The office. Well. It’s too cold…or too hot. There are lots of sharp corners. Glass windows offer the only true transparency in the corporate world.

You don’t do good work. You have to supercharge something. And instead of asking if something has meaning or how it makes you feel, you repeat, “What’s the ROI What’s the ROI What’s the ROI?” until someone’s impressed. Your wrists are sore from typing. Your back, sore from sitting. And the weather outside doesn’t matter. It only matters that it is a Tuesday and the next meeting is in 12 minutes. Just long enough for you to fill your water bottle up and relieve yourself.

Everyone is late to the meeting. So you find yourself wondering, yet again, what is it like working at a coffee shop?

Well, I worked at a coffee shop. So I’ll tell you.

If you were part of the beginning of a coffee shop which is a lucky place to be, you cut your fingers on the rolled steel you carry in to make the countertops. You stain your good cardigan with the paint on the wall. You went with a muted blue, and you’re still not sure about it…but it’s all over the fucking wall now. So you call it quaint and move on.

If you care about doing good work and not just the pay check that is essentially nil (so I hope you care about the work itself), you learn that coffee is a science. At the very least, you learn it’s a craft. You learn all coffee is burnt and when a customer says “Starbucks coffee is so bad, they always burn it,” you know they don’t know anything about coffee. They’re drinking marinated ROASTED coffee bean water for Christ’s sake. Of course it tastes burnt.

You learn what it means to agitate coffee grounds and what a good extraction is. You learn to find sweetness in bitter things. What may taste like dirt water to some, might taste like sweet berries to another. You learn people are different. What beverage one culture might think sends you to hell also is the saving grace for a mother or student or doctor. It’s a strange contrast, but who thought white cream would go well with black bean water? It doesn’t matter. They were right. You may like your coffee black, but lattes are miracles.

You learn to know the temperature of milk in the tin pitcher by the touch of your hand. Your fingertips start to smell like freshly ground coffee. And the first months it smells good. After that, it doesn’t smell good or bad, but it makes your fingers buzz. And when the fingerprints on the tips of your fingers start to vibrate, you know that you smell like a morning off to a good start to the customers on the other side.

You learn the customers, not only by drink, but by name. You used to think you were “bad with names” but when you see how someone who thought they weren’t worth remembering lights up when you greet them by dropping their name casually, you call yourself on that bullshit. You weren’t bad with names. You didn’t care enough to try, and society had given you an out with a common “bad with names” trope everyone decided to believe in instead of decide to care enough to remember Ben.

You learn names. Drink orders. Tendencies. And those names and drink orders and tendencies bring their friends, their significant others, their children, and you learn those too. You steam the milk at a lower temperature for the little ones.

You spend a significant amount of time doing dishes, straining almonds for milk, wiping steam wands down, breaking down the machine. Not all customers are worth remembering too, but you remember them all the same. The cunt who called you a bitch when her latte wasn’t bubbly enough (that’s a cappuccino ma’am) is named Helen. And you’ll take pride in pouring her a latte art just as pretty as you do for Ben waiting behind her who always orders and receives his drink with kindness.

You meet a plethora of people who do not return, but leave an impression on you anyway. Maybe they share a secret. Maybe the tell you about a dream. Maybe they tell you that when they saw you for the first time, it felt like the sun was rising. And you decide to take that compliment to the grave.

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There are fights with landlords. There are cheap dinners. Your apartment may be a basement with no windows and your bed is next to the sewer pipe. They’re sacrifices that don’t quite translate into real life yet, and that’s okay. It’s actually preferred. You see the folk on the other side in collared shirts and bloodshot eyes. They give you an eye roll, or a tired sigh, or a nervous and strained laugh because it’s Monday again, or Happy Tuesday, or HumpDay Wednesday, or OMG-Is-It-Thursday?-I-Thought-It-Was-Friday-Dammit, or TGIF. tldr; it’s not the weekend.

That’s a taste of what it would be like.

On one side of the counter, you wear an apron. On the other, a tie. On both sides, you wonder what it’s like on the other.

Today, in a world filled with everything promised to be at my finger tips, you know what I miss? Those trembling coffee-dusted fingers that are not “at my fingertips” but 10 years away into the past where I made Ben’s day just by saying his name Monday through Friday.

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Want to know where to buy my books and support this writer?

You can purchase them on my website*, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or request it at your local bookstore. Some of my work is also available on Kindle Unlimited, so if you’re a KU reader, add them to your TBR list! And of course, you can always subscribe to this blog/newsletter/Substack thing to let me know you’re listening 💚.

* If you’re looking for signed copies and matching bookmarks sent in the famous “rainbow box”, those are exclusively available on my website!*

** If you would like to read my stories, but are going through financial hardship, please reach out. I would love to share my stories with you in exchange for a review <3.

I watched the video again. Who was Alex? I’d heard this song before maybe, hadn’t I? Never in its entirety.

I stood there, midway up the stairs in my house, and I watched him sing again. I had never heard of Alex Warren before. Yes, his singing was two seconds too late the entire time. But did it allow me to hear his voice so much better. And God was it beautiful. I listened yet again, delay and all. This time I heard the commitment, the courage we sometimes must reach out for and hang onto because we are here. And when we are here, we sing the song we came to sing. I understood that.

And I wish he knew how I felt in that moment. I wish so badly I could tell him.

I stood there, clean towels in a laundry basket, understanding the frustration of making a mistake in a magic I was creating. And also interpreting this video in the only way I, as a listener knew how, witnessing the magic that was created anyway. I was noticing his voice even more so as it was separated and stood out from the back up singers and support.

It was him. Raw, Imperfect. Totally and absolutely captivating in a world of filters. In a world of cover up. In a world of practiced and staged and performative culture. In a world where AI creates perfection at 10x, 50x, 100x the output. In a world where we couldn’t keep up if we tried, and in a world, where I at least, don’t want to keep up. I don’t want to be a part of that race. Of this world.

I listened to Ordinary for the rest of the day. My toddler began to sing to the “Ordinary” and “Sanctuary” each chorus. And I found a new song that was shuffled in between that led me to write 5,000 words that day to my own novel, the second of my YA sci-fi fantasy Nylo series that, depending on how you look at it, feels entirely futile to publish when put against the masses of generic generative pages.

I feel deflated sometimes, thinking about the authors who are publishing 200 books a year. Hell, I even feel overwhelmed thinking of authors who write 20 books a year. I do.

But that’s not what it’s about. It’s not about the finish line. Not for me anyway.

Lately, I’ve been very humbled by dipping my toes into the publishing world—and the independent publishing world at that. I’ve learned so much, and it’s hard because I don’t think my younger self would listen to the advice that I have now. I had to learn by doing, and more importantly, I had to learn by making mistakes. Lots of mistakes. Tiny mistakes and very expensive mistakes. Mistakes made permanent in ink.

My younger self would never listen to me if I told her it’s not only okay to slow down, but it’s important not to rush to the finish line. Because that was the harsh reality (and beautiful truth!) that came from writing and publishing books rather than just talking about writing and publishing books. Here’s the truth:

There is no finish line when you love something. There is only the act of doing it and loving it. And young Jade might think that there not being a finish line is a bad thing. That not having a finish line is some form of giving up, but... it’s not. If you love what you do and you’re lucky, it’s not a race. It’s not a marathon. Or whatever sports analogy you want to use.

It’s every step you take. It’s the walk to the park and back with the family. It’s the second—no third—time you walk down the same aisle to find the buckwheat flour. It’s the jumps onto the furniture before the floor turns to lava. It’s the walk to my first book event where I signed my first book in front of a fan, hand shaking and all. And it’s also the walk out to the parking lot after my second event, carrying back a full box of books with me after selling two books. Not even enough to pay for gas to get to the event. It’s the step taken in a hurry when I make a connection between a character and the plot that I just didn’t see before. It’s the steps I don’t take when I’m reading a book that’s pulling me in, and the world disappears around me. The steps I take while sending a book lover like myself my thoughts on my latest read.

AI is here. It has a finish line it will take you to. There’s no doubt. But…But…

So funny and embarrassing story. (I promise it is relevant. Maybe.) I was so excited to win Writer’s Digest Honorable Mention for my debut novel, Milk and Blood, that I rushed through telling the world on Instagram. It wasn’t until a friend sent me a kind DM and said, “Um, just so you know, your post says you’ve ‘won an awkward’ and I’m pretty sure you meant ‘award’.”

It’s moments like that I laugh (and cringe a little) but love that I get to experience… because I write every word myself. I’m not sure if the consolation to a mistake is that it’s proof to the world that my writing is my own. But I can empathize with AI hallucinating, at least. If you think AI hallucinations are bad, wait until you meet my mom brain. Buckle up, buttercup.

