November 7th, 2003

It has been quite some time since I wrote a post about grief.

I couldn’t tell you why. Maybe it’s that I’ve had so many things happen recently that I’m too distracted to think about my dad. Maybe it’s because I typically write during downtime at work and am unwilling to go there. Maybe it’s part of getting older and distancing myself from my dad’s death. Don’t get me wrong – I miss him often. The Eagles Super Bowl, my brother having a baby, my nephew’s music career taking off… but it has been awhile since I’ve felt true grief.

Today I’m breaking that streak.

I’m writing a book about the year my dad died. All of the time I’ve spent on the book so far has been on the events leading up to his accident. The weight of replaying his death was pushed aside as I reveled in taking a walk down the path that led me to my 8th grade friends. It stung a bit when I talked about the ways my dad and I didn’t quite see eye to eye but I’ve made peace with a lot of that.

Maybe I’m more of an optimist than I give myself credit for because I didn’t think it’d be hard to replay the days right before his accident. I thought that since I replayed them in my mind hundreds of times, writing them down would be no different. Oh, how naive I was mere hours ago. Because as I started to write about the last time my dad picked me up from school, I had to choke back tears and fight to keep myself together until I got to a good enough stopping point to grab my stuff and head back to my apartment.

I know writing this book is ultimately good for me. It’s helping me realize things about myself that I truly didn’t know existed. It helps me process my thoughts and gives me some sort of control over such a horrific part of my life. But sometimes it reveals parts of me that I wish didn’t exist.

My guiding light is to be as truthful as humanly possible when writing about events that happened fourteen years ago. The whole reason I’m writing this book, aside from my own selfish desire to record my life and prove that I went through it for something greater than pure pain, is that I want other kids going through similar situations to know they’re not alone. I would have given anything to know a story like my own when I was a teenager. I would have loved to be told by someone who has been through it that it’s okay not to be okay. That I’ll never fully have it all figured out but the good days will eventually outweigh the bad and at the end of the day, the worst year of my life would also hold some of the best days of my life. So I’m not masking how I feel, which I’m coming to find is hard as fuck.

The chapter that got me today is called November 7th, 2003 and is about the last time my dad picked me up from middle school. He called me out on wearing a skirt that my mom told me I couldn’t wear to school and I was irritable. He took me out for ice cream and our conversation was forced. He was trying to reach me and I just wasn’t there. I didn’t want to be reached. I was a pissed off teenage girl who just wanted to be anywhere but with her parents.

I told him that he needed a new car. I was embarrassed because we had an old car and I was now going to a school where a lot of my friends were more well off than we were. He told me the only way he could afford one would be if someone crashed into him. I secretly hoped it would happen. I didn’t want him to be hurt, or anything like that, I just wanted the car to be banged up a bit so we could get a new one. That’s not what I’m having a hard time with. I understand and accept that it was an uncanny remark that ironically foreshadowed what was to come. While I was convinced at first that those words caused my dad’s death, I didn’t live in that ridiculous theory for more than a day or two.

The part that haunts me the most is what came next. My dad parked in our driveway and sat for a few seconds in the driver’s seat. I wondered why he wasn’t getting out. I followed suit and allowed the awkward silence to float over the car. After a few more seconds he looked at me and said the sentence that I wish I could erase from my brain.

“Sometimes I feel like you don’t love me.” 

“Of course I do!” I shot back. But despite my best attempt, I don’t think I convinced either of us. He smiled at me, got out of the car and headed into our apartment. I remained there and felt like I had just been punched in the gut. Because the truth was, I couldn’t find it within myself in that moment to love him. I wanted to. I knew my dad was one of the best around and that even our recent inability to see eye to eye couldn’t erase that.

I sat in the car for a few minutes eating my ice cream between sobs. I wanted so badly to be able to tell my dad that I loved him and mean it. I searched and searched for the love I knew he deserved but kept on coming up empty. I wanted so badly to be able to run up to him, throw my arms around him, and tell him that I loved him but my broken thirteen year old heart had been through too many changes in too short of a time and I blamed him for all of it. In the moment, I couldn’t tell him that I loved him. And I knew I couldn’t fool either of us.

