I’m on my period.

(Welcome back to me giving too much information to strangers on the internet.)

I’m doing too much.

Just me in my car, stuck in traffic, crying about my period, venting to a metal box. It’s not what you’re thinking unless maybe it is. And if it is, for the love of God, connect with me. Let’s make a blood bond in the name of never doing too much again.

Hello,

I wonder how to greet you because we’ve never done this sort of thing.
But here I am smiling. Maybe I’m getting the sense that you get me.
And I feel it now, that you like me too.
I’m sorry that the feelings are yet to be mutual - that I both get you and like you.
On the surface, sure. But you and I both know the truth.

I remember the night I first made myself vomit.

After a football party my 10th grade year. I had broken another promise to myself around food, pizza to be exact. I had saved up all my calories that week for 1 slice of pizza - not 6. Me and all my calories never stood a chance.

I’m sure I was obsessed with the perfection of my weight (and everything else) long before I discovered the Exalted Calorie. But this is hindsight talking. 7 year old me didn’t call it obsession.

I’m just being me.

A client from my hometown gave birth this weekend. It’s precious to serve women I went to high school with. I owe her older brother like $250 in quarters for supporting my “lunch from a vending machine” addiction Sophomore year. Small town nostalgia coming in hot.

It felt once in a lifetime witnessing her bring a surprise baby girl to earth. This birth was different. I always view women as my teacher during our time together. But this birth really took me there - from concept/vision to feeling/embodiment. She was the guide, the muse, the one I witnessed to glean from as she drew from the ancient wells of surrender and the descent of death/birth.

I know the roof is leaking.

I’m supposed to go home and see how bad it is.

The storm isn’t helping and I can hear the thunder in my sleep.

I walk in the back door through the kitchen.

The house is just like we left it except the second floor has become the bottom floor.

I wish Apple could have drone camera’d me using this phone for 2 weeks. Or just 2 minutes on i285 text-coaching (without the letters A and S) a dad whose about to catch a baby while I’m in route. Ya. No. Facetime to the rescue and 1 billion iPhones sold. You’re welcome.

I will miss it though. Something in me gets off to the whole scenario of trying to go tech-less in a tech world.

I’m seeing my life in seasons. Currently, winter.

A winter ago, yes. Let’s start there.

Prefaced to say, I feel a thousand years removed from 2023.

winter

I called my friend Jamie about hosting a prenatal at her pink townhouse in Macon. My best friend from high school, Erin, was pregnant and due in weeks-ish. I was her midwife, 4 hours away, and Macon was middle ground.