During my blessed time before Christmas my sister announced she was getting married. I was so happy for her. I immediately became her wedding planner. Dress. Shoes. Jewellery. You name it. Retired and blessed and living my best life in bridal boutiques. It felt like playing dress up as children again. Pure joy. Until she told me I had to give a speech. Damn it. I told her I wasn’t good at that. She told me to read my own essays. Damn it. She had a point. So here I am in my new liberated life staring at a blank page trying to figure out what to write. It needs to be funny. I want people to think I’m funny. Hold on. This is about my sister. Not about what people think of me. Damn it. Head spinning. Suddenly I’m picturing myself signing books and wondering how I’d style my hair for the occasion. Focus woman. Back to the speech. Nope. Nothing. Impossible. Why couldn’t she ask our brother. This is so hard. My sister is funny. She makes me laugh every single time. We always have the best time together. And I have always — always — envied her hair. Her hair. Really Stefanie. That’s what you’re leading with. Lame. Think harder. She is a wonderful mother and stepmother. She found her balance amid the chaos life handed her — and trust me it handed her plenty. She is strong and generous and always there for anyone who needs her. She deserves every single bit of happiness coming her way. For those who don’t know her personally — I hope you get to. Because she is such a beautiful soul you will never get enough of her. Which is exactly why he never wanted to let her go. I know. I know. Corny. My eyes are rolling too. But sometimes the corny thing is just the true thing in a fancy dress. Kind of like a wedding. Congratulations sis. You deserve it all. Even if your hair is still better than mine. I sent it to my sister as a preview. She said I made her cry. I said good. Save it and print it. It’s your speech. You’re welcome sis.

I’ve published enough essays now that people are saying “more.” “Stefanie we want more.” It’s flattering. Dangerously flattering. So naturally my brain whispers: Maybe… a book? Relax. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I wouldn’t even know where to start. We’ve already covered work addiction, identity collapse, dopamine highs, empathy burnout, aging parents, volunteering, literary analysis, and hiding behind bananas at Costco. What’s left? Look at me already assuming I inspire people. Aspiring. Let’s stay with aspiring. If I’m honest my ego is well fed right now. And pretending it isn’t would be dishonest. But excitement has a shadow. Nervousness. Expectation. Pressure. The very thing I said I retired. I love writing. It makes me feel content. Grounded. Clear. But the minute it becomes “what’s next?” my shoulders tense. So here I am at the kitchen table. Laptop asleep. Typing this from my phone because ambition apparently does not include posture. Outside: endless winter. November to April in one long gray sigh. I can’t even remember what spring looks like. My eyes scan the room as if inspiration might be hiding behind the toaster. Nothing. If you saw me right now you’d think I’d just had a revelation. Nope. Just a very committed blank stare. Then my old companions arrive right on schedule: You can’t write. Everything’s been written. Who’s going to read you? Ah yes. Hello. I wondered when you’d arrive. Here’s what I know now: No one is coming to save me. And that’s not tragic. It’s freeing. If there’s saving to be done we save ourselves first. That’s today’s free therapy session. Somewhere between margaritas, guilt, ego, volunteering, and winter I found something unexpected. Calm. Writing isn’t a treadmill I have to run at full speed. It’s a tide. It comes. It goes. It always comes back. And when it returns I don’t feel frantic. I feel calm. So where am I going? I don’t fully know yet. But for the first time I’m not chasing. I’m building. Slowly. On purpose. Wish me luck. I might just give you what you want

