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The knee, The cat, The cheap shoes & other adventures…

9/29/2026

5:06 P.M.

My left knee surgery is done, and I am currently full of anesthesia, so I will write more later.

And by “full of anesthesia,” I mean I am basically typing from another dimension.

Stay tuned.

________________________________________

9/30/2026

Boy, did I pass out when I got home!

Those pre-surgery medications are STRONG. Apparently, the medical professionals decided I needed to experience what it feels like to be a sleepy little human-shaped potato.

I am awake now, though, and have been for a couple of hours.

I ordered some things through grocery delivery to make things a little easier while I recover. My roommate has said she will help me, and I appreciate that. I can also tell that helping is not exactly at the top of her bucket list, so I am trying to make things as easy as possible for both of us.

And honestly, I understand.

Some people are naturally very giving and nurturing, and some people have a more… limited edition version of that particular personality trait.

You can’t exactly turn someone into Florence Nightingale just because you had knee surgery.

So, I am doing what I can for myself, asking for help when I need it, and trying not to make anybody feel like they have suddenly been drafted into the Molly Roxx Emergency Knee Department.

________________________________________

I also got a note from Scott.

Another one with apologies.

And, once again, there was no real acknowledgment of how he treated me in the past.

At this point, I am not exactly sitting around dramatically staring out a rainy window waiting for him to suddenly discover accountability.

If he is not willing to admit his own downfalls, then there isn’t much of a future there for us.

I need a man who is strong enough and honest enough to look at who he used to be, admit where he screwed up, and then actually become something bigger and better because of it.

That’s what growth is.

None of us are perfect. I certainly am not. I have made mistakes, said things I shouldn’t have said, trusted people I shouldn’t have trusted, and probably made enough questionable decisions in my lifetime to qualify for my own reality show.

But if we don’t face our mistakes and admit them, how are we supposed to learn from them?

If someone refuses to acknowledge bad behavior, then from their perspective, what exactly is there to correct?

Scott apologized for calling me a liar when I brought certain things up again, but he didn’t acknowledge the behavior I was actually talking about.

So, okay.

I hear the apology.

But I also notice what is missing from it.

And I am perfectly capable of noticing things without falling apart over them.

If he wants to tell other people a different version of events, that’s his choice. If other people choose to believe that version, that’s their choice too.

I’m not running a courtroom in my living room.

People are allowed to believe whatever they want.

I am also allowed to believe what I personally experienced.

He has said that he has given himself over to God during his many years in prison.

That’s between him and God.

I am not here to play God, and frankly, I don’t have the job description, the robe, or the celestial benefits package.

But I do believe that real change requires honesty.

You can’t become a better person while constantly rewriting the parts of yourself you don’t want to look at.

And as for me?

I’m not falling for it.

Anyway…

BACK TO ME!

Because this is my blog, and I refuse to let somebody else’s nonsense steal too much of my precious recovery time.

I have a knee to heal and cheap shoes to discuss.

Priorities, people.

________________________________________

My surgery took about an hour and a half.

The pain medication they gave me during surgery is beginning to wear off, and unfortunately, the pain has decided to clock in for its shift.

My prescriptions are at the pharmacy, and they usually deliver them.

Of course, the delivery girl is on vacation this week.

Because naturally.

Why would anything in my life ever simply work when it could instead become a tiny side quest?

So now I am trying to find someone I can pay to pick up my prescriptions.

I live about one mile from the pharmacy, but apparently one mile is now the distance between me and financial ruin because the delivery services I have found want more than $100 to bring them to me.

For ONE MILE.

At that price, I would expect the medication to arrive riding in on a white horse with a tiny pharmacist following behind.

My roommate has foot pain herself, so she isn’t able to go get them for me, which I completely understand.

She may be able to get the Medicaid transportation service we use to swing by the pharmacy after her doctor’s appointment today.

That is my hope, and she is going to ask.

Sometimes they will take us to the pharmacy, which is incredibly helpful.

So, a big shout-out to Licking Valley Transport!

I appreciate you so much!

You may not realize it, but when someone is sitting at home with a freshly operated-on knee and their pain medication is approximately one mile away, a ride to the pharmacy suddenly feels like you’ve been sent by the angels.

________________________________________

Let’s see…

Is there anything else going on with me?

Well, I am still legally high as a kite from the anesthesia, but apparently that’s normal.

I had a cat jump directly onto my leg today.

The pain was EXCRUCIATING.

And she weighs approximately six pounds.

Six.

Tiny.

Pounds.

And somehow this miniature furry creature managed to launch herself onto my freshly operated-on knee like she was competing in the Kitty Olympics.

So, I bopped her with a pillow in hopes that she will remember this experience and choose a different landing zone next time.

Nothing hard.

I would NEVER hurt an animal.

I know people who do, and they absolutely sicken me.

Yes, I have reported people for animal cruelty.

No, nothing happened.

Even with laws against animal cruelty, it can be incredibly frustrating to see how little seems to happen in some cases.

Why would anybody want to hurt a little meow-meow?