I felt like the worst daughter in the world. I knew my dad was a good man and that I was lucky to have him as a father. I wanted so badly to say that I loved him, I knew deep down I did, but I didn’t feel it in my heart. I couldn’t help but wonder – What was wrong with me? Why was I so broken?

After calming myself down, I made my way up to our apartment. My dad, resilient as ever, already outwardly moved past what must have been one of the most heartbreaking exchanges of his life. He was all smiles when I walked in, as if nothing had happened. Looking back, I’m sure I hurt him. Every parent fears the day their child resents them. While they recognize that it’s the natural way of things, and that it’ll pass, no one enjoys the moment it knocks on their door.

And I know every teenager goes through a period like that. But not every teenager’s dad gets in a car accident the next night that would eventually end in his unexpected death.

That’s what’s so cruel about losing a parent at thirteen. You don’t get to grow up and apologize for how selfish you were as a teenager. On the day you finally realize everything your parent did for you, they’ll be long in their grave. You don’t get to look back and laugh at the way you acted and you don’t get to make up for your mistakes.

With my mom, I was able to have that conversation where I tell her I see how much she sacrificed for us and she tells me it’s a mother’s job. Where I tell her that I’m sorry for the way I treated her and she reassures me that every teen is like that. I didn’t get to do that with my dad.

And yes, I know he knew. I’ve been told every single comforting phrase from every single person in my life. He’s watching over me and knows. Everyone is like that as a teenager. He would never want to see you beat yourself up. He loves you and you love him and that’s what matters. I’m a good person.

But there’s a difference between the closure you get when you can have that physical conversation with someone and trying to read the mind of a ghost.

No matter how much I’ve tried to forgive myself, or how many times I’ve been told that he knew I loved him, I’m sitting here fourteen years later with the same pit in my stomach and hole in my heart. And honestly I don’t think it can be repaired. The only way I could ever patch it is if I had been able to have a conversation with my dad about that day. That opportunity is just something that can’t happen.

And that’s okay.

We all have sharp, broken pieces. We can smooth out as much as possible, but there will always be some holes. It’s part of being human. We try to ease our suffering as much as possible but there will always be some things that hurt as bad as they did on the day we got those wounds. And we will spend so much time trying to twist them and pretend they’re not there. We’ll search for any words from friends, family, therapists, teachers, books… anything to try and fix it. Our loved ones will try and patch it up for us because it hurts them to see us hurt. But at the end of the day, we can’t fix everything. And that’s one of the most beautifully human things about us.

I don’t hate myself and don’t live every day regretting what happened on November 7th. It’s one unfortunately timed day out of a million wonderful moments that made up my relationship with my dad. It wasn’t the defining moment. My worth isn’t defined by that single exchange and I can live with what happened. Most days I forget it even happened.

But sometimes it creeps up, or you decide to rip it wide open by writing a book about your life, and you want to crawl back into your thirteen year old body and hide away in you reading teacher’s classroom or group therapy room or behind your stack of books. Those nights are hard, lonely, and unable to be smoothed over with good intentions or reassurance.

I’ve been down this road before, and know that at this point in my life, it ends with waking up tomorrow feeling fine. But tonight I’m sad. And that’s okay. Because my dad died as the result of car crash when I was thirteen and that really fucking sucks.

That’s what grief is.

It’s ugly, it’s uninvited. But it’s real, and it’s the truth.

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.

Let people lead their own stories.

As a Chicago resident who is also a huge Eagles fan, I spend almost every Sunday of the football season at Chicago’s Eagles bar, Mad River. This past season I went alone for the first time. I was scared of going to a bar alone but figured if I got there early enough, I could grab a bar seat which would make my solo journey a little less noticeable. When I got to the bar there was one seat left at the end next to a woman around my age. I figured she was saving it for a significant other, because I’m a bad feminist, but decided to ask anyways. To my surprise, she was also alone. I soon found that there are a lot of solo riders at sports bars. East Coast transplants who don’t have the energy to convince their Bears friends to peel away from their own game for an afternoon to come to an Eagle’s bar. I spent the rest of the season sitting at the bar and getting to know new Eagles fans.

