Teens these days.

(Photo: Carol Kaliff, Hearst Connecticut Media)

Today kids across America walked out of school to protest gun violence and the inability for our government to pass common sense gun control.

That’s incredible. I can only imagine being a government & politics teacher, or any other branch of history/American studies, and witnessing your students actively participating in and organizing peaceful protests. Or deciding not to participate because they didn’t agree with the protests. Either way, it’s a teach by doing moment. It’s teaching kids to be actionable instead of simply memorizing facts or spitting out theory.

Facebook is flooded with posts of alum, teachers and parents talking about the school walkouts or walk ins, where assemblies are being held in memory of the students killed due to gun violence. CNN is live-streaming the walkouts and the words of our CT Senator Chris Murphy. Across the nation kids are holding up signs stating their beliefs and desire for the adults in charge to be actionable. They are no longer complicit and trusting that adults will get the work done. The Parkland students showed them that their voice matters even when they are unable to vote. That you don’t have to wait until you’re 18 to voice political opinions.

I was young for my grade and didn’t turn 18 until I was in college. I remember being furious that I couldn’t vote in the primaries that year, even though I would be 18 by the general election. I was always highly opinionated when it came to politics, thanks to my mother who was always a well-informed citizen and my brother, who walked into the Democratic Headquarters at 16 to start volunteering. I would tag along with him, making calls to remind democrats and independents to vote, checking in on our elderly residents to see if any needed rides to polls, attending Chris Murphy’s debates when running for Congress, joining the Young Dems chapter my brother helped start and my favorite part of the process: going from poll to poll on election night to watch them count then ending back at Headquarters or a restaurant to hear the results roll in. I couldn’t vote, but I was more engaged in the political process than most adults.

Which was why I was furious when adults would undermine my intelligence in my teenage years. I would often hear that my opinions, and the opinions of my peers, were just echos of my family’s beliefs. I understand the thought, and recognize that may be true in some cases, but I could never understand why my civics teacher would take so much time explaining our nation’s workings to us, only to tell me that my opinions were just something I inherited from my parents when I got in a fight with a classmate over Bush’s reelection. Of course my family influenced my beliefs, but I was also smart enough to research and act on my own. I was old enough to hold opinions.

I remember a car ride where my mom and brother were talking a politics. I listened without much input, thinking instead of my recent civics lesson on political parties.

“What if I’m a Republican instead of a Democrat?” I asked my family.

I was constantly the lawyer of the family. I always wanted to think about situations from a different angle. A contrarian, always thinking of the other side before agreeing with my family.

“Your beliefs line up with the Democratic Party,” my mom replied.

“But what if they don’t? What if I’m a Republican instead?” I asked.

“Then you can be a Republican.”

I went home and did all the research I could on both parties. I spent hours trying to understand the difference and political platforms. I weighed policies against my moral beliefs and found that I did side with the Dems.

All of this was done my freshman year of high school. Clearly I was already intelligent and thoughtful enough to question my beliefs and recheck them against my political affiliation. My thoughts and opinions haven’t changed much. They evolved slightly with the times and my maturity. Whereas I used to think we should eliminate marriage entirely, calling everything a civil union, so we can eliminate the religious context of marriage, I’ve realized that battle gets misconstrued and calling everything a marriage is a better angle. I used to be much more fiscally liberal that I am today. I used to be pro-choice under medical necessity but am now entirely pro-choice. Tiny tweaks, but my adult mind is still in line with my teen mind.

So I still get angry that I was always underestimated. That adults did not believe that I researched my policies enough. To be fair, this still happens. I was constantly accused for siding with Hillary instead of Bernie because she was a woman, when in reality I thought she was the most qualified candidate we ever had and her fiscally moderate policies enabled me to reap benefits while still covering costs of social security and welfare.

People may say that I was a different type of teen. That not everyone was as mature. Well then, why not teach them to find their own opinions instead of dismissing them?

I think adults fall into an awful habit of thinking kids don’t know enough. We talk down to them and assume they can’t possibly understand. But clearly they do.

Today’s teens are living in a world where any question they have can be answered in a matter of seconds on their phones. Teenagers are actually MUCH better at recognizing “fake news” than we are. Aside from their obvious increased technical literacy, they’re also taught how to seek out information. As students, they have access to online encyclopedias and academic research. They’re constantly being told not to trust sites like Facebook and Wikipedia, and instead fact check every piece of information they want to use. They’re writing research reports and getting graded on whether or not their facts are confirmed. They’re much better at finding the truth than we are.

Without the ability to vote, I believe they’re getting antsy. I remember talking to my cousins, just shy of 18, about how much it sucked to be unable to vote in such an important presidential election. And now here we are, with massive school shootings happening at levels that I can’t even comprehend, and they’re done with us adults. They can’t vote, but they can speak for themselves and remind politicians that they’re voting very, very soon.

We need to stop underestimating kids and instead listen to them. That’s how I treat the kids I babysit. I never want to influence their own moral and political beliefs, so I just listen to them and encourage them to think about where they stand. The other day a kid I babysat was doing a project on trans kids and I found that she knew way more than even I did. I offered no opinions and instead just let her inform me on the topic. When I was watching some younger kids, someone came to the door who was running for local office. What followed was an hour long conversation with the kids about what their platforms would be and how they can run for office within their school. While I would steer at times, like suggesting they invest in scientific research when they said they wanted to stop all hurricanes, I let them carry the conversation.

We invest so much time and money into our kids and their education. But often when they want to show us the results of that investment, we don’t listen. While what happened at Stoneman Douglas was horrific, it is inspiring to see the students use their voices and speak up for themselves when a politician is dismissive of their question. Unless you’re a teacher or school employee, the topic of school shootings will ALWAYS impact the kids in your life more than it will ever impact you. Empower them to use their voices, especially if they’re teenagers. I’m so proud of these teens who are speaking up for the students in Sandy Hook who are still too young to speak for themselves. There are no longer only parents representing their students, but students themselves being actionable.

Keep going teens. Stand up for what you believe in and know that your mind is worthy of respect and your opinions are worth being heard.

Moving on.

When I moved to Chicago, I thought I’d leave before college graduation.

I wanted to be a teacher and it made sense to my seventeen year old self to only go to an out of state college for three years then come back to CT or NY to get certified within that state. But when I changed my major three days into my freshman year, that plan went out the window.

I was supposed to move back to the East Coast after college graduation. Actually, I did move back to the East Coast. Well, kinda. I did not renew my lease in Chicago. I packed up and planned to move home but was called in for a job interview. The day before going home, I put all of my stuff in storage then went on the interview. I figured that if I didn’t get the job, I could come back and get my stuff. Then I packed all my clothes and headed home. We immediately went on vacation for a week where I found out that I was being called in for a second interview. After vacation, I headed back to Chicago and took the job. So essentially, I just over packed for vacation

When I started working in Chicago, I had no immediate plans to leave. I always knew I would eventually end up on the East Coast, but I never had a definite time frame. My standard answer was that I would be in Chicago for two more years, which turned into three, which turned into four. Two years ago, I was ready to pack up everything and move to Los Angeles but breaking my knee put those plans on hold. I wasn’t too upset about that though because Chicago always pulled me back.

