I’ve written a lot about how I’ve been journaling since I was 13. But it occurred to me when I was writing The Luck We Carry that writing has done a lot of heavy lifting in my life. When I was thinking about an essay from the book, “A Letter from the Future,” where I’d written myself a letter to give me some hope at a time I desperately needed it, a memory played in my head. It was right after I got the phone call that my grandmother had died, and I rushed to the desk in my b

You can now order signed copies of The Luck We Carry from me! There’s something about a signed book. Not just the signature—though I’ll admit I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time practicing mine over the years. It’s the knowing. The knowing that someone held this exact copy, thought about you (yes, you specifically), uncapped a Sharpie, and made it yours. The Luck We Carry has been out in the world for a little while now, and if there’s one thing I keep hearing, it’s thi

Realizing an event I've dreamed of since I was thirteen. Nobody tells you what it feels like the night before your first author event. Or maybe they do, and you just don't hear it until you're standing in your kitchen at 9 pm, double-checking that you packed enough bookmarks. That was me, Friday night. Barbara's Bookstore in Yorktown Center did an amazing job welcoming me and my book! Saturday afternoon, I walked into Barbara's Bookstore in Lombard—a place that has been selli

The mantle above my fireplace holds two framed photographs and a greeting card propped between them. On the left: a group of friends—the A-List we call ourselves because we started in Level A at Second City and went through the entire 2-year program from beginning to end together—laughing, arms around each other, the kind of photo where everyone looks exactly like themselves. These are people who knew me when I met Ken—who loved him, mourned him, and then quietly, steadily ke

On March 23, 2026, I met up with some friends at Starbucks in my old neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. It was launch day for my book, The Luck We Carry , a memoir told in essays about my late husband Ken and our journey together through his cancer, and mine alone after he died. I wanted—needed—to put some goodness out into the world. Though the topic is heavy, I wrote with the idea that it could help someone navigating grief, learning from my lessons. This date was e

I found out on the morning of March 31, at the same time as 30,000 of my fellow Oracle colleagues. I’d gone to the gym in the morning. It was my last day of PTO. I’d taken the previous week off and the first two days of the next week off to work on the launch of my memoir, The Luck We Carry: Love, Loss, and the Stories that Shape Us . It’s a memoir I’d been working on generally for ten years, but more specifically, this version for the last two. It holds the stories of my lif

April 12, 2025, was a highly unusual day for me—one I've been thinking about all week as its anniversary approached. It was a day that held a mixture of dread, trepidation, and a longing for something I knew to be true, to not be. I woke up at 2:30 a.m. with Hudson snuggled beside me, and I loved the feeling of contentment and security so much that I hated to get out of bed. "So much has to happen before we can do this again," I said to him as I snuggled closer. It was the da

When I woke up on launch day on Monday, I thought of the 13-year-old version of me jumping up and down and screaming with excitement because his book had been published. His thoughts and words have been perfect bound or electronically transmitted to share with anyone! This introverted kid holed up in his room with a piece of plywood as his lap desk so he could scrawl on college ruled notebooks, telling stories and imagining all kinds of things. He was quiet, kind, and shy, bu

I've been rehearsing this moment in my head for a while now. Not the launch itself—the feeling I thought I'd have when it finally arrived. I imagined something cinematic. Maybe a swelling soundtrack. At minimum, a sense of profound certainty that I'd done something meaningful. Instead, I woke up this morning, made coffee, and sat with Hudson for a few minutes before my brain fully caught up to the date. March 23, 2026. Launch day. And then the other thing hit me. Twenty-five

I was interviewed recently about my upcoming book, The Luck We Carry: Love, Loss, and the Stories That Shape Us . I was a little nervous going in, but I kept talking myself down. What question could the host possibly ask me about the book that I couldn't answer? I wrote it. That helped. Mostly. But once the show started, none of that mattered. All I wanted was to be present — to engage with my friend Alan Locher, and talk about one of my favorite subjects: Ken, and the book t

