It is May 1st— May day— and the full, flower moon is bright in the California night sky.

A man drives by in a small security golf cart. “Pie! Full moon pie!” everyone exclaims.

He furtively stomps out his cigarette, and puts his cart in park before he saunters over apprehensively. He reaches his hands out to accept a large, warm piece of dark plum-colored, mixed berry pie. He looks genuinely delighted and thanks everyone before quickly getting back to work.

Every evening of the full moon, my aunt Mia mixes, kneads, rolls, and bakes. She shows up at dusk on the lawn of the neighborhood city college over-looking the sea. She’s invited me many times, and somehow between life and work we’ve never made it to eat pie under the full moon— until tonight.

Tonight feels different— My partner and I are both off early, we have to leave the house to drop my teenager off around the dinner hour anyway, and my toddler is finally behaving well enough to mingle with others (key word, enough). So we grab some food for a picnic and get out the door to full moon pie night.

The last time I tasted full moon pie was October 7th. I remember the exact date because that was the day I gave birth to my daughter Noemi. The full moon was competing with the streetlights as I walked around my neighborhood, hoping to speed up my contractions. I remember gazing up at the moon, dreaming of what Noemi would look like, and praying that my labor would be swift and pain-free.

The next morning I gave birth to my daughter, safely at home, sun in the sky, and later that afternoon Mia dropped off a full berry pie. I probably ate half of it myself and the fresh, tartness of the berries and the subtle salt and buttery flavor still reverberates on my palate. It was divine.

We named my daughter Noemi Luna both in honor of her grandmother and the luminous moon that night.

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This tradition began just before Covid.

As the story goes, Mia and my aunt Jeanne came to the college years ago with a piece of pie and watched the moon rise. In order to remake that perfect moment every month, the tradition was born. It’s grown more meaningful because since then, Jeanne has passed away and full moon pie is as much a celebration of community and the lunar wonders as it is a way to honor and remember her.

The air smells of jasmine and salty seaweed and as we walk up to greet Mia by the picnic tables, I get a waft of warm butter and berries. My mouth waters instantly.

I’m having dessert before dinner, I decided.

My other Aunt, Joanie, is here visiting and arrives at the college to eat berry pie. I wonder if she’s thinking about her sister, Jeanne. If she were alive, I’m sure she’d be here, and I’m even more sure she would’ve brought something delicious to share– she was an exceptional cook, the kind whose absence you can taste. The meals at our family gatherings now lack salt, garlic, butter, and well, her.

I embrace my Aunties as we arrive and Joanie immediately offers to take the baby so we can get our piece of pie.

Neighbors come from every direction as the evening wanes. A woman arrives with two bottles of Willamette Valley Pinot Noir—the good stuff, she says— to share . A man returns for the second time with his wife and a half gallon of vanilla ice cream. A couple arrives, each towing two kids on e-bike, undoubtedly returning customers as the children clamor off the bike and run over, eager to grab a slice bigger than their siblings’.

A young woman walks by with her dog and the whole table beckons her enthusiastically to come get pie. Pie! They shout, it’s the best pie you’ll ever have! Take it to go! They offer, anytime someone politely declines. I don’t trust people who don’t eat pie! my aunt exclaims jokingly. The crowd of neighbors laugh, and agree.

Pie bullies, my cousin comments as we watch and laugh from the grass.

Everyone has a big slice of deep purple berry pie in a paper bowl, talking between bites, drinking wine.

One woman declines pie because she’s vegan. Mia assures her she uses vegetable oil— It’s the only way to get a crust this flaky, she says— but I could’ve sworn I tasted butter and the shiny pie crust looked brushed with egg. Perhaps the pie is vegan, or perhaps she told a little white lie as a way of saying we all eat the same around here.

I notice the sense of safety and ease I feel in my body. My jaw is relaxed, shoulders slack. My eyes are wide, taking in everything.

The ocean looks extraordinary and the sky is still bright but transitioning to periwinkle as the sun goes down and the moon begins to show itself. I feel a sense of community in this moment, I feel a sense of belonging. This ritual that Mia created has touched so many lives.

She’s created something meaningful without attaching meaning. It’s a come as you are, bring nothing or bring something (or someone), no pressure, welcoming space that means something different to everyone.

My son plays with the four other children and they roll down the grassy knolls, and play tag until their little noses run and their cheeks become rosy from the wind.

This is what a community can look like when one person shares a meaningful ritual. This is what showing up can feel like.

May is a lucky month— there are two full moons this month so I plan to start and finish May with full moon pie.

Next time, I’ll bring the coffee.

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Sex is one of the few topics that makes me light up in conversation. Which probably means I should talk, write about— and have— it more often.

This is especially ironic because I’m currently not having any. So when my mom, sister and I bought tickets to go see Esther Perel at our local very posh, very celebrity bookstore, I was thrilled.

I’ve been thinking about sex— a lot. My daughter is 6 months old and I haven’t had sex since my partner and I feverishly yet prescriptively attempted to induce labor with his prostaglandins over 6 months ago. Since then, I’ve been buried in diapers and drowning in tiny people’s laundry, surviving on interrupted sleep and protein bars.

Lately, I’ve been acutely aware of the lack of sex we’re having.

I binge-watched Heated Rivalry in just a few nights, my daughter asleep on me for the majority of the series– I couldn’t avert my eyes. I found myself smiling dumbly at the screen, flushing at the steamy scenes. I imagined my early-twenty-something nextdoor neighbors are secretly lovers; engaging in all kinds of sexual fantasies just beyond my bedroom wall.

Logistically, how? When? Where would we even find a free 40 mins at least (I require some warm up) and a comfortable, private corner of the house to have sex? Back yard? Too buggy and chilly—burr. Bathroom? I’ve never been the girl that can come quickly while vertical in the shower. Kitchen? Risky. My daughter’s bedroom is 30ft away and we’ve already traumatized her from an interrupted almost-lovemaking sesh in Italy of all places. FML.