Anyway. Ordinary. The song that made me want to tell Alex made a difference to me, that was meant to be performed as it was: imperfect and with lots of heart. And I think him for that. He’ll never know, but I do. It led to 5,000 words typed like mad on my keyboard. It led to me dancing and spinning with my toddler. It led to me talking to my husband about romance and beauty in imperfections. It led to me remembering that extraordinary things aren’t always perfect or polished.

They’re a concoction of things. Hope. Work. Luck. Dreams. Risk. Timing. Love. Sacrifice. Maybe a little sprinkle of stardust. Perfection is what they’re not.

Not for me, and if you’re here…my guess is not for you either.

Cheers to the extraordinary, in every form, but perfection.

Thank you for reading this blog post.
Want to know where to buy my books?

You can purchase them on my website*, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or request it at your local bookstore. Or if you’re wanting to read my books, but aren’t in a place where you can purchase them, you can request them at your local library! Some of my work is also available on Kindle Unlimited, so if you’re a KU reader, add them to your TBR list! And of course, you can always subscribe to this blog/newsletter/substack thing to let me know you’re listening 💚.

* If you’re looking for signed copies and matching bookmarks sent in the famous “rainbow box”, those are exclusively available on my website!*

** If you would like to read my stories, but are going through financial hardship, please reach out. I would love to share my story with you in exchange for a review <3.

Today, it was hard to get out of bed.

Do you ever do that thing where you scan your body, mind, and soul and come back thinking, “So this is what it’s like to feel burnt out.”

It doesn’t happen often. Running on empty. I mean, how long and how often can one really run on empty?

My family deserved better today. A better me. And I couldn’t give it to them. I don’t often fail in that way. I did today though.

I’ve been having a difficult time with the news. More difficult than I have had in a long time. It’s hard to just turn it off when I know others cannot. It’s hard to feel joy when others cannot.

It’s even hard to write.

I had a tennis coach once…well I’ve had many, but I had one…and I really didn’t like him. I didn’t trust him. And I did leave him.

But I remember once I was having a hard time getting out of bed when he was my coach. My parents were in the middle of a divorce, and going to class and tennis practice some how simultaneously felt completely unimportant and totally impossible. That coach told me, “Don’t think about class or practice. Think about the next thing.”

If it was getting out of bed, how about just sitting up?

If it was going for a run, how about putting on a shoe?

If it was writing a book, how about just a paragraph?

It was a little trick. Oftentimes it worked…even though I didn’t like that coach. I still save that trick for days like this.

For example, I wasn’t going to write a blog post today, but I told myself I would just tell you all that it has been hard, and that I have been writing despite it being hard. I told myself I would just tell my readers that I’m 42,369 words into Book II of my Nylos series. I told myself I would just tell you that I’m still writing, and perhaps more than ever, I’m glad you’re here. Thank you for being here.

That’s all I can do for today. I hope that’s okay. I will try again tomorrow. I hope you’ll be there when I do.

I told my husband to come over here, and “let’s take a picture.” Neither of us were holding either of our children…which is usually when we take photos that include us. Our son was in the chair on the other side of our table. Our daughter was sitting in the play pen in the corner, enamored by a singing octopus. David smiled as I held the phone up in front of us.

We were eating breakfast. We were both tired. Overworked. Overstimulated. But there was something I wanted to capture. Something about us. Something between us.

“Closer,” I said. “Closer.”

I snapped the photo.

Later that day, we dared to venture Costco as a family. I wanted the assorted Naked juice that’s been a good pick-me-up when I don’t have time to eat between meetings with the new job. He loves their chips & salsa. Of course, the kids love the berries (minus the adventure through refridgeration to get to them). We ran into a friend who has a little boy only weeks apart in age from our son. We chatted for about five minutes before our kids were pulling us in different directions towards different samples. Five minutes with a parent and their kids? Cross off grocery shopping and playdate for the day.

We made a quick stop at Whole Foods. Not for any fancy organic food. Just to return period-underwear I wanted to try out. As I handed the underwear made to absorb my blood once a month to the Whole Food employee, I drifted off to wonder why this kind of stuff had never bothered me. Buying tampons for the first time as a younger women wasn’t scary to me like I’ve seen/heard/read about. Naturally, without explanation, my mind jumped to the popular parenting book: Everybody poops.

Ain’t that the truth.

Once we backed into the drive way, David put the car in park and turned off the ignition with a push of a button. I reached for the door, but then I feel his fingers wrap around my other wrist. It was awkward for a second because I was almost out the door, but I returned to my seat at the familiarity of his touch. He leaned forward, and we kissed.

While I fed our daughter, David put the groceries away (with our son’s help of course). I looked at the photo of us. My hair hasn’t been this long since 2009. I sent him the photo. The selfie of us. The photo that felt weird to take because… how long had it been since we took a photo of us without the kids? All of our photos are of our kids. Or of us with our kids. Or one of us with the kids. Or one of us with one of the kids.

We put the kids down that evening, and I jumped into the shower.

“Did you see our photo?” I asked from the shower as I shampooed my hair. I know he saw it because he “loved” it. Still, it’s worth a conversation.

“I did. Damn aren’t we a hot couple,” he called from the other room. The kids are down, and I can tell he’s getting his gaming computer ready.

“I realize there are like no photos of just us in our photos,” I said.

“Yeah. I know.”

“I want to take more photos of us.”

“We should.”

“I want the kids to see how in love we are. When they’re older. I want them to see their cool mom and dad in love like that.”

“Me too.”

“You know when you kissed me in the car? Before we got out?” I said. I had moved onto conditioning my hair.

“Yeah.”

“I really liked that.”

“Me too.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Thank you for reading this blog post.
Want to know where to buy my books?

You can purchase them on my website*, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or request it at your local bookstore. Or if you’re wanting to read my books, but aren’t in a place where you can purchase them, you can request them at your local library! Some of my work is also available on Kindle Unlimited, so if you’re a KU reader, add them to your TBR list! And of course, you can always subscribe to this blog/newsletter/substack thing to let me know you’re listening 💚.

* If you’re looking for signed copies and matching bookmarks sent in the famous “rainbow box”, those are exclusively available on my website!*

** If you would like to read my stories, but are going through financial hardship, please reach out. I would love to share my story with you in exchange for a review <3.

The team is apparently trying to catch the ball, and it must be very important because it takes a team. I love watching the slow-mos because there’s a person that’s planted on the ground, thighs and all, that’s giving the catcher an extreme wedgy as they rip their shorts upwards to allow the catcher to essentially soar up in to the air to catch the Rugby ball thing.

And catch they do. And it looks pretty glorious. If you cover up the bottom half of the image or video, all you’ll see is an incredible athlete, flying, and catching a ball in some kind of epic way. What you wouldn’t see is the person who is doing the semi back squat and release just to get the catcher there to even reach for the ball at all.

Here’s an image of that.

You can also reference the above image if you want to know how me and my family are doing. It’s a pretty good representation. I’m all in at work. I’m jumping up, flying, catching balls as one has to in order to win. And my husband, my rock, my anchor, my rugby player teammate, is pushing into the muddy terrain to lift me up towards the heavens to make it happen.

While also scrolling the interwebs, Reddit, to be exact. (I miss old Reddit instead of the AITAH slop it is now, but sometimes you can find gold in the comments.) I found gold in the comments.

It was a question targeting husbands. It asked them what their secret was to a happy marriage. What made their marriage good? What made it last? What they do to grow the garden of love? There were pretty great answers overall. Honest answers. Common answers: Going to bed angry is okay, and if anything, it saves marriages. (I agree with that.) Date your spouse. (Easier said than done with a toddler. breastfed baby, and sleep deprived adults.) And then for the gold that hit me like a… rugby player in all of their bulk:

Save some of your best for them.

Week two into my new job, and my husband and I had an unspoken agreement: Do whatever it takes to make sure the people who hired me feel they made the right decision. Earn a seat at the table. Show value. Show commitment. Show experience. Show fun. Essentially, secure the bacon and bring it home.

We turned everything else off so I could be “on” all last week. I’m talking about things like letting me sleep in and get the extra shut eye before the work day starts, putting off chores I usually help out with to spend more time ramping up and preparing for meetings, going to team bonding activities which equated to my husband “working overtime” with the kids while I watch athletes smash into each other on the ice.

And we know there are phases. Ebbs and flows. When my daughter was first born, she was the rugby catcher with me. Her health, sleep, safety, feeding all came first. Even her big bro had to practice more patience, help out more, and sit out on things he wasn’t used to. My daughter was getting all of my best in a lot of ways.

Last week, my coworkers and employer got my best.

And I was placing my best in an all or nothing kind of a way. Only one person or entity could have it at a time.

And I think we’ve all been there when our cup is empty, when we’ve given all of our magic to others, and then we come home to the people we love most, to the person who matters most—your teammate covered in mud hoping, nay, believing you’ll catch the ball. They’re person who deserves your best the most, and then you have nothing to offer them.

