I have depression.

I have had it probably since high school, but I went to high school in the ‘90’s when going to therapy was more of an outlier activity cloaked in shame and ignorance instead of the normalized right-of-passage it (thankfully) is closer to now. But this was the era when we were sent to school with peanut butter sandwiches and the safest “safe space” you could find would be on an ABC After School Special, and when screaming “You Outta Know” alone in your car was considered the height of self-care, so a genetic predisposition towards depression wasn’t something that was an open topic at the dinner table.

Given our origin story, my depression and I have had quite the roller coaster of a relationship. If my depression has been a needy partner seeking attention, I have been the aloof one of the pair. If my depression was the dramatic one, I have been the cold one. I have ignored its pleas for attention and its asking for help; it has refused to conform to my more palatable ways of existing in the world. Professionals might call our dynamic one of “anxious-avoidant.” My depression is the Stevie Nicks to my Lindsey Buckingham; the Owen Hunt to my Cristina Yang; the Felicity Porter to my Ben Covington (if you don’t know these references you were probably raised in a healthy home with good boundaries, or you’re just too young to appreciate them).

I used to be so ashamed of my depression that I never spoke of it, never talked about it, never even said it out loud (I know there’s a Harry Potter reference here somewhere but I was too busy listening to Fleetwood Mac and watching TV to get into all that). I had a friend in college who called me out for being depressed and I was so pissed I didn’t talk to her for a week. I’ve had boyfriends flag it gently but I ignored them, and I’ve even rebuffed more than one therapist who suggested as such (No I’m not depressed, I’m just here to talk about the fact that everything is awful and I feel like I’m moving through molasses and I don’t think I’ll ever meet any of my goals and I never want to have sex with my cute boyfriend and I probably drink too much on the weekends and my family is a mess because a bunch of them are struggling with mental health issues including depression….So no, I’m not “depressed”!)

I can’t remember now exactly when or how I accepted the fact (because it is a fact) that I have depression…It’s chemical, it’s genetic, it’s just a part of my wiring. It also flares up when triggered by certain things (such as alcohol, which is part of why I rarely drink anymore), certain circumstances (hi, 2025), and sometimes by nothing of note at all.

Which is what happened recently.

I’m a busy, active, healthy, employed mother with a business on the side, a happy marriage, a bunch of hobbies and people around and weekend plans….And I also have depression. The trouble is when you’re a high-functioning depressive person, it’s a lot like what I know high-functioning alcoholics to be like. You have the Thing, but you are doing all the other things, so it’s….confusing. Do people who have depression really pack their kids’ lunches every day with all the organic stuff and show up at work on time in good outfits and exceed expectations at all of their tasks and head home and play with their son and do bath/bed time and then hop on calls and do more work they’re good at?

Yes, yes they do.

Until they don’t.

And that’s the trick of it…You can be a walking, talking, living, breathing person in the midst of a depressive episode and still do all of the things you do every day. So no one knows. No one can see it.

But you can.

You know it’s here, it’s arrived, it’s a boxer you thought you knocked out last time but it’s come back for another round, and you are so tired of this fight you can barely lift your arms to throw even one more punch.

You know it’s here because it takes a little more effort to get out of bed, to get dressed, to get in the car, to get to work. It takes a little more effort to snap into “coach mode” on your calls. It takes a little more effort to get on the floor and play trains and make the dinner. You start to ignore calls, let texts build up, head to bed early instead of using the time to chat with your husband, because you just don’t have the energy for anyone who isn’t a child or a client or a colleague.

This most recent depressive episode was triggered by nothing - meaning nothing out of the ordinary, no big event or circumstance or habit change. And yet, when I look back now I can see the hints, the flashes, the slow creep of the weighted blanket that is my depression making its way up the bed slowly until suddenly I woke up one morning and was covered by it. And couldn’t get out of bed.

And I didn’t get up to pack the lunch.

And I went to work in my leggings with unwashed hair.

And I did some of my tasks but punted the rest to someone else.

And I didn’t do bath and bedtime.

And I didn’t pick up the laptop and keep working.

And I knew I was in trouble, but it was still - even now, after all this time - hard to say it out loud, and hard to raise my hand from under the water I was drowning in and ask for help, for a hand, for a life raft.

But my depression is a persistent, annoying partner in this situationship. My depression will continue to demand I pay attention, until I actually do.

And when I stop, finally, and turn my attention towards it and ask, “What do you want?!” (which I know I’m supposed to do with kindness and compassion but I’m just not there yet…) it actually does, pretty immediately, tell me what it wants. It’s often some version or mix of:

I want to sleep. I need to sleep.

I want less things on the to-do list. It’s overloaded and you know that.

I want to kick out the timeline for X or revisit why we’re doing Y.

I want you to actually look at that thing that’s pissing you off but you keep ignoring because FYI you know by now that at least part of your depression is anger with nowhere to go…

I want you to just notice me and give me a minute because I’ll stop having a toddler fit for your attention once you do.

And so I finally did listen. And my depression did as she promised.

She loosened her grip.

Not all the way. Not forever. But enough for me to remember that this moment, this episode, wasn’t a permanent state (it never is). It’s just a pause I didn’t ask for, but maybe needed.

And in a weird way, that made me grateful for her. She made me do some things I should have been doing. She made me shift some things that needed shifting. So my depression, however fucking annoying she may be, is not all bad.

I mean, let’s be honest - if Stevie and Lindsey never had any conflict, we never would have gotten Rumours.

I am not a perfectionist.

Yes, I like my books to be color-coded and I need the cocktail napkins fanned in a certain way when I’m hosting a holiday at my house. But my purse is chaos, and my dashboard is somehow always dusty even after I dust it, and my pantry looks like the Container Store if the Container Store got drunk, went feral and then lost its mind. I pick and choose my battles.

When I was a kid I was 100% sure I was not a perfectionist because perfectionism was reserved for friends who were obsessed with having perfect handwriting, and who were artistic and creative, and whose Moms didn’t work, and who wouldn’t be caught dead with a grade below an A minus. I had (and have) handwriting only I can read, I can’t draw a straight line with a ruler, I came from a divorced home with a working Mom, and I was never really pushed to get good grades so I just assumed it was because the adults around me knew I couldn’t. Perfectionism was not my thing.

Fast forward a few decades and I was in a life coach certification course, learning an entirely new definition of “perfectionism”. In this one, perfection = all or nothing/black and white thinking. You’re in or out. You’re good or bad. You’re right or wrong. If you live your life under this type of thinking - if you’re either good with money or bad with it, you’re meant to have a successful relationship or you’re not, you’re able to take a risk or you can’t - then you are considered a perfectionist.

While not the traditional definition of perfectionism, this was one I could relate to a bit more….I have always been an “all or nothing” thinker - I was either fat or thin, had a lot money or was broke, was happy or depressed - so in this sense, perfectionism was something I identified with.

And as any good coach would say, none of this is actually a problem until you think it is. In other words, there is nothing wrong with being a perfectionist - no matter how you define it - until you see something in it that triggers you to think, “This is a problem”. And at first, to me, living in this “black or white” narrative wasn’t an issue. In fact, it was arguably what helped me meet a bunch of goals I don’t know that I would have had the mindset for in any other way.

I didn’t just quit smoking in my 20s - I quit smoking and became a marathon runner.

I didn’t just want to “do some good” with my disposable income - I left a corporate job to pursue a career in international development in order to make “doing some good” my career (whether that is what actually happened is for another post…).

I didn’t just start journaling to process trauma I went through in 2025 - I wrote a fucking book, in less than a month.

Going big or going home has gotten me to a whole bunch of places that being more “sensible” or less of a perfectionist in my thinking would have.

However….

(you knew this was coming)

…there is of course a downside to this way of thinking too. For me, if you take my all-or-nothing/perfectionist tendencies, and combine them with my complete lack of patience and some very shaky faith in “trusting the process”, you get a recipe for hitting the Fuck It button about 48 hours into a new endeavor. Often.

2nd date wasn’t fireworks? Never mind, didn’t want a relationship anyways.

Haven’t dropped 2 pants sizes by the end of the week? Well, diets are a stupid patriarchal construct so pass the chips.

A consult hasn’t turned into a new, pay-in-full client as soon as we hop off the phone? I knew they weren’t the right fit.

I can’t pay off the credit card by the end of the month? Well then what’s another $200 on there for these jeans I love?

Historically, the perfectionism that helped propel me to some pretty proud achievements has also been what’s led me to bang my head against the wall trying - and failing - to achieve in other areas, almost as often.

So what’s a “perfectionist” to do? Do I just change my ways entirely? Live in the gray area? Become moderate? Become…balanced??

Rather than throw an identity out the window entirely, I found it better to actually realize what that perfectionism label really was - just a label. Just one way to name a thought pattern I had. It’s not fact. It’s not who I am. It’s not a permanent scar. It’s just one way I thought about myself.

And I can always change that.

I could choose to think, “Black and white thinking isn’t helping me here…What’s another way to see this?”

Or, “Oh there I go perfectionist thinking again. If there was another way to approach this what might it be?”

Or, “I see what my perfectionism wants me to do here. What’s another way to think about this, if I wanted to?”

And the thing is, my life doesn’t actually require me to become some calm, balanced, eats-one-square-of-dark-chocolate-and-feels-satisfied kind of person.

I still like to go all in. I still have big swings in me. I still, occasionally, dramatically declare something a failure approximately 12 minutes after starting it.

But now there’s just a little more space between the thought and what I do next.

A little more room for “maybe.”

Turns out the problem was never that I was “all or nothing.”

It’s that I kept choosing nothing way too early.

I was getting coaching the other day on my social media content - specifically, the fact that I kind of hate making social content, but to date it’s been the #1 way I’ve gained new clients for my coaching business. As such, social is, for me as it is for about a billion other small business owners, a lifeline. It’s a necessary evil. Like flossing - super annoying and yet essential for the long-term health and sustainability of my business.

(That’s a great way to get into a positive mindset about showing up on social media, right? “Social media is the dental hygiene of my business”. That will really get the creative wheels turning, I’m sure).