There’s been a few advances –from him– but I’ve yet to be on the same page. There’s been little sexual motivation on my part, from the hormones, they say. But frankly, with two under two, a teenage girl and two exhausted adults all under the a 1300 sqft condo roof, it feels situational more than anything.

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Fast-forward to Godmothers Books.

Esther Perel walked in with a playful, confident energy that tells me instantly that she practices what she’s preaching.

I’m standing in the back row of the intimate book shop, my daughter strapped to my chest, snoring quietly while I bounce her softly. I’m anxious that she’ll wake up and disturb the talk with her squeals and grunts, but she sleeps the entire time.

I stand there, listening to a discussion on intimacy and desire, and there’s a warm body heavy in my arms, completely reliant on my body. My body feels spoken for, claimed and touched out, with little space for any more giving. What would reclaiming my body even feel like at this point?

The conversation begins and the interviewer asks Esther: What do you do to reconnect with desire?

Esther turns to position the audience.

The notion is I shut myself down. I turn myself on. I awaken myself, I ignite my desire, I connect to pleasure.

Let’s just say I’ve been known to make excuses to make a passive aggressive point about why I’m uninterested in sex.

Who could be interested in sex when the house looks like this?
Who could want sex when I’m sleeping like shit?
Who could want sex when I have to work to help pay the bills?
Who could want sex when there’s zero romance in the relationship? Hint, hint. 

But Esther cuts through the bullshit. We are in control of our own aliveness. Desire requires aliveness and it’s neither their job nor is it within their ability to maintain our own aliveness.

She turns it around and asks the audience to complete the sentence—

I turn myself on when…

When I workout hard enough to break a sweat
When I find something hilarious and laugh hysterically
When I create something, anything
When I shave my legs and armpits and massage oil into my skin after a hot shower
When I style and wear my hair down
When I wear sexy underwear
When I listen to all the R&B baddies (Shoutout Badu, Snoh, Naomi, Jazmine, Sade, Jhene, Ari)
When I do something spontaneous ie. cold plunge, call out of work, last minute road trip…

Importantly, when was the last time you did the thing that turns yourself on?

Personally, I’m slowly getting better at it. I’ve started running (slowly) and since beginning this Substack I’ve felt motivated to write again and subsequently also very inspired and energized from the other writers on this platform. I’m doodling and painting whenever possible. I’m cutting back on wine, and reserving it only for social, special occasions, rather than the nightly ritual I let it become.

It’s 9pm, and my toddler is asleep in his room. I’m in bed with the baby (6mo) — we’re still bed sharing and nursing full time. My 14yo daughter is downstairs finishing an episode of the OC before bed. My partner will shower, go out to the garage where he gets a little high then he’ll stay downstairs watching YouTube until long after I’m asleep.

I notice how I’m feeling since the talk at Godmother’s— A little more present, a little more aware of the longing I have for intimacy with him, a little more openness. A desire to try something different.

I love any practice that shifts blame to personal accountability because I feel safest when I’m in control.

I don’t like to give away my power, let alone my sexuality and desire. As a woman, my sexuality has always been a part of my identity. But eroticism as aliveness and as something you either are or aren’t at any given moment? I’m realizing I’ve been shut down for the majority of the last six months.

I’ve been in survival mode, caretaking mode. Putting my needs and desires and pleasures on the backburner to avoid overburdening my partner or a disruption to “the schedule”.

Esther talks about eroticism requiring novelty and that the best way to become platonic living under the same roof is routine, familiarity, comfort. Ding ding ding! I can’t help but think instantly of our monotonous rituals around naps, baths, and bedtimes. I can’t remember our last “date night”.

Esther leans back on the couch, spreads her legs and mimics someone getting ready to binge watch an entire season of Love Island and finish a tub of ice cream to the face.

That’s what long term relationships looks like.

Then she sits up with a straight spine, eyes wide and leans forward with a flirtatious grin.

This is what curiosity, interest, aliveness looks like.

Aliveness leaves us open to connection, eroticism, sex. When we feel shut down, dead, defeated, we are not able to respond to bids for connection or desire. We close ourselves off to desire and the erotic and become uninterested in sex.

I think about our interactions at home. The comfort we’ve fallen into. The assumptions about each other that cause arguments, leaving no room for curiosity or dynamism. The farting, the unflushed toilet, the unmade bed – My God, have we turned into animals since these babies were born?

Grief bubbles up as I’m reminded of the us we were before two babies –the couple who had the sex part down pat. The couple with a strong, satisfying physical relationship. I used to sit on his lap at parties and hold him from behind in the kitchen while he cooked us meals. As I stand in the back row, gently swaying my daughter, a wave of longing for the version of us with less responsibilities washes over me.

I’m thinking more about the relationship I want to have. Exchanging kisses and embraces whenever coming and going. Putting the kids to bed and enthusiastically climbing under the covers to cuddle naked and finally put hands on each other. Maybe we lock the bathroom door and share a shower, sudzing each other’s backs and embracing under the warm water. Maybe we will finally ask our nanny if she’s available on a Friday evening so we can go check out a new restaurant in town– we both have a passion for good food, and fun new restaurants.

Maybe we do this to model for our kids what it looks like to prioritize our romantic relationship. We are the pillars, the support system that holds our little family of five together.

Esther Perel says most people will have two, three, sometimes more marriages in their lifetime, some within the same relationship (We aren’t even married yet, but…). I feel moved to imagine the beginning of a new version of our relationship after babies. The opportunity to create a new dynamic, within our new, beautiful, chaotic, messy, unpredictable life.

Now that turns me on.

Have you recently navigated your way back to desire postpartum?

What do you do to turn yourself on? I’d love to know.