I’m nine and a half years into my extended stay in Chicago. I love this city with my entire heart. I love the people I met and the strangers who greet me with the kindness and optimism that can only be traced back to the Midwest. I love taking an hour long walk after work along the lake and finding myself still in awe of our skyline. I love the neighborhoods I lived in – Lincoln Park, the Southport Corridor of Lakeview and now Uptown. I love that I always find something new in the city like how expansive Montrose Park is or where to order the best Chicken Shawarma plate. I love when I find myself back on DePaul’s campus and replay the memories: the quad where I used to run through the sprinklers after a night of drinking, the dorm where I met my best friends, the hall where I was initiated into Chi Omega. I feel the pit in my stomach churning when I find myself by my old place on Cornelia, wishing I had enough money to buy the townhouse that I loved so much. I like the way we all gather inside for long nights of beers and Christmas lights in the winter and eat outside every night in the summer. I love Eagles games at Mad River, our annual Christmas Trolley and late nights after comedy shows at Old Town Alehouse. I love how it’s in the middle of the country so flying to either coast is not a hassle. In college I cried on every ride to the airport down Lake Shore Drive. I knew I would be back soon, but I never wanted to leave. I would strain my neck looking back at the skyline on the way to Midway until it was completely out of view.

I never wanted to permanently live in Chicago. I stand by that. For every reason I have for loving Chicago, I have another reason I want to be home. The thought of raising children so far away from my family is worse than leaving Chicago. I don’t want to be a long distance aunt anymore. I missed a lot of my nephew and cousins growing up and while I don’t regret my time here, it’s bittersweet to see all the time lost whenever I realize how old they are. While I pride myself in being a lot more present these days because I’m more financially stable, I want to be able to join in on all the little things the next generation of my family will bring. I want to be at sports games and school plays and whenever I have my own kids, I want sleepovers with cousins and dinners with grandma. Beyond family, I miss New England. I miss having four seasons instead of two and being so close to so many major cities. I don’t like that each time I come home it’s an event. I want to be able to visit with friends without feeling like I’m stiffing my family. I’d like to be able to relax instead of making sure I got to see everyone while home. And I miss New England falls. GOD how I miss New England falls. I miss the hills and the trees and the mountains. I miss the foliage and the scent of October. I miss being able to hike up real trails instead of city paths.

But each time I think I’m ready to leave, something pulls me back. It’s not easy being in love with a city so far from home. I wish New York or Philadelphia had the same vibe as Chicago.

I know that in the next few years I’ll be leaving this city. Where I’m going next I’m not too sure of. I don’t know if I want to spend a year in LA living in warm weather for once before returning to the East Coast, or if I just want to head straight home. I’m not even sure of where on the East Coast I want to live. While I’m 90% sure I’ll end up in New York City, which would split the difference between my extended family in New Jersey and my immediate family in Connecticut, I’m not positive. I may jet out to California in a year then head over to New York City a year or two later. But whatever way I split it, I have two years max left in Chicago.

I’ve set dates on moves before, so I know things can change. But the problem is that I keep on delaying my departure which makes it more difficult to leave. I fall more in love with this city with each passing year. There are some good reasons why I haven’t left Chicago, like breaking my knee and wanting to stay with my medical team until completely recovered, but the truth is that I’m also terrified. I wasn’t scared of going to college. Everyone made some sort of leap that year. And while I was constantly scared after college, it was also a normal transitional period. But here I am, in my late twenties, and there are no external forces like going to college or joining the workforce to push me out. This decision is completely self-motivated and I’m the only one that can execute it. I’m scared that I won’t find the same support group I have here. I’m worried that moving closer to my family will keep me from hustling in comedy. I’m concerned that my constant indecisiveness on where to live will be what keeps relationships from forming.

My friends in Connecticut and Los Angeles will all confirm that I’m not a great long distance friend. I miss and love them but get distracted when I’m in a different city. I push away from the ones I’m really close to because it hurts to know we no longer live close enough to be dependent on each other. I try to separate myself so I’m not disappointed when their life eventually goes on and they find someone to fill my void in their new city. I want to change these things about myself, but I know that it’s something I struggle with.

I know that Chicago will always be here to visit. But I loved being a resident. I know my close friends will remain my close friends and I’ll probably come back as often as I jet to the East Coast right now. And I know that if I ever find that I made the wrong decision, there’s a three story walkup on Cornelia Ave. that I’m more than happy to put a down payment on.

I chose the perfect city to become an adult in, both legally and mentally. Any pain or hurt is almost always the result of loving something, so I’m thankful that I found myself in a city that I loved so hard.

After almost 10 years, I’ll finally answer the most frequently asked question of an East Coast transplant: Chicago is WAY better than New York*. But sometimes the thing we love most isn’t what fits best.

*(Except for the pizza. NYC thin crust over Chicago any day.)

#Whole30

So I fell into a fad diet.

For the last 30 days, I ate according to Whole 30. After having knee surgery in October, and my team going all the way to a Super Bowl win, I wasn’t eating well. I was immobile for two months and while I tried to eat as healthy as possible, it meant a lot of canned soup and pasta. My metabolism was gone because I couldn’t do anything so I was never hungry. I’d eat maybe once a day then snack on all the sweets and easy to grab carbs.

With the Super Bowl, I spent Sundays at a bar where I’d grab a Philly Cheesesteak and a few beers. While I’m someone who loves to cook, and never cooks unhealthy food, I had a hard time with eating out and grabbing takeout. When I started walking again, I started working and going through physical therapy, both of which were incredibly exhausting, and never had the energy to cook. Living in a major city grants me unlimited access to takeout, so I would typically grab some Thai food across the street because the thought of cooking was exhausting.

I decided that once the Super Bowl was over, I’d get back to clean eating and chose Whole 30 because I have a handful of friends who enjoyed it. It was a much easier plan than others I’ve tried. There weren’t rules assigned to days or times, and there were zero to no bans on specific fruits or vegetables (except corn, which I eat maybe twice a year, and lima beans/peas, which I never eat). The rules were pretty easy – no sugar, alcohol, grains, gluten, soy, dairy, beans, etc. etc. It was easier to focus on the things I could eat: meat, fruits, veggies, most nuts and seeds. There wasn’t any measuring of olive oil, or banana ban, so it actually ended up being much easier than I anticipated.

There’s a few things that helped lead to my success. First, I love to cook. On normal days before my surgery, I usually cooked all of my meals. I prefer my own food to eating out. The oils used in takeout tend to make my skin feel hot and I just like what I like. So having to cook every single meal for thirty days wasn’t a huge challenge. It just meant that I had to take the extra time. Instead of being too lazy and sleepy to pack my lunch for the next day, I forced myself to take the fifteen minutes before bed to do it.