Yeah. I’ve been there. Fuck. I’m so guilty of that. My husband doesn’t get to see me offer insight in a meeting with big players. My husband doesn’t get to see me kiss the toes of my baby as I feed her in the darkness. He doesn’t get a share of the praise I give my son for a puzzle well done. He doesn’t get 2,000 words of an escape I sit down to write for him. No. He gets a tired apology about having been too tired to get to the dishes and a half hopeful promise to try and get to them tomorrow…if he’s lucky. Honestly, he might not get much but a short fuse…

So I read it again:

Save some of your best for them.

And starting week two of my new job. The phrase saved me by saving some of my best for my husband. It’s not a lot. It’s not a grand date or gesture. It’s not a gold chain. It’s not anything close to the version of me he deserves to interact with every minute of every day. No.

It’s a short hand written love letter with honest words of gratitude. It’s taking the time to turn a quick peck into a true kiss to start and end the day. It’s stopping to express out loud how I’m simply in awe of the fact that we made our children together. Together. How happy I am that we are together. And making sure he hears it. That my child hear it. Together.

They’re small gestures. They’re little things, but they’re made up of the best of me for the one who makes me my best.

I’ll keep this short…

I keep saying that. I keep using acronyms, abbreviating full phrases, summarizing events, sharing out the TLDRs.

Always promising to be quick.

Everything feels fast lately. My children are growing. Winter is here. The apricot yogurt I purchased two weeks ago went bad before I was able to remember to taste it. Appointments I booked months ago have come and gone. My husband is a literal blur—moving between our kids, zigzagging through the house as he carries the laundry and disposes a dirty diaper as if in a time lapse. He takes quick naps and bites out bits of imperative information to keep the household afloat. I catch his words like a baseball player diving for a foul ball. Things like “It’s garbage day tomorrow.” Or “There’s a package at the door.”

My daughter sits up. Pulls up to stand. Says mama. My son knows most of the words to Elsa’s “Let it Go” and knows that he’s good at puzzles now and brags about it proudly. My dog has finally stopped following me so that his paws that nearly clipped my toe at every step since our older dog passed, rest patiently on the couch. Settled.

There’s a scattering about myself that’s been gnawing at me. My desk is cluttered. So is my mind. And time. There’s so little of it. How do we make the most of it? Why do I rush so?

I read a friend’s post recently. He said that he had been writing like he’s out of time.

Is that what I’m doing now? Living as if I’m out of time? Is there such a thing?

Then again, what does it mean to be out of time? Is it a bad thing? After all, aren’t we all out of time at some point in our lives? Isn’t everyone’s end inevitable? That’s right. I don’t think running out of time is bad; it’s natural. It’s the rushing through time. That’s the hiccup I’m noticing in my life at this moment.

Rushing through breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Zipping through books of fiction as if it were a race. Counting hours until bedtime, and days until Christmas. Saying I love you to the most important man in my life from the other room as he paces from one side of the house to the other with a hand full of toys and a banana peel in the other…

Jade. Jade! Stop.

Time will run out. Love won’t.

So don’t be quick. Love slow.

“How many books this time?” the Postal worker asks as I haul my farmers market bag up onto the countertop of the USPS store. I recognize her, and she recognizes me…or the rainbow box I send the books in.

It feels good to be known at the local postal shop. It’s also probably a sign that I ought to look into a printing label and third party integration so I can drop off packages instead of wait in line every time to send my books out into the world.

My husband is at home, tending to our kids who are hopefully still napping. He knows that there’s no activity that I can think of outside of what we have planned for the day that’d I’d enjoy more than sending my books out and crossing off orders. So here I am at the counter, and he’s across the way, with the rest of the family.

This morning, I met up with a friend for coffee at 7:30 in the morning. When I got home, my husband had taken the kids to go out and pick out flowers and a present. My three year old, my husband said, chose the flowers and earrings. The flowers were purple roses with leafy greens spread out as if they were trying to capture the sun. “Green and purple,” my son said. “Your favorite colors.”

It’s true. They are.

The round, flat earrings were silver on one side, and black and white on the other. Soccer balls.

“Because I play soccer,” my son explained.

It’s true. He does.

I held them up and looked at my husband. “Does this officially make me a soccer mom?”

After our second child, “the best baby in every town,” as my son calls her, woke up from her nap, we went on a walk.

Before children, my husband and I took our dogs (we had two then, RIP Hudson) on walks. We’d walk around for hours and talk about everything. We loved looking at houses and commenting on little things that we noticed: that porch was nice, those chairs looked uncomfortable, I think they put in a new fence. I swear we walked so far sometimes I’d look around and find we were in an entirely different part of the city. We’d get a pastry or coffee or some fries to snack on the way back.

When my husband was recovering after his accident a couple of years ago, he was on bedrest for over half a year. But we still walked. I made it a point to walk. We had a wheelchair that wasn’t long enough for him. It wasn’t a matter of price but just availability for wheelchairs that were made available for taller people. As if that wasn’t already awkward enough, any short amount of time with my husband’s leg not elevated caused him a lot of pain. So I had found a blowup pillow made for helping toddlers sleep on planes that I would prop up under his leg, in addition to lifting the wheelchair leg as high as it would go.

And then I would push him around the block with our first and (then only) child strapped to my chest. It was bumpy, and my husband would comment on the pain of the bumps. I eventually learned to turn the wheelchair around, and tip it back like a dolly carrying a large heavy object, and pull him over the bump. It was much smoother that way. When cars were parked through a driveway, extending out onto the sidewalk and obstructing our path, I would take the detour down ramps into the road and return to the sidewalk as soon as we could—cursing the insolent, thoughtless driver who had parked in our way.

I didn’t move, but shoved and kicked and threw those e-scooters that were strewn across the sidewalk in such a way that one might think they had thought I desired to push my husband through an obstacle course rather than a smooth and straight path. We went slow, and by the time we got home, my back was soaked in sweat. The walk was only a mile long, but I would have been damned if we stayed inside the entire time my husband was told not to stand or walk on that metal lined leg of his.

So slow did we go, that we got to know some of our neighbors. In 2023, on a busy street like ours, that was pretty rare. There’s a grandpa on the corner with a mustache, and had we not been so slow to pass his house, we might not stop there every morning like we do now where he picks a flower to give to my son, tells us to hold on so he can give us tomatoes from his garden, or hold his finger out for my daughter to grasp with an inquisitive look.

So now we walk as a family. We do the same walk on the same streets we did before kids (shorter of course, but we know these streets just the same). The same walk I pushed my husband on. And we did it today, a family of four. A walking husband. A toddler on a balance bike that a wonderful coworker—er now ex-coworker—gave to us now that their children had long outgrown it. A baby, alive and on earth for just over half a year. And one dog, the son of our Husky who has since passed.

And how different and how similar this walk is to the thousands of walks we’ve done over the decade.

I’ll tell you now, any walk you’ve done, do it with a three year old, and it will be an entirely new adventure. The path we knew is a new path to discover every day. I never noticed the snail habitat on the street over. These aren’t just normal snails. They’re thrill-seeking snails where snails hang upside down from the leaves of thorny rose bushes, flirting with their death in slow motion.

I never noticed there was one HUGE rock in the front yard of the house with the “All are Welcome” rug by their front door. The rock has a red speck on it, and should not be touched…or so I’m told. I did not know there were kittens that hid along the fence just before the last corner we turned to head back home. And I never realized there was a pumpkin patch in the front yard of the house beside the church.

Each time we return from a walk, my toddler leading us back to safety as always, we come back with treasure. Today’s birthday walk was no different, and our haul was grand—as per usual. We came back with an empty shell snail, a golf ball, two loose chunks of gravel, two leaves: one yellow and one brown, five REALLY GOOD STICKS, and two dandelions in full bloom, picked for my happy birthday.

After picking up Korean BBQ, we ate it at home, with the notable event that my toddler got frustrated when he kept dropping his potatoes with his chopsticks and proceeded to throw the chopsticks across the table in despair. Also notable, the chopsticks missed his full cup of water by mere inches. This is what my mother in law would call a tender mercy.

We had picked up my birthday cake as well, an olive oil cake from one of our favorite local bakeries, and we convinced my toddler that it would be better to wait until after his nap to eat it. We had to promise not to blow out any candles or sing any songs without him. We promised.

The kids went to sleep, and I went to the back room. I had checked my phone earlier. I had orders. New orders. Birthday orders! I packaged my books up. Signed them, added the signature bookmark, marketing card, crinkle confetti, rainbow box… Then I took them to the front door and asked my husband if he wouldn’t mind taking on both napping children (AKA ticking time bombs) while I was out shipping off my books. He saw me, carefully placing my rainbow boxes in, one by one, into a large woven bag that probably says Trader Joe’s on it, but to be honest I’ve never stopped to look, and he agreed.