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I turned 37. Closer to forty than I am to thirty. My face is finally starting to show my age and I even have a few coarse, wiley grays sprouting around my hairline. I no longer get carded when I buy wine, and I’ve finally begun to feel uncomfortable shopping at Urban Outfitters (for myself, but now I buy my 14yo daughter items from their on-sale because 90s fashion is back and I approve of everything except the low rise jeans).

Thirty-seven despite feeling like I could be one of the next cast members on Love Island. What’s the opposite of body dysmorphia? Where I’m actually disillusioned into thinking I could remotely fit into a cast of early twenty-somethings who are all fit and perfectly symmetrical. After two babies in two years, my body is soft, stretched, and my skin is dry because I don’t have the time to moisturize after showers like I used to.

But somehow, I feel more comfortable in my skin than my twenty-something body ever did. More capable, too.

This year, we had beach days and dinners with friends and we spent hours and hours and thousands of dollars improving our condo and trying to make it feel a little more like home. I can feel that we’re getting closer.

Living downtown has its perks and I spent the year exploring them. We’re a short walk away from the beach, various playgrounds, the public library, the courthouse, and all the shopping, restaurants and coffee shops my wanting self desires.

My thirty-seventh year was life-changing— again. As aforementioned, I birthed my baby girl Noemi, safe at home, with two midwives, my partner and my 14yo daughter in a lukewarm tub on a bright October afternoon. My daughter delivered the baby— with guidance— handed her to me, and I sucked the water and mucus from my newborn’s nostrils until she cried out. She was here. My family is finally complete.

We went to two concerts at the Santa Barbara Bowl— The Marias and Disclosure. A night spent at the Bowl is always just the right balance of comfort and novelty. We love to grab a bite, catch a 2-3 hour show — which is just enough time to count as a “night out”— then promptly embark on a brisk 20min walk home to be cozy and in bed before 10:30pm. Simply the best.

We traveled to Sayulita and Puerta Vallarta, Mexico with our family and enjoyed a hot, humid, sweaty tropical vacation when I was 7 months pregnant. Very on brand for me considering I traveled to Cuba during my previous pregnancy.

We camped in Tuolemne Meadows, Yosemite and braved a family road trip to Big Sur.

This year was physically hard. My second pregnancy in less than two years proved challenging— there were several times I felt betrayed by my body. I couldn’t trust my body to walk the same distances that it used to. My lungs were constantly breathless and the hunger, the absolute constant hunger I experienced was in itself a full time job. I was sick at least a handful of times including getting a stomach bug that left me with uncontrollable diarrhea for days. I literally can’t think of a worse thing to endure while pregnant.

I lost trust in my body, then I lost control, then— thank GODDESS— I got it back.

37 things I’d tell my early twenty-something self

1. You will write. Start now

2. The sex you were having to feel wanted and the sex you actually wanted were two completely different things. You’ll learn the difference. Unfortunately it takes longer than it should.

3. Envy is information about your desires not an invitation for comparison

4. That thing you want to say? SAY IT

5. Your children do not need a perfect mother. They need a present one.

6. Learn about compound interest and invest early. Any amount, just stay consistent.

7. Your femininity is not weakness. It is your superpower

8. Your over-functioning is about control. Don’t hesitate to ask for support

9. You will spend a lot of your 20s trying to be impressive. Your 30s will be about trying to be honest. Honest > impressive

10. Any art is worth making. Keep creating imperfect things

11. You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with. Surround yourself with people who inspire you

12. Lean into your grief. The discomfort of witnessing is nothing compared to the weight of having stayed away.

13. You don’t always have to do it for the story (IYKYK)

14. It’s ok to want softness and safety. That doesn’t make you boring

15. Enjoy your body and your perky breasts and dimpleless butt

16. Eat healthy. Most of your body insecurities disappear when you just eat whole foods

17. Find an adult you admire — study her

18. Disgust is a powerful emotion. Don’t ignore it

19. Stop nodding along. “I don’t know” will earn you more respect than faking it ever did

20. Wear sunscreen. Every day. Face, neck, chest. No exceptions.

21. Family is forever. Show up to the things, answer the phone calls, have the hard conversations.

22. Your beliefs about money are just borrowed stories. Figure out whose they are before they quietly make all your financial decisions for you

23. Travel will expand you more than any therapy session or self help book. Go before you think you can afford it

24. On parenting: Do your best to respond not react. If you fuck up (and you will— countless times!), REPAIR

25. A body you’re comfortable in never goes out of style

26. Stop drinking after two drinks (or altogether) and you’ll avoid 90% of the trauma in your life.

27. Show up better for your friends. Don’t drop them for some guy who (spoiler alert!) will be history in a couple years

28. A good man is not a myth. Stop performing cynicism about this.

29. Stop faking orgasms.

30. You’re going to love college so don’t sweat being a high school dropout.

31. On style: Stiletto pumps will go out of style so don’t bother learning to walk in them. & buy clothes and shoes that fit and feel good, regardless of the size on the tag

32. You’re not depressed you’re just surrounded by assholes.

33. Stop looking for external validation— false confidence feels different than true authenticity. Find a crew you can be yourself with.

34. For the love of God, embrace your natural hair!

35. Seek out nature— water, flowers, trees, anything. The sooner you start a practice of being with nature, the sooner you’ll feel whole.

36. Avoid the hard drugs. Your future brain will thank you!

37. Don’t throw away your journals! You are going to be very curious about who you were in your teens and early 20s. Stash them away for future you

I’ve learned this year that I’m not as healed as I thought I was. I’m not as regulated, patient, or organized as a parent as I’d hoped to be. BUT I do have more tools, and support this time around.

I need a lot more alone time than I understood to be true before being a mom of three.

I’ve watched my body transform again and again over the last few years and I’ve learned to call that resilience, instead of ruin.

I’ve learned that democracy is fragile. That life is fragile. That the things we take for granted aren’t guaranteed— it could all disappear in a blink.

