Ghosting, Survival Mode, and Why No Dog Has Ever Complained About My Communication
I got some hard feedback recently—from more than one person.Apparently… I’m not a great communicator.Oof.Right to the throat.If you know me, you know this is the hill I would’ve sworn I could die on: going there, getting real, saying the thing. Depth is my love language.So why am I suddenly the villain in a ghosting
The First Time I Saw Wicked, I Actually… Didn’t
We’re counting down to the second Wicked movie coming out, and the other night I said to Kelly, very earnestly:“Wait—there are two Wicked movies??”She blinked.“Yes,” she said. “There was a first one. We saw it together.”And I swear to you: I have zero memory of that film. Nothing. Not a green face, not a song,
“Molly, come home.” – by Molly Booker
Something has felt a bit off lately. Maybe it’s the move to Pittsburgh — this new house, this new rhythm, this new version of community. Maybe it’s being both student and teacher at Chatham University. Maybe it’s turning 50 — brain fog, weight shifts, temperature spikes — the whole premenopause parade.Probably yes to all of
Ask for What You Want – by Molly Booker
Someone once told me you can have anything in the world you want—if you’re willing to ask a thousand people for it.I think about that a lot. Has anyone ever actually done it?There’s a woman who stands outside Margeaux’s restaurant in East Liberty, right at the corner of North Highland and Center. She’s asked me
The Dopamine of Doing – by Molly Booker
Lately, I’ve been noticing how often I chase the feeling of being productive more than I chase the feeling of being alive.That tiny hit of satisfaction when I cross something off my list — the email sent, the load of laundry folded, the essay turned in — it’s dopamine, pure and simple. My brain loves
I’m a Cougar (Not That Kind)
On grief, belonging, and reclaiming the blue and gold.Content note: mentions of school violence and grief.When I say I’m a cougar, let’s be clear: I don’t mean the older-woman-chasing-younger-boys thing. Ewww. No. I mean Evergreen High School. Blue and gold. The place I’ve spent most of my life saying I hated. The place I blamed
Not Evergreen. Not Again.
Not Evergreen. Not Again.A school shooting reopens old wounds and binds us in collective grief.I felt my phone buzz in my pocket in the dark movie theater. Potential spam again? But then I glanced at my watch: my best friend. She rarely calls this time of day. My stomach tightened. Another buzz. And another. I
When You’ve Had Enough, Say When
Sunday morning therapy. I’ve got my vanilla latte in hand—because let’s not be heathens here—and ’ line, “$150 a week on therapy,” is ringing in my ears as I stroll in, ready to dive into the mess of me. This week’s mess? I go cold on people. I ghost. There, I said it. Texts
Scarcity Stinks (Just Ask Stank Ass)
Molly Booker, First Day of Grade 25, Masters Fine Art in Creative Writing, Chatham UniversityI’m starting my fourth master’s degree and yet, somehow, this feels like my first one. For decades, I’ve done school using my work ethic, my mind, perfectionism, and people pleasing. I’m really good at it. But this time, I don’t want
I Caught You – by Molly Booker
Last night, Kelly and I did the let’s go to bed dance.We’ve both been a mess this week: congestion, hot/cold swings, restless legs, perimenopausal everything. Sleep has been elusive, so we decided to try turning in together, like civilized adults.I tucked in, closed my eyes. Kelly scrolled on her phone for a few minutes. I