So now I’m watching the postal clerk punch in the addresses to my next readers. I had read all of the names aloud when packing them into the bag. Two of them, I noticed were from Ashville. I wondered if they knew eachother…or was it just a coincidence that two people from the same city ordered my book on the same day? I may never know, but the mystery makes me smile.

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I get into my car and Thrice is playing. It’s been a while since I’ve heard them, and I turn it up. And then in the ten minutes I have alone, I let myself think and feel. I let myself sing Thrice out loud to the elephant in the room.

I am unemployed. I lost my job. I’m thirty-three years old, the sole provider to my family, and I have no job.

And there’s a part of me that’s not surprised. Not because of any shortcomings of my own. Simply because the tech industry can be very high risk, high rewars. And there were many a day I would start work and look at my husband before my first meeting, and tell him, “Who knows. Maybe today will be the day I’m laid off.”

I said that semi-frequently. I felt it frequently. I had seen people I had interacted with every day, gone. And so, my own employment…it was never out of the question for me.

Adele’s “Someone Like You” comes on, and my heart tells my lungs “Let’s go.” And I get ready to sing my ode to my old job at full capacity. If you can listen to this song and not sing with an emotional crack in your voice by the third chorus, you should check yourself. Honestly.

I get multiple rejection emails each day. I also have an interview every single day this week, two on my birthday. Today.

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Some kind folk tell me to wait. Don’t interview yet. Take a month or two break.

They are kind folk, but they don’t know me.

I am confident, determined, and strong.

I am the provider for my family, and that break won’t come until I fill that self-proclaimed title.

I think I will find something bigger and better, and if I don’t… well, as one friend recently reminded me, it’s simply not the end of the story.

Some have told me the universe works in mysterious ways, and while that may be true, I don’t work in mysterious ways. I work. And I don’t give up. And I don’t lose hope. And I don’t give into despair. And I can be afraid and brave at the same time. I can do hard things. I can do scary things. I can be ecstatic because I’m sending five of my books off that were ordered on my birthday, and then cry in my car with Adele on the way home.

I park my car in front of my house on the street. I look at my house. My home. I take a deep breath. Two sleeping children. One supportive husband. A loyal dog. Safe. Healthy. Happy. Ready and willing and excited to go on a walk with me tomorrow.

Who knows what treasure we will bring home then?

Thank you for reading this blog post.
Want to know where to buy my books?

You can purchase them on my website*, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or request it at your local bookstore. Some of my work is also available on Kindle Unlimited, so if you’re a KU reader, add them to your TBR list! And of course, you can always subscribe to this blog/newsletter/substack thing to let me know you’re listening 💚.

* If you’re looking for signed copies and matching bookmarks sent in the famous “rainbow box”, those are exclusively available on my website!*

Scrolling.

It’s such an easy thing to doom. I mean, do.

But is it really that easy?

The mental gymnastics are a feat in itself. How can your brain absorb all of it while sitting in a chair, while eating at the table, while pooping, while walking, while sleeping laying.

And the range of the “content”. Just the range of it. It should be impossible to consume. Impossible in every respect:

• Maybe the first video is a friend’s birthday. HBD!

• Then, a 19-year-old who can’t believe her skin looks this good thanks to a new serum.
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• The next, a cute dog. *boop*

• A starving child.

• Pants that can tuck in your mom pouch that is just so cringe. *ew*
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• Your friend just bought their first house!

• Your niece’s first week back at school. I’m not crying, you are.

• A school shooting.

• A bucketlist concert.

• A skirt with pockets big enough for even the most feminist of women.
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• Taylor Swift and the football player did something.

• World hunger.

• An actresses' cleavage post-controversial jean ad.

• A murdered man.

• A reminder that it’s Pumpkin Spiced Latte Season.
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• Someone you know demanding you unfollow them if…

• A cat knocking that cup right off the table, never breaking eye contact the whole time. Bitch.

• A democrat complaining that the law has been broken…again.

• A stand up comedian you like. This guy is actually hilarious. Send that one to your friend. Yeah, you know who.

• Relatable and funny video on parenting. Send that to your friend too.

• The Summer I Turned Pretty finale is near. But really what you know is it’s the Summer Belly Turned Pretty Damned Indecisive and thank God for a finale because the number of times you should hook up with your ex’s brother is 0 times.

• AI — is it going to steal your job already or just stand there looking creepy?

• There’s a new restaurant that opened up just down the street from you. The fish tacos are apparently amazing.

• This gym is looking for women LIKE YOU to TRANSFORM not just your body but YOUR SOUL
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• A black man won something a black man has never won in 77 years. Seems weird to celebrate it taking so long. Seems weird not to celebrate it at all.

• Friend is a strong word, but this acquaintance usually posts photos of her and her boyfriend. Now it’s just her, and she looks unusually good—wait. Did they break up?

  *pause* I got a notification. Oh, it’s just my ex who cheated on me over a decade ago liking my photo from last month. I was wondering when he’d fat finger it again.

• This serum that apparently makes this woman with thick-ass hair on her head have even more thick-ass hair on her head. I can’t tell the difference, but she looks happier in the “after” photos.
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• ICE. And not the kind that melts, unfortunately. In fact, you don’t know what kind they are, because they’re always masked and you never get to see their faces. You wonder, what do they look like when they’re waiting in line at the grocery store? When they are heating up dinner? When they brush their teeth?

• Oh, it’s your sister. She’s rocking the lipstick. Three emojis: 🔥🔥🔥

• Something dramatic happened on The Secret Wives of Mormon Lives.
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• A friend’s book release. F it. I’m not stingy. Three more emojis: 🔥🔥🔥

• A political post from a friend who, you admit, you thought was way on the other side of the political spectrum. You’re surprised.

• A new cookie flavor just dropped at your favorite bakery. Quick. Send that to your S/O so you can get it this week.

• Oh, a recipe of the perfect soups to devour as summer turns to autumn. Save for later.

Scrolling.

It’s such an easy thing to doom. I mean, do.

And I know the alternative is unsettling. Especially at night. The back of your eyelids. Darkness. Nothing.

But it’s often when nothing occurs that we realize we stopped breathing. When we realize we were holding our breath.

But don’t.

Don’t hold your breath.

Because.

If you’re lucky.

Nothing will happen.

No harm. No foul…but the daydreams are getting quite vivid. 

While I lay sprawled on the floor, my baby crawled over my body as if he were training to become the next Ultimate Ninja Warrior. I was glad my body, which was feeling more corpse-like by the minute, could entertain him so. Because while he was wrestling with my kneecaps, I was imagining leaving Salt Lake City. 

My family would travel to a smaller town—let’s call it Dreamland—where we could get an acre or two for a price I could swallow (even with a sore throat). Where a green-painted house stood with a porch wide enough not only for some rocking chairs, but a couple fluffy dog beds for “the boys.” We’d have large windows for lots of natural light. Carpet, for our baby’s knees. A fireplace for my reading. An extra detached garage for David’s solitude. Chirping birds that could compete with the Calm App, trees and grass that greeted us with dewy leaves and blades in the morning, and the kind of charm that doesn’t make our house stand out from the rest per se, but makes it so we know this could be only one thing: our home.

My daydreams usually end by the time I start wondering what books will live on our stacked bookshelf, or how many extra bedrooms we would need to grow into…but now these dreams didn’t stop there. I think because I was sick, they went beyond.

As I laid there with Candland in our upstairs attic where the ceiling is low enough that I need to hunch for the safety of my noggin when standing, I licked my dry, dehydrated I’ve-been-sick-all-week lips, and dared to dream further.

Naturally, this house would have to be in an affordable place. And so affordable for such a dream home, that the town would be quite small indeed. But all of my friends would see us leave, tell the expensive housing markets to pick on someone else, and follow us to this far away land. We’d start a miniature population boom! And suddenly my friends are all a short bike ride away in Dreamland.

Some of us have continued to work remotely and thrive in the digital world from our home office where we can see our greenhouse in the yard from our window while others have left their laptops with their high rent or mortgage payments and have dared to take on the things that have brought them peace. A digital marketer now makes dishes in her pottery studio. A salesperson now builds custom coffee tables. A project manager now blasts the radio on high while collecting the town’s weekly garbage haul, honking whenever a young child gestures with their little hands in the air. And a product director now owns my favorite coffee shop on Main Street where the pastries are delivered fresh by someone who used to go by the title of“Accounting Manager II.”

And since this is my daydream in Dreamland, all of my friends either have kids or want kids or like kids…or at the very least know infant and child CPR. We take turns watching the babes for an hour here or an hour there. Maybe we need to get groceries, maybe we’re sick, or maybe we just need to lie down and cry. But all of the doors are open, and there’s no guilt attached to the walk down the street while I drop my child off to help bake cookies with Auntie Alex or finger paint with Auntie Nikki. There’s just love and trust and respect and understanding. (I happily dog-or-cat sit for my child-free friends so they can go on their week or month-long adventures too, obviously.) 