OMG. Blank page. Nothing to say. I am in mild panic mode. I need my dopamine fix. My face is red. I’ve had too many Aperol spritzes. The cat is asleep on my legs. My lower body has officially gone numb. And I’ve got… nothing. You all know the greatest hits by now: Former workaholic. Certified lash technician. Self-declared saint. Margarita counter. What is left to reveal? My grocery list? This is hard. Writing is liberating yes. But it’s also exposure therapy with punctuation. When you pour your heart out it feels amazing. Like a clean emotional high. And yes — I see the pattern. My family still thinks I need professional help. For the record: I am the happiest I’ve been in years. Because it resonates. Because people read it. Because I’m no longer pretending. Still sipping my cocktail I wonder — how did I not start this earlier? Maybe I had to hit rock bottom. Maybe I needed silence before voice. Oh and here’s something new. I started volunteering at a home care facility for people with terminal diagnoses. Yes. I know. Could I have chosen something lighter? Apparently not. I am magnetically attracted to humanity. Don’t worry — I’m at reception. I f I had to sit with patients all day right now I’d be an emotional puddle in orthopedic shoes. And here’s the real confession: I am addicted to human connection. Stories. Depth. Emotion. Meaning. So why does sitting with someone facing the end scare me? Because I’m afraid I’ll cry. Afraid of my own mortality. Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Afraid of not being strong enough. There it is again. Performance. I thought I retired you. I have all the time in the world — time they wish they had. So why can’t I simply sit and be present? Why does it feel like I have to “do it well”? Maybe crying wouldn’t be weakness. Maybe it would just be human. Maybe the difference I make in someone’s day isn’t about composure. Maybe it’s about showing up. And maybe vulnerability isn’t something to master. Maybe it’s something to allow.

In October, my 79-year-old parents decided they wanted to go on vacation. And because I am the Nice Daughter™, I offered to accompany them. Living the life. But let me give you context. My parents are first-generation immigrants from Italy. They arrived here in 1975 with me in tow and about seventeen suitcases filled with tomato sauce and expectations. Typical setup: My dad worked. My mom ran the house like a small emotional monarchy. Baking, cooking, canning, gossiping with the neighbours — that was her daily routine. And somehow decades later it still is. Except now she has replaced “raising the children” with “managing my father.” My siblings call me a saint. My dad speaks only when spoken to. My mother speaks even when not spoken to. He breathes deeply and says nothing. We speak on his behalf. This drives my mother insane. Which drives him to breathe even deeper. Two years ago my dad was diagnosed with bladder cancer. Thankfully it didn’t spread. Unfortunately he got a bad infection that made life… uncomfortable. By October he was on medication and stable. So we booked a trip to Samana. Because my mother “needed it.” Translation: she needed to complain somewhere warmer. We arrived safely. Ocean view room. Air conditioning. Critical mother as we entered our room: “It’s too cold.” Me: “Do not touch the dial. We will die of heat.” She touched the dial. I woke up in a pool of sweat at 3 a.m. She claimed she was “perfectly comfortable.” The next morning I attempted to negotiate. AC off at night, on during the day so we don’t return from the beach to a tropical sauna. I obviously lost the bargaining war. The days became routine: 6 a.m. beach walk with my mother. Return. Collect my father. Breakfast. Beach. By 10 a.m. I was on my second margarita. For survival purposes only. My dad would go rest every afternoon after lunch. He was uncomfortable and tired. Lucky him — he had the AC. I had my mother. Until 4 p.m. Margarita number four. The only time I could think was when my mother fell asleep on the lounge chair. That’s when the dramatic internal soundtrack would start. I looked at them and thought: When did they get this old? The health scare had taken something from both of them. My dad seemed more confused than before. He couldn’t orient himself around the hotel. One afternoon he didn’t come back from the bathroom and I had to go on a small resort-wide search operation. Margarita number five. Mother wakes up. Thinking suspended. When she falls asleep again existential crisis resumes. As much as she was exhausting me I suddenly felt sad for them. Two immigrants who never fully rooted themselves here. Still watching Italian news. Still emotionally living somewhere between 1975 and Naples. And my dad — slowly losing pieces of reality. They looked like characters in a slightly dysfunctional play. And apparently I was the “stable” one holding it together. That realization was humbling. My siblings call me a saint for enduring my mother for a week. Let’s be clear. I am not a saint. I am a woman slightly buzzed at 40 degrees Celsius trying to process guilt under a palm tree. Because then the thoughts came: Where was I when my dad started declining? Was I too busy? Were my calls too short? Did I visit enough? Oh. Right. I was working. Being indispensable. Answering emails at 3 a.m. Building a career like it was a personality. Turns out the company would have survived if I had closed my laptop at 5 p.m. Time with my dad does not come with an auto-renew feature. That trip — beyond the AC wars and margaritas — forced me to see something uncomfortable: Achievement has a cost. Now all I can do is show up more. Call more. Visit more. Complain less about the thermostat. Maybe being a saint isn’t enduring your mother for a week. Maybe it’s learning to be present before there’s nothing left to be present for.