I know many businesses were born and successful before there was social media, and I’m sure there are many others succeeding without, or in spite of, it. But I also know it’s a free resource to share your business with a bazillion potential new customers or clients. So there’s really no advantage to me not participating when there’s so much upside.

The key then is showing up on social in a way that isn’t cringe, isn’t forced, and is actually true to myself and my business, so I can attract people who might actually want or need what I offer.

And yet, whenever I go to post something on Instagram (my social poison of choice), I freeze up. It just doesn’t come naturally to me. I ramble too much and am not great with a camera or a filter. I’ll never be a meme queen online. I’ll never get tired of sharing things like ’90s nostalgia or Joe Dombrowski clips or reels of Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio behind-the-scenes on Titanic - and I’ll never not prefer those over my own content.

I also recognize that life coaching is like black licorice: people either love it or gag at the thought. (I personally love black licorice and think people who gag at coaching just haven’t found the right coach yet, but either way, more for me.)

But for the people who are interested, curious, open, or already following, my job is to show up online in a way that shows them who I actually am. As they say in Basic Bitch Sales 101, people need to “know you, like you, and trust you” before they’ll buy from you. And honestly, that’s been true for me every time I’ve hired a coach.

So the question becomes: how do I show up as me online?

How do I show up authentically, all sides of me, all the parts, even the messy ones? The one who rambles on Substack about nonsense and doesn’t proofread closely enough. The one who shoots a talking head video of her coaching ideas but forgets makeup half the time and whose Invisalign has fully given up on her front teeth.

The one who is tired more than she’d like to admit.

The one who is still growing her business after years of being in it.

The one who is wildly imperfect, who always decides to “get gas in the morning,” and whose purse is organized like the inside of a piñata, if the piñata were filled with notebooks, pens, receipts, and enough Spearmint Lifesaver wrappers to fill a second piñata.

To show up as myself online means showing up as someone who is terrible at asking for help but also deeply annoyed that she “has to do everything” herself.

It means showing up as someone holding on with a death grip to childhood stories like, “This just won’t work out for me,” and “I’m just not meant to have XYZ,” and “Maybe this time Rose will slide over on that massive fucking door and Jack won’t die!”

And it means showing up as someone who is very confident in her ability to coach others through life’s turning points (hi, 40) and ups and downs (divorce, career change, money messiness, limiting beliefs), but who still struggles with plenty of issues of her own (shoutout to my own coaches who are doing the Lord’s work if the Lord was a life coach using Voxer).

But then, of course, it’s not really supposed to be about me, is it?

It’s supposed to be about you.

It’s about the people who are curious or interested or just fucking supportive. The people who know me, knew me, or want to know me now. The people who might want coaching - and might want it from me.

So my job is to show up online as me and see if we’re a match.

Because maybe not everyone needs a coach with twinkle lights above her head, who is dressed by birds every morning, and who drinks rainbow coffee while magic spills out of her pockets.

Maybe some people would prefer a coach who invests in coaching herself - because she knows there is no finish line for personal growth, and that this shit really works.

Maybe some people would prefer a coach who has been through it and can tell you, from both professional and personal experience, with full confidence, that you can get through it too.

Maybe some people would prefer a coach with an organized desk and a chaotic purse, who still can’t work a curling iron but will send you solid recap notes after your session and randomly text you midweek just to check in - because she actually, truly gives a shit about how you’re doing.

So maybe that is me, here online and in real life - a coach who is not for everyone. But very right for the right someones.

And that’s kind of the whole point.

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PS - If any of this sounds like “Oh may she is my kind of coach…” you can find more of me here and over on IG @lifecoachstephfini where you can book a consult at the link in my bio and see if, in fact, your expectations are met IRL.

Let me start with this: I find Mom-content to be so boring. So predictable. So forced funny and trite and just…no. Not for me.

I am a Mom. And as a Mom I recognize that there are things that I need to know (like how to do the Heimlich on a tiny human body) and things I’d like to know (like the top 5 easiest ways to get your underweight child to eat protein) and things I neither need nor want know but have to admit are useful (like is this “smearing my poop on the wall” incident we experienced last week part of normal developmental grossness that comes with being a toddler or is it performance art?). So the advent of the internet and the access to information - parental and otherwise - has it’s upsides.

However, I am not someone whose identity is made up of “Mom first, the rest of me later”, and I am also not someone who feels any kind of way about that. I love my son, I would lie down in traffic for him. But I don’t think being his Mom is the #1 way I define myself. And I also don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. At (@) me if you want - I will shake it off like he does when I wipe his face against his will.

So while I reference my motherhood experience in content I try to keep the “mushy smushy annoyingly emotive Mom talking about her child” stuff to a minimum online because I know, truthfully, that no one cares except me.

And yet….this Substack is, actually, for me. While it’s great if others read it (hey, hi), some days I just want to write something that is for me. And in those moments, I become a mushy smushy annoyingly emotive Mom talking about her child. So with that, here is a short brain dump of all of the things my son is doing and saying lately that are adorable only to me:

1. Blueberries are “wah wahs” (he’s actually over this phase but I will never let it go)

2. Last night he was lying on the hard wood floor of the bedroom with me because he refused to sleep anywhere else and then, while we were face-to-face sharing a pillow, he said, “Mommy this is so silly” and started laughing. (This was so cute I literally almost scooped him up and said “Disney?? Legoland?? Whatever you want is yours, my boy!”

3. Roughly 459 times a day lately he asks me, “Mommy what you do-nin?” (The answer is usually some variation on, “Trying to help you get your pants on”).

4. He’s pulling a Boston accent out of nowhere and sing-songing, “Mommy where ahhhh youuuu?” while throwing a blanket over his head to hide.

5. He hasn’t got the “blow” part of “blow me a kiss!” yet but whenever we say, “Blow a kiss!” he reaches his hand out to grab it and puts it behind his back, “put it in my pocket for later!!”

6. “Mommy room” is the favorite place to hang out

7. Riding his bike in circles around the kitchen island is his favorite indoor workout

8. “Pig” is Peppa and “Toad” is Frog and Toad and “I no like it” is the sentence of moment right before eating/wearing/playing/watching whatever it is that he doesn’t like.

9. When he sees me and my husband hugging he runs over to us and hugs our legs

10. Bedtime procrastination includes, “Meeeelk” and “Water” and “Book” (to be placed in the bed with him, after we’ve read two already) and “Blankey” and “Money” (which is a stuffed panda and the origin of his name is unclear but as a believer in manifestation I’ll take it).

So no, I’m still not pivoting to full-time Mom Content Creator. You will not find me now standing in soft lighting and writing long captions about how time is fleeting and we should soak it all in.

But also, this is life right now. This weird, funny, occasionally disgusting, often exhausting, unexpectedly joyful life where a small person thinks pockets are a reliable storage system for kisses, and where my primary job is answering “What you do-nin?” on a loop like a customer service rep who never gets to clock out.

And for someone who claims she doesn’t care for Mom content, I seem to care very much about this. Not in a “this is my whole identity now” way. Just in a “this is my life, and it’s kind of incredible and ridiculous and I don’t want to forget it” way.

So consider this my one official contribution to the genre.

You’re welcome. Or I’m sorry. Or both.

Here I am, again, sitting down (fine, lying down in my bed) to write another Substack article (fine, eat Girl Scout cookies and write another Substack article) at an hour of the night when people with energy and functioning nervous systems are bingeing The Pitt, drinking, or having sex.

I am, sadly, doing none of the above because I am, yet again, too tired to do anything except crawl into bed and inhale a sleeve of Thin Mints like a normal American. I have a job and a business and a child and a sick parent. My bed and these cookies are my lifelines right now.

But here’s the problem: I have challenged myself to this 60 Day Bravery Challenge, which entails posting once a day on Substack, and I am currently two posts behind. And while no one (literally no one) cares about this challenge, I have decided this is one of those times where I will follow through on a commitment to myself and cross the damn finish line.

So. In bed. Eating cookies. Typing away. Here we are.

I haven’t always been great at finishing what I start. It’s been a journey to become someone who actually, consistently sets a goal and doesn’t cave by Day 3.

I have never in my life stuck to a diet for more than three days. (Which is why I don’t diet anymore. Enter: the shameless Thin Mints.)

I once tried a “spending fast” for a month, but two days in I went into Target to buy toothpaste (an approved “necessity” on the very thoughtful list of rules I had created for myself) and walked out with $200 worth of throw pillows, wrapping paper, and three new fake plants for my desk. I would explain myself, but if you have lived in America at any point in the last 20 years, you know it is physically impossible to walk into Target and not spend at least $200. I don’t make the rules.

I’ve always had great intentions, though. I bought myself an Oura ring for Christmas because I wanted to get serious about tracking my sleep and steps and all of the other minutiae it tracks, like how much time I spent in REM and whether I achieved spiritual enlightenment between 2:00 - 3:00 AM. At first, I loved it. Although I did get a little Gollum-like about wearing it, shaky and anxious whenever I had to take it off to charge it or get in the shower, and terrified I’d forget to put it back on and ruin my step count for the day, obviously then unraveling my entire life. But still, I persevered. I was committed. I was going to learn everything about my health and then…do something about it.

And then, as often happens with me, life crept in. The data became overwhelming. And the ring started telling me things like I had a sleep score of 93 and was “ready for a great day” even though I had been up for an hour cleaning vomit off my son’s rug after an Exorcist-level situation in his room. What was once my Precious was now an asshole designed to gaslight me into hitting 10,000 steps a day. So I misdirected some anger meant for bigger things and tossed it in the trash in a fit of data-induced rage. And I swear I could still feel it judging me as I walked away…steps untracked.

So diets and fasts and wearables, it seems, are not things I will ever commit to. I like snacks. I like spending money. And I do not want a tiny metal accountability partner permanently affixed to my finger.

But I have committed to things.

I’ve trained for and finished multiple marathons. I once completed a “52 books in 52 weeks” challenge and finished on New Year’s Eve, just ahead of popping champagne like the academic weapon I briefly became.