I’ve learned that gratitude is a powerful antidote to dissatisfaction.

I’ve learned again and again that life happens in seasons, and the seasons are always shorter than we expect.

This year’s pleasures, recommendations and various things to level up living

• Naomi Sharon. Every song, every album.

• Magnesium Glycinate for my sleep and restless legs. I’ve been meaning to try Thiamine too for relaxation

• Cozy coffee shops. Especially Cajè and Dart coffee, Santa Barbara

• Cozy Earth slippers upgraded my home life dramatically

• LASIK — game-changer! 10/10 recommend if you have nearsightedness like yours truly

• This Baggu carry on and pouches as a diaper bag. Organization is the key to a smooth day with babies. A stocked diaper bag is essential

• Vitamin C serum (I use Skinceuticals) and tretinoin 0.05 to keep me fly. Same formulation. Still the best. Worth the investment! Looking for a quality moisturizer — drop in the comments if you have a solid rec!

• Thrifting! I’m obsessed with treasure hunting. I’m interested in learning to sew so I can make gifts and outfits — maybe this next year will be the year <3

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What resonates? Let me know:)

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ciao, bella. xo

Spring has sprung in Santa Barbara and it feels more like Summer.

Time at home is exponentially more sweet now that I am back to work. I convince my teenage daughter to join me and the babies on a walk to farmers market for our dinner haul and the local bakery for a warm loaf.

Wind chimes and little blue songbirds harmonize in the soft sunlight.  Bicycles whizz by and my son points and names everything we pass— cat, tree, flower, poop.

Winter’s Camellias are falling and the Bougainvillea drape the white stucco archways in pinks and sherbets and it always reminds me of Summer in Italy.

The jacaranda trees and wisteria are blossoming, coloring our walks with pastel purples and a sweet earthy smell carries in the warm breeze.

The sun is hot on my skin but the shade feels cool so we dress in layers and I show my toes— painted a whimsical sparkly blush for the season.

The Farmer’s market takes on a brighter tone— fuchsia, oranges and yellows spread out on tables and on sample boards. The flower stands are irresistible— crowded basins filled with ranunculus, peonies and tulips of every color.

The apiarist at the farmstand gives me a sample by dipping a popsicle stick into the honey and I can taste the wild flowers.  I smear a layer on my lips as if it were a sticky gloss then take my time licking them clean.

I wonder if anyone is watching.

We gather our vegetables for dinner, sweet carrots, broccoli, ginger and garlic, a lemon. My baby uses a small carrot as a teether and my children snack on strawberries as we walk home, staining their faces and collars red from the juices.

This season is like a series of photos toggled to full saturation. My senses are alive and satiated with every sound, sight, taste and smell.

After dark, a hot lavender bath and a sensual foot rub will close the perfect Spring evening and as I fall asleep I  remember that this was the life I once prayed for.

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No, not everyday looks like this but there are extraordinary days. Sharing to remember and echo the beauty of our routines.

buy me an iced tea to enjoy while writing under the bougainvillea🍓

I’m based in Santa Barbara, CA. I’d love to see what this season looks like for you. Post a photo in the comments🌷

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Book Club Conversation Critique

on The Slight Edge by Jeff Olson

I’m reading (rather listening to) The Slight Edge by Jeff Olson for a book club with some colleagues of mine.

It’s incredibly inspiring AND something feels off — it feels overly masculine—the kind of book the bro podcasters would have on in the background as they mix their body weight in protein into a vanilla shake.

I was quickly absorbed in the book because of the simple promise: Consistent actions, with discipline, yield results in every aspect of our lives.

At first, this notion made me feel good. It’s empowering! All I have to do is a few of the “right” things every day, be patient, and all my dreams will eventually come true. Voilà!

The very thing that attracted me to the book now seems to be its biggest blind spot.

The message is: you need more discipline.

But overburdened women don’t always need more discipline. We don’t need the same routines every day. We need support, time, intuition and permission.

He paints a picture of himself as a mediocre guy. Mediocre at everything, without acknowledging the privilege he inherently has. Male. White. Able-bodied.

Consistent actions do compound. Our actions do matter. This part feels true.

But square one for a cis White male doesn’t compare to square one for a woman or BIPOC woman or disabled body. You get the point.

I’ll speak from my personal experience. An overburdened woman, carrying the emotional labor of an entire family, has less capacity for new habits. She needs support, time, space not a checklist of items to do.

In a culture that has programmed her to bypass her intuition since infancy, she needs practice returning to her Self for guidance, not outsourcing her success to a one size fits all playbook. She needs to grant herself permission to honor her needs, and she needs the world to mirror that permission and reward her for it.

The slight edge for an overburdened woman may be to stop over-functioning and allow oneself to REST.

For a historically marginalized body, the slight edge may be internal deprogramming or rest rather than more productive functioning. Small actions carried out with discipline in a society that wasn’t created for you will likely be met with greater barriers and less opportunities. Nevermind navigating systems and structures designed to hinder marginalized bodies’ success and fulfillment.

Olson talks extensively about a pivotal moment in his career where he essentially becomes “the chosen one” and is mentored by a professional idol of his. He suggests that his showing up for lunch with this person, initially infrequently, then weekly led to his being taken under his wing. Would the same outcome apply to a woman or other marginalized body? The statistics suggest otherwise.

A quick internet search revealed the following: According to McKinsey’s 2025 report, for every 100 men promoted to manager, only 93 women receive the same promotion — and for women of color, that drops to 74. Women hold nearly half the workforce but less than a third of leadership roles.

At least in work, discipline isn’t the problem.

Olsen never acknowledges that these simple little habits may, in practice, look vastly different for a privileged white male when compared to say, a single mom of 3 or a body of culture (to borrow Resmaa Menekem’s vocab) or any individual living in poverty or a disabled body. But that’s a longer essay, written by someone with more proximity to those experiences than I have.