I also really love the taste of healthy food. Even when I’m not eating well, I still love the taste of fresh fruits and vegetables. I was never a carbs person. Growing up, I never really ate pasta or bread. So aside from revising my snacks, cutting gluten out wasn’t much different than my normal diet. I spent a third of my life allergic to dairy, another third lactose intolerant and the last third trying to convince my body to build up a tolerance, so cutting dairy wasn’t a big issue either. I never drank milk and only started liking cheese in college. I always kept greek yogurt in my fridge for a quick snack or breakfast, but never craved it. So dairy was easy to let go. The only things I really missed were hummus, brown rice, ketchup, Diet Coke and peanut butter. While I definitely wasn’t making healthy choices before Whole 30, I still enjoyed healthy food, so it wasn’t like I had to train myself to like new food.

I also never had to count days. I started right after the Super Bowl and my 30 day marker was my mom coming out to visit tomorrow. I was actually pretty surprised when I realized today was my last day. It’s helpful to not have to mark each passing day or have a countdown. Additionally, there wasn’t much going on. February is a boring month full of nights in and snowy days so I didn’t have to worry about the social aspect of it. Over all thirty days, I only had five alcoholic drinks and ate two tiny things that I wasn’t supposed to. I never felt like I was missing out.

The biggest advantage I had was my financial security. As someone who spent most of my life trying to find the cheapest groceries possible, it was a privilege to have a good enough job that I can spend $2.50 on an avocado when I don’t want to go all the way to Whole Foods where they’re half the price (surprising, yet true… their avocados are practically free). I could afford to buy almond butter, ghee and organic beef jerky. While I’d rather not pay $2.50 per Rx bar when I could get a whole box of Kashi bars for the same price, I was able to for a month. I wanted to set myself up for success, so I allowed myself to buy the pricier groceries if it meant I wouldn’t cheat on the program. If I tried doing this even a year ago, it would be much more difficult because I would have to settle for whatever produce I could afford that week.

I tried not to talk about it. I only brought it up if I had to explain why I wasn’t eating or drinking. In the past, I was that person always writing posts about what I was eating and this time around I didn’t have the desire. I didn’t even weigh myself before it. It was less about weight loss than it was about reclaiming my body after having no control over it. For two years I’ve had to bend to its every demand and I was finally able to tell it what to do. It was a bit of a cleanse. Riding myself of the long and boring recovery days and celebrating the fact I could grocery shop and cook again. I posted my food on Instagram, but that was about it.

I found that by not talking about it, I normalized the way I ate. When I was filming, I brought my own snacks in case craft services didn’t have anything for me to eat instead of sending my “dietary restriction” over. Luckily there is almost always a bunch of healthy snacks at craft services and I didn’t have to worry about it. When I was at a friend’s party, I found the things I could eat and avoided the rest. When I went out, I drank the least amount of calories possible but didn’t explain why I wasn’t grabbing my usual beer. When a friend wanted to do dinner, I offered to cook so I could make something I could easily eat. Treating it as no big deal preventing it from feeling like one.

Honestly, I feel great. I have more energy and am much happier. My 5:40am alarm clock is less menacing because I don’t feel like a sloth anymore. While the diet is meant to be just a 30 day thing, I know I’ll adapt a lot of it into my day to day routine. I’ll take back the beans, brown rice and occasional gluten but I’m more or less done with dairy. I decided to eat at least one yogurt a week so I will be able to tolerate dairy when I want to indulge in the occasional cheese platter or slice but there’s no reason to keep a container of goat cheese in my fridge. I decided to limit my sugar intake to twice a week, in whatever form I want, so I can continue to reach for an all fruit smoothie or clementine instead of tootsie rolls. Plantain chips are my new pretzels and I’ll keep a bag of frozen turkey meatballs for nights when I don’t want to cook. Dates are the new sweet and I’m only allowing myself one Diet Coke a week. When drinking, I’ll opt for a good vodka soda, or dirty martini, and try to limit my beer and wine intake.

The largest habit I wanted to break is getting takeout. I decided to create a “take out tracker” in my bullet journal. If I don’t eat out for ten days in a row, I get a free meal where I can pick up dinner or bank it for another day. If I break my streak with anything but a reward, I have to start new.

It’s nice to try a diet when your goal isn’t weight loss. Honestly I have no idea how much I weighed before this and have no clue what I weigh now. I’m trying to go for something a little more sustainable than what was popular in the past. But I can’t lie – it does feel nice to fit a little better in my jeans.

Sexism and Pain

As the #MeToo and #TimesUp movements gain power and voices, I’ve been nursing my most recent story in my head. I was quick to jump on with accounts of my own harassment, assault and constant struggle to be taken seriously in my career. I think it’s time to talk about my most recent medical journey as well.

Two years ago, I was rehearsing for a show when I bent backwards to narrowly escape a fencing jab. My left knee gave out and I crumbled to the floor. An intense and sharp pain shot from my knee through my whole body. It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt.. so bad that when my writing partner went to grab her car, I started throwing up. My knee started swelling immediately and I couldn’t put any weight on it without unbearable pain.

The morning after I went to the ER, the hospital called me to let me know they found a small fracture in my kneecap and advised me to get to an orthopedist as soon as possible. As it was Friday, my options were limited. I called every orthopedic office until I found someone with a Monday appointment.

That following Monday, I saw Dr. Trash for the first time. (Why I’m concealing the identity of a doctor that doesn’t deserve protection is beside me, but his pseudonym is not only fitting but also very close to his actual last name so it works.) I didn’t think much of having to wait over an hour past my appointment time in his office (all doctors operate like that, right?) and didn’t care that he rushed the appointment. All I cared about at that time was getting the medication needed to ease my pain and the doctors note to clear my absence from work. He asked about the injury and I explained it to him. I told him that it felt like my knee twisted and that there was bone on bone. He laughed at the description, citing it’s impossibility. He looked at my x-ray for about 30 seconds then diagnosed me with a dislocated knee. He advised me to stay in a thigh to ankle immobilizer and come back after two weeks.

I went home and, despite my medication, was still in so much pain that I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even lay in my bed because laying flat was uncomfortable. For the next two weeks, I just dealt with the pain and powered through it.

Two weeks later, I went back to Dr. Trash’s office. When I said that I wasn’t doing any better, he said it was probably because I wasn’t icing or elevating. I told him I was doing that constantly and my office even got me a special chair to elevate. He told me I would be sore for a bit but that’s “just how teenage girls’ bodies are.” I was 25. I thought it was a weird comment but didn’t think much beyond that at the time. He wrote me a script for more pain meds and pushed me out as fast as I came in.

I started PT and spent the first month relearning how to walk because the immobilizer stiffened up my leg. I was in constant pain. I started to get worried that something more was wrong. My roommate has a strong history of dislocating her knee and I’ve seen her recover before. Her recovery was much shorter and appeared to be less painful, but I thought “oh well, everyone’s body is different.”