I, of course, would offer other services as well. Beyond always having room for an extra child or dog when my friends wanted or needed, I’d teach weekly tennis clinics for all of the kids and even do weekend mixers for the adults. Maybe I’d start another book club and writing circle where excellent writers came and spoke to us rookies each month.

It would be fun to trade vegetables from our home gardens, roller skate together in the summers, and drink cocoa in the winters. All of my friends would be there. The ones that ground me. The ones that help me dream. The ones that remind me to take care of myself. The ones that make me stay up past my bedtime. The ones that get angry for me. The ones that laugh with me. The ones that cry with me. And because they’re all so cool…everyone else would become friends too. Suddenly our little Dreamland would be up and coming with passionate people doing things that make them happy…and we’d all be part of the community… People say it takes a village, but we don’t have a village. We have Dreamland.

It would be a strange town, for sure, made up of friends and more friends. A place that Trader Joes would have their eyes on for their next strategy expansion. Beautiful like a Bob Ross painting with mountains, trees, streams and the like, but somehow overlooked by all the wealthy who had already harvested other places like Jackson Hole, Wyoming; Park City, Utah; and Princeville, Hawaii. It would be known for its fresh air, farmers markets, friendly people, and a mysteriously high-level of intermediate tennis juniors on the rise within the USTA (United States Tennis Association).

Would my family be there? The ones that I talk to, yes! I rolled over onto my stomach to give my baby new terrain to conquer while I continued to push the boundaries of this fantasy. 

My oldest sister who is beholden to her city in Texas would be drawn to the energy of our little town. She’d visit a few times, but after the fourth or fifth visit, she would stay for good. She would lead the community garden and teach music classes to people who thought it was too late for them to make a sound as beautiful as a swan. My sister in LA would make it big in movies. Though she’d be on the road shooting most often and touring other weeks with the band, she would decide she wanted to make the most of her home time with the family. So she’d buy a house with a view with extra bedrooms for all of her friends to visit when they needed an escape from LA. My sister in Oregon would come to join my eldest sister in music lessons, teaching little girls and boys how to express themselves using drumsticks. Her full time job would be in forensics, but since things were slow in crime, she’d spend most of her time volunteering at the local LGBTQ+ center. My sister in Washington would make her way over as well. She’d open up her own grooming shop that she teaches at part time, pleased by the fact that this town partnered with her to purchase 50 acres for an animal shelter that she manages. My youngest sister would join us because it would be a no-brainer. She would continue working in tech as an engineer, working from home in a job flexible enough for long lunches and all of the family vacations near and far. She would teach STEM online to children to give back and use the extra space at her house for her own modern gym where we all come to work out with her on Friday nights. 

My mom, though she loves her own little town already, wouldn’t be able to stay away with all of us in one place. She would move as soon as the sixth daughter did, buying a house right smack in the middle, between where all of us lived in Dreamland. She’d open up her own yoga studio where we’d all go take classes throughout the week. My sisters and I would see each other often: getting our nails done, getting brunch, going hiking, trail running, having a movie night, doing a pastry haul… But every Sunday evening, my sisters and my little family would all go over to our mom’s for a family dinner. 

I could see it. All of the 반찬 (banchan) laid out on the table. The soups. The BBQ meats. My mom sitting at the head of the table with her boyfriend on the other side. She would be smiling, knowing her table layout was beyond impressive. She would look at all of us, making eye contact with each of us, and then she would say, “So. Everyone. Tell me about your day.” After dessert, we would all make kimchi together and take home bottles to give to our friends before cleaning up and going back home to our own lives. David and my mom would have a moment washing dishes together…And she would look over and wink at me when he wasn’t looking to remind me that I chose well.

Naturally, David’s family would be there too—though this isn’t too much of a stretch since they all already live in the same state as us. So it’s not too hard to fit them into this scenario. Similar to real life, in Dreamland, Candland gets all of the cousins. Though they’re all already driving distance away now, in Dreamland, they’re also a bike ride away. Candland would get to grow up with his cousins, playing tag, having water balloon battles, and catching fireflies with them—meanwhile I’d get to complain about David to his sisters and we’d laugh at all of his embarrassing stories (though David is oddly never embarrassed).

The best part would be my sisters getting to know my sister-in-laws, and us all just swapping recipes and our favorite shampoo brands like old ladies. Maybe even when I couldn’t go out, they’d all get together anyway. They’d be that close. David’s brother would be there, maybe his brother would be married and expecting a baby at that point. He and David would talk about being dads and husbands, and have an unwritten promise to take care of the families no matter what. Candland would bake cakes with his grandpa and go running with his grandma…Making memories he could keep with him when he was older. Memories I was never able to make or keep myself.

I coughed in the attic, bringing myself back to reality. To Salt Lake City. To the present. My eyes watered from the sting of the fading head cold. Candland was done wrestling with my limbs and was ready for the next activity. I wanted to go take Candland on a walk, but my legs were too weak. I wanted to take a nap, but David was busy writing his essay for his Shakespeare class, and he had been watching Candland all day. My phone vibrated. I look, and it’s my mom. I answer the phone; it’s a Facetime call.

“Hi mom,” I croaked. 

“I’m just checking in on you. So. Jade. Tell me about your day.”

By subscribing to my blog, you are now subject to the multiple creative streams in my mind. Will it be a story about motherhood, a memory about a tennis match, or a chapter that includes a magical animal I’ve made up in my head called a Nylo? I can’t really call it scattered because all of it feels so very organized to me. (I have the excel sheets to prove it!) But I know it is a lot of jumping nonetheless. So thank you for going on this rollercoaster ride—that’s also a slow paddle boat on a lake—that’s also a puffy white cloud floating in the sky—that’s also a black molten rock melting into lava ride(s) with me.

Today I write about the present, which is the hardest thing to do. And considering I’ve shared that my family and I have had some hard times in the past, that’s saying something. And I think the present is hard because the present is also so closely followed by the future which always begs the damned question of, well, what do I do now? A few things that beg this question are the following:

1. I have a baby (…Well, what do I do now?)

2. My husband almost died, but didn’t (…Well, what do I do now?)

My baby is in his second year of life

Let’s start with the first point. I have a baby. And he’s grown past the 12-month mark. He now can say “Mama” and “Dada” and his favorite activity is clapping. He took his first steps last Sunday and brought both myself and my husband to tears. His arch nemeses are the countless teeth relentlessly ripping apart the fleshy gums in his mouth. Watching him snarl at a teether that’s cut and colored to look like a slice of pizza is rather amusing. Amusing because I birthed a human that, at that moment, looked like Godzilla. Equally amusing because I’m learning that he could look like a “spawn of Satan” (my husband’s words, not mine) and I’d still find myself worshiping the little boogers I pluck ever so delicately out of that baby’s nose. But beyond amusing, it still tears me to pieces because I know he’s having to endure some of his first encounters with pain.

I’ve also begun weaning. I guess I should say, Candland has begun weaning. Given very little direction on how to go about it, my strategy is to feed him with as much food as possible so he doesn’t crawl up into my arms and pull at my shirt with a wide open, teething mouth, for I cannot resist those little fists pulling down at my sleeve. (Not strap—Sleeve. The bra is all but forgotten to me these days.) In those moments where my baby does demand to be fed by only the best (I may be a little biased) my husband will sometimes sigh and say, “Are you feeding him or is he feeding himself?” And those comments don’t bother me, because what does it matter? My little baby never lays still, relaxed in my arms anymore, unless…he is at my nipple. And as soon as his little tummy is full, he rolls off of my cradled arms like a hotel bed he only needed for the night and is back walking around the circumference of our couch without hardly looking back at me. Just like that.

I get a lot of questions around if I’m still breastfeeding my son. They don’t bother me. I rather appreciate the curiosity. But the answer is…Yes. We’re still having those moments, fewer every week, shorter every session. But still a few moments, just us. 

On the other hand, I had forgotten what not being tethered to my child every hour and a half felt like. The freedom cow’s milk and solid foods provide me is understated. I can come and go as I please, though I admit, I’m still working on the wanting to go part. I’m not tied to my child by an internal feeding clock anymore, but still, however, tethered. I say I’m working on it, on creating temporary distance from my child. But really, I’m just more vigorously researching ways to bring him everywhere I go. (There are so many ways and so many products that make it possible to bring a child with you wherever you go.) And I’m glad to think I live in a state that is quite familiar to children out in the wild in general. 