I’ve committed to bigger things too. Motherhood. Marriage. I’ve committed to my business, despite the emotional rollercoaster that is entrepreneurship. I’ve committed to monthly contributions to NPR because independent journalism matters to me.
I’ve committed to getting my hair colored every six weeks because vanity matters to me too.

So I’m not anti-commitment. I’m just…curated about it. And sometimes that means showing up in ways that are not sexy or impressive or even particularly coherent.

Sometimes it looks like running 26.2 miles. And sometimes it looks like lying in bed, covered in Thin Mint crumbs, typing out a Substack no one asked for.

But here’s what I’m starting to realize:

It’s not the type of commitment that changes you. It’s the act of keeping one. Even when it’s small. Even when it’s late. Even when you’re tired and slightly sugared-up and questioning your life choices.

Because every time you follow through, you become just a little bit more like someone who does what she says she’s going to do. And right now, apparently, I’m someone who writes.

And eats cookies in bed.

• I believe that you can change your mind, always, about anything.

• I believe that age matters but not nearly as much as we think it does.

• I believe I’m a better first-time parent in my 40s than I would have been in my 20s or 30s.

• I believe learning to be vulnerable is the work of my life.

• I believe there are no limits other than the ones we put on ourselves.

• I believe in facing your fears.

• I believe your thoughts do create your results.

• I believe that becoming your own best friend is a skill every woman should develop.

• I believe silence is underrated (and I believe it won’t kill me but fuck if it isn’t hard for me to do).

• I believe writing can cure a lot of things.

• I believe money can too.

• I believe the best example I can set for my son is to have empathy and never be afraid to make a pivot.

• I believe energy is everything.

• I believe that Ross and Rachel were on a break.

• I believe that Bravo should stop trying to make the reboot of RHONY happen. It’s not going to happen.

• I believe we have the ability to create anything we want in life.

• I believe in spending money on jeans, books and coaching.

• I believe something being “good enough” is a perfectly good reason to decide to leave. “Good enough” is a pretty low bar.

• I believe in the immediate, positive ROI of a nice manicure and a well-made bed.

• I believe that there is a reason for all of it but we don’t get to know what it is yet, and that’s OK.

• I believe that there is always a reason not to do something, so you should just fu*king do it.

• I believe reading can change your entire world.

• I believe time spent with good girlfriends is life affirming.

• I believe in calling your people.

• I believe life is hard in some way for everyone, and that empathy is an essential component of our shared humanity.

• I believe that healthcare, housing and education are human rights and should be affordable and accessible to all.

• I believe we are all so incredibly resilient.

• I believe life can be a lot easier than we think it can.

• I believe anything is possible.

I see it on Instagram all the time. The “But what if it all works out” posts. Floating across my screen in a soft beige font on a glowing sunset background, as if success itself is about to descend from the heavens wrapped in a linen jumpsuit.

And listen, I’m not anti-”what if it works out.” I’m a life coach for Christ’s sake. So I get this line of thinking, and I’m all for it. The more you look for evidence showing you it all works out, the more you will find it.

I literally just talked to a client today about your RAS, the part of your brain that filters information. It’s why you buy a new car and suddenly every third vehicle on the road is your exact car, same color, same vibe, basically mocking you. Your brain goes: “Oh THIS matters now? Got it. I will now find it everywhere.” And it doesn’t just work for cars.

If you start asking your brain to show you how things are working out/how they could work out/how they might swing in your favor, your brain will absolutely rise to the occasion like an overachieving intern. It will start pulling receipts. Tiny wins. Shifts. Opportunities. Proof. And when you see that proof, you keep going.

You take more action. You build momentum.

This is the not-sexy, behind-the-scenes version of what coaches mean when we say:
“Your thoughts create your results.”

So yes. I believe in “what if it all works out.” But there is a part of this conversation that does not get the same soft lighting and Canva template treatment. The part where it actually works.

Because if it all works out…Who are you?

If your identity has been built on being “so busy,” “so stressed,” “juggling everything,” and then you clear your plate and focus on one thing.

Who are you when your personality can no longer hide behind a Google calendar that looks like a game of Tetris?

If you’ve always been stressed about money, always chasing, always calculating, always just slightly clenched. And then one day, there’s more than enough.

Who are you when you can no longer bond with people over financial anxiety like it’s a shared hobby?

If you’ve spent years trying to lose weight - thinking about it, tracking it, negotiating with it like it’s a toxic ex you keep texting. And then you lose it.

What does your brain do with all that suddenly available real estate?

If you’ve always been “the single one,” the independent one, the one with the funny stories and no plus-one. And then you fall in love.

Who are you when the identity you’ve rehearsed at every dinner party no longer applies?

It sounds obvious, right? “I got what I wanted, so now I’m just…happy.”

Sure. In theory.

But your brain is not a clean slate. It’s more like a hoarder’s attic.It is packed floor to ceiling with thoughts you’ve practiced for years. Well-worn beliefs. Go-to identities.
Default settings. So when your external life changes, your internal world doesn’t automatically redecorate to match.

If you don’t actively update how you think about yourself, how you see yourself, how you move through your days, your brain will try to drag you back to what’s familiar. Even if “familiar” was the exact thing you were trying to escape.

Which is why people hit big goals and then quietly recreate the same stress, scarcity, or chaos in a new outfit. Same energy. Different packaging.

So yes. Think about what if it all works out. Train your brain to see possibility. Let yourself go there. But don’t stop at the highlight reel. Also ask: Who do I need to become to actually live in that reality once I get there?

Because getting what you want is one thing. But becoming the person who can hold onto it, enjoy it, not subconsciously burn it to the ground…?

That’s the real work.

PS: If you’d like help not accidentally self-sabotaging the exact life you’ve been asking for (ahem) I’m your person. Message me here or over on Instagram @lifecoachstephfini and we can set up a time to connect.

I woke up today feeling heavier. Off. Like I just didn’t want to participate in today.

It’s probably an emotional hangover from last night’s manicure situation (see yesterday’s post if you’re curious, although I’m not sure you will be after how I sold it). So instead of powering through or pretending I’m fine, I’m using today’s post (official count: day 9, post 9 of the Bravery Challenge…we love consistency when it’s the only thing holding us together) as a small attempt to lift my own mood.

I could do the usual things I rely on to shake myself out of it or keep the family heirloom of depression at bay (journaling, reading, coaching, working out, going for a long walk, adjusting the Zoloft…), but today I wanted something easier and frankly slightly less self-actualized. And so: a list.

Other Things I Do to Cheer Myself Up When Life Feels Heavy (A significant portion of this list involves TV. I make no apologies.)

• Rewatch favorite episodes of Friends (the Vegas episodes, obviously, or really anything from Season 4 before it got all marriage and babies and the horrible misstep of the Joey/Rachel romance)

• Rewatch Beverly Hills, 90210 clips on TikTok (exclusively the Brenda/Dylan/Kelly summer love triangle and its catastrophic fallout. I am not here for closure, I am here for emotional damage)

• Rewatch mid-90s General Hospital clips (yes, this is niche, but Karen Wexler, Jagger, Brenda, Robin, Stone, early Mob Sonny…this was prestige television and I will not be taking questions)

• Begin, yet again, a full Grey’s Anatomy rewatch (this is just a toxic relationship at this point. I have thoughts. I have grievances. I firmly believe Alex’s sendoff was one of the core injustices of our time. And yet, I can’t stop).

• Skim essays from The Wreckage of My Presence by Casey Wilson (my close personal friend who has never met me). Immediate dopamine hit.

• Reread select chapters of The Universe Has Your Back by Gabby Bernstein (helpful, grounding, makes me feel like maybe the universe is not, in fact, actively ignoring me)

• Rewatch the last 2 episodes of The Americans (one of the greatest series endings of all time in my opinion, and that is just a fact) and then write fan fiction in my head of what becomes of Phillip and Elizabeth and Paige and Henry….

• Nap. Whenever possible. Nap like it’s my job and I’m up for a promotion.

Sometimes this is the work. Not fixing it.

Just healing through reruns.

I took my mom for a manicure tonight. It was later in the evening, I’d worked a full day, hadn’t seen my toddler since 7:30 AM, needed to cook for the week, and still had work to do for my business. But she has not been allowing the nurses at assisted living to help her with any kind of personal care, including her nails. So after a few visits where I truly feared she might stab herself by accident if she rubbed her eye even for a moment, I decided a manicure was necessary.

We never got our nails done together when I was younger. I actually don’t remember ever getting a manicure at all before my 20s, when I was at a bachelorette party weekend, and it definitely wasn’t a priority for my mom. Not to say she didn’t take care of herself—she had great style, an amazing wardrobe, was always on top of her highlights, and was a marathon runner and Bikram yoga devotee long before anyone had ever thought that buying $200 leggings to practice “wellness” in was normal. There’s a lot I could say about my mom, but bonding over nails or makeup or skincare was never going to be on that list.

I worry now that she’s been sick for so long, and that her disease has taken so much of her away, that eventually I won’t remember her clearly at all. That all I’ll have within reach are these moments of sadness or frustration or annoyance (and then the guilt, of course), that I have to take her to get her nails done because she won’t let anyone else help her care for herself, when I have my own child and job and responsibilities and things to do. (Don’t even bother to ask if I got my nails done tonight as well. If you have a parent with Alzheimer’s, you know the answer to that question automatically.)

But then there are moments - days, sometimes - where I see the old her. The real her, or at least the real her I knew as my mom. And I exhale briefly, because she’s still there, and I can remember her without trying. Like tonight, when she started humming songs from My Fair Lady out of the blue while we were walking. Or when we were headed back to her place and the New England March wind whipped across our hatless heads, and she started chanting, “Cal-i-for-ni-a,” a rallying cry to return to her home, a drumbeat she’s never abandoned.

She flipped through a magazine tonight at the nail salon while we waited to be seen, and I remembered that she used to always have stacks and stacks of magazines lying around - all the good ones: Vogue, Elle, Self, Cosmopolitan, People. She also had books everywhere; she was a surprisingly voracious reader and loved buying new books. One of the things we have in common.

