the website: i wish i was worse.
the rumors are terrible and cruel, but honey, most of them are true…
lucky number 13.
thirteen years today.
you’d think it would feel smaller by now. quieter. more manageable. like it’s something you get used to. like background noise you forget how to turn off.
but if there’s one thing i’ve learned since july 18, 2012, it’s that time doesn’t smooth things out. it just makes the sharp edges feel normal.
this year is lucky number 13. and maybe lucky is the right word, in a way only he would understand.
i wrote a book.
not just talked about writing it. not just scribbled pieces here and there. i wrote the whole thing. and i know exactly what he would have said. he would have bragged like he had something to do with it. “that’s my daughter.” same energy he had telling people i could play piano, even though i quit after three lessons. details were always optional when it came to his pride.
he would have loved it. not because it’s neat or polished or makes me look good. because it’s sharp. messy. real.
thirteen years of figuring out how to say things he isn’t here to hear.
thirteen years of learning how to carry him forward without turning him into a statue.
because my dad wasn’t a statue. he was a pain in the ass. he was certain. he was alive in the way most people only pretend to be.
so yeah. lucky number 13.
i get to say things now i wouldn’t have known how to say when he was still here.
i get to write a whole book that feels like sitting across from him, coffee in hand, telling him the latest story and waiting for him to say exactly the thing i didn’t know i needed to hear.
still waiting.
still writing anyway.
how to raise a problem.
my dad didn’t do anything halfway.
he loved loud. corrected strangers. argued with confidence and hugged like he meant it.
he said “i love you” like a declaration. like a hypothesis he’d already tested. and proven true.
he was warm. and brilliant. and impossible to ignore.
the kind of man who thought effort should leave a mark.
my favorite kind of exhausting.
he taught me how to interrogate authority. challenge assumptions. never trust a man who says he’s just playing devil’s advocate.
he taught me that asking the right question is better than pretending to have the right answer.
he taught me how to be exacting. and curious. and a little bit insufferable.
(you’re welcome.)
he believed in me with a kind of reckless certainty.
i was on a rec soccer team. not varsity. not competitive. just vibes and wildly uneven talent.
but he told me i was good. like, really good.
so i tried out for an elite girls team i had absolutely no business being at tryouts for.
they were running footwork drills with military precision.
i got winded during the warm-up and briefly forgot which direction we were supposed to be kicking.
one girl had cleats with her name stitched on them.
i showed up with borrowed shin guards and blind confidence.
i had no business being there.
i was completely out of my depth.
and still, when they didn’t ask me to join, i was shocked.
because he said i belonged there.
and when he said things like that, i believed him.
that level of delusion stuck.
now i’ve got a five-year-old who genuinely believes he is the second best basketball player in the world.
he will fight you on it.
and i won’t stop him.
my dad also, for reasons known only to him and possibly the retail gods, had a target barcode scanner gun at his house.
we found it the morning after he died.
just sitting there.
no explanation. no receipt. obviously.
a full-on inventory device next to his stack of peer-reviewed journals.
like that made perfect sense.
and somehow, it kind of did.
this is also the man who once explained persistence by saying a single drop of water is nothing.
…but if you spit in the same place every day, eventually it becomes a puddle.
then a flood.
then an ocean.
and eventually, people have to deal with it.
their socks get wet. their rules stop working.
they’ve got mold in the walls. and it’s learning their names.
you were just existing. but now you’ve created a problem they can’t ignore.
congratulations. you’ve become inconvenient on purpose.
and he had my back.
when a mom on my soccer team accused me of cussing at her during a game, he didn’t flinch.
he looked her dead in the eye and said, “my daughter would never.”
then turned to me after she left and winked.
he knew i did.
and he also knew she probably deserved it.
he never asked me to soften. or behave.
he never told me to be likable.
he told me to be right.
and to stay that way. even when people got uncomfortable.
my dad died in 2012. i don’t have to look up the date.
my body remembers. it queues up the grief like a seasonal playlist.
june hits. and suddenly i’m nostalgic. and pissed off. and soft. and sharp. all at once.
and when i lost him, the silence wasn’t just absence. it was erasure.
a whole category of love vanished.
every father’s day, i scroll past tributes and reminders and cherish every moment captions and i want to throw my phone into the ocean.
but i don’t.
i just sit with it.
let it ache.
let it remind me.
and then i write things like this.
i don’t need a tribute post to remember him.
but this is one. obviously.
because he’s in my bones.
he’s in the way i love my son without dimming.
he’s in the way i say hard things out loud. and refuse to apologize for the echo.
i’m just writing this.
for me.
for him.
for the girl who sat by a hospital bed holding a hand that had stopped holding her back.
grief doesn’t fade. it just changes clothes.
some days it shows up dressed like anger.
other days, like tenderness.
and sometimes, like certainty.
he’s still here. just not in ways anyone else can see.
he lives in the questions i ask. the stories i tell. the way i choose to be too much, on purpose.
so happy father’s day to the man who made me inconvenient. brilliant. stubborn. and completely unequipped to tolerate bullshit.
you were the loudest love i’ve ever known.
you still are.
in college, i once called him crying. full-body, can’t-get-the-words-out crying.
because of a fight with a friend.
before i could even explain what was wrong, he interrupted. calm as ever.
