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

Molly Booker at United Methodist Church of Eagle ValleyThe church basement always felt haunted, but not by ghosts. It was haunted by the unknown. The dark. The damp. The unused. While upstairs buzzed with hymns, potlucks, and praise, the basement sat mostly idle—full of forgotten Christmas costumes, dusty canned goods, and that low-level discomfort kids

Starting Over at MidlifeYou’re not late. You’re right on time.There’s this tricky terrain I keep bumping up against: how do we tell the truth about what hurt us without turning our healing into harm?I came out at 47, and in doing so, I cracked open an entire identity I hadn’t fully accessed before. I didn’t

Our basement pipe is still clogged.The gutters are… well, not “guttering.”There are boxes in the hallway, boxes in the basement, and probably boxes in my subconscious.The backyard? Torn up. No grass, no doggy door.It’s a mess.And yet: I’m home.There was a time not long ago when a mess like this would’ve wrecked me. In fact,

There are letters I write in my head that never leave my lips.Letters I whisper in the car, in the kitchen, in the quiet.Letters I scribble in my journal, or tuck behind my eyes like tiny, burning secrets.This is one of those letters.To my dad.The one I’m desperate to write. The one I don’t want

Molly Booker, 1981Gentle Content Note: This post includes reflections on childhood discipline, physical punishment, and the emotional impact of being silenced. If those topics are tender for you, please care for yourself as you read. Skip, pause, or come back later if needed. My intention in sharing is not to relive the pain, but