A letter to all of us who are exhausted, outraged, and still here.

I'm writing to you about something I feel in my body and in my soul.

The exhaustion.

Not tiredness. Exhaustion. The kind that settles into your bones. The kind that is still there after a full night of sleep. The kind that makes ordinary things feel heavier than they should.

I feel it. And I know you feel it too.

We are carrying something enormous right now. And most of us are carrying it without anyone acknowledging the weight of it.

So I want to start there. Before the call to action. Before anything else.

You are allowed to feel all of this.

The outrage. The exhaustion. The powerlessness. The confusion about why they keep getting away with it. The fear of giving up. The shame of what our country has become. The worry for our grandchildren.

All of it. At the same time. Without having to choose between grief and action, between anger and tenderness, between fighting and resting.

You are allowed to hold a...

The Weight of the Gear

I remember in 2008 when my son Andrew was a 2nd Lt in the Marine Corps, deployed to Afghanistan on a forward operating base. I visited him before he left, in Twentynine Palms, Southern California. I tried on his backpack and gear. It was so heavy I could barely stand up wearing it.

Andrew smiled and said, "Mom, you don't even have a weapon on you."

My younger son, Rob, was a student at UCLA at the time, so I flew into Ontario airport, and he picked me up on the way to 29 Palms -- a mother-son trip before Andrew shipped out. We ate as much Mexican food as we could find. We drove by the hospital where Rob was born. We looked for our old home nearby and drove past it slowly.

I could not have imagined, in my wildest dreams, that both of my sons would one day be in combat. That my two beautiful little boys would grow up and become Marines.

What I Already Knew

I remember the day I learned Andrew had joined the Marine Corps and that Rob -- who had a Navy ROTC scho...

I’ve made 76 trips around the sun.

That number stops me cold every time I say it out loud.

76 is how old my grandparents were when I spent weekends and summers on their farm. I remember them as the elders…not old, just people who had clearly been through things. I never stopped to wonder what those things were. Two world wars, the great depression, and farming the land with no guarantees were probably a few things. 

My grandmother took my mother to school in a horse-and-buggy.  And I remember her holding one of those candlestick phones, telling the operator to connect her to the person she was calling. It was the kind of life that was simple and hard at the same time.

And now here I am. That elder. The one who has been through things.

Do I feel wise?

Honestly… a bit. And also, some days, not at all. But I’ve lived a full, rich life that has asked everything of me. And I'm still here. That counts for something.

So on the occasion of my 76th birthday, here is what I actually know:...

Originally published in 2021. Updated February 2026.

When something goes wrong in your life, your relationships, even in the world around you...where does your mind go?

If you’re like many thoughtful, capable women I work with, it turns inward.

What did I do?
What did I miss?
How did I get this wrong?

It feels responsible.
It feels like maturity.

But often, it’s a habit.

You don’t lack confidence.

You’ve learned to blame yourself first.

You don't have to blame yourself

In fact, it won’t help you in any way.   

For sure, it’s easy to get stuck listening to the blaming and shaming voices inside of you that tell you that you did something wrong…spiraling you down into negativity, into funky land.

Those are the times when nothing seems right. You feel off but you don't even know what's wrong.

It might be that you woke up feeling happy and everything was going great and then, BAM.

Some small thing happens.

Your phone goes off in the middle of a yoga class, with a voice messa...

 Women are angry, and most of us were never taught what to do with that kind of anger and power.

We are saying it out loud now. We are pissed off. We are done swallowing it. And yet many of us are also unsure where to put it, how to use it, how to rise without burning ourselves out.

We're Angry and We're Done Hiding It

I'm less angry today.  I have been so, so mad this week. 

But I am tired.

Tired of the onslaught.
Tired of waking up to another outrage.
Tired of feeling like every day requires vigilance.

I'm sick of all of it.

And yet I love hearing women say, “I’m pissed off.”

I love it when a woman finally says, “I’m angry.”

Not apologizing.
Not softening it.
Not stuffing it down to keep the peace.

The Good Girl Story Is Breaking

For decades, we women have kept things even keel. We have swallowed what we really thought. We have carried the emotional weight for everyone around us. We have been the good girls.

But now something is breaking open.

Maybe what all of this corrupti...