“are you pregnant?”
i wasn’t.
but i started laughing.
he wasn’t trying to be funny.
he just wanted to know what kind of problem we were dealing with.
and i miss that more than anything.
get on the broom.
after watching wicked, the musical that somehow manages to be about witches, systemic injustice, and friendship all at once, i’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to find the people who will get on the broom with you. if you’ve seen the stage production, you know the story goes beyond “defying gravity.” but if you’re only familiar with the upcoming movie, that’s where it ends—a moment of defiance, courage, and choosing to rise above the noise.
it’s the perfect stopping point, really, because that’s where the magic happens. elphaba makes her choice, and she flies…but she doesn’t do it alone. it’s her friendship with glinda, complicated and imperfect as it is, that gives the moment its weight. watching that, i couldn’t help but think about how important it is to find the people in your life who would stand by you at that edge. the ones who wouldn’t just cheer from the ground but would climb on the broom too.
the truth is, not everyone will. some people will hesitate, worried about what the crowd will think. others might step back entirely, afraid of what it costs to stand beside someone who’s choosing to go against the grain. some people avoid conflict at all costs. they shrink to fit in, stay quiet to keep the peace, and dodge anything that feels uncomfortable. it might seem harmless until you need them. if they’ve never stood up for themselves, why would they stand up for you? when the pressure is on, they hesitate. they retreat. maybe they even excuse it with, “i didn’t want to make it worse,” or “i wasn’t sure what to say.” and just like that, you’re standing at the edge, broom in hand, flying solo. and that’s okay. not everyone is meant to take that ride with you.
…those who hesitate, the ones who can’t quite make the leap? they’re the cowardly lions of your life. they may mean well, but fear keeps them grounded, unable to roar when it matters most.
but the ones who do? they’re everything. these are the friends who don’t need to be convinced. the ones who are ready to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you, even if it means risking their own comfort or reputation. they don’t just go along for the ride when it’s easy…they show up when it’s hard.
it’s a theme that’s been on my mind a lot lately, not just after wicked, but also after reading the lion women of tehran. the women in that book remind me of elphaba in so many ways. they are fierce, defiant, and willing to risk everything to stand up against oppression and fight for what’s right. they don’t just follow the crowd. they roar against it. but what struck me most about them was their strength as a collective. their power wasn’t just in their individual bravery but in their willingness to support one another, to build a sisterhood that refused to be silenced. they didn’t just get on the broom, they carried each other when it got too heavy to fly alone.
life has its share of mobs. crowds that will try to pull you back down to the ground. that’s why you need friends who can hold their ground, who choose integrity over ease, and who will always have your back. the lion women of tehran had that kind of strength. they remind us that true power comes from solidarity, from finding the people who will fight beside you, even when the world is against you.
maybe this resonated with me because, truth be told, i’ve always been a little witchy myself. not in an obvious way, but in the sense of owning the parts of me that feel a little rebellious, a little unconventional. witches (and lion women) have always been a symbol of women who refused to play by the rules, and i’ve never been one to follow a script. and like any good witch, i know that my power is amplified by the people who stand beside me. the ones who see the magic in me and aren’t afraid to rise alongside it.
watching wicked and reading the lion women of tehran reminded me that those friendships and alliances aren’t just nice to have…they’re essential. whether you’re defying gravity or standing up against a system that wants to silence you, you need people who will get on the broom. if you don’t have them yet, don’t settle. hold out for the ones who remind you that flying together isn’t just easier…it’s everything.
and if you already have those people in your life, hold on tight. there’s nothing more powerful than a friend who chooses you, every single time.
back it up: a love story.
the street we live on is narrow, with parking allowed only on one side. when cars are parked, there isn’t enough room for two vehicles to pass each other. it’s an unspoken rule: whoever is closer to the entrance of the street backs up to let the other car through. it’s basic neighborly etiquette, but apparently, not everyone gets the memo.
today, i pulled onto our street just as another car started coming down toward me. normally, he’d be the one to back up since reversing for me would mean backing out onto a busy road with constant traffic. but instead of following this understood rule of decency, this guy barreled down the street, demanding i back up onto the main road.
here’s where things got interesting.
my husband, who was in the backseat with our kid, jumped out of the car so fast i barely had time to blink. he saw what was happening, this guy choosing to make his convenience my problem, and immediately stepped in.
“she’s not backing into a busy street. you need to back up your damn car.”
now, i don’t think the guy even knew my husband was in the car because his energy shifted as soon as he saw him standing there. but instead of doing the right thing, he doubled down. he refused to move, staring me down like he was daring me to budge.
i put my car in park. he put his car in park. the audacity of this man, i swear.
and then my husband yelled.
not just yelled. YELLED. the kind of yell that makes you sit up straighter, whether you want to or not.