I have always been magnetically attracted to humanity. So when I decided to volunteer at a food bank — every Tuesday, triaging donations — I expected connection. Warmth. Meaningful human interaction. What I got was a sandwich. And not the good kind. I am on a team of three. The other two are retirees like myself. Well — only the title is common. First we have the happiest little man anyone has ever met. Former school teacher. Thirty-five years. Happily married. Proud grandad. Permanently cheerful in a way that should be medically investigated. He gets on my nerves. How can someone be in such a good mood? Then there’s the grumpy woman. Does not talk. Does not smile. Bosses us both around without uttering a single complete sentence. I don’t know what she did before retirement but whatever it was — it did not spark joy. She is despicable and I briefly did not want to volunteer anymore. The dynamic is simple: He talks and talks. She frowns and frowns. I stand in the middle wondering what I’ve done to deserve this. She doesn’t speak to me directly. She just mumbles and directs with her chin toward whichever bin the canned goods belong in. I have been chin-directed so many times I now know exactly where everything goes — purely to avoid the chin. I also strategically position myself away from chirpy grandpa so he doesn’t launch into another story instead of working. I came here for human connection. This is what I got. And yet. Every Tuesday I get in my car and drive back. Why? Because this is humanity in its purest form. I don’t get to choose my humans. None of us do. You get the chirpy one who won’t stop talking and the grumpy one who won’t start — and you show up anyway. You accept without judging. You stay without running. You become the middle of the sandwich holding everyone together. Because the alternative is becoming the monster. And we already covered that arc.

And then my son handed me another book. Have you read L’Étranger by Albert Camus? Yes. Another literary essay. Yes I read it for his French class. You’re welcome son. Again. Written in 1942 L’Étranger follows Meursault — a man living in French Algeria who feels emotionally detached from everything. His mother. His girlfriend. Society. Himself. The novel opens with one of the most famous lines in literature: “Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday.” Right away we understand — this man does not perform emotion. He does not cry at his mother’s funeral. He does not pretend to feel what he doesn’t feel. And society cannot forgive him for it. When Meursault eventually kills a man on a beach almost impulsively he goes to trial. But here is the remarkable thing — he is not condemned for the murder. He is condemned for not crying at his mother’s funeral. For refusing the performance. The court, the jury, society itself — they can tolerate violence more easily than they can tolerate someone who refuses to feel on cue. Think about that for a moment. We punish difference. We punish anyone who doesn’t behave the way we’ve collectively decided people are supposed to behave. When someone refuses to conform it forces us to question our own conformity and we cannot tolerate that question. Don’t we all judge when people are different from what we expect? I am guilty. Absolutely guilty. But here is where Camus hit me personally. I spent thirty years performing. The composed one. The crisis manager. The woman who never cracked under pressure. The indispensable one. I performed exactly how people expected me to be. And when I wasn’t performing? I was dissociating. Floating six feet above my own life. Emotionless. Detached. I was Meursault in a power suit. Except I wasn’t refusing the performance. I was drowning in it. And underneath all that performance was a woman who had forgotten what she actually felt. Meursault refused to perform grief. I performed everything else instead. Same sentence. Different crime. This book — thank you son — made me realize that being a high performer was just a performance. The question is — what are we so afraid of when someone refuses to perform? Maybe we are afraid they will remind us that we are performing too.