Olson’s philosophy has good intentions, but without acknowledging that the starting point is enormously different and the playing field is far from even, the book feels like another patriarchal “pull yourself up from the bootstraps” type book preaching a one-size fits all success strategy.

Each example including Olsen himself presumably starts with an able body, time, and a support system. Without any of these components, his philosophy flattens.

As a woman in a body based on a monthly cycle of 28 days, I resent his notion that one day missed is a rest day, two days is a step in the wrong direction (I’m listening on audiobook, so I don’t have the direct quote).

For the overburdened woman, the Slight Edge rarely consists of MORE DOING.

Maybe for women, it’s about the Softer Edge. Maybe it’s about attuning — listening to your body and choosing actions (or inactions) that honor your present needs rather than the twenty squats or ten pages of reading you decided in follicular phase would be good for you (Olson and most men have probably never uttered the phrase “follicular phase” in their life). Maybe during menstruation you choose to skip your chosen exercise and opt for the peanut M&Ms and maybe you choose to crash early and forego your nightly reading.

Maybe you choose not to believe that your decision to do so will sabotage your chance at achieving your ideal body or transforming your life for the better.

Maybe for women, the discipline is coming back to your Self. Daily. Hourly. Each and every decision.

That’s the work: How quickly can I return to my Self? Alignment. Thoughts, feelings, behaviors. All aligned with your highest Self.

I’m rolling with the Softer Edge. This applies to women throughout the various seasons of life— menstruation, matrescence, menopause and beyond. Can we use the principles of the Slight Edge philosophy— discipline in mind and body— to return to our Selves each day? Can we hold our desires and the vision of who we want to be while fully inhabiting who we are right now? Rather than striving toward desire, we can use it as a compass for how we show up today.

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The softer edge may look like this: you wake up in the morning. As you open your eyes, the tasks of the day begin to fill your mind in a cloak of urgency and necessity. You pause. A few deep breaths. Notice the feelings, sensations.

What does my body need this morning?

Maybe it’s hydration, movement, music. Maybe it’s journaling or pampering or an environmental reset. Maybe it’s a cold plunge or maybe it’s crawling back under the covers for ten more minutes without apology. Maybe you have two babies in your bed and you only have two minutes that are yours before the day begins.

What does my body need right now?

The Softer Edge is simply the return to Self. Over and over again. The return to that question.

That’s the discipline. That’s the whole practice.

Olson’s work assumes that you’re the same person every Monday. Women are cycling through phases and each phase comes with its own gifts and strengths. Without at least acknowledging that sexism, racism, ageism, homophobia exists (and flourishes!) his work feels narrow and unfinished.

I only critique his work because I admire it so, and I want to apply it to my life, but softer.

And with more complexity and nuance, just like the feminine body.

Or buy me a coffee to support my coffee shop writing dream ;)

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Have you read The Slight Edge by Jeff Olson? I want to hear your thoughts.

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My son is spirited. He’s impulsive and physical. He breaks the rules. He pushes the boundaries and doesn’t respect others’ space. He’s been pushing, biting, kicking, throwing, screaming.

There are moments when my son is hard to love. He becomes my adversary— A force to be conquered, an unruly animal to be contained.

He’s also not even two years old.

I wince at his high-pitched screams. I’m immediately flooded with red hot shame and distress when he pushes my friend’s son to the ground or catapults a toy piano at his cousin’s head. Sometimes I respond, today I reacted.

It triggers every violent, boundary-crossing experience I’ve ever suffered.

Every assault. Every abuse.

Because I don’t wanna raise one of them.

I know that he’s a loving boy, My Honey Bear. At his core, he is sweet, tender, sensitive. He kisses his sister gently. He caresses my skin with soft little hands while he nurses. He melts into my shoulder when he’s tired.

My mom tells the story of when I was in preschool and there was a little boy named Frank who used to push me around. Apparently, my mom went to the director and told the school something to the extent of “if this is not handled, we’re gone”. The next day, Frank wasn’t at school.

I fear my son is Frank. We all know a Frank. The bully. Biff in Back to the future, Troy in Stranger Things.

The pressure to raise gentle boys is overwhelming. We see what happens when boys experience then perpetuate violence. Every day the news offers a fresh reminder of what unchecked boyhood can become. Men in power who conquer instead of lead, who dominate instead of collaborate, who mistake cruelty for strength. I watch and I think: it started somewhere. It probably started small. It started with a push.

Still, He’s not even two. He’s a baby not a bully.

My aunt DeeDee used to say “In our family, we like them a little a bit bad”.

The subtext is clear: We like our boys a little bit bad.

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There’s been this cultural notion that boys are inherently “troublemakers”. Travieso (similar meaning in Spanish ) has become my son’s nickname. There’s something acceptable about a boy that breaks the rules. It’s normalized as if it’s a rite of passage.

So how do I make sure my son doesn’t become one of the bad guys?

In raising my girls, I have the opposite mentality. I want to raise girls who lead not follow, who are assertive not sheepish, and who aren’t afraid to take up space. I’m just beginning to explore how I may uphold the same values and expectations for all of my children, while honoring their differences.

I want my children to embody the following:

1. Know your worth

2. Use your voice

3. Lift others as you rise.

The cultural resistance that my children will face will differ, but the values that I want to instill in them are the same across genders.

So rather than encouraging my son to shrink, silence his voice, and take up less space, I hope to instead encourage him to use his voice to elevate others, including and especially women. I hope that he will be secure enough to understand that space is not a finite resource. I can teach him to be a leader but the kind that seeks to collaborate with women and persons with greater barriers to power. A man that honors women and amplifies their voices, without shrinking his own.

If this resonated or you’re raising a spirited child of your own, I’d love to hear your experience.

