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What Is a Literary Essayist? (And Why I Decided to Become One)
Photo by Veronika Andrews on Pexels.com There’s a word I avoided for years because it sounded like something other people got to be. Essayist. It seemed reserved for the dead, the tenured, the impossibly assured. So I called myself a blogger, then a writer, then a content creator — each label a little roomier than the last, none of them quite the right shape for what I was actually doing at my…
The Woman in the Mirror She Never Introduced You To
On the private, interior relationship women have with their own appearance — the cruelty, the tenderness, the negotiating She shows up uninvited. In the bathroom before a shower, when the light is unforgiving and you’re not performing for anyone. In the camera roll, where you scrolled past three photos of yourself before landing on the one you could live with. In the fitting room with the…
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The Compliment I Still Hear
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Rooting for Her — Except When You’re Not
The honest post. On the gap between who we want to be and what we actually feel. Let’s start with something true. You are a good person. You believe in women supporting women. You have said it, meant it, shown up for it in more ways than you can count. You have celebrated your friends’ promotions and their engagements and their book deals and their babies and the quiet victories that only the…
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We Were Taught to Compare Before We Knew What We Were Doing
On female comparison culture, where it begins, and what it actually costs us I need to tell you something I’m not particularly proud of. A few years ago, a friend of mine got something she had worked hard for. A recognition. A moment in the sun that was genuinely, fully hers. And my very first reaction — before the warmth, before the genuine happiness for her, before any of the things I would…
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The Friend Who Makes You Feel Small Without Ever Saying a Word
The Group I Never Stopped Thinking About
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We Don’t Fall Out. We Fade.
There wasn’t a fight. There wasn’t a moment. There was just… less. Less texting back and forth, less making plans, less of that easy intimacy that once made it feel like she knew you better than you knew yourself. And then one ordinary Tuesday, you realize you haven’t actually talked in four months. And somehow, you’re not sure who’s supposed to fix it — or even if it’s something that can be…
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