A month later, I was back in Dr. Trash’s office. At this point, I was starting to get really concerned. After relearning how to walk, I was finally starting to strengthen my knee at PT and it was met with intense, localized pain.

When asked how I was doing, I told Dr. Trash that my pain was getting worse with physical therapy. I told him it was localized and that it almost felt as if my knee was like a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together. He dismissed my pain, stating that these things take time and I would be sore for awhile, but I told him that I wasn’t sore, I was in pain. He told me that the way teenage girls’ bodies are stacked puts pressure on your knee and therefore causes discomfort. I revealed to him, yet again, that I wasn’t a teenage girl and that my pain wasn’t discomfort – it was sharp, localized pain. He mentioned my teenage girl body yet again, and said this is all common for girls dislocating their knee. I told him that I was concerned I tore something when I fell, and asked why I didn’t get a MRI. He told me that he usually doesn’t issue MRIs for women with knee dislocations since dislocations are so common in, you guessed it, teenage girls. Defeated, I gave up.

I feel like I need to clarify at the point that I never had a “teenage girl’s” body. I grew boobs and hips before I ever knew what they were and never hosted a typical teen body. As an overweight 25 year old, I DEFINITELY wasn’t hosting one. I also grew up as an athlete and had my fair share of sprains, pulls and thrown out necks. I had chronic pain due Lyme putting water in my knee as a kid and carpal tunnel as a teen. I understood the difference between long term ache and “holy shit something is wrong.” Something was wrong.

Over the next two months, both of my PTs and I started getting frustrated with my lack of results and increased pain. There were sessions that brought me to tears because I was in so much pain. No one knew how to help ease it and it seemed that everything they did made it worse. I recall holding my breath and concealing my tears as my PT rolled out my patellar tendon because the pain was so bad it sent goosebumps to my skin. (Turns out she was rolling right over the actual trouble spot without realizing it.) Defeated, my PT checked in with me one day. “So it’s just a dislocation. Your x-ray didn’t show anything else, right?” “Aside from the ER showing a small fracture, nope.” “And your MRI was clear?” “I didn’t get a MRI.” “Why?” “My doctor won’t prescribe one.” “You need to push for a MRI.” he mumbled under his breath.

That was the jolt of confidence I needed to make another appointment with Dr. Trash. I decided I would push as hard as possible for a MRI then take it to another orthopedic surgeon. The night before my next appointment, I ran into my old roommate who broke her femur when I lived with her. As I was telling her about my rough recovery from a seemingly simple injury, she asked me who my doctor was. I told her it was Dr. Trash and she told me to run away from him. He was the same doctor who did her leg surgery wrong, and when she questioned him about her pain and bowed leg, he dismissed the pain and told her she would just have to wear long skirts for the rest of her life, like her problem was that superficial.

The next day I went into Dr. Trash’s office with more confidence than I had over the last 8 months. When he asked me how I was doing, I was honest and told him worse than when I came in. I told him that I was in immense pain that only got worse with PT. He told me women tend to feel pain worse than men, especially when it came to TEENAGE GIRLS DISLOCATING THEIR KNEE. I was done with his shit, and demanded a MRI. He told me he doesn’t prescribe MRIs for women’s knees because of the high statistics of TEENAGE GIRLS DISLOCATING THEIR KNEES. I told him I was not a teenage girl, and even my limited medical knowledge told me that there were enough ligaments and cartilage in the knee that a MRI seemed appropriate. He told me “honey, you didn’t do any damage to your cartilage or ligaments, you dislocated your knee.” I asked him how he was so sure, and again he gave me the stats on how common of an injury it was with teenage girls. He told me insurance would never cover the MRI. I told him I didn’t care, I’d pay full price for it. He then, defeated, told me “Well I guess I can falsify your prescription and tell them we’re looking for floating cartilage or something so insurance will accept it. Will that make you feel better, sweetie?” I resisted the urge to punch him in the dick, said yes, grabbed my script and walked out of his office for good.

After getting my MRI, I went to one of the best knee surgeons in Chicago. In my first appointment, he spent more time that Dr. Trash did in all my appointments and told me that the problem was that I chipped a chunk of cartilage off my leg. He said it could be seen a bit in the x-ray alone, but was clear as day in the MRI. The MRI also showed bone bruising and minor ligament damage, all of this caused by… my bone coming together when my knee twisted. EXACTLY WHAT DR. TRASH TOLD ME WAS IMPOSSIBLE. My new doctor, Dr. Hair, told me nothing was impossible in medicine. A few months later, I found out that the second thing I felt, my knee feeling like a bad puzzle, was also true. I had surgery that revealed a piece of cartilage as big as a nickel chipped off and lodged itself into another part of my knee.

It has been almost two years since my initial injury and I’m still recovering from my most recent major knee surgery which should correct my defect. I spent eight months of that time with a doctor who dismissed my pain and diagnosed me off of statistics instead of symptoms then didn’t listen when I told him I was in pain.

I wish I knew at 25 what I know at 27. You know your body. Trust it and listen to it, and the second a man starts comparing it to the statistics of teenage girls, run to a doctor who will listen to you. I heard stories that women often had pain dismissed by male doctors but had never experienced it myself. I wish I listened to the little voice that kept telling me something more was wrong, but instead I trusted that someone who thought my biggest symptom was being female knew more than me just because he had 50 years of medical experience. Every single day I’m thankful for my PT and old roommate who gave me the confidence needed to run away from Dr. Trash.

When I think about that time in my recovery, I fall into a depression. This injury changed everything for me. It kept me from performing and pursuing my comedy dreams, cost me thousands of dollars, made me miss months of work and stopped me from being a typical mid-20 something. Instead of going out, I had to relearn how to walk three different times. I spend $90 a week on PT. I lost friends because I couldn’t do anything for weeks at a time. For two years, I couldn’t perform or hustle like I used to while I watched peers get closer to their dreams. My plans of moving to LA were replaced with surgery dates and recovery windows. When I realize that this all could have been resolved in a single year instead of two had I not gone to Dr. Trash, I become furious.

So, ladies (and gents too), what can I teach you? Listen to your bodies and trust that know them. You are not reduced to a statistic based on your gender. And the second a doctor starts dismissing your pain or comparing you to a teenage girl, run the fuck away.

I’m back.

I decided to start routinely writing in my blog again.

There are a couple reasons for this.

