Writing has been my go-to form of self-expression for as long as I can remember. I'm an only child so while I had many friends growing up, I spent a lot of time alone with books and my imagination. Besides time spent making up stories out of boredom, any time I struggled with a problem I always found that writing made it easier for me to cope and easier to find a solution. I'd either journal about it directly; or gain perspective by writing a short story featuring a character with the same problem. As someone who wasn't diagnosed with ADHD until I reached my early 30s, I've spent the majority of my life filled with anxiety and disordered thinking. No amount of medication or therapy has helped me nearly as much as writing has. In 2022, I was faced with the impossible decision to euthanize Sirius, my beloved dog, who took ill very suddenly. I was advised by the veterinarian that there was nothing to be done. I was beside myself with grief and didn't have anywhere to put those feelings. I wanted to crawl out of my skin and not be me anymore. I wanted to be anyone else. Someone whose heart wasn't shattering. After days of calling out of work and laying in my bed in tears, I forced myself to pick up a notebook and started to write. What came of it was an essay about meeting Sirius as a 4-month-old puppy, the bond we instantly formed, the unconditional love we shared for the 7 years we were together and how lost I felt without him. Even though I was sobbing while I wrote and edited, I pushed forward. Already knowing the story of people reuniting with pets on the other side of the "Rainbow Bridge," I ended my essay with my own hope that I hadn't heard his bark for the last time, nor felt the warmth of his fur in my hands. When I finished, I exhaled without blubbering. Eventually, I reached a place where I could read it without breaking down. I shared the essay with trusted, dog-loving family members and friends who I knew would understand. Following soon after, I was able to read it out loud. The passage of time has made the loss only a little more than tolerable, in fact, I'm in tears as I write this. I am feeling a lot of anxiety about the upcoming first anniversary of the loss. I'm giving myself grace and plan to read my essay over Sirius' urn and perhaps I'll feel the need to write a follow-up piece about the past year without him. While there will perhaps always be pain in my heart, the only thing that gave me comfort was the ability to deal with it through writing.

Dogs see us at our best; our happiest and most joyful. They also see us when the party is over and we’re tiredly emptying red Solo cups into the sink grumbling about the mess; when we drop the fake smile we’ve held onto all day at the office, and when we’re so sad it’s a chore to get out of bed and almost more than we can bear to get into the shower. They greet each version of us with equal enthusiasm and equal love, content merely to be near us. We have them a tragically short amount of time, but it hurts so much more when they leave us too soon. He was seven. Seven short years of my life were spent being loved by the purest love there is. He asked nothing of me which made it all the easier to give him everything; I think I did. I gave him a safe, warm home, endless cuddles, whatever he wanted to eat; and in the end it all seems like such a meaningless, trivial effort on my part. Because that dog gave me so much more. One of the last things I said to him while my tears soaked the fur at his neck was that I’d love him forever. I told him there might be other boys, but he’d always be my best boy. I will discover that somehow there is space enough in my heart to love another dog. There are other black dogs with white patches on their chests; other dogs with thick tails that knock things off the coffee table and bang into the walls; other dogs with impossibly loud, thunky paws; other dogs who will push things and people out of the way just to get to the person they love the most. But none of them will have his eyes. His beautiful, sweet, deep brown eyes that spoke so clearly to me. Adopting him was a whim, a stroke of the best kind of good luck. Casually perusing the pets section of a website I saw a sweet 4 month old puppy for sale with a sad backstory. He was timid at the outset; his tail hung low, his ears tucked back. A few minutes into our time together, it was as if he’d always been with me. He chose me, really, I didn’t have much of a say in the matter. He knew I was his Mama and that was that. When I think back on that day, how I almost didn’t leave work early to drive over an hour to another state to meet total strangers at a Petsmart, I’m grateful that a voice inside me told me I just had to go. If I hadn’t made that journey, hadn’t met my boy, I wouldn’t be in such pain. Nobody would have ripped up my brand-new couch or eaten the decorative pillows. I wouldn’t be in such pain today, but I would have missed out on seven years of his love. I want to believe that in 50 or so years I’ll close my eyes for the last time on this earth and when I open them again, I’ll see his sweet face and feel his silky black fur in my hands again. He’ll be wagging that thick tail, so happy to see me that the bed will shake. I’ll hear his happy bark that always greeted me on my return home. I understand the appeal of the belief that no goodbye is forever. I’m trying not to fall into a pattern of magical thinking. My arms are aching for him, wanting to hold him against my chest and feel his simple sighed exhale of contentment. I’m so deep in dark, murky despair, trying not to think that if I don’t clean the dishes that were in the sink when he died, if I don’t wash the clothes I was wearing when he took his last breath, if I don’t sweep the fur on the floor – something might happen. As if he is going to try to return to me but finding the house too changed, he won’t be able to get back in. If you’re thinking “Good god, was it worth it? Was having him worth all this misery?” Yes. Every second of it. It is all worth it. All the tears I’ve shed, all the aching in my heart, the emptiness of my arms, the quiet in my house. This is worth it. Seven years of waking up with his back pressed up to my front, seven years of opening the gate and seeing him through the kitchen door – waiting for me like I was someone special. Seven years of nearly tripping over him because he always stood so close. I’d do it all over again without a moment’s hesitation. It’s a fresh, wide-open wound that will scab over in time. It will get easier. I won’t get choked up every time I think of him. My pulse won’t race if I think I see him in my periphery. I might not carry his collar around with me; I might not shake it in my hand just to hear the familiar sound of his tags clinking together. I won’t stare at his empty chair or the corner of my bedroom where his bed used to be. But some nights I know I’ll feel something calling me to go outside and look up at the sky. When I do, I’ll smile at the star bearing his name and pretend he can hear me say my usual “hi, handsome boy.” Right now, I don’t want to move on. I will never forget him. Even as time moves irretrievably into the future I would do nearly anything to go backward. Someday, maybe even the hardest day yet, I will unknowingly clean up the last stray black hair and physical traces of him will be gone. I know I’ll feel better someday but for now, I’ll stick with being sad.