Over the season, I inevitably made new friends. When you’re spending 6 hours, or 12 hours during playoff games, at a bar, you get to know people well. We exchanged stories of superstitions, trash talked Chip Kelly and shared fond memories of watching games with our families.

After the super bowl, one of my friends and I went back to Mad River for one last drink at the bar that brought us so much luck that year. Without the distraction of the game, we got to chatting about our lives. During the season I had been at Mad River healthy, was absent for a couple weeks, then came back on crutches. As I recovered, I went down to one crutch then eventually was able to start walking without them. Everyone knew I had knee surgery, and made sure to keep a close eye as I stood on the bar pouring champagne into the mouths of fellow fans after our NFC championship game, and she wanted to know the full story. I proceeded to tell her all about the accident and struggles with my first doctor. Before I could get into the story with my first doctor, she asked: “Did he let you get an MRI?” “No!” I responded, with a hint of excitement of recognition in my voice. “You always know a bad doctor when they won’t prescribe a MRI,” she responded. I could tell that she had experience in that area.

She proceeded to tell me a story about how she almost died due to a doctor not prescribing a MRI. When she pushed for it, her doctor still wouldn’t budge so she stopped complaining. On a visit home, her mom forced her to a different doctor, who saved her life with emergency surgery.

I was speechless. Here was this person who I got to know well over the course of several months, and I had no idea that she had such a near death, life defining experience. I knew she preferred American to Whiz but didn’t know why she had a scar on her head. It’s not so much that I didn’t notice it, I just didn’t really care when I saw it. Chalked it up to a childhood accident, or car accident, or who cares what, it’s not my business.

One thing I’ve realized about myself is that I don’t really ask anyone their story. It’s not that I don’t care about the story… in fact, I often find it the most captivating part of a person. I have just realized over time that people will tell you their story when they’re ready to tell you their story.

There are large chunks of my life that I’ve told to a stranger but am not willing to share with my close friends. There are things I don’t want my coworkers to know but broadcast on the internet. There are points in my life where I would tell telemarketers that my dad was traveling, or tell guys at a bar that he worked in IT, because I didn’t feel like being reminded of his death.

I’ve also learned a thing or two through life. My mom always taught me that there were things about people that were far more important than race and when I would refer to someone as “my Hispanic friend” she would press me to help her remember who the person was beyond their heritage. What was their personality? Where could she have met them before? My friends have expressed how much they hate that the “where are you from” question is the first question asked of them. I’ve learned that friends have hometowns they don’t like to be reminded of and asking about family life is not always a warm opening.

Through all those experiences, I’ve learned that we never need to feel pressured to hit every base right away when getting to know someone. I remember I used to hate when I would disclose that my dad died, only to be asked how immediately. I thought that was so self-indulgent. Why does it matter? So you can quantify my hardship? So you can make sure it was a freak accident that wouldn’t happen to you? The only time I was ever cool with it is when people asked because they could relate. My dad died in a car crash, their mom died in a hospital. Not an exact match, but enough of a community.

A lot of times we ask abrupt questions because we genuinely want to know more about people. The intention is fine – we’re curious beings and want to know about the others around us. But after my dad died, and I hated being asked that question, I started challenging myself to not ask other people questions that are too pointed. When I did that, I started finding out that the stories eventually come out anyways… now they just come out on the owner’s terms. I have to imagine that’s a much healthier way to go about things.

For quite a few years, I’ve trusted that I’ll eventually come to know the things about my friends that I’m curious about. I’ll learn their heritage when we’re in the middle of a conversation about our grandparents and they talk about their immigration process. I’ll figure out where they grew up when they tell me about their favorite baseball team. The reason they limp will become evident when they disclose their birth defect after a long night of chatting about god knows what. Eventually everything comes out, we just have to decide who sets the pace.

I usually find more out about people when I’m willing to talk about my scars. I expose some of mine, which makes them comfortable to do the same. Humans want to connect and we will unravel those complexities eventually. Let’s just find a pace that suits both of us.

I don’t always follow my own advice, and sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me, but I try to remind myself to work on letting others tell their own story. Allowing them the space to tell it, but also not asking the type of questions that will force them to. We always get there eventually.