She loved musicals, yes, but other music reminds me of her too - Stevie Nicks, Fleetwood Mac, Tina Turner. Music that friends say reminds them of me now.

There are things about my mom - traits, habits, genetics - that I worry I have inherited. But there are other things I hope I do. Like her sense of style. Her resilience. Her insistence on marching forward. Her goal-setting mindset. Her bravery.

She never really got to experience me as a mom, and I didn’t get to do that with her as a grandmother. But I think that’s a role she would have excelled at. I know for sure she and my son would have been the best of buddies. And I think she’d be proud of how I’m navigating parenthood. I think she is, actually, even if she can’t really maneuver those thoughts and words well anymore.

I miss my mom even though she is here, which is weird and sad and awful in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve watched a parent succumb to a disease that takes them away from you slowly, over time, over years, like hers has done. And I’m sure I don’t sit with the sadness of that enough.

But like my mom, I am resilient. And I listen to Fleetwood Mac. And I too will keep marching forward.

My nails, however, will be done.

I try to avoid too many of the formulaic list/top 10/here are 5 ways to build a ladder to the moon with paper clips posts, no matter how many times I read articles on Substack about how to grow your audience on Substack (I know I know), and get told to do just that….

And yet here we are. Partially because I’m one post behind my daily goal to meet my 60 day Bravery Challenge goals and this is relatively easy to write - and partially because this shit (journaling or self coaching or reflecting on questions that are actually useful) works, and I’m not a fan of gatekeeping.

So here goes - 10 questions to ask yourself if you are ready to dig in, do some work on yourself, and actually change some shit. (And to be clear - these aren’t all my original ideas; this is an assortment of questions I’ve picked up, adopted, or spun off from wise words I heard from people wiser or braver than me. But you know, #goals).

1) Who would I be without that thought?

2) The version of me who has what I want - what would she tell me to do right now?

3) How is it serving me to keep holding on to this belief?

4) Is that true, or is it just a thought?

5) What would I do if I was not afraid?

6) Why the fuck not me?

7) What do I need right now?

8) If I knew my success was inevitable, what action would I take right now?

9) Who would I have to be to make (XYZ) possible?

10) What would I have to stop doing in order to achieve (XYZ)?

Your turn…..

I love nothing more than wandering around a store buying new office supplies. Office supplies bring me such joy and comfort. When I left my last real corporate job, I took with me flowers from coworkers, my unused PTO, and an armful of Post-it notes and paperclips from a supply closet no one but me even seemed to know existed. Office supplies are my happy place.

I know we’re living in a digital world and standing on the edge of the AI cliff we’re all about to fall over, one that will send us tumbling into a new frontier of humanity where none of us will have legible handwriting or critical thinking skills and the last vestiges of traditional office life, including mini notepads and highlighters and thumbtacks and rolls of Scotch tape, will all be obsolete. But I’m a paper-notebook girl living in an AI world, I guess.

And though our interpersonal skills may soon be nil and we’ll revert back to the social abilities of cave people (if cave people had filters that erase any glimpse of an actual pore on one’s face), goddamnit if I won’t be using my time to scoop up every last paper planner and Bic pen and wall-sized calendar and sticky note instead of bemoaning the downfall of humanity.

I can’t imagine there will be much of a market for sticky notes and glue sticks when we’re all unemployed and sitting at home because AI rendered us useless. It’s hard to envision our future currency being color-coded index cards, but if it is, I’ll be sitting pretty. Even without a filter.

My love of office supplies comes from a place of lack. Meaning, when I was growing up, we lacked office supplies.

I know there are both big-T and little-t traumas in life, and I’ll admit that not having a stapler or Scotch tape when one needs them would fall under the latter. However, when you’re six years old and trying to finish your drawing and the marker dries up and there are no others around, that little t starts to feel pretty big.

Or when you’re sixteen and you have a paper due at school (a paper that was actually meant to be delivered on paper, because the 1900s) and you have no stapler at home to staple the pages together, that t gets a little bigger.

Now here’s a spoiler for you: it wasn’t really about the office supplies.

The lack of staples and tape and paperclips and sticky notes and envelopes and stamps (which I’m sure just caused Gen Z to hear old-timey circus music in their heads) was annoying when there was a school project due the next day and I didn’t have the basic tools needed to deliver my homework in an organized fashion.

But the real frustration, the real embarrassment and pain, came from what the whole thing meant to me in my underdeveloped, heavily insecure, and largely un-therapied brain. (Again, see: the 1900s.)

What it meant was that I was different from everyone else. And not in a good way.

My parents weren’t the people with a catch-all drawer in the kitchen that held all the pens and tape and rulers and notepads and random ribbons for last-minute birthday presents, like the parents of all the friends whose houses I visited.

I was envious that they had single-family homes and big backyards and their own bedrooms and parents who not only knew enough to have Scotch tape, but knew that it always needed to live in the same drawer so that whenever it was needed, it could be found.

My parents didn’t have the catch-all drawer. My parents didn’t have much of anything together, actually, other than my sister and me.

They divorced when I was eight years old. Much of that time is fuzzy in my memory, and what I do remember isn’t great. But as kids of divorce across the country in the under-informed ’80s did, I got up and went to school every day and followed rules and tried to make friends and pay attention and stay out of trouble.

All I wanted was for everything to be OK.

And in my mind, having a drawer full of office supplies was a sign of that. Because if you had a place in your home where office supplies were stored, if you always had Scotch tape or highlighters or staplers, if you never had to wonder whether you had what you needed because some adult in your house was on top of things like: Do we have enough paperclips? Did we grab Kid-Whoever a birthday present for the party Saturday? Do the kids need new socks and underwear? - then you would be OK.

It meant your family was normal. Healthy. Solid.

And you were normal, healthy, and solid too.

Your family had their shit together, and you would end up with a normal, healthy, solid life of your own one day. A nice house, a nice family, and no one scrambling to find a stapler in order to turn in their seventh-grade English paper like everyone else in class.

What I absorbed, through watching and listening and probably knowing more than I should have known at a young age, was that we didn’t have some of those hallmarks of normalcy and OK-ness.

And so we probably were not normal or OK.

And by extension, that must mean I wasn’t.

It sounds dramatic, ridiculous even, to have so much of one’s self-worth during their most formative years shaped by the contents, or lack thereof, of a kitchen drawer.

But we don’t get to choose a lot of what happens to us as kids. We’re at the mercy of our surroundings.

And we also don’t get to choose what memories we carry, or which pieces of childhood minutiae the adults around us may have been completely oblivious to that end up shaping our sense of self, our feelings of worth, or what we think is possible for ourselves in the future.

So rather than judge it, it’s more useful to look at our little quirks and weirdness and idiosyncrasies and ask ourselves questions.

Where did this come from?
Is this actually true?
Why am I choosing to hold on to this story all these years later?
Who would I be if I dropped it and chose to believe a different one?

I’ve done this work around the office supplies stuff, and around a lot of other things too, many of them bigger than paperclips and Post-its.

And while it didn’t change my life overnight, it’s impossible for me to say it didn’t change my life.

It did.

Digging in and getting to know who you are, why you do what you do, and then deciding what to keep and what to change and what to drop and what to do over completely is the work of a lifetime, if you let it be.

It was for me, anyway.

And when I need to remind myself of that, I grab a notepad from my catch-all drawer and write it down.

I want to go to sleep.

I need to go to sleep.

I’m writing this while in bed, but I’m not sleeping yet, which is all I really want to do in this bed right now.

I made a commitment to a 60 Day Bravery Challenge which included posting 60 Substack articles in 60 days. And I am on week one/weekend one, and Saturday was a big fat fail at all things content, so I can’t let myself go to bed without at least one article written and posted this weekend. So instead of sleeping, I am typing.

It’s a shame too, not only because I’m very fucking tired, but also because the bed in my bedroom is new. It’s a dark blue velvet headboard and frame, holding an incredibly comfy Cool Gel mattress (or something like that - I’m not an affiliate so I’m getting paid for none of this, so whatever if I messed up the mattress brand name. The point is its not your everyday, average, Room Temp Gel mattress nonsense, got it?). We got the new bed last weekend because our old bed frame broke and wasn’t fixable by any measure we had in the house (which means Crazy Glue and sheer force and an insane amount of cursing). My husband is very proud to point out that the bed frame broke as a result of sex. I actually think it was the fact that it was a $200 bed frame that’s survived 2 moves and 5 years and so it was well past the expected expiration date. But my husband’s a good guy so I bit my tongue and let him have that one.

I was going to write a fun or easy post about a fun or easy topic like the Grey’s Anatomy rewatch I’m in the middle of, or my favorite clips from Beverly Hills, 90210 that the algorithm keeps serving me, or something about the Housewives. But the fact is those topics are not throwaways to me and I know I’d end up staying up for all hours in rabbit holes so I can properly reflect on the Brenda/Dylan/Kelly love triangle and what on God’s green earth the writers were thinking when they decided Jackson and Maggie were a good couple. So no, I won’t be doing that.

I was going to write a list of what was in my head this weekend, or today, or in the past hour, but I’m a woman in America in 2026 so there’s no way that wouldn’t have been the length of War and Peace. So no.

I was going to then write my plans for this week and what I am aiming to accomplish but see War and Peace above, so also no.

I want to go to sleep but I also want to accomplish this goal and I want to keep writing and I want to work on my book edits and I want to read the book I just started and I want to watch the Oscars and I want to go peek in my son’s room one more time and I want to fold all of the dumb laundry that’s just sitting on top of my dresser staring at me and judging me for not attending to it or any of the billion other items on my to-do list this weekend and yet somehow I’m fucking exhausted because it’s Sunday night and I JUST WANT TO GO TO SLEEP.

(Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. This challenge isn’t your fault, I know. But I need to be mad at someone and being mad at myself has only ever led to me consuming heroic amounts of processed sugar or cigarettes and since I don’t smoke anymore and I’m in bed which means the effort it would take to get to the processed sugar in my house is far too great, I’ll just stay here and type a few more sentences and be resentful of you, whoever you are, reading this, as readers only encourage me to keep writing and for the record we should both BE ASLEEP.)

So that’s the post.

No insights.
No tidy life lesson.
Just a tired woman in bed typing words so she can technically keep a promise to herself.

And now I’m going to hit publish and immediately fall asleep like a 19th-century heroine who has fainted from excessive introspection. I shall end this war, peacefully.

Life coaching, personal development, self-help…whatever you want to call it, I always think that “all things in the getting your shit together” category are like ice cream. There are a billion flavors, but it’s all ice cream in the end.

You may be into a Gabby Bernstein/Wayne Dyer/Abraham Hicks flavor: spiritual but rooted in current reality. Or you may be more of a Brooke Castillo/Tony Robbins flavor: helpful but with an edge (and occasionally at a very high volume). Or maybe for you it’s a Deepak Chopra/Marianne Williamson flavor: probably all true but the world just ain’t ready for it.

No matter how you look at it, or who you hear it from, the thought leaders in this space are all pretty much saying the same things: your thoughts create your reality; you are only limited by your thinking; there’s stuff at play here that we can’t see but if you lean into it, that’s where all the good shit is (I’m paraphrasing).

So if all the coaching is kind of the same when you remove the personalities and the packaging, it’s not that surprising that a lot of the things we go to coaches for are also kind of the same.

Common themes come up because, despite what the media has us believe, we’re all pretty similar. We’re all walking around with human brains with primitive parts that haven’t fully evolved yet and that will scare us into submission (or into staying at old jobs, staying in familiar relationships, or staying right where we are in any area) because change is scary to that part of the brain.

In other words, like coaches themselves, what we seek coaching for is often just some flavor of ice cream. But it’s still all just ice cream.

So with that, I’m going to give you ten common things (flavors) I hear clients say when I coach them, and what I might say in response:

1. “I don’t know.” - This is the #1 thing clients say. It’s the vanilla of all the flavors. And not even the high-quality, expensive, organic vanilla bean kind. It’s the most basic vanilla there is. This is the Hood vanilla of coaching.

My typical response: Yes you do know. You just don’t like the answer because it scares you.

2. “Who am I to do this?” - This one is a little more interesting. A soft-serve vanilla. Maybe a soft-serve vanilla-chocolate swirl. This one we can at least dig into a little further.

My typical response: Who are you to do this? Why you? Or…why the fuck not you? Tell me about that.

3. “Someone else already does this.” - This is when we get into a cookies and cream situation. Usually this is when a client wants to try something new (start a business, write a book, start a nonprofit, lead an event, create something) and the brain sees an easy way to thwart any action by throwing up the whole “compare and despair” thing. As if Ben & Jerry’s Milk & Cookies has anything to do with Breyers Double Cookie Crumble.

My typical response: There was email before Gmail. And who do you know that doesn’t have a Gmail account now? Google just saw something that was out there and made it their own. You can too.

4. “I’m behind.” - This one feels so important and necessary and yet it’s so…not. Like cookie dough ice cream. Yes yes, I know everyone loves cookie dough ice cream and who were we before it blah blah blah. But really we know it’s just an excuse to eat raw cookie dough without being judged. We see what you’re doing here. You don’t buy cookie dough ice cream for the ice cream.

My typical response: I know it feels that way. But behind what? Where’s the rush? If you “catch up,” then what happens? What if there was no such thing as behind?

5. “I’m too old to start this / end this / leave / start again.” - This is the strawberry ice cream of the list. A classic, of course. But nobody really wants it. You don’t want this to be the reason you don’t do the thing you want, but you accept it as if it’s fact. The same way we accept that strawberry is a foundational ice cream flavor and yet…do you really want it?

My typical response: You know that’s not true. “Too old” is literally just a lie your brain is telling you because whatever you want to do feels uncomfortable. And you can survive uncomfortable.

6. “I don’t have enough money.” - This is salted caramel right here. Sweet and salty all wrapped up in one. It feels like fact. Like truth. Like you’re being responsible. Like you would go for it, you’ve considered it, but you just can’t make it work and that’s just the facts, Jack.

My typical response: Let’s just say finding the money is not optional. If you had to figure it out, how might you?

7. “I don’t have enough time.”- See: salted caramel.

8. “My husband/wife/partner/parents/whoever doesn’t think this is a good idea.” - Chocolate peanut butter ice cream. Hands down. This is the “we go together and I’ll mess it all up if I try something new” moment. The “am I enough on my own?” moment. This one is big, because sometimes we’ve gotten so comfortable with the chocolate-peanut-butter combo we forget that we actually like chocolate, and peanut butter, on their own too.

My typical response: They get to think whatever they want. Your job isn’t to change their mind. Your job is to change your mind. So let’s unpack that.

9. “I’ve never done this before.”- Pumpkin ice cream. It’s seasonal. It feels odd and out of character and maybe even unappealing. But then you try it and you’re bummed it isn’t offered all year round because now you know what you’re missing.

My typical response: Why is that a problem?

10. “I don’t think I can.” - This one is a bit of an outlier. Honey lavender. Maybe coconut. Because here the only thing missing is imagination. Confidence. A little “fuck it, let’s go.” And if you get past that, the flavor you find could be everything.

My typical response: That’s okay. I think you can. So you can borrow my belief until you have your own. Now let’s fucking go.

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PS - If my flavor of ice cream might but what you’re looking for, follow me here or on Instagram for more, or send me a DM and we can talk about coaching together.

I started this Bravery Challenge three days ago. So as of today, day #3, I’m supposed to be writing my 3rd Substack article (hello, hi, this is that), and 3rd IG post for the grid, and have produced at least one of the 2 podcast eps I’m publishing per week, and a few other things I proclaimed to do on a regular basis during these 60 days back when it was all fun and shiny and new and I was sure this challenge would catapult me into life coach/writing/pop culture maven/multi-hyphenate internet stardom, or at least get me over the paranoia of posting on socials on the regular.

And a whopping three days in, I think it’s incredibly stupid and that I have nothing to say.

Or nothing of note, anyway.

Nothing that anyone would want to read. Nothing that will matter. Nothing that will make a difference.

(And yes, I’m aware that writing an entire article about having nothing to say is not NOT proving that point.)

I have a job and a child. I have a business and a sick parent. I have 4,000 more steps to get in today before I hit my 10K goal. And I have a migraine.

I have plenty to do already, and I definitely did not need to add this stupid challenge to the list. A challenge that no one asked for, no one is following, and that will in no way improve my business, my skills, or my odds of hosting a Housewives reunion one day.

Not that I even want to host a Housewives reunion, because talk about migraine…But still. The point stands.

Welcome to the inside of my brain on day 3 of my Bravery Challenge…or day 3 of anytime I start a new running routine after a break from it…or day 3 of quitting sugar or Diet Coke or any of the other vices that might be making my lifespan shorter but fuck if they’re not also making it sweeter….or day 3 of literally anything new that I try, ever.

For someone who has, I will say, accomplished a lot of “hard” things (its all relative I know - I’ve never fought in war or been a first responder or had to parent a teenager in the era of phone-addiction…), I have a surprisingly low threshold for the discomfort which comes from doing hard things. My typical cycle is something like this:

• I start something new with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who just found a bag of cocaine.

• I hit day 3 and see no results; no immediate impact or wins or surge in followers or dip on the scale or uptick in pace times or increase in the bank account…

• I listen to - and choose to believe - the thoughts in my brain that say things like

  • This is stupid

  • This won’t work

  • It will just never happen for you

  • Nobody wants this (Damnit, that’s a good show. Why can’t I write something like that? Why can’t I be an amazing blonde nepo baby who still somehow still earned it like the Foster sisters? Why can’t I even stick to this line of thinking long enough to finish this list?)

  • Who do you think you are?

  • You’re fine where you are, why are you changing things?

  • You’re one post away from becoming a LinkedIn motivational person

  • Also someone from high school will definitely see this

  • You should probably scroll Instagram first, just to see what everyone else is doing better than you.

  • The couch misses you. Go lie down.

  • You could just…not do this.

And then, I take my foot off the gas. I shrink. I fade. I stop trying

And the result? Shockingly….I don’t achieve my goal.

Or, I prove myself right. It didn’t work. It just isn’t going to happen for me. Lying down on the couch does feel good.

…And then eventually I get sick of my current status (which I always was, I just convinced myself on day 3 that it was fine), and I decide to try again, and assume myself that this time will be different….I’ll really commit. I’ll really mean it this time. I’m really in.

And the cycle repeats.

So here we are again….back to where I’ve been so. many. fucking. times. before.

Day 3.

And I want to quit. And this won’t matter. And nothing will change. And this is stupid. And I have nothing to say.

(…said the woman who just finished her 3rd Substack article in 3 days….)

(Which is pretty inconvenient for the narrative that I have nothing to say…).

OK, so more tomorrow (apparently).

So I wrote a book. A novel, I guess. But whenever I hear the word “novel,” I think of some important tome by Tolstoy, or some Austen/Brontë situation, or something much more highbrow and necessary than whatever it is that I wrote, which might be classified as a beach read, or even the dreaded (and rude) “chick lit.” Although my book’s protagonist is in her 40s, so I’m not sure that counts as “chick lit” material anyway…

But I digress. Because I wrote a book. I think. And apparently, I don’t want to talk about it.

In coaching we’re always talking about separating the facts from the thoughts we have, so because I’m a coach, I’ll start there. Here are the facts:

I wrote (typed on a Google Doc, if we’re really doing this) 160 pages worth of words.

The total number of words on the doc is just north of 53,000.

The words make up a story that focuses on a protagonist’s journey from one place (emotionally and physically) to another.

So if I read just those bullets alone, I’d say to whoever they were referring to, “Congrats, you wrote a book!”