I grew up knowing something was wrong with me. My high IQ (145 when I was 9) led to enrollment in a "gifted" program. I had friends and interests and was extroverted so therefore, to my family that meant I was fine. Inside though, I never felt quite right. I didn't know how to explain the way I felt other than "sad". I began to struggle in school and my emotions were all over the place. This was attributed to puberty and brushed off. When I reached my senior year of college I had been in and out of therapy, on and off of medications with varying degrees of success. I still didn't have words to explain what was going on in my head, I had begun hurting myself and having severe panic attacks. Nobody fully understood how much I was struggling. I graduated. I got married. I have children and a career - how could I have achieved those things and be mentally ill? It wasn't until I was 28 years old that my bipolar type II diagnosis came along and suddenly, everything I'd been enduring and stifling for almost two decades made sense. As a result, I have a lot of regrets for missed opportunities and for the way I handled certain things in my younger years. I try not to think about what my life might be like if I'd gotten help sooner; if a teacher had recognized my struggle and cared enough to help. Now approaching 40, after resisting medications for as long as I possibly could, I'm on a manageable regimen, I've gone back to school for a Master's degree. Undiagnosed bipolar disorder may have had a negative effect on the first few chapters of my life but now that I have the words (SO many words) to put to the way I am, I can make sure the next chapters are better. I have the full support of my partner and a close circle of friends in my pursuit of a Master's in Fine Arts. My overall goal is to set a positive mental health example for my children: vulnerability isn't a bad thing; there's no shame in asking for help; needing therapy isn't failure.

It is said that "man plans, God laughs." I graduated with a BA in 2009 and thought that I'd return to school for my Master's within 10 years. I had a plan. Twelve years later, I was a married homeowner with two children under 10 and a full time career. I went back to school when my little one was in first grade and I'll be over 40 when I graduate. But I'll get there. I was concerned about the loss of quality family time but my daughters see me studying, working hard, and earning good grades and there has been a marking improvement in their grades since I began an MFA program. It's not necessarily important to me that either of them goes to college or a trade school, though it will be strongly encouraged. What is important is that they establish a strong work ethic and always make their best effort in whatever they do. I've told them I don't expect straight A's (or straight 4's given the new grading system) but I expect them to try their hardest and not be afraid to ask for help. After graduation, I will have a Master's in Fine Arts and a certification in Professional Writing. I'll leverage my new degree and marketable skills to either move up and take on different responsibilities at my current job or take on freelance work. Either way, I'll have a larger earning capacity that will allow my family to increase our savings and overall financial prosperity. All of that being said, I think the greatest impact my returning to school will be the example I set for my children. I want my girls to know that there is no age-limit to achieving a goal and if they want something badly enough, they can make it happen.