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For the last 4.5 months I’ve been home with my son, almost 2, and daughter who’s now 4 and a half months. My thirteen year old is somewhat independent but until the last few weeks, I was still juggling school drop-off and pick up— if you’ve never attempted to get somewhere by a certain time and had to suffer through a screaming baby— she hated the car— and a screaming toddler— he loves the sound of his newfound voice— and an overstimulated, anxious teenager having a panic attack next to you in the passenger seat, just know it’s not for the faint of heart or easily dysregulated mama— Ahem, me.

This was pretty much my life 5 out of 7 days a week for the last 4 months.

This is the trenches, I thought. I am in it.

But just like that, there’s been a shift. I come home from a yoga class and the baby is settled, sitting in her dad’s lap, smiling wide when her eyes meet mine. My son actually sits in the stroller longer than 5 minutes without having a full blown tantrum so I can enjoy morning walks with both babies. My 13yo has started to get herself to school so our mornings no longer consist of the excruciating car ride before I’ve even had a sip of coffee.

Something has shifted. The season is changing. Baby has left the newborn stage and entered infancy. She’s more comfortable with her dad, her grandparents, her siblings. She can go without nursing longer than 30 minutes. I can leave her side without concern and I feel relieved, supported, at peace.

What if it was easy?

I’ve been so deep in the trenches of “difficult“ I didn’t question it. Of course everything feels hard. Sleep has been fragmented for six months. I’m a mom of three. Support is limited. Finances have been squeezed due to back to back maternity leaves.

But what if I’ve been gripping the story so tightly that I didn’t notice when it loosened?

My body stopped bracing as I pulled into our driveway. The baby stopped crying the second I handed her to anyone else. Leaving the house without her is now an option.

I almost missed the season changing entirely because I was brooding in the struggle. My automatic response to “How are things?” has been: Hard. In the trenches. Really really hard

But that’s not the truth anymore. At least not all of the time.

What if easy isn’t naïve? What if it's already here, and I just have to notice it? I’m ready to release the identity of the struggling mom, and instead notice the truth of the present moment.

Baby is asleep in the carrier. My son is seated in his stroller. We play “I Spy” as we walk toward the ocean. I stop for an Oat latte and fill my son’s snack cup with berries. This is easy, I think.

I’m now sitting in the present instead of the heaviness of “hard”. And things are already feeling lighter.

Resonated? Buy me a latte. I’ll keep sharing.

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When we first started dating in 2018, I was drawn to his kindness, optimism, and really good looks. I remember thinking: this is a man who just innately does the right thing. He’s affectionate, safe, strong. I felt lucky to be with him. In the beginning, he seemed curious about me. Or did I just share voluntarily? I don’t remember.

Eight years later, I leave my journals out in the open. Next to the bed, on my dresser. Sometimes open to the day’s page. He’s never stolen a glance. He doesn’t use social media much and has rarely seen anything I’ve posted. He knows I started a Substack. I read him a post once, unsolicited. “It’s good,” he said.

You might say he’s respecting my privacy. Maybe he already “knows” me and doesn’t share my rabid curiosity about what goes on inside other’s heads.

Because I want to know everything.

I want to know people’s secrets. Darkest thoughts, biggest regrets, the worst thing they’ve ever done and the worst thing that’s ever happened to them. I want to know how they felt when the worst thing happened and how they felt when the best thing happened. Early in relationships, I’m dying to scroll through their texts. Hand to my heart, it has nothing to do with mistrust. I just want to know intimately how they communicate with their family, their friends, other women. I’ve spent countless hours combing through the social media accounts of new friends, lovers, coworkers. I want to see what’s important to them, how they want to be perceived. I’m curious, nosy, a real chismosa.

I truly believe that if you spend enough time getting to know anyone, love will develop. It’s why we’re all drawn to the Substacks and memoirs that reveal the most raw, vulnerable shit.

In high school I kept journals religiously. I duct-taped the covers and glued on band photos and stickers into collages. I wrote PRIVATE in bubble letters with Sharpie. I don’t remember what I wrote in those journals, but I know I documented everything that mattered during those years. Who was hooking up with who, what so-and-so texted me at 2am, how it felt to be high on ecstasy, how frustrating it was to not be able to pee while rolling. Those pages contained the inner world of my teenage self. One day, impulsively, I tossed them. I’ve been grieving that lost access ever since.

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To have a partner uninterested in my inner world is… I don’t know how to articulate it. Boring? Maddening? On more than one occasion it’s inspired the question: Am I worth knowing?

But I’m also curious: Why does this bother me so much?

Is it simply that I want someone to be as fascinated by me as I am by other people? Do I need being deeply seen to feel like proof I am worthy? Or have I gotten so used to excavating and analyzing that I can’t imagine intimacy without it?

I see couples out on dates absorbed in each other’s presence, deep in conversation, and I wonder what that feels like. I also wonder if they go home and make love or if their connection begins and ends with conversation. I wonder if those conversations are intimate or just filling space. If there are couples who barely talk but have something I can’t see; a language of touch, of service, of shared silence.

What does intimacy actually look like? Is mine wrong, or just different?

My partner notices when I’m overwhelmed and takes the kids without asking. He kisses me hello and goodbye always. He cooks dinner (almost) every night. He rubs my feet. He holds my hand in the car.

Are those not ways of knowing me? Of loving me?

Maybe I’m so fixated on what’s missing—the curiosity, the questions, the fascination with my inner world—that I can’t appreciate what’s there.

Or maybe both are true. Maybe he does love me in his way and I’m hungry for something he doesn’t naturally give.

We share a love of food, music, our family. Do we sit across from each other on date nights discussing politics or feelings or existential dread? No. Do we chat casually about our children’s schedules, upcoming concerts, calendar logistics? Yes.

I’ve had moments of connection where I felt like a lover was interested in my inner world, but never in my formative relationships.