I think the world is a little healthier if we let people lead their own stories.

My scar.

Last week I went to one of my routine orthopedic appointments following my knee surgery. These days the appointments are less exciting than they used to be, which is a good sign. After two years of diagnoses, MRIs, physical therapy and both a minor and major surgery, the mundane check ups to see how I’m healing are welcome guests.

My surgeon, who looks like he could be the star of his own Dr. Oz spinoff, asked me to lay down. He grabbed my book and tossed it out of my way with a chuckle. “What a fitting novel,” he laughed. I blushed as I saw him holding “Misery” by Stephen King. I told him that I was happy to fall in love with Stephen King after my injury because I can experience Paul Sheldon’s broken legs at a different sensory level than before my own injury.

After a series of routine tests, he sat down and started typing his notes. “You can start using cream now,” he told me. “For…” I started. “Scarring,” he finished for me.

It was funny. The idea of scar treatment cream didn’t even occur to me. Before my surgery, a few friends offered advice or ideas about preventing scars, but since the surgery the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. I guess focusing on getting by without putting any weight on my leg for two months, relearning how to walk and returning to work without slipping into a deep depression were enough to distract me from the idea of my scar.

I obviously knew it was there. It stared at me each time I put my leg up to watch television. I remember meeting it a week after my surgery. My PA laying me down on the table so I wouldn’t pass out like I almost did after my first surgery. She asked me if I wanted to see my scar before wrapping it up again. I decided that I did, because I didn’t want to crack my head open in the shower seeing it for the first time. I slowly pulled my torso up, took a little peek at it and breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s not too bad,” I said to my mom who was shielding her own eyes. I inherited my disdain for gore from my mother.

In the weeks that followed, I assigned my scar the personality of my recovery. When I was frustrated after being told that I would have to be on crutches a month longer that expected, I posed a photo of it on Instagram with the caption “this bish.” When I accidentally locked my knee and had a wave of pain more intense than anything I ever felt before shoot through my body, I glanced at my scar like it was her fault. I rubbed it occasionally after physical therapy as a reward massage for her hard work.

The truth was, I liked my scar. She’s ugly as hell, but I like her. She’s bright purple, takes up all the real estate of my left knee and messy, resembling more of a serpent than a straight line, but I’ve grown to like her.

I like her like I like all my scars. She tells my story.

My first scar is a raised wedge about three inches long on the left side of my lower back. When I was in seventh grade, I was at my brother’s best friend’s house and his sister turned off the lights in the room we were in. I stood up and tried to navigate to the light switch, only to trip and hit my back on a sharp object. When the lights came on, I saw a table saw lying next to me. I ran into the bathroom and found some bandaids to patch it up and didn’t tell my parents because I was afraid to go to the hospital. Two days later, when it was still bleeding, I mustered up the courage to tell them. Too late for stitches, it was already starting to scar. My parents cleaned and patched it up with some gauze. For the next few weeks, it would reopen as I tossed and tumbled through cheerleading routines. It finally settled into my skin and healed. Whenever I look at it, I think back to the days where we spent hours in Joe’s basement as young teenagers. I remember endless parties with him and my father, who both passed away since then. I laugh at my reluctance to go to the hospital and wonder if the next girl to wear my cheerleading uniform ever noticed the blood at the waist.

My second scar is on my hand. It’s almost impossible to see if you didn’t see it when it was worse. It’s from when I was in 8th grade and the aftermath of my dad’s death. Back then, the new fad was rubbing an eraser against someone’s skin until it started to burn them and tear their skin off. Even before Tide Pods, we found our idiotic ways to wreck havoc on our bodies. I was depressed, but never suicidal. I didn’t want to cut myself or inflict pain in a way that could have greater consequences, but the desire to erase the numbness from my soul was still there. So I would use my erasers and rub off the layers of my skin on the top of my hand. I made two inch marks that resembled an equal sign. Whenever I was feeling particularly depressed, I would take an eraser and rub as fast as I could until I felt pain. It became a bad habit – right before they would start to heal, I would rub them again. It’s not a habit that I’m particularly proud of, but whenever I step out of the shower and can see the redness of the scars coming out, I think back to those days and that tortured teenager. The scars remind me to take time and reflect, to be proud of who I am. Back then, I couldn’t talk to my family about my dad. It wasn’t that they weren’t willing to talk with me, it was that I pushed away the words whenever they came. I was closed off and distant, too numb to emote. It would take me many, many years to get to the place to open up to my family. The scars remind me that I’m no longer alone in my grief. That I flipped that pencil around and found words to use instead.