My son handed me a lot of books during this journey. He didn’t know he was saving my life. He thought he was just getting homework help. You’re welcome, son. Have you read Frankenstein by Mary Shelley? This book was written in 1818. Yes. 200 years ago. Before Netflix. Before doom-scrolling. Before we had approximately 47 better ways to avoid thinking about anything meaningful. I volunteered to help my son in his literature class. Yup. I am THAT mom. The one who raises her hand. And listen — this was the best book I have ever read. Yes. I said it. A 200-year-old gothic novel. Beat everything. I don’t make the rules. Now before you panic — I am NOT here to review the book. I am no literature buff and frankly neither of us has the time. I only want to talk about the humanity of it which simply cannot be kept in silence. Here is my completely humble totally unbiased opinion: no cinematic adaptation has ever captured the actual soul of this book. Not one. Zero. Including the beautifully crafted version by the legendary Guillermo del Toro. Sorry Guillermo. Truly. Don’t come for me. I admire you enormously. I just didn’t feel it. We can still be friends. Because here’s the thing this gothic masterpiece does that no film seems brave enough to do — it made me genuinely ask myself: are we all monsters after all? Uncomfortable question. Let’s sit with it anyway. We don’t take the time to open our eyes to the reality of others. We’d rather judge than understand because judging is faster, easier, more efficient. We’re busy people. We have things to do. Places to be. People to judge. But how exactly can we call something monstrous when we’re only ever seeing it from our own tiny limited very convenient perspective? The Monster in Frankenstein received zero love from his creator. ZERO. And so — shockingly — he became a monster. Turns out being completely abandoned and rejected by every human you encounter does something to a person. Wild right? Who could have predicted that? And here’s where I’m going to make a leap so just trust me for a second — this story could have been written today. The monster could easily be the society we live in. How can we blame anyone for becoming a monster when all they ever wanted was to be seen, heard, loved, understood, and accepted? Excuse me. Does everyone not want exactly that? Yes. We all do. Every single one of us. So are we creating monsters through our own lack of humanity? Through our delightfully judgmental little eyes that are always so quick to assess and so slow to understand? Probably. Yeah. Probably. And what stops us from doing better? From reaching out? From simply seeing people? Fear. Good old reliable fear. Specifically — the fear of being judged by others for daring to be human in public. It’s a vicious circle my friend and it is exhausting. But the moment we stop performing for the judgment of others — and more importantly stop judging ourselves — something strange happens. Things start making sense. People start making sense. The monsters start looking a lot less like monsters. We lack humanity in the simple act of acknowledging each other. In truly seeing the person in front of us. Mary Shelley figured that out in 1818. We’re still working on it.

Do we actually feel our emotions? I ask because for a very long time I didn’t. At work I felt calm. No racing thoughts. No visible distress. Just composed. When emotions in the room were skyrocketing I didn’t escalate. I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. I morphed into a zen master. Not really. I think they call it dissociation. Oops. Somewhere along the way when emotions became too intense to handle I learned to detach. I could step outside of myself and observe instead of feel. It looked like calm. It was numbness. Instead of saying “this is overwhelming” I floated six feet above my own body and watched it all unfold. Why process emotions when you can levitate? Maybe the feelings were too strong. Maybe I didn’t have the vocabulary to describe them. Maybe I believed talking about them was useless. Maybe I thought no one would listen. Whatever the reason I related to all of it. For thirty years my coping strategy was simple: block and levitate. It worked. Until it didn’t. Because while I was numb in the moment I was also storing everything. Every frustration. Every slight. Every swallowed sentence. You can’t be the “weak one” in corporate life. So I wasn’t. But unexpressed emotions don’t disappear. They accumulate. After the identity collapse I hit rock bottom. And to get out of it I had to do something radical for me: I had to say out loud how I actually felt. My vocabulary improved. It hurt. It felt exposed. But someone was listening. And it wasn’t hopeless. Here’s what I’ve learned: When we keep everything inside — when we feel unseen or unheard and say nothing — it doesn’t make us strong. It slowly erodes us. Dissociation feels efficient in the moment. It numbs the storm. But when you unthaw everything is still there. Unresolved. Compounded. Stacked in quiet piles. You start saying “everything is fine” with a sharp edge in your voice. I became sarcastic. Resentful. Sad. A bundle of nerves at home. Because I never expressed how I felt at work the smallest disturbance at home could trigger an explosion in 0.5 seconds. That part scared me. When you are a workaholic everything else becomes secondary. It feels like a badge of honor — but it’s a condition. I used to tell myself I wanted balance. But somehow I made it unattainable. Now I understand something differently: Feeling isn’t weakness. Naming emotions isn’t drama. It’s regulation. And calm isn’t the absence of emotion. It’s the ability to stay present while feeling it. That’s the kind of calm I’m learning now. Not levitating. Standing.