We're needed now. 

Not later.
Not when things calm down.
Now.

We're living inside the collapse of patriarchy.
And it’s not subtle.

What is breaking apart is not just political systems or institutions.
It’s the way of being that rewards domination, greed, and control, while masquerading as leadership.

And the cost has been devastating.

The Epstein Crimes Are Not an Anomaly

The Epstein crimes are not an isolated scandal.
They are a revelation.

Years of abuse.
Young women and girls trafficked, violated, silenced.
Protected by wealth, power, and institutions that knew and did nothing.

And still, at the time of this writing, not all of the files have been released.

The files that have been made public are staggering.
The redactions are glaring.
The unanswered questions are deafening.

How much was hidden?
How many names remain protected?
How long has this been allowed to continue?

This is not just about powerful men who thought they could get away with whatever depravity they chose.  

This ...

The other day, while I was babysitting my five-year-old grandson, Erik, we called his uncle in Vanuatu.

When my son Andrew answered, I said, “Hey Darling.”
It’s what I’ve always called his uncle and his dad

Erik paused.
“Gran,” he asked, “why do you call him Darling?”

I smiled and said, “Because I love him. I say that to people I love.”

He was still a little puzzled, so I tried again.
“It means you’re so special to me. It’s my way of saying, I love you.”

I gave him examples.

How his family calls him Snuggles. His dad calls him Bud.
How his grandfather calls me Sug (short for sugar)
How my son’s French partner says mon cœur…my heart.

These are terms of endearment. A way of saying, you matter.

That seemed to land.
And honestly? I think I’ll start calling Erik Darling.

Love Needs Language

Because love needs to be spoken out loud. And especially now. 

Erik and I playing Connect Four

Tenderness Exits Alongside the Terror

A constant hum of dread has entered our lives now.
Too much...

Lately, most of us have been living with a quiet heaviness running in the background of our day-to-day lives. 

Even when we’re functioning, caring, and doing what needs to be done, something feels unnerving underneath it all.

There are times when what is happening in the world seeps into our bodies, whether we want it to or not. We carry more tension, more vigilance, more grief, often without realizing how much it's affecting us.

I've written recently about how unsettling things feel. That matters. When the world feels unhinged
But today I want to talk about something quieter and just as important.

How do we stay human in times like these?

What We’re Carrying Without Naming

When the world feels chaotic, our nervous systems take a hit.

We can feel fatigued from the constant onslaught of what we see and hear. It can feel like being pummeled by a wave that keeps coming. We get pulled under, surface for air, and then another wave hits.

There have been times in my life when I felt...

I don’t know about you, but I’m still trying to absorb what we witnessed this week.

There’s a particular kind of horror that comes from watching someone in the highest office openly ignore the rules, norms, and shared agreements meant to protect us all. It feels surreal. Disorienting. Like the ground has shifted beneath our feet and we’re left wondering what still holds.

Moments like this don’t stay in the headlines.
They land in the body.
In the nervous system.
In the quiet fear that asks, If this can happen, what does it mean for the rest of us?

And while this is not a time to look away, it’s also not a time to let ourselves be overtaken by despair.

This reflection is an invitation to stay awake and grounded. To remember who you are, what you value, and what remains steady inside you even when the world feels frightening and unstable. Not because it’s easy. But because it matters.

I am horrified by what is happening. The speed of it. The lawlessness. The cruelty. The sense that ...

The Winter solstice is a day many people barely notice, even though it marks a profound turning point in the natural world.

Most people don’t notice the solstice.
They rush straight into the holidays.
Lists, presents, obligations, busyness.
As if moving faster will somehow protect us from the dark.

Here in the Northern Hemisphere, it’s the shortest day and the longest night of the year.
And for some of you reading this in Australia, New Zealand, and the South Pacific, it’s the longest, light-filled day.

Either way, the solstice marks a pause.
A moment when the earth shifts direction.

Resisting the dark

I've always hated winter and the cold. 

I especially detest the dark. I want sunshine and light. And I fully admit that I feel the pull to be busy and to keep doing, doing. 

I think we resist winter because it slows us down.
Most of us don’t want to slow down. We want light. Momentum. Forward motion.

Especially women who have spent their lives holding everything together.

But real...