My husband is still alive

Well, when I write the title out like that, it sounds a bit like I think that’s a problem. To be clear, I don’t think that’s a problem. It’s an amazing thing that I remind myself about often (maybe a little too often). But when every day feels like a “bonus” day that I might not have gotten, it’s hard to relax. It’s hard to just put on The Office and enjoy the day for what it is: A lazy day on the couch where any energy exerted is to feed ourselves and our baby and maybe hit “skip” over a theme song or two. Sometimes when we are doing the normal daily things like brushing our teeth or checking the mail or letting the dogs out into the yard, I hear his voice from that call: “I don’t want you to worry…but…I think I’m dying…” If each day is a bonus, shouldn’t we, I don’t know, book a skydiving session on day one, pet a shark on day two, and so forth and so on? Carpe Diem that shit? Am I not honoring the fact that he is still alive when we have cereal for breakfast instead of eggs benedict, fresh squeezed orange juice, and a side of extra crispy bacon?

No, we should not book a skydiving session. And no to the sharks or any of those things that I’ve never wanted to do in the first place. I guess I could fit a few more fancy brunches into our schedule…But that’s not really the point, is it?

The first months after Candland was born felt like “Survival Mode.” But it wasn’t until after we had gone through the first months following David’s first two surgeries that we really went into “Survival Mode.” Days spent in that mode included things like (1) helping David undress and get into the shower, wash his wounds carefully, my finger tracing his large, jagged sutures because David couldn’t quite bend his leg in the way he needed to reach them, (2) serving David breakfast, lunch, and dinner on a tray on the couch and having no way to sit next to him for any of our meals because of the layout of said couch and tray and (3) having nearly 12 alarms set, accompanied by a whiteboard, to track David’s medication intake and help him stay on track when he was quite foggy himself from the drugs. And I’m going to be honest… Sometimes those days feel easier than these days, er, post survival mode. Because we had so much to do, there was no time to rest, to think, to dally and dilly. We just…survived. We hit autopilot and didn’t look back…or forward.

Looking back now, we have a little bit of time to throw our pity parties (something “Survival Mode” didn’t quite allow for). I write about these struggles and I think of the people who didn’t survive terrible accidents. I think of those who didn’t get to keep their limbs or who will never walk again. And I do feel guilt and shame for feeling so tired, so angry, so distraught… when David is alive, when he has both legs, when he starts to lift his crutches on our short daily strolls to see how far he can go without the support under his forearms. Looking back, I still wonder why us. I still wonder why David. And yes, selfishly, I wonder why me. And I look around at the life around me, and sometimes when I write I let myself be sad. And then I continue on with my day, hoping softly in the background that my readers won’t judge harshly when my words sometimes get stuck in my bitterness, hopelessness, despair. 

And I try to move forward. But as mentioned before, looking forward wasn’t a privilege we had before either. I’ve now started pondering questions that had been put on pause such as…When is it normal for our baby to start talking? Am I… pudgy? Should we plan a family vacation? What should we plant in the backyard? When David graduates in December, does he want to start working again? Does he want to continue being the primary caretaker? Does he want to get a Master’s degree? Do I want to get a Master’s degree? Does Candland need a sibling? The air gets so bad here sometimes…Should we move? We need a bigger house anyway…

And all of these questions dangle in the present and swing forward into the future with such an alarming necessity of layers in a foundation that need to be organized before I can imagine answering any of those questions. And I close one eye and then the other trying to finagle puzzle pieces together to make a picture, but it feels as if all of my puzzle pieces are missing parts. I feel like I can’t even find the corners. Do I have any corners? And then I start asking more questions. 

Why does it matter when our baby talks? What if I am…pudgy? Can we afford to go on a vacation? If I plant things, will David be able to help me or will that be too hard on his body with the kneeling and such? Will it be too hard on my body? (My spine has suffered some since my tennis days.) How will David make it to an office to interview for a job when he can barely make it from our downstairs bedroom to the upstairs playroom? What if we both want our Masters? Who will get one first? If I got pregnant any time in the near future, the math would be that 2 out of the 2 parents could hardly make it up or down our rickety 3-story home, so who’s going to take care of who? And move? Move?! We just had the most stressful year of our lives, why would I subject myself to one of the most arguably stressful activities a family will go through one or more times in their lives… And out of state? Dear Jade. You JUST graduated from “Survival Mode.”

So now that we’re out of “Survival Mode” and have time to do other things other than survive and think of things other than eat, sleep, repeat…I feel like I’ve shied away from “Other things” and simply continue to…survive.

And the surviving is going okay… So, well… What do I do now?

Patience has never been my strength. Not controlling every action item in a plan is not comfortable for me. Not knowing details ahead of time to prepare for scenario A - Z isn’t something I enjoy. 

But perhaps the next stage after survival is (slow) learning. Not at any great pace, I’m learning to be patient. Whether it’s easing up on my pace when I go out with David in the morning or waiting for Candland to repeat the vaguely similar consonants I repeat in relevance to the objects I’m holding. Whether it’s focusing on my breath when someone’s bushes are blocking the sidewalk so I can’t get through with the stroller or Candland’s teeth are waking him up for the 5th time that night…I’m learning self-restraint, fortitude… maybe one day that will become serenity. (Not anytime soon though, trust me.)

I’m learning to truly not know. I always said I was flexible and able to go with the flow, but that’s easy when the flow is a toss up between going out to eat Mexican food or ordering in at our local Chinese spot. Now going with the flow means being willing to start a garden knowing we might not be able to finish. It means thinking about what a college campus might feel like as a thirty-something-year old without deciding if it’s me or my husband that will be attending. It means listening to my heart without knowing every detail or how logistically things will add up.

I’m also learning how to ask for help, to ask for what I need, and to communicate when I can’t give what I’m being asked. I’m understanding boundaries and generosity on levels I, frankly, should have been aware of long, long ago. I hope to teach Candland about these powerful gifts early on so he can practice well before he’s an adult.

Last night, David brought home a few trinkets he picked up from a Pride event. (It was his first outing alone and he was only gone a few minutes.) I had been nervous the entire time, ready to grab my keys and pick him up if he texted me… But he made it there and back just fine. I need to remember that it's still possible for him to come home to me safe. I need to breathe instead of hold my breath when he’s gone. I guess that’s another thing I need to learn.

The first item he showed me was a gift for me, a stone carving of a little animal family. Then he showed me another carving of another creature he picked up for him. It was a snail, teeny-tiny in his palm. He held it up to his face so that it was level with his timid smile. I stared at it and thought of an old song I used to bellow from my car window as a teenager (at shamefully loud volumes): 

“Snails see the benefits, the beauty in every inch…” 

And it was right then and there that I decided I needed a better name for what to call post-survival for our family. “Learning Mode” was well and good…but here was one better. Here and now, with a one year old and a living, breathing husband, I have now entered the Chapter of the Snail. And in this chapter, we don’t ask,“Well, what do I do now?” We ask, “What am I learning?”

I was lying on top of my bed, curled up on my side. Slow tears had grown into loud sobs that I pressed into my blanket to muffle my cries. I was upset because Spiderman wasn’t real. I was fifteen years old.

Yes. Fifteen is still a little old to be crying over fictional characters, I admit. To be fair, it wasn’t that I had thought he was real and learned he wasn’t. I wasn’t a total idiot. I was simply hyper focused on the fact that Spiderman didn’t exist. It didn’t seem fair. Violence was real. Murder was real. Rape was real. Kidnapping was real. So why wasn’t Spiderman?

…And then I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I felt a little older. A little wiser. A little sadder. 

There was some point between weeping and sleeping when I had indirectly taught myself to accept what was and what wasn’t. To swallow the hard truths and go on with my life…without crying about it.

That lesson endured, and harsh realities came and went as I got older. I didn’t need to run to my bedroom and shut my door and cry myself to sleep. I could accept things as they were, and move on. I had many opportunities to practice this order of events as I transitioned from a girl to a woman. In fact, by the time I was twenty, I believed that I had mastered the exercise of acceptance along with other graces that indicated I was on the brink of maturity.

Fifteen years later, I would learn that wishing for fantastical people and/or things was not beyond me. Not in the slightest.

Here. I sit on a chair with just enough cushion to show there was an intention to comfort, but the chair is not comfortable. There is a lot within this room that falls short of their intention to comfort. In addition to the padded chair, there’s a picture on the wall of a national park with a dry climate, a window with a view of a low roof full of steaming vents and other large metal obstructions of which I couldn’t tell you their function, and then a teal curtain with white rings patterned up and down its length. All things that could possibly help one be more comforted… and it’s really not their fault that they aren’t able to fulfill their intention. It’s really the fault of the other things in the room.

For example, there’s a beep. The beep is a good sound, but if it ever changes it becomes a bad sound; the potential alone carries its own anxieties. There’s the smell of alcohol and disinfectant spray emanating from every surface, crawling up into my nostrils. There’s a laminated poster on the outside of the door to the bathroom titled, “Pain Management” and below are different sections with small text and simple illustrations of smiley faces that become more and more upset as they move further up on the scale of pain. I wonder how this all looks to my son as I hold him in my arms. He’s so young, will hospital rooms start to feel normal after our first week here?

