caring for and educating my dog baby. I did extensive food-related research and sampling before deciding on the perfect organic, easily digestible, hipster-approved brand of chicken and rice dry dog food. Leather leash, check. Charming designer collar (chocolate cupcakes on a pink background), check. Engraved name tag, check. Ridiculously expensive poofy circle bed with bolster, check. You see where I’m going here.

As for the training, I read many, many books about how to be my dog’s best friend, which I ultimately boiled down to walking around the neighborthood feeding her hotdog bits as she sat before crossing each intersection. Then, I got distracted and, basically, the sitting at corners thing became the only properly-trained dog behavior in her repotiore.

Oh, and because we were worried about her being lonely, we started taking her to doggy daycare two days a week. Like you do when you have no children and time to transport a dog across town multiple times a week. They gave her a name tag: Sadie B. Because there was another Sadie in her class.

The daycare had cameras set up so you could watch your dog and make sure she was doing okay and making friends and taking good naps. The picture quality wasn’t great but I could always tell which dog was Sadie B. because she would spend most of the day right by the gate, hopping, checking to see if we had arrived for pick-up.

Sadie’s love of hopping was exceeded only by her love of hopping into water. She loved the bay. She loved her kiddie pool in the backyard (I know). Perhaps most of all, she loved the disgusting, homemade coy pond in the yard nextdoor to Matt’s grandparent’s house in Sacramento. Wet dog plus dirt plus fish equals all the windows down all the way home.

After two years in Oakland, we moved to Denver. I flew out after a crazy month of trial work, which included me sitting on a box in our empty dining room furiously typing on my laptop while the movers carried our things out to the truck. Matt and Sadie, on the other hand, took a leisurely drive cross-country, making multiple river-adjacent stops along the way so she could swim. Did I mention my husband was her favorite parent? Which worked out, as I soon became the favorite parent of our first human child because I am the mom. I also became a less good dog mom after our son was born.

Motherhood freaked me the fuck out. I had heard of postpartum depression, but nobody mentioned postpartum anxiety, which would have helpfully explained why I was spending naptime checking the expiration dates on and then cleaning all of the cans in our pantry. I put “empty the dishwasher” on my to-do list and then panicked a little about it. Also: nearly dying whenever Henry touched a grocery cart handle or restaurant high chair; nursing only in the nursing chair, with the nursing pillow, at the nursing time (I would walk away mid-conversation to make this happen); buying multiple weather-related carseat covers appropriate for Alaska; vacuuming everyday; preferring never to leave the house; and crying. Crying all the time.

I spent five months on maternity leave. Sadie was there through all of it and I am so ashamed that she often bore the brunt of my fear. I started running again too soon after having Henry and would take Sadie with us. Me, the baby, the stroller, the dog. Running. It was so plainly a terrible idea and yet, when the inevitable happened — Sadie pulled, I staggered, the stroller tipped, and Henry fell — I let loose all of my guilt and fear and rage at that fear on Sadie. As it if were her fault, being a dog who pulls at a leash.

I yelled when she made a mess because I did not have cleaning up Sadie’s mess within the scope of my abilities most days. I put her outside. I told her to go, to get away from me. I told her she was a bad dog.

But she wasn’t a bad dog. She was such a good, sweet older sister to Henry. One of my all time favorite moments — which should have set off red flares of anxiety — was when Henry was eating one of his first solid foods, a mum-mum, and he shared it with Sadie. One slobbery bite for Henry, one slobbery bite for Sadie. And so forth. The video of this on my phone is shaky because I could not not laugh. And Sadie only ever snapped at baby Henry once, when he pulled her whiskers, which I thought was totally justified and scolded Henry, not her, for what had happened. We taught Henry to give Sadie gentle touches, and she dutifully let herself be gently touched.

Gentle touches for Sadie.

We had our lovely moments. But not enough, not nearly enough. And then the twins were born.