My third scar is about two centimeters long on the tip of my index finger. If you didn’t know about it, you might think it was just a fold in my skin. When I was a freshman in college, I was trying to fix a pin with a pair of scissors. The scissors slipped on the pin and lodged themselves into my index finger. I pulled them out and panicked at the sight of the blood gushing out. I ran into my dorm bathroom and ran water over the injury, which only caused more blood. I felt light headed and started to pass out. I grabbed at my shower curtain and fell into the bathtub. I pulled myself out and steadied myself on my wall then sunk down to the tile floor to gather my thoughts. I wrapped some toilet paper around the cut and starting making my way down the hall to my RA’s room. Since it was spring break, no one was really around, and he was the only resource I had. By the time I got to him, I was covered in blood and he freaked out. Our public safety car drove me to the hospital, where I sat in the waiting room alone. I looked around at mostly drunk people with swollen eyes from bar fights and started sobbing. This was the first time I was in a hospital since my dad died, aside from visiting babies, and I was terrified. Eventually I saw a doctor who glued my finger back together. Whenever my finger throbs in pain from sun exposure, I laugh thinking about how my roommate, when I returned, thought I cut myself shaving. There were bloody handprints lining our hallway, bathroom and room. It looked like a horror movie. Yet she thought I cut myself shaving. It reminds me of one of the best years of my life.

So here I am with my fourth scar. Or, more accurately, fourth through seventh. Three tiny, almost invisible, scars from my first surgery, and one giant one running down my knee from my open knee surgery. This is just one more chapter in the story of my life. It reminds me of the show I was rehearsing for when I broke it. How devastating it was to have to cancel the show. It took three days until I finally found myself sobbing with my writing partner by my side and my director on Facetime, both holding my hand while I was the last to come to the conclusion that doing the show in a wheelchair was not the best idea. It reminds me of the extra months my writing partner and I gained to create the show, and how that show was the single best piece of art I ever made. I threw every single piece of myself into it – both physically and mentally – and the payoff came. It reminds me of our trip to San Fransisco to perform the show, and how I appreciated every single step I took in the city, knowing that my first surgery a week later would keep me from performing, or walking, any time soon. It reminds me of the long walk I took with my mom the day before my second surgery, both of us knowing that we wouldn’t be able to take another walk together for a long time. It reminds me of facing my biggest fear, which was general anesthesia, and the anesthesiologist who cracked jokes while giving me my medicine so I would feel more at ease.

It reminds me of my physical therapy team and how excellent they are. How resilient I was through the three times I had to relearn how to walk. It reminds me of walking into physical therapy after each Eagles playoff, and super bowl, win and celebrating because the whole staff was also cheering for my birds. It reminds me of watching both the summer and winter olympics while trying to build enough strength to tackle stairs. It reminds me of my perseverance. Of finding ways to make it work and learning how to live in a wheel chair for a couple months. It reminds me of my mom boxing my sister in my boxing ring and of my brother pushing me around the Field Museum. I think back to learning how to improvise without using my body between surgeries. Of the last show I did before my major surgery, and how hard I cried myself to sleep that night knowing that I had just performed for the last time in the foreseeable future. It reminds me of how I had to put my dreams and goals on pause for two years while I got better. Of the cupcakes, care packages and time spent with friends and family recovering.

I’m not someone who loves every part of her body. As much as I try to stay body positive, I have my demons. I hate myself when I gain too much weight and would do anything for calves small enough to fit into boots. I despise this wrinkle that is growing between my eyebrows because of the way I scrunch my face when I concentrate and spent hundreds of dollars on creams to reduce the acne and redness in my face. But one thing that I will always love are my scars. Each one tells the story of a stage in my life that contributed to the person I am today.