“back up! i have a kid in this car, and she is not backing into a busy road!”
the guy stared at him for a second, weighing his options, before he finally finally threw his car in reverse and backed up the damn street like he should’ve done in the first place.
here’s the thing. my husband is one of the calmest men i know. he’s not a yeller. he doesn’t lose his temper. it takes a lot to get him worked up. which is why this whole scene was exponentially hotter. he wasn’t acting out of anger, he was acting out of principle. he saw what was happening, and he made it his mission to shut it down immediately.
there’s something about that calm, steady demeanor snapping into action at the perfect moment. when a man who doesn’t yell decides to raise his voice, you know it’s serious. and in this case, it was serious in all the best ways.
i’ve been driving this street for years. i know exactly how these interactions go, and i’ve dealt with my fair share of entitled drivers. i’m not one to back down or shrink myself to avoid conflict. i will stand my ground when someone decides to be unreasonable. but this time, before i even had a chance to handle it, my husband was already out of the car, making it clear that this guy’s behavior wasn’t going to slide.
he saw the imbalance, the entitlement, and the audacity, and he called it out. loudly.
i’ll admit, there’s something almost primal about watching your husband step in and yell at another man on your behalf. it wasn’t just the act of yelling. it was the acknowledgment, the validation, and the unapologetic protection that hit me straight in the chest.
it wasn’t just about the yelling. it was about the message behind it.
he didn’t step in because he thought i couldn’t handle it, he stepped in because he wanted to. because he saw someone treating me unfairly and refused to let it slide. because he didn’t want me backing into a busy road with our kid in the car just to appease someone else’s ego.
he didn’t just yell for me, he yelled for what was right.
that moment wasn’t just about protecting me physically. it was about recognizing the subtle ways women are often expected to make accommodations, to avoid conflict, to bend so someone else doesn’t have to.
he didn’t let me bend. he stepped in, backed me up, literally and figuratively, and told this guy, in no uncertain terms, that this wasn’t happening on his watch.
it’s one thing to feel loved. it’s another thing entirely to feel backed up. to know your partner sees what’s happening, understands the dynamics at play, and steps in without hesitation to make sure you’re not navigating it alone.
instead of letting me shoulder the weight of this guy’s behavior, he stepped forward, voice raised, and made it abundantly clear.
“i’m here with her. you don’t talk to her that way.”
he just wanted to make sure this man understood that i wasn’t alone in this moment. and then he followed it up with something that made me want to marry him all over again.
“i know men treat women differently, and i’m not going to let that happen here.”
that was it. that was the line that took me out.
it wasn’t just the acknowledgment of the imbalance. it was the fact that he called it out, boldly and without hesitation. he saw it, named it, and made it clear that it wasn’t going to fly in his presence.
and let me tell you, that kind of awareness and action is sexy.
it’s sexy because it’s rare.
it’s sexy because it’s not performative.
it’s sexy because it says, “i see you. i hear you. i’m here for you.”
i don’t need someone to fight my battles for me. i’ve been handling myself just fine for years. but there’s something about having a partner who steps in, not because you need them to, but because they want to. because they know the world doesn’t always give you the respect you deserve, and they’ll be damned if they stand by and let it happen on their watch.
it wasn’t just attractive. it was loyalty in action. it was a reminder that i have someone in my corner who gets it, who doesn’t diminish what i go through, and who will back me up without hesitation.
that moment wasn’t about yelling. it was about what the yelling represented. love, respect, and an acknowledgment of what it means to be a woman in a world that too often dismisses you.
and yeah, i’ll say it again. it was a little hot. if looks could conceive, we’d already be picking out baby names.
we were girls together.
i had every intention of writing something wise, something soaked in meaning and sentiment on my 44th birthday. something that would wrap up the year and put a neat little bow on it. but you know what actually happened? i spent the day with an old friend, one of those rare ones who’s been around since i was…eleven? we were girls together, trying to grow up faster than we should have, figuring out life as we went. we met in junior high, survived high school, and even when she switched schools our senior year, we stayed in touch. life has a way of pulling people apart and tossing them back together at the oddest moments. seeing her again felt like coming home, like slipping on a favorite, worn-in jacket i hadn’t worn in years but still fit perfectly.
we spent hours talking, catching up on the past few years, diving deep into our lives and all the ways they’ve unraveled and tangled back up again. naturally, the conversation turned to people from those early years, friends i’d kept around for way too long. i filled her in on a few names and mentioned the latest drama. she laughed, shaking her head, and somehow that laugh held this perfect mix of familiarity and validation, as if we both knew i’d finally let go of things that never quite fit.
it wasn’t a day of profound reflection or planned revelations. it was simple. full of laughs, of catching up, of that easy comfort that only comes with a friend who’s known you for decades. it reminded me that some connections stay rooted, no matter the years or distance.
so here’s to 44. i have no idea what’s waiting for me, but maybe i don’t need to. maybe all i need is a little laughter, a few good friends, and the reminder that sometimes coming home isn’t a place; it’s a person who knew you back when.
sdinsd 