Having twins blew me apart, as extensively chronicled in this blog, such that even now, almost four years later, I am still picking up my pieces and fitting them back together. I lost my mind and with it my moral compass. Apart from my children and my marriage, I wanted to burn it all down, and some days nothing seemed worth saving, least of all myself, least of all my dog. My dog who seemed to do nothing but decimate our lovely wooden interiors and puke on the carpet. My dog who brazenly stole food from my toddler’s hand as it was moving towards his mouth. My dog who needed to be fed, walked, let outside in the middle of the night, and taken to the vet to have her teeth cleaned. She was like the fourth child when I had wanted only two. I seethed at her.

Sadie asked less of me than anyone else and yet I resented her the most. Except when I didn’t. Except when I would catch myself about to point and yell and say bad dog and would instead crumple to the floor, wrap my arms around her neck, and whisper cry my apologies into her ear. I’m so sorry, Sadie. You are such a good girl. Such a good girl. And she would nuzzle right back, as if to say none of the horrible things I had done made me less worthy of her love.

As the kids got older, things got better and better between us. They could never be what they were, with the hotdog bits and weekend outings to the bay just to see how big of a stick she could carry back to shore, but I tried to love her as best I could no matter how many bagels she stole from the breakfast table. I walked her, brushed her, and let the kids feed her too many treats. I made sure she had all of her check ups. I scratched her just right behind her ears. I helped her get up when she was stiff after a nap. I placed and replaced the carpet strips on the back stairs so she wouldn’t slip going outside.

About a year ago, Sadie developed a fatty tumor on her right hind leg. Nothing to get excited about. But it kept growing and eventually the vet recommended we have it removed, just in case. They came to do bloodwork on a Monday and she threw up. Labs came back normal and surgery was set for Wednesday. She threw up that morning, surgery was canceled, and she stopped eating. Friday’s ultrasound found cancer in her liver and spleen. I drove to meet my husband at the hospital, shaking with grief, tears and snot streaming down my face, making no effort to wipe them away.

We spent about 30 minutes with her before ringing the little button to let the doctor know we were ready even though we weren’t ready at all. She came. She explained what she was going to do with the white vial and then the pink. My husband couldn’t stay. He had loved her best of all and was too heartbroken to be in that room at the end. I stayed.

I stayed because I am her person and you need your person when it is time. I held her close and we touched noses as if to say I’m sorry and I forgive you and I love you and I will miss you. Then, she was gone. I may have been a less good dog mom after becoming a human mom but I was there for her. I loved her. Always.


After nearly 15 years together, you would think my husband and and I could just talk to each other, about anything. But I’ve actually found the opposite to be true. The closer we become, the more my life has become entangled with his, the more I depend on him to be there day after day, the harder it is for me to speak my mind. There’s just so much at stake.

What if I say the wrong thing? Once I say it out loud I can’t take it back, not really. 

He is the father of my children and the other half of my bank account. He is my emergency contact in every possible way. I can’t lose him. But I can’t talk to him either.

The worst part is I don’t know why. He says I can tell him anything. He’s proven, over and over again, that I can do the worst thing imaginable and he will still love me. Even so, I am convinced that deep-down I am so unlovable eventually he’ll figure it out. He’ll figure it out and he will leave me. 

So I don’t talk to him out of fear. Also because I don’t know what I want to say; where I want to start. It’s just so much; it’s our whole lives. 

I mean, what if we talk and we realize that this isn’t going to work? That’s worst-case scenario right? We talk, we really talk, about who we are and what we want, and we realize that we don’t want each other. What happens then? To us, to our children?

Or what if we try to talk and realize that we simply have nothing to say to each other? Nothing that really matters anyway. Is that any different? How can our marriage work if we don’t have anything real to say to each other anymore? If baby nap schedules and toddler play dates are all we have left between us?

I suppose if that is what we’re going to discover, the deepest darkest secret we’ve been not talking about all these years, we should probably get to it as quickly as possible, right? Because maybe we can fix it. Maybe it’s not too late.

Or maybe this is just a season in our life together when we don’t have much to say that seems important because everything we do to keep our growing family happy and healthy means so much. We speak in actions every minute of every day, and words when we have the time. 

