Some mornings, getting out of bed feels heroic. And then there are mornings like today—when Hudson is stretched beside me in full golden-retriever splendor, making the idea of standing upright seem like too much ambition for one person before coffee. He’s curled up like a perfect little croissant, breathing softly, paws twitching like he’s chasing squirrels in his sleep. Meanwhile, I’m lying there trying to convince myself that being a responsible adult is more important than

Some Mondays hit like a cold open with no context. You wake up, look around, and think, “Wait… what show is this again?” If that’s you today, you’re in good company. I’ve learned (sometimes the hard way) that the fastest way to kill momentum is expecting yourself to show up on Monday fully polished and ready to deliver an Emmy-worthy performance. Most of the good stuff in my life started awkward, uneven, and completely unglamorous. Writing. Reinventing. Grieving. Healing. B

Writing personal essays isn’t about oversharing — it’s about understanding. Every time I sit down to write, I end up meeting a new version of myself in the reflection. Sometimes he’s brave, sometimes awkward, but always honest. Here’s why I keep returning to the mirror that is personal narrative. There’s a place in every piece I write when I catch my own reflection in the words — and sometimes it’s startling. It’s not that I don’t like what I see; it’s that I don’t always rec

Something has been stirring lately. It started earlier this year when I organized the fundraiser in honor of Ken’s 60th birthday . What began as a simple idea—to celebrate the life he lived and the legacy he left—turned into something bigger. It reminded me of the power of story, of connection, of community. Watching people come together, laugh, cry, and remember Ken felt like opening a long-closed notebook and finding the pages still warm. And somewhere between the planning

I remember discovering my love of writing when I was around thirteen. It's galvanized in my memory, and when I think about it, I'm filled with the kind of warmth that can only accompany the discovery of something very special--like making a close life-long friend. And certainly something that has helped me write the stories of my life: from hand-written novels in my adolescence to essays and short stories to all the words in my blog since 2010 as an adult. What started it al

Why was I crying as I walked down the street, carrying a salad I'd picked up for lunch? No, not because I'm a moosh bag who sobs to any decently scored coffee commercial around the holidays. (Well, not  only  for that reason.) I was moved. A little closer to where I'm supposed to be. And I felt it deeply. I'd received an email from  Terri Wingham , founder of  A Fresh Chapter , asking if she could include me in an email she was sending to participants of the non-profit’s upco

I decided to take a writing class recently. There is an incredible writing school a couple of blocks away from my condo called Story Studio . I stumbled across it a few years ago during an open house they hosted and have kept an eye on their class offerings since. I've taken a couple of one-off workshops and attended a free legal seminar, but when I got their spring newsletter, touting a "Mapping Your Memoir" course in four sessions, I decided to pony up. Though I'm committe

When I’m in the mood or just when I run across them on the shelf in my bedroom, I love to pull out one of my old diaries and read a few entries. It’s a portal to a different time. A different me. Rich in the most absurd details, I’m taken back to random times in my life. And it makes me smile. Or cringe. Or roll my eyes. Or tear up. I’ve journaled since I was a teen. Back in high school my long-lost diaries were scribbled out on steno pads with their smashed wiry bindings an

It seems like I've always had this blog; that it has always been here to engage me and calm me and focus me and distract me. But I haven't. I've always written for those reasons, but it wasn't until 2010 when I started doing so in this blog. To think about it now, my life is starkly different to when I started this blog in December 2010. I was married to  Ken  and he was battling his second cancer diagnosis in as many years. And I was trying like hell to write about--think a

Starting this blog 4 years ago to write about all the things I was feeling saved my sanity. It's one of my proudest accomplishments...to date. And though I didn't break any records writing this year, it didn't stop the WordPress.com stats helper monkeys from preparing a 2014 annual report for me. Bring on 2015! Here's an excerpt: A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 5,600 times in 2014. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take a

My greatest dream since age thirteen--when I discovered my love of writing--was to be a published author. Back then, I wanted to be a novelist, creator of gripping, over-the-top dramatic best sellers. Non-fiction essays held little interest for me outside of mandatory English assignments. What could possibly be interesting about non-fiction? It seemed so...limiting. I could never have imagined the piece that got me a publishing credit would not only be an essay about my life

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog. Here's an excerpt: A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 5,800 times in 2013. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 5 trips to carry that many people. Click here to see the complete report.

As I wrote last week , bad stuff happens. But just a couple of days later I was reminded of something quite the opposite. I received an email about an essay I'd written for the "Extraordinary Healer" Award competition for CURE Today Magazine. I knew I hadn't won, but was happy to present the subject of the essay, Blanca--Ken's most beloved oncology nurse during chemotherapy--with the essay to give her an inkling of what she meant to him and what she still means to me, our fa

I forgot to mention in my previous entry something else that struck a "Ken chord" with me that contributed to my "ken-do-it-iveness" last weekend. In the alley where I found my new (and fabulous) coffee table, I saw a shiny penny gleaming up under the reflection of one of the alley lights. It made smile and shake my head as I reached down to pick up. Filthy, no doubt, but something Ken did unfailingly. It long pre-dated me, but after we got together whenever we'd be walking

Today's date is significant for me. It's the third anniversary of Ken's hemipelvectomy. (You can read more about it in  last year's blog  if you'd like.) Because of this anniversary--like so many that have come and gone, Ken has been heavily on my mind this week. More so than usual. And I think it would be fitting to hear his voice--in a manner of speaking. (If you want to hear his actual voice, head over to the  Poop Song .) What I would like to try doing today--and on any

I went to bed pretty early last night. As a result my eyes opened at 4:30 a.m. this morning. It was fortuitous because I could hear Kallie, who was lying on the bedroom floor, whining a little--waiting for me to wake up. When she whines, it's a pretty sure sign she needs to "poodle" (as opposed to "piddle"). And given the fact I ignored a similar plea earlier in the week, resulting in a big steaming pile of lovin' left for me in the middle of the kitchen floor, I decided to h

While driving home from the Apple Store today in Lincoln Park, I passed a Bank of America branch on Clybourn Avenue. Sitting in traffic near it, waiting for the light to turn, I was reminded that it wasn't always a bank branch, and was in fact part of my early years in retail hell in Chicago. In the mid-90s, the building I was looking at was a now defunct "upscale" children's toy store called Noodle Kidoodle whose motto was "kids learn best when they're having fun." (Based o

With only a couple of months until high school graduation to go, I was content to quietly slip out the doors of my sleepy, small town high school and into my future at college. But one chilly spring morning in 1986, everyone knew my name as it was screeched out over the school's PA system. "RON STEMPKOWSKI REPORT TO THE OFFICE!!! RON STEMPKOWSKI REPORT TO THE OFFICE!!!" I can still hear it like it was yesterday. Wid-eyed and surprised, I couldn't imagine why a notorious "good

(An early title card from "Our Lives" when I first joined the cast.) There are many odd things about being "single" (that still feels weird to say or type) and living alone. Earlier today, I walked over to Subway to get a sammie for lunch and as I walked back I caught a glimpse of myself in a window I was passing, and I did double take. My lips were moving. I was talking. Aloud. And no one was with me. I don't even remember what I was saying. It's like my brain and my mouth

At a month away, June 1 is a daunting and solemn date for me and for anyone who loved Ken. It's the date he left us after such a valiant and graceful fight. Maybe someday it will be easier to "celebrate' it, as time performs her magic, and softens the jagged edges and fades the vivid pain of the last year or so. As for this June 1--I've taken matters into my own hands (probably with a little help) to find a very special way to commemorate the date. I'm taking a break from wor