Being interesting is being worth knowing. I find people fascinating. I’m genuinely curious about their relationships, beliefs, behaviors, hypocrisies, values.

He doesn’t seem driven to know himself deeper. I wonder if it brings him peace to be so content. Not constantly excavating, not always searching. What would it feel like to just be without the endless interrogation?

As I become more connected to my Self, I realize how eager I am to be known.

“We want our partner to be an entire community—my best friend, my trusted confidant, my passionate lover, my intellectual equal, my co-parent. Give me belonging, give me identity, give me continuity, but give me transcendence and mystery and awe all in one.”

Esther Perel

Maybe I’m asking one person for what a village should provide. Maybe my hunger to be deeply known needs multiple sources— friends who read my Substack, clients who see my depth, my therapist who I’ve confided in for years, a community of women who get me.

But maybe that’s not it. Maybe curiosity about your partner’s inner world isn’t some unrealistic modern expectation. Maybe it’s just love. The kind that wants to know deeply, not just assume.

I genuinely don’t know what story feels more true.

I’ve fantasized about a different kind of partner. Someone who welcomes a rehashing after a disagreement. Who initiates discussions about values. Who asks to read my writing, look at my old photographs. Who, after I finish a therapy session, wants to know what I’ve integrated.

But my partner isn’t that person.

Is it true? Can I absolutely know that it’s true? (Thank you, Byron Katie.)

Here are the facts: My partner doesn’t read my writing. He doesn’t ask what’s going on in my inner world. He doesn’t view what I post on Instagram. He doesn’t read my journal.

What am I making that mean?

Am I making it mean he’s disinterested in me? That we’re not meant to be? That we don’t have chemistry? That there’s someone out there better suited for me, my mind, my deeper Self?

You can see how these stories I spin from the actual facts can be hurtful. Overwhelming. Invasive. Both the story where he’s failing me and the story where I’m asking too much.

So I’ve decided to let them both go and go straight to the source. With genuine curiosity, I could ask him:

Do you want to read my writing?
Are you curious about my inner world?
Do you feel connected to me?
Do you feel like you know me?
Do you want to know me MORE?

Maybe he’ll say he does feel connected. Maybe he’ll tell me my need to be deeply curious about others isn’t his need, and thats just where we’re different.

Or maybe he’ll say curiosity is important to him, but he didn’t know I wanted him to look. Maybe he thought respecting my privacy meant staying out entirely. Maybe he’s been waiting for an invitation.

Or maybe he’ll confirm what I have considered. That he loves me but isn’t interested in knowing me more deeply. And then I’ll have to sit with that truth.

I don’t want to waste another moment presuming I know anything other than the fact that I don’t absolutely know a freaking thing.

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I woke up this morning to my toddler standing at the head of my bed. “Hi,” he says. “More chichi, more chichi,” he repeats. It’s still dark out. I don’t dare look at the clock, but I know it’s well before 6 AM.

My four-month-old is lying on me, tucked in my right arm, already suckling at my breast.

“Shhhhhhhh,” I whisper. “Please don’t wake your baby sister.”

He gets his chichi and then we go downstairs to let the baby sleep.

I make myself coffee. Within the first thirty minutes of waking up, I’d changed two diapers, swept the kitchen twice, cleaned up coffee intentionally dumped on our silk carpet by my toddler, and whisper-screamed obscenities into the kitchen sink.

I know what you’re thinking. Why the hell would we buy a silk rug?

Because Pam, two years ago, I was the woman who browsed interiors on Instagram and admired Architectural Digest homes with white furniture and cream-colored carpets. I didn’t realize my rug would soon become the backdrop for vomit, urine, peanut butter, and cracker crumbs.

I have a thirteen-year-old daughter. I’ve been through this before. I raised her as a single mother and survived infancy, the toddler years, and school age with my nervous system and childhood books still intact.

So when my partner and I decided to have two more babies “back to back”—because I was pushing thirty-five—I had a vision. It turned out to be the complete and utter opposite of our current reality.

I thought parenting with an equal, loving partner would mean a lively, buzzing household filled with laughter and dancing. Date nights every Friday while my teenager babysat. Plenty of time for yoga and Pilates while my partner took the babies to the park. I envisioned a family of five sitting around the table together, connecting over well-balanced meals. I imagined myself tidying up in a neutral linen set, infant strapped to my chest, while my toddler played independently in the yard with wooden toys.

The reality? I went to one yoga class and my four-month-old cried the entire time I was gone. We’re still cluster feeding. Every piece of clothing I own has stains from leaking milk or from my toddler using my chest as a napkin. I’m wearing the same bra from yesterday and I haven’t shaved my armpits in months. I now drink two and a half cups of coffee every day and I’ve been drinking wine nightly. I’ve decided to take a break from alcohol. Starting tomorrow.

I’d forgotten what it’s like to function on six hours of sleep. This time around, I read the baby books. I listened to Dr. Becky’s podcast. I learned about cultivating an “awakened family” from Dr. Shefali. I know it’s my job to allow my children to experience and express all of their feelings in a safe, supportive environment.

Still. It takes every cell in my being to stay calm while my son looks me dead in the eyes and proceeds to dump coffee on the goddamn silk rug. It feels impossible to keep a low, steady voice while he lets out an ear-splitting scream because I took away the knife he grabbed off the counter or removed the toy he just hurled at his baby sister.

There’s this façade of motherhood online. This expectation that you’ll be making homemade sourdough, painting watercolors, or gardening in the yard with your littles. Screens are frowned upon. Store-bought baby food is a big no-no.

I see moms at the weekly music class with their bags seemingly curated to fit everything needed for the day. Packed snacks in labeled containers. Children who willingly leave when class finishes. Me? Constantly asking other moms for wipes I forgot to pack. My son? Wandering up to other families and poaching their snacks as if he’s starving. And then there’s me, aggressively scooping him up as he kicks and screams under my arm in a football hold—four-month-old strapped to my front—because he refuses to come with me, despite every threat and bribe I can muster.