You say I love you by going to work and I say it back by putting the babies to bed. We say this is hard but we can do it, by clearing the table together, each of us with a babe in arms and an eye on their older brother. We say I’m so glad you’re here with me, when we hug before falling asleep, or touch each other in the hallway as we pass from one crying child’s room to the next in the middle of the night.

I would like to really talk more about us and me and how we are doing and what could be better, but I think maybe we are doing okay after all. We love each other the best we can each day and we keep going. There will be time to talk more again soon. I suppose this is just a season among many.

Phone calls

Why is it so hard to pick up the phone? What is it that scares me?

I would rather text or e-mail even my own father. Why is that?

Somehow hearing his voice and having to share mine is just too hard. His might sound different. I won’t be able to keep mine from wavering. There will be awkward pauses and scrambling for things to say that mean anything compared to what we both know is happening: you are dying and I am losing my mind.

Perhaps some things are better left unsaid. 

I will just keep sending you pictures of the grandbabies you haven’t been able to meet yet and you will keep writing how cute they are and what a good mom I am.

We will continue to love each other mostly in silence, as we always have. Because we are quiet people, even in love.

My girl Brené

I just finished watching the 2010 and 2012 TED talks given by Brené Brown about vulnerability and shame. She’s amazing. I love everything she has to say. It sounds so true and real and life-altering and I think it probably would be except I have no idea how to get there. How do I fundamentally change the way that I live my life?

At firsts glance, it seems like it should be easy. Just stop. Stop everything I’ve ever done to be perceived as perfect, to please others, to succeed, to follow all the rules written by everyone else so that everyone else will like me. Stop numbing with exercise, food, alcohol, drugs, work. Just decide that I am enough as I am and let go of the rest.

But how can I stop living my life the way I have always lived it for as long as I can remember? I don’t know how to make my brain (or more appropriately probably, my heart) truly believe this: that I am enough, just as I am, all fucked up crying in my sweatpants and scared of my own babies.

I am so scared of my own life. But I am even more scared to try and change it by letting go of all my little and not-so-little addictions and coping mechanisms. What will happen to me? Who will I even be then?

Back when I was pregnant and absolutely overwhelmed by the idea of having two more babies to take care of, I told myself that maybe it was for the best. Because it would break me. It would force me to change, after 36 years, the way I live my life because that way of life and this new reality are simply not compatible. It’s killing me to try to do this without letting go of my people-pleasing, perfecting ways. I have to let go. And trust that the people who really love me (the real me that’s been hiding under all the other crap for so long) will catch me when I fall.



What scares me about having twins 

Obviously this isn’t some sort of preemptive pro-versus-con list. I have twins. Have had them for about four months now. And I wake up terrified on a regular basis.

I am hoping that by writing down what exactly I’m so scared of I might feel less scared, might be able to separate the legitimate fears from the irrational ones, might be able to take at least one or two things off the list completely, so here goes:

  • I’m scared I will never have the same individual relationship with either of my twins than I have with my first born because I could give him so much more attention and time than I can the twins.
  • I’m scared that I will choose to help the wrong one in an emergency. That I won’t know who needs me more.
  • I’m scared both they and I will always feel like I didn’t give them enough; like my loyalties were always divided in favor of one over the other.
  • I’m scared all of my fear and anxiety and sadness right now will damage them; that they will sense how broken and scared I am by their very existence.
  • I’m scared I will never not feel scared again.
  • I’m scared meeting all the demands of the twins will drive me and my older son apart.
  • I’m scared the same thing will drive me and my husband apart.
  • I’m scared the twins might ever sense my ambivalence about having then; ever know how much I wanted just one more baby and not two.
  • I’m scared I might one day just give in to the constant impulse to let go, let it all fall apart and just run away or disappear because I just can’t do this anymore.
  • I’m scared of spending the rest of my life giving everything I can and always feeing like it is never enough. (I read a post the other day that suggested this was just a fundamental part of parenthood and promptly burst into tears; it makes me want to die to think I will have to live my life feeling this way always).
  • I’m scared I’m going to spend the rest of time wishing this wasn’t my life but never being able to leave because I love them so much.

I’m hopeful that someday (soonish) I will be able to right a post listing all of the things I love about having twins. I’m just not there yet.