The inciting incident is a conversation I recently had with someone where I was talking at length about my post “My Worst Moment in Improv”. I mentioned how, in the aftermath of that post, I started backing away from both writing in my blog and improvising as a whole. I didn’t expect so many people to read my words and wasn’t prepared for the reactions I received. I was contacted by classmates who expressed regret in not stepping in on scenes that went too far. I was contacted by too many women who shared the same sentiment. I was contacted by theaters in other cities that asked me for advice on how to implement change in their own theaters, like speaking out about an issue makes me qualified to write their harassment policy for free instead of hiring a HR rep. I started slowly, and subconsciously, backing away from improv as a whole. I was tired of having to speak on behalf of all women. I was disgusted by the handful of people who shared my words & were the same people I saw inflict harm on women in the community. I was sick of showing up in buildings, including the one I worked in, and having the words “So I read your article. To play devil’s advocate, isn’t it more dangerous to deny creativity?” being said to my face. I was frustrated that I was being asked to explain consensual scene work like some kind of expert, yet was not being paid for the energy it took out of me. I was done with men stepping up to prove that they’re “good ones” like I didn’t have the ability to read them upon meeting them. I didn’t expect the reaction to consume so much of my energy and just grew tired and disenchanted by the entire community. A lot of that was on me. I wasn’t bold enough to just tell people to fuck off. I felt a sense of responsibility to continue the conversation and educate people who were inquiring. But clearly it took more out of me than I thought, because when I look back, that article is what caused me to slowly back out of the improv game and stop writing in my blog.

Two years later and I found myself back in a class with an instructor I trusted and admired for years. During the class I did the same exercise that the article I wrote was based on for the first time since a bunch of dudes thought date gang rape is a great group scene idea and I checked out completely. I felt disconnected and just wanted to get through it. I did, without incident, and was proud and sad and just thinking a shit ton. I came to the realization that I allowed my experience a few years ago take so much from me. I was pissed at myself for letting that entire experience keep me from two things I love – writing personal posts and improvising. After a high quality long conversation on a sticky and humid summer night, I decided to throw myself back into both writing and improvising.

The second reason is because in a month, I’ll be having major knee surgery for a dumbass accident I had almost two years ago. During a rehearsal, I made a dumb physical choice and fucked up the cartilage in my knee. I have already been through one surgery and two counts of learning how to walk again and am dreading this last round. The surgery will require that I do not put any weight on my leg for about six weeks. Short term recovery (being able to walk well, swim, exercise lightly, etc.) will take six months and I should be fully recovered in a year. While I’m grateful that this will be my last surgery, and that I have really good insurance to cover a highly specialized and expensive procedure, I’m really dreading sitting on my couch again. It’s really hard to be in limbo for two years while I watch my friends go on with their careers and lives. I did not think that my mid-twenties would be defined by this injury. I hate thinking about where I’d be if I didn’t have to take so much time out for recovery. While I want to be happy for my friends and their achievements, it’s hard for me to hear about their trials and tribulations in the comedy world while I’m stuck in this knee limbo unable to do anything. Before this accident, I felt like I was constantly creating, performing, writing, and working hard to achieve my goals. I finally got some of that wind back this summer, and now I know I have a year of recovery starting soon. I cried like a baby last night upon realizing that I might have performed for the last time before my surgery. So I’m trying to be proactive and reintroduce things I can do while recovering. One of those things is this blog.

So I’m back. Because I need this outlet again. I have a lot of thoughts I’ve been bottling up and my Facebook statuses weren’t providing adequate space. 

Flying through lightning.

I thought I was going to die this summer.

I was flying from New York to Chicago – a routine flight that I’ve taken about a hundred times over the past eight years. I fly more often than the average human, and as it becomes more routine, the fear that used to send vibrations of anxiety through my veins has been replaced by the ability to nap in any position.

I’ve flown through my fair share of storms, horrific turbulence and failed attempts to land. But that was nothing compared to the storm I was about to fly through.

Our flight was already very delayed because of a storm in Chicago. The airline made the call to try and get us in that night. The storm was patchy, and everything pointed towards us being able to sneak through for a landing.

I’ve flown through lightning storms. I prefer not to, but I don’t panic when it happens. It’s actually pretty cool. Typically, the lightning is far enough away for you to feel at ease, and instead of worrying, you can enjoy the view.

That wasn’t the case that night. We flew directly through the lightning, which is actually one of the most fascinating things I’ve ever witnessed. Looking out the window, all I could see were particles of clouds and flashes of light. It was like being in an igloo and having someone flicker the lights outside every now and again (totally relatable simile, right?) It was exhilarating, terrifying, and luckily – short lived. We made it through the clouds to the eye of the storm, where we circled around for a bit. Everyone was at peace being able to watch the lightning from afar instead of flying through it.

We circled around, surrounded by the storm, for a bit – looking for a clear enough patch to land in. We were surrounded by clouds with lightning bolts zipping out from the bottom of them and could watch the path they takes to the ground. It was beautiful, fascinating and distant enough to feel at ease, knowing they couldn’t possibly strike our plane.

The ease lasted for about an hour, circling inside the storm, until the pilot announced that we ran out of fuel and would have to land in Milwaukee (don’t we always run out of fuel in these situations?). To land in Milwaukee meant that we would have to fly through the storm again so that we could be above it to take off to Milwaukee.

I was terrified. Flying through the storm was terrifying. You’re completely out of control – you can’t even see out of the window. The ease and exhilaration that I felt after flying through it the first time escaped my body upon realizing we had to go through it again. Maybe we wouldn’t be so lucky. Maybe we would get hit by lightning. It was an awful storm, and it felt inevitable that something would go wrong.

As we started flying through the storm again, I genuinely thought we were going to die. That I was going to die. For the first time in my life, I really believed that I wouldn’t make it to the ground.

As someone who suffers from panic attacks, I’m very in tune with my body and can feel them coming. I combat them by deep breaths and listening to Pink’s music as loud as possible. As I did this, we flew through the storm and I closed my eyes as tight as possible.

Then I realized something. I have no control over my destiny. None. There is absolutely nothing I can do to help this situation. My life is tens of thousands of feet above the ground and I can’t control whether or not it’ll be put back on solid ground. While it may sound terrifying, it put me at ease. My worrying does nothing to help this situation. So why am I going to worry?

Instead I purchased Southwest’s WiFi. I figured if things really looked bad, I could iMessage my family something thought provoking for them to remember me by. “I’ve lived a good life, don’t worry. I love you. Play a lot of Pink at my funeral. Make it an Irish funeral – at a bar, not church. A party, not a sad event. Like in P.S. I Love You. Do whatever you want with my body – just don’t bury it.”

I have to have some control.

Then I just looked outside and enjoyed the view. I thought about my life. It’s funny what memories pop up when you’re convinced they’re your last. The first memory that came for me was when my mom and I went to SNL. Specifically when Amy Poehler walked past us after her cold opening and said “Thank you for coming” with this face of pure exhilaration that only comes with live performances. My mom and I were both together and happy for the first time since my dad died and I knew that we were going to live on without him. I thought of my mom, my dad, my sister & brother, nephew. My entire family and the tribe that became my family. About hanging outside of the storefront theater on closing night of my most recent show with the people I loved, about my childhood best friend putting makeup on me before our first middle school dance and making me look like a hooker, about sleepovers before regional cheerleading competitions.