But when I look at them through the lens of it’s me, hi, I’m the owner of those bullet points, it gets harder. Because while I’d like to call myself a “writer,” an “author,” even, there’s a voice in my head (society…) telling me I can’t be something unless there is proof. Evidence. Third-party validation. Otherwise I’m just delusional. Or a liar. Or a narcissist. Or, apparently, President.

And a Google Doc sitting in a folder in the cloud is apparently not enough proof for my brain.

But what really happens if I say the sentence, “I wrote a book,” or “I wrote a novel,” or “I am a writer”? Nothing. Nothing happens.

My English professors don’t pop out of nowhere to admonish me for claiming to be a writer when I still am not totally sure I use a semicolon correctly.

My old high school acquaintances don’t roll into my comments section to note how weird it is that I’m a writer, since I wasn’t a very good student 7 billion years ago when dinosaurs roamed and we wore scrunchies in our hair and called it fashion.

My friends won’t roll their eyes with a collective “Who does she think she is?” sigh (and if they do, they’re good enough friends to keep that shit behind my back anyway).

But still, it’s hard to do.

I did the thing. I took ideas from my head and truthful moments from my life and flashes of things I wish I’d done or said and more flashes of things I wish I hadn’t, and I threw them all into a big bowl and turned up the heat to whatever and stirred it all up until I cooked a book. (Forgive the metaphor. I’m no Emily Brontë, and I’m not Julia Child either.)

Why can’t that be enough for me to just be able to say, with confidence, that I wrote a book?

Want proof? Here’s my Google Drive login. See? It’s there. All 53,000 words.

I keep thinking that maybe if I get an agent, get published, and can see my book in a bookstore, then I’ll feel like a “real writer.” Then I can say, “I wrote a book,” and believe it.

But I’ve played this game before, and it’s one I never win. Because every time I get close, I just move the goalposts on myself.

Yeah, you got an agent, but you’re not published yet.
Yeah, you’re published, but it’s not by one of the big publishing houses.
Yeah, you’re in bookstores, but sales aren’t great.
Yeah, you got a book deal, but you still haven’t made the New York Times bestseller list.
Yeah, your book got picked by Reese, but Reese is no Oprah.

At some point you’d think I’d look at a rolling log of annoyingly insecure thoughts like this and realize that what’s holding me back is my own bullshit. My own fear. My own judgment. My own cringe at the fact that for a spell there I thought over 160 pages worth of my own words and ideas were worthy of being written down and ideally shared with others.

And I could be 1000% wrong.

But what’s the alternative? Not write the book to avoid maybe feeling fear, or judgment, or cringe?

Not give it a shot to avoid the possible embarrassment of other people knowing I think enough of myself to try to put some stuff out there in the world?

Not do the thing that I actually really enjoy, the thing that got me a college degree and also got me through the worst year and moments of my life, the thing that makes me feel the most like me?

All so that I can… avoid a feeling or two?

Feelings like fear or judgment or embarrassment that, let’s be honest, I’ve felt before and managed to survive.

What would happen if I just decided to own it? Who I am (a writer), what I’ve done (wrote a book), and what I’m doing now (editing it and trying to get it published).

In other words: what would happen if I just dropped the bullshit and decided to become more of who I already am?

At the very least, it would give me something to write about.

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PS - If you want to read more of what I write and may or may not talk about, follow along here. Otherwise you can find me on Instagram @lifecoachstephfini mostly reposting other people’s funnies because its easier than coming up with my own.

I have decided, inspired by and with the encouragement of my life coach, to do a Bravery Challenge.

If that entire sentence made you gag, I get it.

But that’s kind of the point…

I am a life coach. I am a writer. I am a mom. I am a business coach to emerging entrepreneurs. I am the founder of a non-profit. I am a stress snacker and frequent swearer. I am someone who has a master’s degree in Bravo TV and who is constantly falling asleep with her eye makeup on. And some, if not most, of these things are not how I show up online.

This isn’t a problem if you’re a normal person with a normal job and Instagram/Substack/TikTok/podcasts are just things you enjoy and consume, bemoan, but still scroll anyway. But if you’re a life coach with a business built on the internet, it’s hard to ignore the fact that you need to be willing to spend time…on the internet.

And even worse: you need to be willing to spend time on the internet as yourself. Your whole, big, messy, eye-makeup-to-bed-wearing self.

Granted, we’ve evolved as a collective online culture and no longer embrace the 2015 Pinterest-perfect aesthetic that was so important to an online business back when Obama was President and the world was…well, less shitty. “Real,” I’ve been told, is what we want to see now. (I realize that debating what is “real” on the internet is a little like debating whether anyone actually understands their health insurance, but go with me here. It’s late as I write this and I have Real Housewives to catch up on.) So if we assume my sources are correct and the people want “real” online, let’s give the people what they want…

…except, as it turns out, showing up as the real you on the internet is possibly as hard as parallel parking while someone watches.

Because the real you - and the real me - is not only a complicated, layered, multi-hyphenate human, but is also not always so comfortable to embrace, never mind share all of that mess with others. Because maybe the real you is someone who just might make other people…not like you so much…?

Like, for example, if you happen to be a woman who actually does think she is pretty cool and interesting.

Or if you happen to be a coach who is very good at coaching, and a mom who thinks motherhood comes pretty easily to her.

Or if you’re someone who actually enjoys her life more now at 48 than she did at 28.

Or if you are someone who finds creating longer-form content like Substacks and podcasts a fairly fast and effortless task for her business and prefers those to shorter, more-likely-to-go-viral IG reels.

Or if you’re someone who has made a few big life changes that weren’t on the normal “timeline” - and they actually worked out pretty well.

Or if you’re someone who is juggling a day job you like while building a business you love and trying to parent a human you love more than any of the above times one billion, but who also dumped milk into his car seat cupholders which you didn’t notice until the first warm day of spring, when your car had been sitting in the sun for six hours and now it smells like a cross between a wet blanket and a herd of cows farting and you’re not sure what to do about it except snap at your husband who was not involved in any of this.

That you - that me - is potentially pretty uncool, or unlikeable, or at least not shiny and successful enough to be someone who you think you’d want to hire as your life coach. Because you, as someone who is trying to generally get your shit together, want to hire a coach who generally has her shit together. And smudged mascara plus an old-milk-smelling car may not scream “this woman has her shit together.”

…enter The Bravery Challenge.

This is a self-induced, 60-day challenge (why 60? Because 30 didn’t feel long enough and 90 felt like a cry for help). During those 60 days I will be producing more content online, with more speed and consistency than I ever have before, in the hope that somewhere in the process I refine my voice, sharpen my message, and reach more people who might actually benefit from it.

My goals include completing the following by May 9th:

• writing and posting 60 articles on Substack

• publishing 18 podcast eps

• emailing my email list 9 times (I try not to bombard them! Unlike my Substack subscribers, clearly. Who are, did I mention, so attractive and amazing and thank you for reading??)

• posting 60 times to the grid on IG (this is the one that really makes me want to gag and then stress-eat something from the pantry)

• pitch myself to 10 podcasts as a guest

• send out 3 requests for speaking events

• send 10 queries for my book (oh yeah, I wrote a book…more on that in any of the bullets above sometime in the next 60 days, clearly)

I have no idea if this will change anything for me or my business. I have no idea if I can actually pull this off. I have no idea if anyone will read or download or like any of the things I put out into the world. And all of it feels 1000% barfy and uncomfortable.

Which is why it’s called “brave.”

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PS - If you want to follow along as I enter The Bravery Challenge, or the artist otherwise known as “Project Slightly Unhinged”, hit subscribe here, follow me on Instagram @lifecoachstephfini or listen to my podcast I Have Notes.

On the surface, I don’t come across as a real rebel. Not many people would look at me as a rule breaker. I’m a middle-aged white woman who colors her grays and gets Botox when I can afford it (and sometimes when I can’t). I buy organic from Whole Foods. I pay my bills on time and drive the speed limit and vote in local elections. I like Taylor Swift and popular fiction. Millennials would have called me “basic” once upon a time. So a rebel, I am not.

However, like any respectable suburban adult with a Costco membership and a past - or really, any woman over 40 - I am more than meets the eye. And having lived a handful of decades has proven to me that even basic white women can have their moments of living on the edge. So despite my rather J.Crew exterior, there are a number of times in my life when I have gone against the grain, made questionable calls, worn stripes with polka dots, and occasionally gone to bed without flossing like a true agent of chaos. So here is a list of nine times I did the thing you’re not supposed to do - proof that even basic bitches can occasionally go fully off-script - which I’m sharing here mostly so that if you’re currently contemplating a decision that sensible people would gently discourage, you know you’re in excellent company. Even if that decision involves wearing low-rise jeans (again).

1. I’ve taken money out of my retirement account to pay off debt. I’m leading with this one because it’s one that sends shudders down the spines of everyone I know, from finance bro-types to pearl-clutching relatives to friends who may or may not have ever opened a checking account on their own. This one is, mathematically, a no-no nine times out of 10. And it’s not something I make a habit of doing for that reason. But I also believe that your money is your money, and that no one knows your life, your circumstances, or your emotional state better than you. And if a calm nervous system can be achieved or a problem can be solved by doing something that doesn’t make financial sense now and then, I tend to err on the side of protecting my peace and letting Future Me figure out the spreadsheet later; she’s a pretty safe bet.

2. I left a job with amazing golden handcuffs. Another money-related example, but this is one that a lot of people face to some degree or another. You’re in the safe job, you have the good benefits, the healthy salary, the stock options… and leaving just feels too risky. Walking away from potential money on the table is a risk, for sure. But so is never pursuing what you want to do out of fear. So I left. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat if I had the chance, even if my handcuffs are now more bronze than gold. Security is nice. But so is being able to recognize your own life when you look at it.

3. I became a mom to an infant in my later 40s. While few people will come out and tell you not to pursue parenthood (a topic for a whole other ‘stack), few will tell you doing so in your late 40s is good call. But for me, and my family, there has been no better decision made, no greater risk to take, no bigger leap, no more obvious “fuck yes.” Also, no decision has required this much caffeine.