While all of this was unfolding — the identity crisis, the dopamine withdrawal, the treadmill therapy — I should tell you about the other thing I did. Because of course there was another thing. While climbing the corporate ladder for 30 years, diffusing metaphorical bombs and surviving performance reviews, I also got certified as a lash extension technician. Yes. You read that correctly. Need a flawless set of volume lashes? I was your girl. And I was good. Website? Built it. Business cards? Printed. Loyalty cards? Of course. Studio in my basement? Fully equipped. Scented candles for ambiance? Obviously. We are not animals. Some people learn Excel between meetings. I learned how to isolate a 0.07 lash. Why lashes? No idea. At the time it made complete sense. Do not interrogate the logic of a dopamine-seeking overachiever. I found a course two hours away from home. Of course I did. Enrolled for weekends. Drove there like I was attending Harvard for eyelashes. And then it happened. The instructor said I was a natural. Recognition. Applause. Validation in tweezers form. I graduated top of my class. Obviously. In my head this was it. My retirement plan. I had discovered my “balanced” second act. Corporate by day, beauty mogul by night. Look at me diversifying my identity. Clients started booking. I was going to retire doing lashes. It was going great. Until it wasn’t. Let me clarify — the lashes were flawless. My technique? Chef’s kiss. The problem wasn’t the lashes. The problem was… me. Apparently when you put someone in a reclined chair for two hours in a quiet room with soft lighting and scented candles, they do not just come for lashes. They come for therapy. I became the unofficial psychologist of my basement. They left with volume lashes and emotional catharsis. I was left with… their trauma. Text messages started: “Can I ask your advice?” “You’re such a good listener.” “You really understand.” Of course I did. I have a PhD in absorbing everyone else’s emotions while pretending I’m fine. And then Christmas ended. I don’t know what it is about taking down ornaments but every year when the tree goes, so does my tolerance. This time my motivation for lashes packed its bags too. Or maybe the real issue wasn’t motivation. Maybe it was capacity. I was mentally exhausted. Drained in a way caffeine could not fix. Empathetic to a fault and completely unequipped with emotional boundaries. So what did I do? Within 48 hours — yes I am impulsive like that — I listed my entire studio on Marketplace. Everything. Tweezers. Bed. Lamp. Scented candles. The dream. I texted all my clients that I was closing due to personal reasons and wished them well. I did not tell them to find a psychologist. I thought it. Then I blocked them. No way in hell was I opening my phone to more emotional downloads. For a moment I felt relief. Then I felt the financial loss. Then I thought: what exactly did I just close? A business? A dream? Or another identity built on being needed? The truth? I wasn’t tired of lashes. I was tired of carrying people. Empathy without boundaries is self-destruction in slow motion. And I had once again confused being good at something with being obligated to sustain it. What I closed wasn’t just a lash studio. It was another version of me that thought being needed was the same thing as being fulfilled. I loved the precision. I loved the artistry. I loved making someone feel beautiful. What I didn’t know was how to love myself enough to say: “I care, but I can’t carry this.” Empathy is a gift. But without boundaries it becomes a slow leak. And I was tired of leaking. Closing that studio wasn’t failure. It wasn’t impulsive madness. It was the first time I listened to my own energy instead of chasing applause. Maybe I wasn’t meant to retire doing lashes. Maybe I was meant to learn that I can be talented at something and still choose not to make it my identity. There’s power in building. But there’s also power in closing. And this time I closed the door gently.

I had an idea. Post my essays on Facebook groups. Midlife crisis. Cool retired women. Retired over 50. You get the idea. Well. Well. Well. Can you imagine the audacity of the admins deleting my posts? The nerve. They didn’t even take the time to read them. Automatically deleted the second they were posted. I totally related to that crowd. I had inspirational material they should have loved. Maybe I hit a nerve? Maybe I was too profound? Regardless — 9 year old me was upset. Stomping her foot in rage. How can they do this to ME? Hold on, woman. To me? They are not doing anything personal. We are talking about middle aged group admins who don’t know I exist. But still. I was pouting. My nephew — bless his soul — informed me that Facebook is for ancient people. Excuse me. I am not ancient. He said if I wanted to be read, TikTok was the place. Urgh. TikTok is for teenagers. Who is going to scroll through a 33 page essay on TikTok? He said: you are sending to 1.8 billion people. This is the universe. Fine. He gave me a crash course on hashtags because left to my own devices I would have reached the basement. So I posted on TikTok. Went to sleep with hopes of millions of views and a book deal. Can’t blame a girl for dreaming. Woke up to 557 views. Dream vanished. Little pouting nine year old is back. Then I had to shake her out of me. 557 is not bad at all. It’s 557 humans who took the time to stop. To read. To stay. 557 people who did not scroll past me. I was seen. I hope the universe keeps seeing me. Because nine year old me wants a lollipop