So you can keep your fancy scar creams. I’ll keep this ugly, crooked scar. Most of my peers will have one in fifty years anyways… I’m just ahead of the trend.

To the girls in my life.

Girls,

We usually communicate through snapchat and dance parties, cards and sleepovers and many, many jokes and laughs. I think about you more than you may realize and try to live a lifestyle that does right by you. I’ve watched you grow up into young girls, preteens and teenagers and I am so proud of who you are.

I’m usually the comic relief. The cousin coming home from Chicago for a party or celebration. The babysitter who lets you mix sour punch straws with popcorn because I’m just as curious as to how it tastes. The bridge between my generation and your generation… in return for me making sure that you don’t set the house on fire, you serve as as a distraction from the bleakness of adulthood.

I was looking forward to you seeing a female president so early in your lifetime. When I was your age, I didn’t think women could be president. I don’t mean that I didn’t think they’d be able to be elected, I mean that I genuinely thought there was a rule that women were not allowed to be president. I’m happy you won’t be as ill-informed. I was elated at the prospect that for some of you, you would only know a black president and female president in your lifetime, and ready for the task of helping you understand the historical significance of that feat.

Instead you have a president that does not respect your body or mind. One that is racist, islamophobic, xenophobic, homophobic and sexist. I hope you learn what those words mean and then how to fight them. I hope you get bossy and fight back for any of your friends that may fall victim to the bullying or violence that your president elect’s words have incited. I hope you understand the privilege you have and stick up for those who don’t. I hope you are taught history as it happened instead of a PG, whitewashed version.

The adults in this country elected a man that says it is okay to grab your bodies. That criticizes women who do their homework and show up prepared. That has been accused over ten times of assault. That has bullied women for the way they look and harassed them on tape. Who sees us as sex objects or nasty women. And you weren’t able to have a say in it, and for that I’m sorry.

Because someone is an authority figure does not mean that you have to accept their behavior. If a man on the street were to say these things to you, I would have you run as far away as you can from them. Just because the president elect is saying them doesn’t mean you have to support it.

The president elect won’t be the first, nor the last, man to say or do these things to you. I’m not naive enough to think that you will never experience them at school, work or in the world around you. If and when you do, I hope you are bossy. I hope you learn how to say no and that no is the final answer. I hope you scream and yell and seek help when needed. I hope you speak up for other women instead of putting them down. I hope that if you are ever violated, you know that it is not your fault and that those who love you will help you fight back. I hope you never accept limitations and that you promote intersectional feminism. I hope you know that you can love whoever you want to love. I hope you fight like hell to be treated equally, and I hope you win. I hope your generation can be even nastier than mine. You have a lot of fighting to do.

Fight back with intelligence. He’s afraid of your potential. Reclaim the names he calls you. Own being a nasty woman, a bossy kid, an angry feminist. Speak up and work hard. That’s what scares him the most.

Know that there will be a female president. Personally, I hope that our next elect will be a lesbian woman of color. While I’m not sure if it’ll happen in our next election, I know that it eventually will. We just have to work at it.

Work hard, study hard, and don’t let anyone tell you what you should or should not do. Women are not limited. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

A year in quotes.

So my improversary (is that a thing?) came and went without much noise. Last March marked a year since I reentered the comedy world. And it changed everything. I could go on and on about how much joining this community changed my life but if you read my blog then you’ve heard it all before. Instead, I’m going to share my favorite quotes from the people who taught me how to be a better performer, writer and person.

I love teaching Level A because you all have no idea that your life is about to change. I really believe that if everyone in the world took an improv class, the world would be a better place. – Brian Posen

Brian was my first teacher since coming back to improv. I distinctly remember him saying this… it was one of the first things out of his mouth. The reason I remember it so vividly is because I thought he was crazy. I thought that he was some hyped up optimist. Change my life? Okay, buddy. I’m just here to be funny. I couldn’t have been more wrong. In improv you learn how to treat every single person with respect and dignity. You are taught that the world doesn’t revolve around you. You don’t have to always be right, you should agree more than you disagree and what you put out in the world is what you receive. My entire life did change. I have no idea how I would have gotten through the hardship I’ve faced in the past year without the people, lessons and hope that this community gave me.