4. I left a really lovely relationship for no specific reason other than I had an itch to move on. This one freaked a lot of people out. Including me when I quickly came to regret the decision, and going back was not an option. But there is so much to be learned in heartbreak, so much growth to come from regret. This one broke me apart, and I never put myself back together exactly the same. But the version f me that eventually came out of the wreckage had more depth, more empathy, and a significantly greater appreciation for the people around her who helped pick her back up again. Including herself.

5. I went to grad school “late”. This one makes me laugh. In the last few years I’ve interacted with so many college students who have gone from senior year right to graduate school, and I couldn’t think of a worse idea for my own personal growth or professional development. Getting out into the world, getting your ass kicked a bit, and then choosing to go back to school not because “I don’t know what to do next” but because you’ve lived enough to be able to finish that sentence is hands down the wiser move. Personally, I believe no one should get married or go to grad school until they’re at least 30. Your frontal lobe deserves a vote.

6. I’ve traveled alone to conflict areas and developing countries. This I’ve done both for work (so while solo, I was buffered by some structure and an employer-designed SOS plan should shit go sideways), and also solo (where there was no structure and the SOS plan was my common sense, a US passport, and prayer). A few countries in particular, everyone said not to go to. They may not have been wrong. But fear is an extremely boring travel agent. Those stamps in my passport tell stories, and developed my resilience, knowledge, and humanity in ways no measure of “playing it safe” ever could.

7. I paid money to become a certified life coach. Now, this one… woof. Life coaching is not an industry that requires certification, like medicine or law. Despite common thought, there is actually no one universal body that grants you life coach status. You can wake up one day, call yourself a life coach, and you’re a life coach. So a certification, particularly one with a hefty price tag, is not a requirement. However, I wanted to build my coaching skills and have a foundation in a coaching education, even if it wasn’t required, before I launched myself into the world of “I can help you with that.” And so, I forked over a ton of money and six months of study and I haven’t looked back. I also haven’t stopped forking over money in exchange for coaching skill-development programs. And I’ve yet to find a better investment vehicle than my own brain.

8. I went blonde in a highly emotional moment. This one, I do regret. I have been the Queen of Cutting Bangs When Shit Is Hitting the Fan for years, and I’ve even gone so far as to give myself Gwyneth’s Sliding Doors haircut now and then when things went truly south… but blonde? I am Brenda Walsh. I am Demi Moore. I am a happy brunette (even if I have to pay for it now). I am not a blonde. But then again, I rarely have seen stress and turmoil in my own life like I did in 2025, so blonde I went. For a month. And then I booked an emergency appointment with my colorist. My life was already hard. Why was I adding peroxide to the situation? And just like that, Brenda was back.

9. I stuffed down my feelings instead of telling someone the truth about how I felt. As a life coach, this feels like the antithesis of guidance I’d give to anyone, including myself. Current, common thinking in the mental health and personal development spaces is that we’re supposed to vomit out our truth onto whoever we believe needs to hear that truth, for our own good if not theirs. And I don’t disagree, usually. But I do think there are times and places when defying the guidance given to me by my therapist, coach, friends, and supportive dry cleaner is the right call. Vomiting emotional truth onto parties not directly involved can be helpful, or not, depending on the audience. And doing so onto parties who are your intended audience is the same. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it causes damage to others that, no matter how many times we say, “That’s theirs to deal with,” is just too hard to push aside. I have found, at times, that looking at someone who has messed up and realizing that they, too, are a flawed human who was doing their best, actually is what’s best. Maybe there are other ways to process my own experiences without dragging someone else back into it all with me. Not every time. Not everyone. But sometimes restraint isn’t repression. Sometimes it’s just wisdom wearing sweatpants.

The older I get, the more I suspect there is no rulebook to any of this shit. There’s just a bunch of people loudly pretending they found one. So at some point I think the better call is to just stop asking what you’re supposed to do and start asking what you want to do. And then go with that.

Preferably without going blonde.

(But even that, apparently, is survivable.)

Before we start here, I should warn you that I, like Amanda Frances, am a life coach, and one with a money mindset course I sell. I am not blonde, I do not teach manifestation, and I would never deign to take a hammer to Kyle Richards’ iconic black-and-white checkered floors. But I am not in total disagreement with Amanda, the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills’ newest cast member.

The fact is, Amanda has some good points, some real success, and a lot (A LOT) of Christian Louboutins, which she has no problem reminding us of - all of which should make her an ideal addition to this show, which is not about money and labels and aspiration but is also not not about money and labels and aspiration….

And yet…

Amanda Frances made a name for herself in some shiny, woo-y, 2015-aesthetic corners of the internet, where “they” (who?) nicknamed her The Money Queen (which is a nickname about as interesting and clever as Amanda herself. That bar being somewhere in the basement).

Her story is empirically interesting: going from an aw-shucks girl in Oklahoma to cult escapee to life coach to internet money/manifesting guru selling online courses and retreats to women who want to create more money in their lives by doing the inner work. (Honestly, I just answered the whole “But what does Amanda DO?” question her Housewives castmates have been asking all season better than she’s done in nine episodes. You’re welcome, AF.)

But aside from her inability to explain her career, Amanda as a Housewife should be working. She’s pretty and confident and wealthy and self-made and delusional and bathed in labels. She has all the qualities of a successful Bravolebrity. But just like wearing a Balmain tee on a hike with Kyle, she has managed to miss the mark at every turn. So what exactly is the problem with Amanda Frances?

She is both smug and boring, self-satisfied and irksome, and cannot read the room for love or money (ironically). Most annoyingly, she seems to think she can school her castmates on the ways of fame and success and living abundant lives without sensing that these are women who don’t want to be taken to school - especially not by a Millennial who seems intent to prove her worth by label-dropping among women who already own all the labels.

Yes, it does seem like the women are looking for reasons not to like her (as they all tend to do with the new girls every season in a kind of diamond-encrusted hazing ritual). Amanda’s problem is she’s giving them a buffet of reasons to choose from.

She waltzed onto the show leading with her financial and professional success, which in and of itself is not a problem. She is hardly the first wealthy woman, self-made success story, or slightly delusional woo gal the show has ever seen. Bethenny Frankel, Nene Leakes, Vicki Gunvalson, Lisa Rinna, Heather Gay, Ramona Singer…Love them or hate them, Housewives history has shown us time and again, from city to city, franchise to franchise, bottled liquor brand to bottled liquor brand, examples of women who started with very little in life and became professionally and financially successful outside of the show. So Amanda’s success is neither entirely impressive nor a threat to castmates or the audience alike.

And right there is what I think has been Amanda’s core miscalculation on the show.

She has cultivated her own corner of the internet where she is, in fact, the “Money Queen”. She is widely admired and well-respected there for her teachings, wisdom, and mostly her “zero fucks about what you think of me” way of life (cue Erika Jayne….). So when she arrived on the scene in Beverly Hills and was not immediately embraced or fawned over by her fellow castmates, she seems to have been quickly thrown off-kilter. And her response has been to lean in harder, as if she thinks the women didn’t hear her the first 300 times she said the words “manifest” or “moment” or “Money Queen,” so she felt the need to just do more. Like performing her CEO-ness by treating the SUV in Sedona as her own mobile Fortune 500 headquarters while Erika and Rachel rolled their eyes so loudly you could hear them, or inviting Kyle to tour the renovation she’d done on Kyle’s former family home while also proudly announcing she didn’t care what Kyle thought of the changes because she knew they were amazing (they weren’t, btw).

So yes, she’s a tough pill to swallow, even if you wash it down with ceremonial-grade matcha. She isn’t doing herself any favors.

But forgiving self-aggrandizing or general bad behavior is not new for audiences of this series. So this brings us to the next question I have about Amanda, and this one is a bit trickier:

How much of the backlash here is actually about Amanda, and how much is about the fact that a bold, unapologetically successful self-made woman is fearless in letting you know that she is a bold, unapologetically successful self-made woman?

Yes, as Rachel Zoe reminded us, being “quiet” about one’s success may be more palatable. But that doesn’t make it a requirement. In fact, that may be a solid argument for why Amanda’s showy approach is far more empowering for women. (And with all due, we did just see you dropping $10K in a vintage store recently, right Rach? Don’t get me wrong, I DIE for Rachel, and I could watch her select kaftans from her closet all the live long day, but sometimes you have to call the vintage Versace pot black when you see it).

So here it is: Amanda is arrogant and self-satisfied and seems to believe she has something to teach these women. But would anyone be as bothered by her behavior if she were a man?

We see this all the time. Men speaking with utter confidence and completely unapologetically about their wealth and success and self-importance… and we allow it. It’s not that we don’t find successful (straight) men arrogant or even unlikable when they behave like successful (straight) men. But we give them a pass. We tolerate it. We expect it. But when it comes from a pretty blonde woman… well, hold on to your Chanel backpack.

While I can understand that Amanda is annoying (hot tip: inviting women over to your house for “manifesting dinner” and then turning it into a mandatory workshop before even giving them food would annoy the hell out of most of us), I do feel she’s gotten an unfair shake early on.

Boz, for example, an incredibly successful, accomplished woman in her own right, took a creative and bold but certainly more traditional path to success. It’s disappointing she came for Amanda so hard so early, as if it hasn’t crossed her mind that it’s possible a woman can make money from a nontraditional career path. You know, like being on reality TV.

There are smaller tells, too, that the women are giving that honestly just are not a good look. Like the fact that it’s truly bothering them that she is younger than the rest of the group (Sutton’s “You’re not a spring chicken” snapback said it all). And why are they questioning her on her experience escaping a cult? It’s not a secret. She wrote about it online. Google her if you want to know more, and leave her alone about it. And I think we can collectively agree that Dorit was a complete monster to keep the conversation going at dinner after Amanda shared that the day was her son’s anniversary. That was a bridge too far even for Dorit (who is running out of bridges to burn at this point…).

