I woke up this morning feeling a little better. The sinus fog is lifting. My first thought: Yay, I can finally get some shit done.The laundry. The yard. The watering. The dogs. And the list grows. There’s stuff everywhere. Purchases piling up, things I keep bringing in but not putting away. The clutter outside feels

Learning to Be Sick (and to Come Back Slowly)I got my ears pierced for the third time while Kelly and I were in the Poconos last week. Friday night happy hour special—both ears for $50. A bargain, right? Except that same night, I started to feel not just the sting of my new piercings, but

Leo and Molly….trying skateboarding for the first time in 40 years!!Someone once asked me a question that cracked my life wide open:Molly, what are you so afraid of?At the time, my answer was instant and raw:“I think about killing myself all the time.”That was my secret. My shame. My undoing. And yet, when I spoke

If Monday’s post was about the difference between being and doing, today’s post is about what happens when I forget that entirely and try to outrun life with my to-do list.Spoiler: it doesn't work.But it does make for a very vivid dream.I stayed up late watching It’s a Sin—the show about a group of boys

Enjoying a latte @TazzaDoro, PittsburghThere are days I do all the right things—feed the dogs, answer the emails, take the trash out, show up on time—and end up feeling like I’ve been emotionally hit by a leaf blower.Other days? I do the exact same things…And I feel soft. Clear. Present. Even a little delighted.Same to-do

What a Starbucks drink, some sidewalk chalk, and a shame spiral taught me about coming home to myself.On Monday, I wrote about the morning I found myself frozen in a hotel room in Albany—paralyzed by indecision, flooded with shame, overstimulated by choice. Nothing felt good. Nothing felt right.I shared how a simple act—running to Starbucks

Self-care doesn’t come with a manual. Here’s how I navigated overwhelm, shame spirals, and a Starbucks meltdown — and found my way back home.This morning, I stood in a hotel room in Albany, paralyzed by indecision.Legos? Read? Finish The Stand? Watch something? Draw? Write?Nothing felt right, and nothing felt fun. I was frozen. Again.I’ve been

Learning to trust warmth over performance.When I was little, we played a game called Hot and Cold.Someone would hide a treasure, and you’d wander around the room while they shouted clues.“Cold… colder… no, freezing…”“Getting warmer… warm… hot! HOT! You’re right there!”I didn’t know then that I’d spend my whole life playing that same game —

by Molly BookerLately, control has been on my mind.I want to manage everything—dishes, trash, recycling, laundry, the house. I want it orderly, contained, done my way. When it isn’t, I get irritated. I judge. I feel that burning question: Why can’t they just do it how I do it?At first, I blamed Kelly and Leo.

When I’m overwhelmed—resentful about the laundry, the trash, the dogs—I’m usually not just mad about tasks.I’m telling myself a story: If I don’t do it all, everything will fall apart.The house, the life, the dream—we’ll be buried under mess and bills and unmet expectations.The Money Pit but queer and exhausted.So I go into overdrive.I get