My kids bring out the worst in me. But they also bring out a side of me I never knew existed. Someone who can function on four hours of sleep and survive on half-eaten PB&Js, Perfect Bars, and coffee. Someone who can simultaneously breastfeed her infant and rescue her toddler from a passing e-bike.

Almost daily on my walks with both babies, a friendly stranger will say something like, “You’re doing great,” or “You sure have your hands full.” Today, a woman saw me struggling to clip the back of the carrier and walked over to help. These small moments of recognition bring me comfort and remind me that this is meaningful work.

I’m learning that “having it together” isn’t the goal. Real motherhood is messy. It’s crying in the parking lot because your toddler said “no” a hundred times and you lost your shit after the hundred-and-first. It’s loving your kids so fiercely while also wondering if there’s a legal tranquilizer available so you can have one hour of uninterrupted anything. It’s laughing until you cry because your son pronounces “truck” like “phuck.” It’s wanting to pull your hair out because he’s spit out his carrots for the umpteenth time. It’s both. Always both.

So if you’re reading this in the dark, infant in arms, anxiously awaiting your toddler’s waking—you’re not alone.

Our children are our greatest teachers, and I’m learning a lot.

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I was recovering from heartache but I came to understand that the ache came from my inability to express myself in relationships, more than the loss itself. I was an undercover over-lover and a single mother with hidden trauma and anger issues. I would get involved in situationships, always lacking commitment and most often involved unsatisfying sexual experiences and a ceaseless stream of text messages. I wrote lyrics and poems and prose to cope and I started drinking wine – a lot. I listened to Rihanna and J. Cole and 90s R&B and sometimes emo bands like Brand New and Dashboard Confessional just for the teenage nostalgia. I was not clinically depressed, but I was melodramatic by nature and I tried hard to be apathetic. “ I don’t care” was my motto and couldn’t have been less true.

I was living in a frequency of shame, guilt and anger. I had escaped an abusive relationship, been impregnated under questionable circumstances (that’s a whole other essay) and left behind the only city I ever knew all in just a few transformative years. In leaving behind Sacramento I left behind everyone in my orbit. My friendships all crumbled - either destroyed by some transgression by either myself or them, or the relationship fizzled from distance and disinterest when I moved to Southern California.

I spent several years in therapy sharing my experiences, feeling my feelings and being validated. I was slowly reconnecting with my body. For the first time I wanted to make healthy choices. I wanted to feel physically strong. I wanted to be mentally strong.

I developed compassion for this version of myself while learning to understand why I was ending up in these circumstances. I despised my abusers AND I came to understand that the reason I ended up in these situations had nothing to do with them and everything to do with me.

Theory one: My vanilla upbringing resulted in low exposure to the real world and therefore my discernment muscle hadn’t developed properly. Theory two, novelty masqueraded as intensity. Three: power felt like safety (he was older and in a gang) and lastly, I was the ripe young age for risk taking and debauchery and given my rebellious personality, I probably would’ve ended up in some precarious situations regardless of my upbringing.

Again, the details are for another essay, but the lesson from years and years of unpacking in therapy was clear: I was a lovable, imperfect human worthy of belonging, understanding and free expression then, just as I am now. In fact, I came to understand that everyone’s worth is inherent and a fundamental fact of one’s existence. (Duh!)

A few years ago I completed a Coach training program which unlocked even deeper healing. In my story I was always the victim. In therapy, I learned to use vocabulary like abuse, assault, manipulation, gaslighting, betrayal. They were the persecutors. Sometimes my therapist was the rescuer, sometimes the next dude to give me attention was.

The problem is, I am and always have been a control freak. When I started my coaching training I learned about the Drama to Empowerment Triangle (Dr. Stephen Karpman and David Emerald’s work). In this scenario, the persecutor becomes the challenger, the rescuer becomes the coach, and the victim becomes the creator.

This lens helped me take accountability for the role I played in my experience and I finally became empowered to change the narrative.

Persecutor ⇉ Challenger

Rescuer ⇉ Coach

Victim ⇉ Creator

I now see my life through this lens. Whenever I encounter a situation where my thoughts scream “WHY ME? I ask myself as a CREATOR: Where is the opportunity in this experience? I owe a lot to therapy as it really helped me get to know my Self & understand my past but coaching helped me to change my mindset and develop tools that improved my lived experience, my relationships, my work, and on a daily basis.

I learned to distinguish clean pain from dirty pain. According to psychologist Dr. Steven Hayes, clean pain is the natural, inevitable discomfort resulting from life’s difficulties. Dirty pain is the unnecessary, secondary suffering we create by resisting, ruminating on, or trying to control that initial clean pain.

The abuses and betrayal? Clean pain. Me believing I was worthless, unlovable, unlucky and uncool because I was hurt and discarded and bad things kept happening to me? Dirty pain. Awareness alone helped to distill my thoughts, discerning raw emotion from unnecessary suffering.

My body began to relax. My anxiety slowly went into remission. I was laughing again. I became obsessed with future planning and got to work creating the life I live today. Of course, life still hurts occasionally but learning to discern inevitable from unnecessary suffering allows my emotions to move through naturally, no longer exacerbated by tormenting thoughts or assumptions.

I honor the girl I was over a decade ago. In many ways I miss the unapologetic and unassuming version of myself who broke rules instead of setting boundaries and wrote lyrics instead of Essays. I no longer ask “why me?” I ask “what’s next?” I am the creator in this life not in spite of her, but because of her. I carry her with me not as an affliction but as a muse, re-igniting my creativity and power.

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P.S. If you made it to the end of this post, thanks for reading. In 2026, I am prioritizing creativity and courage. Hit reply and tell me you read this—it's how I build my courage muscle.

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