The thing that actually bothers me personally about Amanda is not her money (get yours, girl) or her woo-y ways (you do you). What bothers me is her inability to articulate what she does, at least in this medium. She has a chance to talk about life coaching, money mindset work, and how helpful and concrete this work can be. And yet she’s squandered that opportunity by explaining her own business in a way that makes her seem less like a successful businesswoman helping women take power back with their money and more like a charlatan. She is exactly the type of person who gives life coaches a bad name.

And yet, here’s the inconvenient truth about Housewives as a genre: this has never been a show where the women who explain themselves best win. It’s a show where the women who command the most attention win. Clarity is optional. Screen presence is not. And whether intentionally or not, Amanda has managed to make herself the gravitational center of nearly every scene she walks into. She may not understand the social rules of Beverly Hills, but she absolutely understands the business model of visibility.

And while we’re only halfway through the season, and I think we can fairly say Amanda, like her or not, is just not built for this, I think we can also say that she she is built for something. Her book is back on the Amazon bestseller list, her brand awareness is booming, and she is currently the focal point of the #1 show on Bravo.

Amanda may not be winning over the group, or the Bravo fan-base.

But she’s winning the algorithm.

And in our strange modern economy where visibility is currency, that’s not delusion. That’s strategy.

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PS: If Amanda Frances can manifest a money empire, you can absolutely figure out how to manage your credit cards. I teach a no-BS money mindset course called Make it Make Cents. It’s practical, realistic, and designed for people with jobs, kids, and approximately zero free time. Details here

I spent years as the person who gets three days into a new diet, tries on the Dream Jeans, sees they still don’t fit, and immediately decides the entire endeavor was a scam and jeans, frankly, are the problem.

I also spent years creating a course or a training or a new coaching package, posting about it twice on Instagram, getting zero sales, and then confidently concluding that no one cares and I should probably never try again.

I have also been known to get a great idea for a book, write a few chapters, hit the part where I’m not immediately sure how to move the story forward, and then quietly abandon it like it was never my idea in the first place.

So, patterns.

We all love the Sparkly Glow Phase in the beginning, whether it’s a new job, new project, new habit, new relationship, or the new “this is finally the version of me who has her life together” phase. Everything feels shiny and possible and full of potential. You’re motivated. You’re energized. You’re convinced that this time it will be different.

And then, the shine wears off.

And when that fades what we’re left with is the part that no one really likes to talk about: the part where things feel slower, harder, more awkward than you expected. It’s The Mess in the Middle Part. The part where progress isn’t obvious, where excitement fades, and where it starts to feel like work. And that’s usually when the internal monologue kicks in and starts whispering things like, “Hmm, maybe this actually isn’t for you,” or “If this were meant to work, wouldn’t it feel easier by now?” or my personal favorite, “You know what, actually, I think I’m just not that into this anymore.”

So we stop.

It’s during his phase, the part where your excitement recedes and your self-doubt creeps in and takes over, that we usually decide the lack of immediate results means something; it means we’re bad at this. That this wasn’t the right idea. That we should cut our losses now before we embarrass ourselves further. We give up, tell ourselves it’s fine, and then a few weeks later get inspired again by someone else’s success or a random Instagram post and say, “Okay but this time will be different,” and the whole cycle starts again.

There are reasons we do this, of course. We’re wired to avoid pain, including emotional pain. We don’t want to feel it, that uncomfortable vibration in our bodies that emotions like embarrassment or loneliness or fear or anxiety create for us. So the moment our goal doesn’t feel good, the moment the self-doubt starts to take over, our brains throw up an alarm. We run for the nearest exit. It’s a survival instinct. And sometimes it can be useful - like when, as cavepeople, our bodies told us to run away from the boar seeking to make a meal of us.

But we’re not cavepeople. We’re just trying to write a book or lose some weight or get a new job or start a podcast….Not “easy” tasks but also not tasks that out survival hinges on. We’re not being chased by a boar. We’re just uncomfortable.

And yet we treat that discomfort like proof that something has gone wrong. We make resistance, challenges, obstacles, or a lack of response (no sales, no change on the scale, no new friends calling with plans, no new ideas of what to say or do or write…) mean that we should stop. When in reality, none of those things need to mean anything.

If I create a new course, post about it, and no one buys it, it doesn’t actually mean anything until I attach a meaning to it. The facts are: “Sales = 0”. Those facts mean nothing until I have a thought about them. They have no meaning until I attach meaning to them. And I can attach any meaning I want:

“I suck at sales, my course sucks, no one will buy from me ever, life coaching is stupid….”

OR:

“Sales just haven’t happened yet, not enough people have seen my post yet, my course is amazing, I just haven’t figured out how to reach my audience yet, sales are on the way…”

The people who succeed are the people who know this: if you never give up until you succeed, you literally cannot fail. The issue simply is that most people do give up, and they give up quickly. It may be hard to keep going but it’s impossible to succeed if you quit.

So how do they do it, the ones who don’t quit? How do they keep going when there’s no evidence that things are working? It’s not really complicated, actually. There are 3 keys that successful people know about how to achieve success when success hasn’t happened:

• They know that belief is a choice, and they choose to keep believing in themselves even when the evidence isn’t there

• They look for evidence that it’s working; they don’t assume the number in the bank account or the number on the scale or the published manuscript is the only measure of progress. They look for evidence beyond the obvious data points. They look for other proof that progress is happening (do the pants seem a little looser? Did you run your typical route a bit faster than usual? Did the number of views to your business’ website increase?)

• They keep. taking. action. They do not try one or two things and then sit back and tread water….They start swimming and keep swimming until they hit the short line. They may switch up the swim stroke or change the time of day the swim harder through but they keep going.

You can do this. All you have to do is keep doing it. The sparkly part was never the whole story. The mess in the middle is where everything actually happens. And if you can stay in it - even when it’s uncomfortable, even when you’re doubting yourself, even when it’s not fun - you’re already doing the thing most people never do.

Which means, whether you realize it or not, you’re already ahead.

Despite a New Year’s intention/goal/resolution/whathaveyou to write daily, and publish on here at minimum 2x per week, I have done no such thing. I could say it’s because “I have no time,” but another New Year’s intention/goal/resolution/whathaveyou of mine was to stop using that as an excuse for, well, everything I don’t end up accomplishing. So if we put that one aside, what do I have next in my grab bag of “reasons I am treating my writing as if it has a new strain of COVID”…

Ah, yes. This next one is a classic: “I don’t have anything to say.” Truly some vintage bullshit here. I mean, I have PLENTY to say about ANYTHING - just ask anyone who has been 1:1 with me for more than 30 seconds. I’m not talking small talk here. The chit chat that some people relish, the polite banter with the barista, the pleasantries about the weather or the local headlines with the gas station attendant, the “how was your weekend” with the acquaintance in the elevator on the way up to the office… none of these are for me. I don’t do small talk. I like Big Talk.

Unless I don’t know you - then I prefer a head nod or a “thank you” of recognition but probably not much more. I don’t have time (errr shit, not that… though “I’m not that interested, honestly” doesn’t make me sound great, while “I don’t have time” makes me sound very busy and important, which I am in my own head, until I sit down to write anyway and remember that I have NOTHING TO SAY…).

The problem is, lately my Big Talk - the kind I partake in when I’m not too busy or important for the person in front of me - just isn’t about anything I think would make for interesting writing. Current topics of late have included:

• The working mom dilemma (I literally just fell asleep writing those words).

• The fact that I think perimenopause is actually a right-wing conspiracy to keep powerful women of a certain age (aka every woman of a certain age, because at a certain point we stop really giving a fuck and that makes us powerful AF, which scares the shit out of the Right) distracted from the things we should be focusing all of that power on. But do I need to add to the cacophony around peri-fucking-menopause at this point? I get served enough ads for supplements and readers as it is.

• The new girls on RHOBH. Now this I could talk about for days. The reemergence of Rachel Zoe on my screen - I die (IYKYK). And Amanda Frances is… trying. Hard. Like real hard. Like “nervous-nonstop-label-dropping-we-get-it-you’re-rich-that’s-why-you’re-on-this-fucking-show-I’m-bored-now” hard. Okay fine, maybe I will write about her soon.

• The downfall of democracy and the horrors of this president and his dumbass sycophants. But I literally don’t have it in me to write anything coherent about him or them or the wide swath of this country that continues to support fascism disguised as “patriotism.” I’m seeing GOP red as I type this. Next.

• All of the new habits and practices I’m taking into this year, seeing as I’ve already failed at this one.

There’s more, of course, because this is what happens when you give a woman like me a Notes app and unchecked self-awareness: the ups and downs of building a business while working full-time, the roller coaster that is having a parent with Alzheimer’s, how I’m handling learning that I carry a gene that puts me at higher risk for the disease, the ongoing adoption case we’re managing here (though for a billion reasons anything I write about that would be vague and high-level anyway), the Girl Scout cookie order I’m about to place with my cousin’s daughter (which I’d never be vague or high-level about - this and the Scholastic Book Fair were two core pillars of joy as an ’80s kid, and in these times we take nostalgia-based joy wherever we can get it), and how Samoas are now called “Caramel Clusters” and despite the unfortunate rebrand they remain my top cookie, even over Thin Mints, despite all objections. Or the Brooklyn Beckham family mess, which seems to have taken a page straight out of the H and M playbook (and if you can’t figure out who those adorably quirky nicknames refer to, may I point you toward the most 2015 brand to emerge in 2025 and a selection of jam?).

What can I say, I contain multitudes, but mostly they’re tired. And while the contents of my inner monologue on any given day are about as uneventful and typical as an episode of As Ever, they’re still mine. And so they remain the place I go to mine for good (or subpar) ideas on what to write about.

So yes, none of this is particularly groundbreaking. Maybe it’s just the mental equivalent of opening the fridge, staring into it, and forgetting why you’re there. Maybe it’s perimenopause. Or capitalism. Or burnout. Or Instagram convincing me that every thought needs to be monetized or optimized or paired with a link to magnesium glycinate. Or maybe it’s just what the inside of a forty-something woman’s brain looks like when you’re alive and paying attention in 2026.

Either way, I wrote this. Which means I can now tell myself I’m a writer again, at least until tomorrow.