OMG. I actually did it. I wrote it all down and hit send to the universe. No draft folder. No “maybe later.” Just publish. The feedback was immediate. Some people think I have something going on here. Others think I’m having a nervous breakdown. For the record: I am not having a nervous breakdown. I’m having what’s called an epiphany. Everything I wrote is everything I lived. Everything I wrote has been looping in my head for years like a motivational podcast I never subscribed to. Instead of hitting replay again, I decided to write it down. Apparently that’s alarming. Within 24 hours I was ready to publish again. Not because I had something profound to say. But because I wanted the hit. Ah. There she is. The addict. Because here’s the inconvenient truth — the high came back. That floaty warm “I matter” sensation. The same one work used to hand me with a calendar invite and a crisis. Except now it comes with likes. And comments. And “you have something here.” Dear God, does it feel good. To share. To make people laugh. To have someone say “I relate.” It’s intoxicating. And that’s exactly why I need to slow down. So naturally I checked the view counter. I told myself I wouldn’t. I checked it. 80 views in one day. Not bad. …Right? Cue the spiral: Is that enough? Should it be 10,000? Why not 10,000? Who do I think I am? Who do I think I’m not? My brain is doing CrossFit again. Then came the negotiation with myself. “One week between essays.” Maybe five days. Four feels productive. Three is bold. See? This is how it starts. Respectable author or content vending machine? The uncomfortable truth? I don’t want to write just to be read. But I also very much want to be read. There it is. The ego. The hunger. The very human mess of it all. So instead of finishing a novel by 9 p.m. I laced up my shoes and let the treadmill humble me. Hard to overthink your existence when you’re gasping for oxygen. This is growth. Growth looks like wanting to sprint and choosing to walk. Because this time I am not chasing applause. I am building something. And if I do this right, the high won’t own me. I’ll own the pen. See you next week. And no — the next essay will not be titled “She Finally Lost It.” We already handled that arc.

You already know I’m a recovering workaholic. So it should surprise no one that during my full dopamine years I neglected family and friends. Friends. We met a couple about fifteen years ago at daycare pickup. We immediately clicked. She was funny and nice. I was funny and nice too. She must have caught me on a day when everything at work was completed and everyone was satisfied. Basically I was in a good mood. So we clicked. For years we’d meet occasionally. Dinners at each other’s homes. Maybe three times a year. Then I became more work and no play. By the time weekends came I didn’t want to do anything or see anyone. I was exhausted. When your friend texts asking to get together and you don’t respond — well. They stop asking. Three years passed. Then one Saturday I spotted them at Costco. I immediately crouched behind the bananas. There was absolutely no way I was walking over to say hi after three years of ignoring their friendship. My husband looked at me like I had lost my mind. “What are you doing?” I whispered: “Look who’s there.” Damn it. He walked straight over to say hi. I wheeled the cart toward them in full apprehension. They were happy to see us. I had a miserable face on and said almost nothing. My strategy — if I don’t speak maybe they’ll leave. I felt the numbness coming back. Floating above the situation like it had nothing to do with me. My husband was all smiles and conversation. I looked like the one who had ended the friendship. Well. As much as I wanted to be offended — I was responsible. They hadn’t changed at all. Still as warm and sweet as ever. Miserable me managed a smile. I was embarrassed. Embarrassed of myself. There was too much to say in a Costco aisle between the bananas and the bulk olive oil. They probably thought I was high on something. My very well behaved husband made dinner plans on my behalf. So I showed up. Not before finding every possible excuse not to. But I showed up. I apologized like a person who had committed murder. They didn’t say a word. They just hugged me. I think we’re back on track. Workaholism has a cost. We’ve talked about what it did to me. This is what it did to the people around me. Hiding behind bananas in Costco is not a dignified look for a former executive.