As a former over spender, one thing I try to keep in mind when debating buying something expensive is how much I make per hour versus how much the item costs. I think about how long I'd have to work in order to pay for the item and then I debate whether or not it's worth it. If I know that a significant portion of a day's, week's or indeed month's pay is going to be spent on what I'm thinking about buying, sometimes that's all it takes to convince myself not to go forward with the purchase. It makes me realize that I should either wait for the item to go on sale or see if I can find a better price elsewhere. Sometimes I decided that I don't need the item at all. They say time is money and that's never more true when you quantify how many hours you need to work in order to afford a luxury.

During the early part of the COVID-19 lockdown, I was working from home while helping my kids with distance learning and found relaxation pretty difficult. Needing to explore a new hobby, on a whim I bought a dollhouse miniature kit from Amazon. The first one was a loft; seating area with bookshelves and plants on the lower half, a spiral staircase leading up to a rooftop garden. It was a big challenge as I've never made models before. I had to concentrate to get all of the tiny, intricate details right and while I got frustrated at the beginning, I really loved it. Since that first one, I've gone on to make a kitchen, bookshop, bedroom, two living rooms, an office and a garden. The biggest one is a full beach house with four rooms, it's also a music box. My husband made a lazy Susan turntable in order to display it in our kitchen. I like being about to zone in on building models, making tiny leaves and teacups out of wire, paper, and glue. My anxiety being what it is, I wasn't sure I'd be able to concentrate long enough to complete one but with several of them completed, I'm always looking for more to make. I recently ordered another multi-room house kit that comes with miniature Christmas decorations. When it's completed I will give it away as a gift to my parents.

In 2019, I worked on Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, a play unquestionably written for four white, cisgender people. Our cast was comprised of a non-binary actor (George), as well as two people of color (Martha and Nick); the director themselves identifies as trans. To say that each one of us took exception to certain lines is an understatement. As examples to anyone unfamiliar with the script, George repeatedly refers to Nick as a ‘houseboy’. Serpent-tongued Martha belittles her husband by addressing him as “It. That, there.” These elements could have been brushed off considering the play is a relic of the time in which it was written and there is questionable language, casual racism, and undercurrents of internalized/outright homophobia in many plays of the late 1950’s. However, the Brown/Trinity consortium didn’t need to secure the production rights to present the play so we didn’t have to adhere to any associated rider and therefore lines could be altered, omitted, and tailored to our cast without permission from Dramatists Play Service. Watching these five brilliant minds grapple with material that was certainly not written for their bodies (with one exception, Honey is white and cisgender) was an eye-opening experience. The casting was an act of defiance in and of itself, which I could deeply appreciate and admire as an Xennial member of the LGBTQIA+ community myself. This experience made me realize how little of the media I consumed was actually written for me and circumstances I related to weren’t reflected back at me from the written page and screen. I wish I had seen better examples of LGBTQIA+ folx who weren’t comic relief or tragic characters when I was growing up. While my writing might not be exclusively geared to the queer community, I want to create things for underrepresented people.

As a person with an anxiety disorder, I've lost count of the number of times I've heard "stop worrying", "calm down", and "why are you even thinking about this?" The paralyzing fear of the butterfly effect after making the wrong decision, the second-guessing, the mental roller coaster associated with wanting to analyze possible consequences from seemingly inconsequential actions. It's honestly exhausting. Then one day a very wise friend of mine, who happens to also be a Rabbi, told me to "stop borrowing trouble". This resonated with me immediately. It recognized and validated that I was bound to be troubled by things on a daily basis but worrying about the future and letting myself spiral out over unforeseeable events or going down the self-doubt rabbit hole is always going to be a waste of energy. Plans will diverge and things are going to go wrong, that is just a given. Keeping in mind that I should be focusing on the here and now, rather than borrowing trouble from the future without a reason has helped me put things into perspective. I might be able to anticipate the outcome of certain situations but some things are just out of my control.