I realized my life was amazing and full. I looked outside to see we were no longer flying through the storm, but above it. Right next to my face was a pure view of the moon and big dipper, with the clouds and lightening below. It was so beautiful and magical that I started crying. (Side note: there are few things that I love as much as I love stars.) I felt like I was in space, and I realized that this wouldn’t be the worst way to die. Free-falling with the big dipper and moon right next to my face.

Then I died. But luckily there’s wifi in space (where I like to think we go after death).

JK. I lived. But my life is very different now. It feels warmer, full.

I think everyone should have the chance to think that they’re going to die, and then survive, at least once. Bonus points if it happens in space.

The things I want are not as important as the things I already have. I have an inflated appreciation of the (almost) 25 years that I’ve lived.

And most of all, I know that I’m not in control any of it.

Cultivating a creative mind.

I spend most of my day thinking about The Lion King.

I sit next to a window and over the past month or so, they’ve been letting the grass grow to what I can only describe as “Lion King grass.” Every morning, I raise my fancy ergonomic desk to the stand position and imagine a chorus of “aaaahhhh zabenyaaaa” in my head. That’s the way my mind works.

I run into cubicles daily. I have bruises on my arms from routinely running into the shadow boxes that line my office’s walls. I dislocated my thumb by accidentally sitting on it at my desk. You see, my depth perception is depleted as I concentrate on more important things: narrating my life, creating character profiles of the people I pass, wishing I was Simba.

I have a creative brain. More specifically, a writer’s brain. Which means it never stops. Podcasts help keep it busy, but even then, I find myself writing down lines, phrases and words that I like. By the end of the day, the notebook I keep next to my keyboard is filled with quotes, titles and ideas.

Recently, I was reading a friend’s status about being an art teacher these days and it made me really, really depressed. She talked about how she’s at the bottom of the totem pole – deemed a privilege instead of a necessity. Schools are struggling to keep up with standardized tests and art electives are being replaced by additional test prep.

I would have never survived that type of atmosphere. I’ve always been smart, but not in a way that was reflected on a standardized test. My above average english and reading scores would make up for my below average math scores and at the end of the day, I was very average. I hated math and science. My mind just didn’t work that way and I found myself bored – staring out the window and making up lines to a story that didn’t yet exist.

However, my school, teachers and family understood the way my mind worked. And I didn’t go to any fancy bougie school. In fact, the school that I went was publicly exposed as a “failing school.”

This is what my “failing school” did for me:

– When I wasn’t challenged enough in my reading classes, I was pulled out of class and into a room with a few other students to learn at a pace that was more individualized and catered to me. Since I already knew how to read, it emphasized basic writing skills and encouraged me to journal. Our principal, who had ten thousand other things to worry about, took time out of his day to let me come into his office and read my latest installment of “Annie’s Life.”

– In kindergarten, my teacher took time out of class to let us make a band called “The Lion King Band.” Instead of going over the alphabet again and again and again, we practiced and would perform at school lunches, picnics, and assemblies.

– When I was in 4th and 5th grade, I was placed in All-City Orchestra, which was an orchestra composed of kids from different elementary schools that met and rehearsed at the middle school a couple hours every month. I’d be pulled out of math, my worst subject, to go to this without hesitation or opposition.

My parents were just as supportive. Instead of grilling me about my below average math skills, they let me just get by, understanding that I’d never be great at it. They encouraged me to try a little harder, but didn’t let the D that I got in science get in the way of celebrating the fact that I got the highest English score in my grade. Instead of forcing me to study for a subject I hated, they let me continue to write stories, poems, songs and movie scripts that would never get turned in. My mom let me drop trigonometry when I complained that the hours of homework were too much for something I didn’t care about. Instead, I took another study hour which I would spend in my theater teacher’s room rehearsing, discussing Broadway shows and coming up with new ideas. I took the math and science classes necessary to graduate, got the SAT score needed to get into the college I wanted to go to, but stopped there. Instead, I spent hours writing, reading, rehearsing and took four different english classes during my senior year.

While the STEM life is definitely for some people, it wasn’t for me. It was painfully boring for me to learn those disciplines. I didn’t think that way, nor was I interested in thinking that way. I went to school on the cusp of NCLB – narrowly escaping it’s impact on my school. My teachers weren’t very concerned about my inability to think further than the basic level when it came to math and science. They didn’t push me against my will to get better at them so that I could bring the school average up. They let me get by, didn’t dwell on my weaknesses, and instead celebrated my accomplishments in english and the arts. My teachers came to my plays, let me rehearse for talent shows during our down time, and let me learn individually when I was going a little faster than the rest of my class. There was nothing standardized about my education.

I wouldn’t be where I am today without that. I was given the advantage of following my passions and having a supportive atmosphere in which to do so. Art electives were deemed necessary to keep me functioning in school and “just getting by” in math and science was fine, because they knew that I didn’t have interest in either. My “failing school” was the perfect environment to grow up in and is a large part of the reason why I’m able to perform, write and follow what I love to do. There wasn’t a single person telling me that I couldn’t, or shouldn’t, seek a career in the arts.

Cultivating a creative mind doesn’t mean that you have to sacrifice education. It just means that you understand an individual’s limits and passions. You listen to them and what they love to learn about. Even with a “creative mind” that was raised in a “failing school”, I still graduated college with a dual degree and obtained full-time employment. And because the school I went to embraced all the facets that made my mind operate, I am able to write, create and perform at the same time.

Landing your dream job.

By my sophomore year in high school, I had it all figured out. I knew what I wanted to do in this world.

I wanted to be an English teacher. It made sense. My family was full of teachers, and since I was able to understand what words meant, I loved them. My parents always stuck by the phrase “it takes a village” and in my case, my village was composed of teachers. Ones who challenged me, championed me, ridiculed me and were there for me when life got difficult. It was a way to combine what I loved with my urge to give back what was graciously handed to me.

But then my aspirations shifted.

When I was seventeen, I moved from Connecticut to Chicago to go to DePaul University. I didn’t know a soul within a twelve hour radius of the city, but I was dead set on Chicago. I came there to make my dream come true – I wanted to be a comedian. As we unpacked my bags and stared out my window to the impeccable view of Chicago’s skyline that my Lincoln Park dorm offered, I got teary eyed. Everything in my life lined up to this moment. The television shows that I watched growing up, my years in theater, the divine intervention that happened which led to me visiting the set of SNL, my Second City camps, the fact that Elizabeth Perkins told me about DePaul on the same exact day that DePaul sent a letter to my house. It was destiny, and I was here. I was going to be a comedian.

But then my dreams changed.

As I met new friends, joined a sorority and changed my major as often as I changed my sheets (about twice a year), I soon forgot about comedy. It quickly became “that thing that got me here – isn’t it silly that I ever wanted that?!” as I fulfilled all the stereotypes, magic and blissful fun that came with being a college student.