And, of course, there are the tubes and wires that have become an extension of my husband’s body. The clear tubes from his nose. Oxygen. The tubes from his forearms. Hydration and Pain. The wires hooked up to the band around his arm and to his finger tip. Heart.

I remember we had been on a Star Trek kick a while back, and we watched the Borg attack the Enterprise once. The effects were, of course, dated, and the costume and makeup cheap looking. But the episode itself terrified both of us. We talked a lot that night about the unknown threats to the world and what being devoured and taken over like that would be like.

My husband looked like the Borg.

I’m rubbing my eyes even though I know it’s not good for them because it feels good. And there are not many things that feel good today. And a tear carrying salt from fifteen years ago travels from my eyes down my face.

It’s not Spiderman’s existence I’m longing for this evening. It’s a time machine. If I could just go back in time, only by just a few hours... I could change the events that put us in this room. And I wouldn’t have to change something big. If the time machine would only allow for an adjustment in seconds or inches, I could protect David. If I held him for a few seconds longer before he walked out the front door. Maybe an extra kiss goodbye. Maybe a longer, loving squeeze of the hand. Maybe a quick check to make sure he had his phone and wallet before he was off. Just a few seconds delayed. And then maybe we’d be home right now. Truly comfortable. Maybe we’d be watching Star Trek and eating snacks on the couch. Maybe he’d get up to refill my glass and walk across the living room into the kitchen, to the fridge…walking like it was nothing; both legs still intact.

The next day, I sit in front of my husband, still holding our son in my arms. I’m grateful to have our baby here, his warmth and weight comfort me in the corner of the space. The hospital’s physical therapist is helping you slowly carry your leg from its mountain of propped pillows down to the ground. Slowly. Gently.

In polite protest, I ask what is the meaning of all of this?
“What are the benefits of my husband moving so soon after surgery?”
Why are you doing this to him?
“Shouldn’t he be resting?”
He looks so pale.
“It hasn’t even been 24 hours since his surgery.”

The physical therapist is patient with me and explains that movement will help avoid blood clots.

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So I sit still. Both of your feet are dangling from the bed, touching the floor. You aren’t looking at me, you’re looking out the window with no view. Just smoke and things from the ugly concrete roof. The physical therapist isn’t looking at me, they’re looking at the lack of color in your cheeks. And I hold my breath. I am thinking only of your physical body—your muscles, ligaments, bones—and their damage. I think, this will be too hard. And when I’m sure you cannot stand, you slowly lean forward, with your hands deep in the hospital bed, pressing down. Your movements are slow, but you stand, all weight on your left foot. You straighten your body, rolling your shoulders and spine up vertebra by vertebra. And I see your eyes shimmer and your lips shake. And I realize that it’s not your physical body that is being challenged here. It’s the things that make up your confidence, your courage, your focus, your hope: your mind. Your heart. They are what’s at battle now.

And I hear you gasp, and I hear you cry. And I think if there was a time machine, and it cost a billion dollars, I would somehow get a loan and buy it for you. We would get in together with our little boy, and I would turn the dial back to our simple, perfect, excellent, easy lives of walking the dogs, pouring cereal into porcelain bowls while standing over the kitchen counter, and showering together while we talked about what we needed at the grocery store the next day. 

I try to read your face. You’re scared. Overwhelmed. Abandoned—Not by me, but by the oblivion of the dangers that come with life. That we’re all susceptible to. I felt it too, to a much smaller degree. The brutalities of life and chance had struck us suddenly, and now we were aware of how fragile life was, how fragile our bones and veins and skin were. We were now keenly aware that anywhere we were, at any time, we were exposed. We knew accidents happen everywhere to everyone all the time, but we didn’t feel it. Not until now.

While watching you muster up enough strength, courage, and determination to reach for a walker and stand, I can’t shake the feeling of anger I have for the lack of advancement in technology. I didn’t care about flying to Mars. I didn’t care about discovering new seaweeds in the unknown depths of the ocean through the most innovative submarine. I didn’t even care about the ability to call my grandmother through the airwaves using a cellular device. I would have taken all of the technology in the world and traded it in for one trip in a time machine.

It was strange to say how I felt. Too strange actually. When my family, friends, or simply the nurses that came and went in our room that week asked me how I was feeling, I never once told them, “Well, I’m angry because no one has been clever enough to come up with a time machine.” Instead I said, “Not good.” and left it at that. And so they left it as well.

My husband sat down after getting both hands on the walker for a few seconds. Then he returned to lying on the hospital bed with his leg elevated. The physical therapist left. I made the mistake of checking my phone where every response that came through only infuriated me more.

“Your husband’s accident has reminded me to live life to the fullest because you never know when something like this can happen. He’s inspired me to make the most of my life and go on a vacation!” Thanks Carol. I’ll let David know that his accident, pain and suffering, and inability to walk has helped you decide to take that trip to Mexico.

“At least he got to keep his leg.” Yes, Brittany. We’re oh so grateful.

“It could have been worse.” Well, Tom. It could have been better.

“I hope he’s okay.” You don’t have to hope. He’s not. He’s not, and I’m not.

“Sending happy and healing vibes.” Take those vibes and stick them up your ass.

“This happened for a reason.” Can’t wait to learn what it is.

“This is all part of God’s plan.” He’s a shitty planner.

Nothing that people told me made me feel better. To be fair, nothing then really made me feel better. (I accept those responses much more gracefully now that I’ve had more than a day to process, I promise.) But in those first 24 hours, it was only David that could make me feel remotely better. Only his improvements. Only his smiles. Only him. 

But the “better” hurt too. When he smiled, my heart fluttered and ached. When he gave me a thumbs up, my eyes widened and watered. When he told me about a memory of us, I was glad we did the thing he recalled while simultaneously feeling bitter we could not do the thing now. When he stood up for the first time, I felt hopeful that he would walk again…and scared that he would fall. There was no joy, even from him, that didn’t come with its own shadowed lining.

And some of those nights were terrible. The medication stopped working. The drugs came too late. And David was in so much pain that he could not talk. He only made a strained constant grunt almost as if in a backwards “OM” through his grinding teeth. And he screamed and cried in between those strange hums he made. This was my husband, and he was hurting. And so in those times when he was moaning in pain so he could not hear me, I would hold his hand tightly so that he knew I was there. Those nights we cried together. There has never been a time I felt more helpless.

And we also shared tears on less eventful, but still terrible nights. When the results of the accident were sinking in. The many limits of what his body would allow were debilitating on their own. The pain of rehab was somehow both unimaginable and overwhelming. The timeline of recovery, daunting, taunting, and withering away any good spirits we could muster. I thought about how we used to dance in our living room which was big enough for exactly half a twirl. And I thought about how my husband would not be able to twirl me for months and maybe years. We cried together those nights too.

“Today was supposed to be my first day of school,” He said on the third day at the hospital. David made sure I reached out to his professors and advisor to explain why he didn’t show up. He didn’t want them to think he didn’t want to be there.

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And in between those moments of highs and lows, joys and strains, when I was not distracted by a milestone or set back, I started to bargain with the hypothetical gods. Would I trade places with my husband if I could? I saw his leg, the pain, and felt embarrassed when I hesitated when confronted with the question. Who would I choose to endure the accident instead of my husband? Too many names popped into my head too quickly. 

And when the hypotheticals stopped and I was left to my own devices while my husband slept…

I thought of time machines.

I sometimes imagined them to look like those retro refrigerators with their curved corners and round edges. Just one big door, three big buttons, and the whoosh of time being pulled and plied like taffy. I thought about the time machines I had seen in movies. There always has to be some line explaining why the main character isn’t going back to kill Hitler. You can’t have a lovable main character if they aren’t willing to kill Hitler. There always had to be some rule explained there. 

One look at my husband and—terrible or not, please don’t judge me—I would have given up Hitler’s death in a second if I could take back that day for David. I feel shame saying it. But I can’t help how I feel tonight. I don’t want to change history, I just want to change last week. Would David hate me for thinking that? I rub my eyes. Would he hate me for not murdering Hitler at the chance? …Would that make me a bad mother?

I had read the book, The Time Machine by H.G. Wells, many years ago. I had watched both movies too. It occurred to me that time machines always had a fun connotation when I thought of them previously. You know, you always get the question, “If you could travel to another time period, where would you go?” It’s basically like asking where you would go for your next vacation…But The Time Machine… that story gets it. Because the invention of the contraption is born from an accident. If I remember correctly, the inventor’s wife dies. Tragically, even after he gets the time machine to work, he can’t change history. His wife continues to die over and over in many, many ways as he continues to try to save her.

What is with that concept? That we can’t change history. That it either shouldn’t or couldn’t be changed—that’s always a rule in those kinds of stories. I thought about this while a technician helped my husband into the bathroom where he would take his first sitting shower. The sound of the plastic garbage bag taped around his thigh being dragged across the floor played like static in my ears, or rather, sounded like our baby’s sound machine we used at home. I wasn’t sure if I should look at him for support or away for privacy. Or was it dignity?