It is a very difficult admission to make. "I am mentally ill." It conjures all manner of exaggerated media depictions and a lot of misinformation. People living with mental illness face a hundred different microaggressions a day that may or may not be intended, but can be hurtful. "I'm so OCD about..." "Quit being so bipolar..." "Ugh, I NEED a Xanax..." Social media doesn't help when it's very easy for people to sit behind a keyboard and say hateful things on a post about a celebrity or sports figure who has chosen to speak openly about their own struggle with mental illness. The public figure may never see these comments, but others who are fighting their own battles do. I was diagnosed with Bipolar II when I was in my early 30's. I've known that I have mental health issues since I was 13 but never received proper care until I sought it out myself. It was a difficult diagnosis to hear, even though it's what I expected - hearing the words come out of my doctor's mouth made it all the more real. Since then, I've tried to be open about my condition. My family and friends know, some of my co-workers know. I'm outspoken about it on social media. It might be to my own benefit that I was older before I was diagnosed because I had a lot more life experience and had overcome many obstacles unaided by counseling or medication - I had perspective. It wasn't ideal but I made it through those incredibly difficult times all on my own. Things could only improve once I was taking better care of myself. I want to continue to be an advocate for those around me to seek out mental health help when they need it; whether that means long-term weekly therapy for trauma or short term work with a counselor to learn some coping skills. Whatever is needed, I want to make it known that there's no shame in admitting you're struggling and seeking help is not a sign of weakness.

We need to talk about mental health the way we talk about physical health. If you have a cold, a broken arm, a migraine, it's not ignored or spoken about behind closed doors in whispered tones. If someone is struggling with a serious illness, generally speaking, they aren't suffering alone in silence. A person's cancer diagnosis isn't written off as a personality flaw, it's treated aggressively so the patient will return to health. Mental illnesses may not all be cured, but they can certainly be treated and managed. Some people respond to treatment better than others and can live absolutely average lives. Average is what to shoot for where mental illness is involved: average, "normal", stasis. Just as children are screened in school for eyesight and hearing issues and physical maladies like scoliosis, they should be checked for mental health issues. At the very least, they should be informed of common mental illnesses so they can identify symptoms in themselves and their peer group. Having a friend come up to a lunch table and say 'you're not acting like yourself lately, are you ok?' might mean the difference between a kid getting help and not getting help. Parents need to understand that a child with a mental illness is not a burden or something shameful to be hidden away. There is a stigma so deeply engrained that people would rather their child languish quietly than speak to a counselor. Medications are often seen as a panaceal solution, 'take these pills and you'll be fine' and that mentality can be as destructive as it is pointless. Yes, they are a useful element to treatment but we need to stop throwing pills at problems and address the root issues which often start at home: poverty, neglect, abuse. Then we can truly help.

My favorite book hasn't changed since the first time I finished reading it. There was a moment of 'wow, that was incredible' quickly followed by the wave of sadness knowing the characters adventures had ended. The book follows Dominick through some of the worst experiences of his life: his identical twin, Thomas, is living with schizophrenia and is slipping further and further away from the boy he used to be and into the illness. There are multiple flashbacks to the twins' childhood, college days, Dominick's first marriage and new girlfriend after the divorce; his mother's breast cancer diagnosis and passing. He has his immigrant grandfather's handwritten autobiography translated from Italian into English only to find that the man he was named after, who his mother adored and spoke of like a god, was an ignorant, abusive monster. Once it is translated, the chapters alternate between the present-day and flashbacks told through his grandfather's words. He learns that his grandfather might have crossed an Italian strega who put a curse on their family. Dominick has a complex love/hate relationship with Thomas because he always felt like it was his duty to take care of him. He missed opportunities outside of his twinhood because of his perception that Thomas needed him. Moreover, being identical twins, he has a front-row seat to see what he'd look and sound like and how he'd behave if he were the mentally ill one. Sounds super cheery, right? I love this book because of it's gritty honesty about life. No matter how much you fight against time and illness, you might win a battle here and there but ultimately, we all lose the war. The point of it all is to find the light in the midst of darkness: love, loyalty, friendship, compassion.