I was a secondary education major for about three days until my academic advisor told me all about the tests, dates and classes that were pre-planned over the next four years, up until the date of my graduation. I ran from that office as fast as possible with my mom by my side supporting my decision to change my major before my first class even started and sympathizing with the fact that I didn’t want my life planned out quite yet. From there, I became a journalism major. I loved to write, so it made sense… until my first journalism class where I learned within a few minutes that journalism and creative writing are two completely different beasts. I spent the rest of the term learning about libel, writing obituaries, and counting the days until I could change my major again. I had no idea what I wanted to do. I decided to minor in political science just in case I wanted to try “that comedy thing” again. I thought it’d be smart to keep up with the news and the only way I could do that was to force myself to through school. I also settled on majoring in PR/Advertising after a conversation with my mom where I told her that I wanted “to do what LC from The Hills does”. During my sophomore year, I grew so fascinated with one of my professors, Dr. Khalil Marrar, that I decided to move my political science minor up to a major so I could reap the benefits of taking so many of his classes. I decided to be a lawyer – I loved debating, had a disposable metal database of supreme court decisions, and it seemed like a cool thing to do. With my life figured out, I started to study for the LSATS.

Except I never took them, because I changed my mind.

During my junior year of college, I got an internship with the Make-A-Wish Foundation. It was a dream internship – connection my love of kids (I had been a camp counselor for five years, after all…) with a cause that I feel strongly about. It also happened to be my sorority’s philanthropy. It was a dream internship and I loved every second of it. I got to help plan a major gala in Chicago, meet tremendous children and learned that I was a really good event planner. From there, I did event planning for the YMCA, our dance marathon and got heavily involved in non-profit work. By my senior year in college, I had my dream job all planned out. I wanted to be an event planner for a non-profit that I cared about.

After graduation, I got that dream job. I became an event planner at a non-profit that I had very close personal ties to. I did it! I was one of the few that graduated in a crappy economy but still managed to get my dream job. My job was “cool” (as determined by the standards set by my friends), I got to stay in Chicago and I was very proud of myself. I was able to help plan very cool events in a major city. What more could I want? I was also really good at my job. There wasn’t a moment where I doubted my ability to thrive in the event planning world. Perfect, right?

Except it wasn’t. After the allure wore off, I hated my job. It was stressful, took up my life and left me exhausted at the end of the day. As student loans piled on, the non-profit paycheck left with with only a few bucks to my name. I learned that a can of black beans and a bag of brown rice only cost $2.30 and lasted about four days, and I relied on leftover granola bars from our athletic events for breakfast. My boss was incredibly mean to me – yelling at me for no apparent reason. I rejoined, and was thriving in, the  comedy world – which only made me realize how miserable I was in my daily life. I came home sobbing to my roommates on multiple occasions, and had many conversations with my family about how awful my boss really got. As I got more and more into the comedy scene, it became impossible to balance my job with my comedy career. I was miserable.

So I took a leap. I left my “dream job” that used to warrant reactions like – “No way! That’s such a cool job!” for a job where most people’s first response is, “that seems really boring.” And it is. Blissfully boring, which means I can turn off my creative mind during the day and fully utilize it at night, when it matters. I left a “cool” job for one that treats me well, pays me fairly, and shoves me out of the door after a 40-hour work week.

Here’s the thing about dreams and aspirations: they change. Let them. Follow what feels right – our instincts are usually correct. Right now, I’m enjoying the bliss of thriving in the comedy world, and hope that I can live the rest of my life that way. It makes sense. But at the same time, I might find that I no longer want that, which is okay too.

When my dream job turned into a nightmare, I could have done one of two things. Either sulk in the loss and remain terrified of my dreams, fearful that they may not pan out, or think, “Well… that was the worst thing that could have happened, and it wasn’t that bad.”

Jim Carrey once said, “I hope everybody could get rich and famous and will have everything they ever dreamed of, so they will know that it’s not the answer.” and I couldn’t agree more.

What’s the answer?

I’m still figuring it out. Until then, I’ll continue to follow what I love and what scares me just enough to get out of bed in the morning.

My two sources of stability.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t write about grief so much. I wish I didn’t talk about it, I wish I didn’t think about it, I wish I wasn’t that person who can’t seem to let it go. But the truth is that 11 out of my 24 years were spent in the world of grief – almost half of my life. It’s what I know and, like it or not, it defines who I am. It’s what I consider myself an expert in. It would be much cooler to be trilingual or a dog whisperer, but ya know. Whatever. I’m learning to accept my fate.

My dad died as a result of a car crash when I was 13. What makes as a result different than in? Well, to make a long story short: someone crashed into his car, he was fine, and then he wasn’t. It’s a bitch because it gives you this thing called hope then robs it from you. Yeah, I’m a little bitter.

When I think back on that time, there are two things that gave me the stability I so desperately needed. These two things are what I am thankful for every single day, because without them, I have no idea how I would have survived.

The first is my relationship with my 8th grade teacher, Bevin. I can’t mention this time without mentioning her. I wrote a post about her last year that I urge you to read. In addition to the many life lessons she offered, she taught me that you have to reach out to people.

I hated being vulnerable, and I still don’t love it. I’d rather hide behind writing. Bevin was the one person I could talk to, which was convenient because I couldn’t run from her. I loved to run. I could run from therapists, my family… practically everyone. But Monday through Friday, without fail, I had to see her at least once in her class.

This taught me a very important coping mechanism. I don’t like reaching out to many people. So when I do, I make sure it’s to someone I can’t avoid. Someone I have to see at least once a week, no matter what. I don’t always reach out looking for answers or advice… sometimes I just send a cryptic text full of bullshit. Putting it out in the world makes me feel better – it’s like an insurance plan. Most days I’m fine, but in the off-chance I freak out, there’s someone around who already knows what I’m going through because I’ve sent them a text saying “I’M SUCH A FLAKY BITCH” or “WHO THE FUCK DO I THINK I AM?”. Someone who I don’t have to explain anything to. Someone who can just calm me down. I’m a high maintenance friend and I’m incredibly thankful that these people put up with me (Sophia, Jay, Katie, Annie Con – thanks for dealing with my shit, guys).

The second is a place called Healing Hearts. It’s a bereavement center for kids and teenagers. I grew up there, and as much as I wish I never had to step foot in the place, I’m so incredibly thankful that we found it.

Healing Hearts taught me that I’m not alone. In a world where I was forced to mature early, I was able to be a teenager here. I felt normal, a feeling that I still desperately try to chase. Everyone just got it. I wasn’t different, I wasn’t pitied… I could just exist. Having a community like this was everything… (Christine, Diane, Samm, Hannah and E.J. – I owe you guys the world.)

I could complain about things that I felt awful complaining about to anyone else. I was able to complain about my mom working so much without feeling awful. I could complain about how jealous I was of my sister. I complained about how my teachers were unsympathetic, how my brother ruined my chances with boys, and how unfair it was that I wasn’t cheerleading captain. Most of all, I could complain about the way the world treated me in this new normal. We were able to make charts with the title “Things I Wish My Living Parent Understood” without feeling guilty.