What if David’s accident couldn’t be changed? Or at least the damage. What if no matter what I tried—given I was able to travel back in time—he still came out unable to walk for an indefinite amount of time. What if it had to be so? And if so, what if there was a purpose? 

What if David not walking was actually the lesser of two evils? What if God’s plan was actually, somehow, merciful? As I hear the water splash against my husband’s back, I wonder why I can’t just be grateful he’s alive. Why can’t I stop with the time machine nonsense and just be happy he’s okay?

Now David is showered, his pain under control. He’s in bed. His oxygen levels are high, and his heart rate normal. He’s exhausted from standing, from showering, from breathing. And as I watch his chest rise and fall, listening to the constant beep of the heart monitor, I wonder…Would the time machine have a dial on the dashboard to direct it to the right time or would it be something more like a lever or a stick shift? 

Dear 17-year-old me,

My guess is, wherever you are, you’re walking right now. You love to walk. Whether you’re headed to the grocery store, the library, or you’re just on a walk around the block, I know you’re really just searching for the love of your life.

This might sound dramatic to my readers, but I know myself. I know you. And 17-year-old you has one thing on your mind: True love. Nothing about your search for love as a teenager could be exaggerated. You crushed hard, you loved large, and fell terribly. A lot. It felt like you went through that cycle nearly every day.

Well, I’m writing to you today to tell you that I found the man I’m going to propose to in a few short weeks. The search is over! And I wanted to tell you about your search — what changed, what stayed the same, and why everything is good.

The truths that remain

You wanted someone who would be a good father

The inner monologue in your head always asked, “Is this the father of my children?” on the first date. (Luckily, you never asked it out loud.) For you, family comes first, and you’ll discover that as you get older, this value continues to hold the top position of priorities for you — not just in a romantic partner, but in life, work, and beyond. You’re not crazy to be thinking about these things on the first date, it’s just that important to you.

There are many times when your love for this man amplifies throughout your relationship. One of these times is when you first see him hold a baby. Another time is when he interacts with a toddler, waving his big bear hands up and down for the exchange of a giggle. And another is when you fall and cut your knee, and he is there the next second with a band-aid and an “All-better” kiss. You not only feel confident in his potential as a father, but it hurts when you think about the possibility of not being able to see him fulfill this role. This is what you looked for, this is what I look for, and this is what we found.

You wanted someone good

This was something you were looking for all along but never quite understood what it was. It was hard to put names to the characteristics that truly mattered when things like height, ambition, and biceps took center stage for many years.

Being a caring person isn’t associated with being manly. Kindness is not sexy. Good doesn’t sound great.

…That’s what magazines and TV shows taught you anyway.

You kept looking for a type. And you found skaters, and athletes, and scholars, and adventurers, and creatives, and designers…And their Instagram accounts were all fire!…and then you came to realize that hobbies are a small part of a person’s identity. In fact, even things that seem so ingrained in our identity — careers, passions, skills — are all still only parts of an identity. And before you even realized it, somehow, you started searching for the larger attributes that make up who we truly are.

This man is caring. This man is kind. This man is good. This is part of his core. This man is an intellectual. This man is an animal lover. This man is fascinated by everything and always curious. And the variables are ever changing, but as long as the constants are there, the variables are the finer details that shift here and there over time.

You found your desire for these characteristics by taking the long way, unfortunately. You learned these were the things you needed in a relationship by living with the things you didn’t need. And with them, you slowly stripped away the bad that came with the good until you found the inner core that had been drawing you in all along.

It is sad to think that qualities such as kindness and honesty are characteristics that you and I didn’t appreciate until we had dared to try and love the opposite of those things. It isn’t fair to those who shine with such important virtues, but sometimes people get lucky and find someone who was patient enough to wait for them. I think that’s what happened to you and me.

The stranger in the field

You had this image in your head since you can remember of tough hands, a stained T-Shirt, and dirty jeans. You got it. This might just be luck, if you will. But you always fancied the guy that was a little rough around the edges, the guy who liked to work with his hands, the guy who tried to fix something before he replaced it with something new.

This may not seem like the biggest deal, but I know how much you tried to see into the future and get a peek at what he — your mystery man — would be like. I know how you could almost smell the cotton of his T-shirt and feel the light scratching from fresh cut grass he mowed in the mornings. There is something concrete in your dream man that made it through to reality.

And now when I see him kneeling in the dirt and pulling weeds, or standing on a ladder painting the siding, or tiling a new wall one subway tile at a time, I smile and wonder about that vision I carried all this time of the man I will marry.

The Truths that changed

Prince charming would be yours

He was the main character, he was the center of attention, and he was outspoken, charismatic, and always ready for an adventure, or more importantly, a rescue. All of the women wanted him. This is not who you end up choosing in the end.

Rather, you fall for the supporting role. The one that would never be a prince. No, this is a small but pivotal character. He’s the one the audience forgets about halfway in the story, only to come in near the end when all hope seems lost and saves the prince’s ass (and the writer’s story). He’s the one with the quirks. The one that’s, dare I say, misunderstood. He’s a misfit, an oddball, and monstrously quiet. And his greatest qualities are constantly at risk of never being discovered or acknowledged in a world that’s constantly buzzing from social media and caters to the extrovert.

The fairy tale ride to the wedding would be a smooth one

Perhaps this was the most naive expectation in your plans for love. You’re not to blame. With couples being compared to peanut butter and jelly or puzzle pieces in a 2-piece puzzle, why would you foresee any bumps along the way to love? Yes, you understand that heartbreak is inevitable, that relationships can go wrong and then end and be hurtful (at least you think you do, but in the next few years, you certainly will know what I’m talking about. Sorry, love). But what you don’t understand, and won’t for a long time is that things can go very wrong during a relationship. And you don’t know why “wrong” isn’t a bad thing.

The man I’m about to marry, that you’ll meet a few years and heartbreaks from now, will go through many wrongs with you. You’re a go-getter, a critical thinker, and you’ve been trained as a tennis player to immediately correct a mistake or remove it all together and move forward. But relationships are more intricate than a tennis stroke. And you’ll learn this with this man. You will literally lose your hair wondering why all of these things are not going as planned (and yes, you’ll get a disease where your hair falls out. Again, sorry, love. Your future is a wild one.) But then the wondering about why everything is going wrong finally changes to a wondering about this person who is beside you the entire time things are going wrong.

Why haven’t they raised their voice yet? Why haven’t they given up yet? Why are they still here, talking, listening, working through the wrong with you? Doesn’t wrong mean it’s over? Doesn’t bad mean the end is near? Sometimes. Many times. But not always.

Look. There will always be wrong. There will always be bad. But it won’t always look as gentle and kind and straining for understanding. You and I are lucky, because by the time we meet this man, we understand this and we are able to recognize and appreciate how lovely this man can make wrong and bad turn out.

Finally, how did you know?

This is something you wonder often. How will you know if he’s “The One”? How will you know this is the man you should marry when your heart falls for a stranger every day, when you can daydream a future with someone after a single interaction at a coffee shop? Was it love at first sight? Did you know when you saw his eyes? Do you ever wonder if you’ll marry him, and only a week later, meet your true soulmate at the grocery store on a Sunday morning?

I hope this answer doesn’t sound disappointing. I’m not sure how younger me would take this. But here’s my answer:

I don’t know. I don’t know if he’s the one. I don’t know if we will marry each other and it will last forever. I don’t know if my soulmate exists (though I don’t quite believe in soulmates generally speaking). And it wasn’t love at first sight.

Time didn’t stop. The stars didn’t align. The sun didn’t sing down its rays when we first kissed.

The assurance that you’re waiting for and hoping for… It doesn’t come. And when one endeavors in making a life-long decision, I believe most people do hope for a sign. Most people hope that when they meet their partner, they “just know.”

I just don’t know.

But, here’s what I do know.

If our relationship were to end. If we were to break up today, or tomorrow, or ten years from now. I think it would be okay. He would be kind and patient. He would put the children first (if the break did happen later on down the road).

So what I’m saying is…one of the bad case scenarios wouldn’t be so bad.

I know I’m known for being a hopeless romantic. I don’t think imagining what it would be like to go through a divorce with my special someone is exactly romantic. But it’s real. And it’s reassuring. And I hope that we are the couple that stays together until death parts us. But if we’re not, if it doesn’t turn out that way…I know we can get through it, together, and if needed, from a distance.

Now let me turn this downer of a section into a positive. There, there, young Jade.

Here you are with your partner. There is no sign waving in front of us, telling us that we are soulmates, telling us that we were made for each other, telling us that this is meant to be. Statistically speaking, there’s a scary high probability that our marriage could end in divorce.

But we’re here, hand in hand amongst the uncertainty, ready to take a risk because we think we have something good.

…And if that’s not romantic as hell, I don’t know what is.