“Moving on” never felt right. Here’s what I found instead. It was August, a few months after my husband Ken died. I’d poured a glass of cabernet and carried it out to the garden he’d tended for years. The angel trumpets were in bloom, their sweet scent lingering around me. Their aroma competed with the way summer evenings smell when you’re simultaneously grateful and gutted. I was about to read a message Ken had left me—words I didn’t know he spoke. Words I didn’t think were

I went to the theatre knowing what had happened. Like many people, I knew the story of Emmett Till. I knew the facts in the way history books and documentaries present them. I knew the names, the verdict, the unfairness. I knew the headline version of the injustice. What I didn’t know, or maybe hadn’t fully absorbed, was what it would feel like to sit in a room and listen to the trial unfold word by word. “Trial in the Delta: The Murder of Emmett Till” does something deceptiv

I didn’t expect this part to undo me. I expected nerves. I expected vulnerability. I expected that familiar, low-grade panic that comes with handing someone a piece of yourself and saying, "Here. I hope this connects with you." What I didn’t expect was the kindness to come back so clearly. So specifically. So generously. Over the last few days, some of my advance readers have been finishing The Luck We Carry , and their messages have been landing in my inbox and on my phone a

I didn’t expect my eyes to well up, but they did—fast and without warning, like a sudden summer storm you swear you didn’t see coming. It caught me off guard mostly because this wasn’t supposed to be that moment yet. It’s just a proof. Not the finished book. Not the one that gets stacked on tables or slid into bags at events or signed with a Sharpie that never quite works the first time. And still. Holding it in my hands made everything real in a way my brain hasn’t quite ca

Today I did a thing that felt both thrilling and mildly unhinged. I sent my book to advance readers. Not the world yet. Not strangers on the internet with profile photos of sunsets and opinions about commas. But still. Real humans. People I know. People who can text me. This is the part of writing no one quite prepares you for. You spend years alone with a document. You revise. You cut sentences you loved. You move commas around like they’re furniture in a very small apartme

The title of my upcoming book is " The Luck We Carry: Love, Loss, and the Stories that Shape Us .” The title comes from an essay I wrote last year about an experience that really touched me and solidified the idea for this book. At the library book sale where I volunteer, I helped a woman out to her car with her bags of books. Along the way, she wondered aloud why so many people seemed to have such an easy life—particularly, health-wise. But she wasn't complaining. As a survi

I expected notes. That’s what you brace for when you hand something precious to an editor. You expect margin comments. Structural concerns. A polite but firm list of things that need work. What I did not expect was to be told, in calm, measured language, that the book already does what it set out to do. The response began by describing my manuscript as “a collection of well-crafted essays assembled as a sort of episodic memoir,” and went on to talk about how grief is present

My upcoming book exists because of a promise. Ken was full of kindness, grace, and humor. So much so that even our hospice experience together held moments of joy. Not because it was easy. It wasn’t. We had hard conversations. Honest ones. The kind you’re grateful for later. I have no regrets. I got to tell him everything I was feeling. Before he died, he made me promise one thing: to never stop writing. This upcoming book is me keeping that promise. Page by page. Essay by es

When I woke up on New Year’s Day 2026, the first words* out of my mouth were, “This is the year my book comes out.” (*I did say good morning to Hudson first. Priorities.) Still, saying it out loud mattered. It felt different than thinking it. Different than quietly working toward it, which is what I’ve been doing for a long time now. This wasn’t a resolution. It was a declaration. 2026 is the year this book steps into the world. I’ve been writing since I was thirteen, but thi

It's my fourth year, sitting with a stack of envelopes packed with selected memories from the past year since starting the practice for 2022 . It's the perfect way to slow down, stay in the moment, and reflect on the big events that defined this year for me. Give it a watch, and let me know if you might try something similar for 2026. Or tell me what your ritual is. I'd love to hear!