I am a writer, memoirist, writing educator and therapist in private practice. A former international journalist with a passion for storytelling, I graduated from Hunter College with a B.A. in Media Studies and from Seattle University with a Masters in Mental Health Counseling.
I have reported from over a dozen countries in the Middle East, East Africa, South Asia and the Former Soviet Union. I wrote a column for the Seattle Times on social justice issues and I taught journalism and media production at the University of Washington.
My memoir writing has been recently published in Seattle Met, Mutha, HerStry and Prometheus Dreaming. My piece, “Windstorm” was published in the Santa Ana River Review and won “Honorable Mention” in the Hunger Mountain Nonfiction Writing Contest. My piece, “A Girl's History of Consent” was a finalist for the New Millennium Writings Nonfiction Award and won “Honorable Mention” in the Pacifica Nonfiction Writing Contest. In 2020 I was a “Write On, Door County” writing resident. I am currently working on a memoir, “Love at the End of the World,” about non-monogamy and motherhood and produce a regular podcast, “Mistakes Were Made,” with my husband about non-monogamy.
It's hard to write when you're hungry. It's hard to parent when you're hungry. When you're not eating, the brain fog arrives fast. Last night, I was too tired to do laundry, so my kids had no clean clothes this morning.
It wasn't just political outrage that led me to block the airport with my 45 comrades.
My husband and I can’t quite agree on whose idea it was to open our marriage. He recalls a couples therapy session where he broached the subject. But I think it was me.
The sound of her voice is so nerdy and determined and yet still, somehow, eager to please. It cuts through the clattering morning and squeezes my chest with a swift brutal twist.
“Shoot your vagina up to the ceiling” one male doctor helpfully suggested as your head inched forward and back into my body again. Limp I stared into the bright white hospital light above me where I saw a vision of my own blood and guts floating on the ceiling. I learned later that this particular delivery room was famous for having a tinted convex light that reflected the labor in detail if you knew to look.
I have experienced mental health challenges for most of my life. My first panic attack was when I was 11 years old, and I found myself paralyzed and hyperventilating in a public restroom on a family outing. Some periods, like the ones when I have been in talk therapy, have been better than others. But anxiety, and its shadow-twin depression, have always been there.
“Smoke season makes for beautiful sunsets.” I remember the first time I said that — watching the sky streak a deep, gritty pink over Lake Washington. Even more vividly, I recall the hot grief that flared in my chest a moment later. And now there’s a word for that. “Blissonance” refers to the experience of enjoying the natural world alongside parallel awareness of threats to it. And even your contribution to those threats.
I like parenting more the older the kids get. Babies and toddlers are tough for me — it feels like a non-stop, low-grade panic aimed mostly at avoiding disaster. Once kids can communicate and — even better — share their hot takes on the world, I’m sold. So far, five is my favorite age. My son is all tightly wound curiosity and wild questions I’m sprinting (or furiously Googling) to answer. How many miles around the earth? (About 24,000.) Why don’t adults like candy? (Lol. We do.) Why are you on your phone so much? (Mind your business.)
Our new Chevy van is tan. It has four hot, sticky houndstooth plastic seats and a nest of wool blankets that smell like antique wax and alcohol solution. My dad uses these blankets to protect furniture he repairs and delivers to rich people. He makes fun of these rich people by saying their names in a fake British accent and drawing out the syllables (“The Noooooordtroms” and the “McCaaaaaaaws”).
I should have shoplifted more while I was pregnant.
People mostly try not to notice pregnant women, and if they do, it is with a mild pity or good-humored discomfort that passes quickly. At worst, a pregnant woman is an uncomfortable reminder of the close proximity of sex and death, a bit of a boner killer.