I could admit my darkest feelings of guilt. I could talk about regret without hearing the “no regrets” speech, because everyone else regretted things unsaid too. I talked about how much I hated myself, how I couldn’t even fathom a way to like myself after how awful I was to my dad. We were able to make charts with the title “Things I Wish I Could Tell My Dead Parent” without feeling guilty.

I could choose to not talk. There were days where I was so incredibly depressed that I didn’t even have the energy to talk. That was okay. I was never pressured to talk. No one thought I was hiding some deep, dark secret in my silence. Even when I didn’t talk, I had my feelings affirmed through hearing my friends talk about what was on my mind. We were able to make charts with the title “Things I Wish I Could Say” without feeling guilty.

I could find the humor in my situation. While the group was open to anyone who lost an immediate family member, we all had dads that died. So we made dead dad jokes. We laughed at strange things that happened at funerals. We made fun of people who didn’t understand how to talk to grieving people. We were hysterical over all of the times we used our dead parent as a cop out for homework we just forgot about. We laughed our way through things like “Emotional Bingo” and found it hilarious that someone made a living out of making board games for half orphans (what we called ourselves, “Hos” for short). We shared in the wonder of nailing the college essay. We were able to make charts with the title “Things That Are Still Funny” without feeling guilty.

I could be selfish. My life was now consumed by wondering how everyone else was feeling – is my mom okay? How’s my brother? Is my sister hanging in? How can I be less of a burden to everyone? But when I walked into Healing Hearts, it was all about me. I was separated from my family for an hour when I could sit in a room with my friends and therapists. Not my family’s friends, mine. For at least an hour, it was all about me. At the same time, they took care of my mom too. There was a parent’s meeting at the same time. I knew she was getting the community she so desperately needed as well. Knowing that she was getting help freed up my mind and allowed me to focus on myself. It also brought my mom and I together. As much as I rolled my eyes at memorial ceremonies where we would bring in my dad’s favorite food and light candles, it forced my mom and I to grieve together. We were able to make charts with the title “Things That Make Me – ME! – Feel Better” without feeling guilty.

Most importantly, I was in a place that understood me. That didn’t try to fix me. Everyone else was trying to fix me, like I was some machine that could be oiled up and sent on my way. They didn’t do that at Healing Hearts. The teenagers in my room, as well as the adults who worked with us, understood because they have been there. They don’t tell you that everything will be okay, because sometimes it won’t be. They don’t tell you not to feel guilty because they still feel guilty too. They let you sit in the shit, talk a little about it, then walk away with a little less than what you came in with. That’s what it was. Moment to moment, get a little better every single day. Take one step forward, fall fifty steps back. There’s no measured progress, as new years come with new challenges. Just show up. Just get there.

When your world falls apart, you desperately seek some sort of stability. You feel like anything could be taken away from you at any moment and thrash around trying to grasp onto something. That’s what a community does. Take it one moment at a time. We’ll always be here.

On being nice.

I don’t like to surround myself with assholes. But sometimes they find their way into my life.

I always say that it’s not that hard to be nice. Here’s what I mean…

To me, being nice is an immediate reaction. It’s as simple as smiling back at someone, or even just biting your tongue when you really want to harm someone. It’s that split second right before you’re about to use hurtful words. That moment when you stop yourself and ask if it’s worth it. Is it really worth losing your character for a temporary sting towards someone who probably doesn’t really matter at the end of the day? Or should you just be nice?

Over the past few weeks, several people attempted to attack me, or my friends, because of opinion pieces that I wrote or shared. I thought that they were quite universal – men shouldn’t assault women, cops shouldn’t shoot black teenagers and comedians shouldn’t put on overly offensive sets talking about how they want to physically hurt women. Apparently these stances aren’t universal.

I was called a sexist, a bitch and an idiot. People told me that I was uneducated, overly sensitive and naive. As a victim of sexual assault, I was told that I didn’t understand sexual assault and as a comedian, I was told that I didn’t understand comedy. I was told that I had no right to speak from the point of view of a woman (uh, I have a vagina. What other point of view should I use…?) and that I was a racist (against my own race…?) who hated cops. I was even told to stop shoving food in my face and get on a treadmill by someone who I’ve never met (because the fact that I eat inevitably equates to… wait, what?)

I wish I could tell you that I read these comments and immediately brushed them off. But if I’m anything, I’m honest. And I’ll be honest – they hurt. Within ten minutes of reading a comment targeting my physical appearance, I was in the bathroom staring at the mirror… completely self-conscious about my looks. At lunch, I didn’t put feta on my quinoa because I realized that I needed to be more serious about my already pretty serious diet (and guys, lets be honest …I really deserved that feta today). After seeing that people were defending the comedian that I disagreed with, I started to doubt whether or not I wanted to stay in comedy. Maybe I didn’t understand it… maybe I was being too sensitive… maybe I’m just not cut out for it. After being called a sexist, I wanted to call up every man in my life that I love to make sure that they know that I’m not sexist. I wanted to tell any boy that I’m even slightly attracted to that he shouldn’t worry! I LOVE MEN! DON’T HATE ME!

So, yeah… I’m human. I still have emotions.

More than anything, I wanted to strike back. I wanted to spit in their face and insult them right back. Call them stupid or sexist or racist. Shove all the good that I have in life right into their face, and say “SEE! LOOK AT EVERYTHING I HAVE GOING FOR ME!!! WHAT DO YOU HAVE, FUCKER?!” Share posts from my blog where I talk about my emotions and vulnerability to show them that I’m a fucking human being.

But I let my own words echo in my head – it’s not that hard to be nice. It’s not that hard to be nice. Ironically, before any of this went down, I posted that phrase on my Facebook just in response to everyone having such heated debates over the horrid state of the world these days. I had no idea how much it would help me later on.

I waited before responding… really thought out what I wanted my message to be. Words from my grandma echoed through my ears – “Never put anything in writing that could potentially be used as evidence against your character”. I use that in regards to speech as well. At the end of the day, no one should be relieved when I die (I know, super bright thought. Whatever keeps me grounded, right?)

Instead of spitting out my gym regime to someone who made a fat joke, I told her that she’s right… I hate running. Good joke, you really figured me out. I’d much rather write than run… I’d much rather make people laugh and feel good than hurt them. Then I left her with some advice from my post – don’t be that person using comedy to hurt someone. You could be so much funnier than that.

So, here’s how to be nice… take a step back and simply remind yourself to be nice. Yes, it is really that easy. Consider the source – does the person who is trying to hurt you really matter in the long run? Am I going to let some random person from the internet insult my worth as a comedian instead of listening to the dozens of others in the comedy world who encourage me? No. Instead I’ll just be nice.

Only thirty minutes after saying my piece, I leveled out. I realized that I didn’t give a flying fuck what some random person thought of me. I was no longer angry or defensive or insulted. And because I didn’t write anything back that attacked anyone, I didn’t regret a single word I said.

Being nice is biting your tongue when you would much rather punch someone in the face.

Being kind, on the other hand, is a lifestyle. More on that to come…