“Amount of time doesn’t mean quality of work. – Jay Sukow

It was hard to pick just one quote from Mr. Jay Sukow. The man is full of advice and really believes in his students. There isn’t a single person who doesn’t rave about him. They’re never like, “Oh, I had Jay. He’s a cool dude.” Everyone sings his praises. However, when looking back on this year, this was probably the Jay quote that helped me the most. I had a really hard time with coming to terms with my success. I freaked out when I was cast onto a team with people who were far more experienced than me and immediately assumed that I didn’t belong. Jay taught me that experience doesn’t always correlate with the caliber of talent. Don’t doubt yourself because you think you’re not ready. Give yourself more credit than that. There’s nothing noble in belittling your success. Be grateful, confident and brave. Don’t be your own worst critic. Believe in the opportunities that you’re granted.

Lorne Michaels isn’t going to pop in on our class. No one from mainstage is going to swing by to see who the next rising star is. The truth is, they don’t care what you do in here. Here is where you can fail. – Rich Baker

A lot of people feel this immense yet illogical pressure in class. You want your classmates and teachers to respect you as a performer. It’s natural. However, the classroom is a safe place to fail. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Don’t treat it like an audition. It’s not. So what if you fail? If you give yourself permission to fail in class, you’ll inevitably discover something great. Some new talent that you never knew you had. In fact, the classroom is the perfect place to fail because everyone around you already loves and respects you. Their opinion isn’t going to change because you didn’t know how to do a German accent. They don’t care. And if they do, then they’re a dick. 

 

You have to ‘Yes, and’ yourself too. Don’t tell yourself that you’re wrong for thinking, feeling and acting the way you do. – Katie Rich

You learn from day one that you have to “yes, and” your scene partner. It eventually becomes second nature. But one of the many things that Katie taught me is that you have to treat yourself with that same respect. Don’t judge yourself. Don’t be your own worst critic. Honestly react to how you feel in the moment… that’s what improvising is. When you initiate a feeling or action, don’t rush to judge yourself. Instead, believe in your instinct and add to it. Trust that your directors & teachers will advise you on how to improve. Don’t put that weight on yourself.

Rule of ten. Out of every ten things you write, nine will be shitty. Yeah, but what’s the end of that sentence? One will be great. That’s the most important part. – Tyler Dean Kempf

You’re going to write shit. It’s inevitable. Everyone writes a shitty piece… it happens. It doesn’t mean that you’re a bad writer or have nothing to contribute to the world. However, every now and again you’re going to write something really great. And it’ll feel amazing. Those five pages of gold are going to remind you why you write in the first place. They’ll remind you that there’s still something inside of you… you just have to mine a bit to get to it. I started writing three sketches for every sketch that I turn in… the first two are usually the ones I leave at home. Sometimes it takes writing crap to clear your mind for something great. The thing that I loved about the way Tyler phrased this, and the thing that makes it so TDK, is that when my classmate stopped at the idea of ‘nine will be shitty’, Tyler made him continue so that we realized that the most important part of the Rule of Ten is that one sketch will be great. Don’t look at the bad… don’t look at the hard work that will have to go into making something great. Instead, remind yourself of the end result.

There’s no right way to do art. If you think that there is then you’re going after something unattainable. You just have to do you and make it art. – Jay Steigmann

It was just as hard to pick a Jay Steigmann quote as it was to pick a Jay Sukow quote. I could definitely write a book of essays called “Lessons I’ve Learned from People Named Jay.” I mean, with quotes such as “Voldemort don’t do summers” and “In Minnesota they play duck, duck, grey duck because they’re assholes” it’s a little tough to choose. But I like this one. Here’s why… when you’re pursuing an art form, you look to people who are successful. You try to figure out how they did it and then try to model yourself to be more like them. Well, that’ll kill you. Just like Dove teaches us, everyone is different. When you try to be someone else, you lose all of the wonderful things that make you great. Put out what you want to consume. What I consider to be funny is vastly different then what my friend may think is funny… so there’s really no way that you’re going to please everyone. Instead, just do you. Trust that you’re good enough to succeed while staying true to yourself.