Seriously.

Look at a cat.

They are tiny furry weirdos who sleep approximately seventeen hours a day and then wake up at 3:00 A.M. to knock something off a shelf just to make sure you’re still alive.

What kind of monster wants to hurt that?

Luckily, as far as I know, I am not evil.

My greatest crime today is apparently pillow-related feline combat.

And I stand by my defense.

________________________________________

So, my leg is wrapped…

And then wrapped again…

And then wrapped with some sort of cast-like contraption on top of all that.

Apparently, my knee has been gift-wrapped for Christmas.

That gets removed in 14 days.

In seven days, physical therapy starts.

OUCH.

I can already tell physical therapy and I are going to have a very complicated relationship.

Hopefully the dopiness wears off soon so I can start making more sense.

Although…

Am I making sense now?

I keep rereading what I have typed and fixing things.

All I can say is:

THANK GOD FOR SPELL CHECK.

My hands are all over the place, and some of the words I have typed look like they were written in ancient hieroglyphics.

I’m pretty sure one sentence just tried to become Egyptian.

________________________________________

My roommate just brought herself some niacin.

She taken it from time to time for various reasons, and she wanted to order more but asked me which kind she was supposed to get. I am a Certified Natural Health Consultant.

I said, “Non-Flushing.”

Because apparently I woke up from surgery and immediately decided I was qualified to be the household niacin consultant. My dad used to take it though so I am familiar, and technically, I am certified so...

For anyone wondering why someone would choose flushing niacin over non-flushing niacin, the whole idea is that regular immediate-release niacin can cause that famous flushing reaction—warmth, redness, tingling, itching, and the general feeling that your face has suddenly been promoted to a tomato with needles in it.

Non-flushing versions are designed to reduce that particular reaction, but that doesn’t automatically mean they are side-effect-free. Depending on the product, niacin can still cause things such as stomach upset, headaches, changes in blood sugar or uric acid, and at higher doses or with certain formulations, liver problems.

So, as always, don’t just take random amounts of supplements because Molly Roxx, currently high on anesthesia and wearing a knee contraption, said something on the internet lol.

Please talk to your doctor or pharmacist about what is appropriate for you.

I may be many things, but I am not your pharmacist.

Today, anyway.

________________________________________

I also got to wear my new green sneakers yesterday!

The Doc said no Crocs until four months after surgery, which is apparently cruel and unusual punishment because Crocs are basically the official footwear of people who have given up on pretending their feet want to participate in fashion no not really, they are just easy to wear. I do have other fashionable footwear esp. My combat boot collection. Love me some combat boots!

I bought these sneakers back in March when I was originally supposed to have this surgery.

Then the surgery got postponed.

And postponed.

And postponed again.

So those poor little sneakers have been sitting in their box since March, waiting patiently for their moment.

Well…

THEIR MOMENT HAS ARRIVED!

They look just like Vans, except Vans cost around $70, and unless we’re talking about Doc Martens, my personal shoe budget is basically:

“How cheap can I get away with?”

I bought this pair for $12 many months ago, and I got compliment after compliment on them at the hospital because they are actually pretty cool.

Even my roommate complimented them!

And she and I have VERY different fashion tastes.

They look just like Vans except for this little generic tag that says:

“Fashion.”

LOL.

That’s how you know they’re cheap.

When the brand name is literally just the word Fashion, you’ve entered the discount footwear Olympics.

But you know what?

They’re cute.

They’re comfortable.

They were $12.

And apparently, they fooled an entire hospital full of people.

I’d call that a win.

________________________________________

So, what have we learned today?

I buy cheap shoes.

My knee has finally been fixed, and in four months, hopefully the other one will be fixed too.

Scott has not changed the way I hoped he had, or the way he said he had, and I have enough written communication to know exactly what has been said.

You bet your sweet ass I screenshot my emails from him!

I may be recovering from knee surgery, but I am not suffering from “delete the evidence” syndrome.

I had a pillow fight with a cat.

I won.

HAHAHA, MATILDA!

Seriously, I barely bopped her with the pillow, but technically…

I WON.

I am in pain, but unfortunately, that is nothing particularly new around here.

I am hoping my prescriptions somehow magically make their way from the pharmacy to my house so I can heal correctly.

The nurse told me the healing process can be extremely painful, and she has even been through natural childbirth and compared it to that.

So, when a woman who has experienced NATURAL CHILDBIRTH tells you something hurts, you listen.

I am therefore praying that Medicaid transportation will let my roommate pick up my prescriptions after her doctor’s appointment.

Because apparently my current recovery plan is:

Knee surgery + pain + anesthesia + cat attacks + cheap shoes + pharmacy drama.

It’s basically a spa vacation.

Other than that, I plan to re-watch some Weeds today.

Honestly, watching Weeds helps me appreciate my own life.

It puts things into perspective.

For example, I am sitting here with a freshly operated-on knee thinking about how much my life hurts.

Then I watch people on Weeds and remember:

At least I don’t have to constantly move from state to state because major drug dealers are trying to kill me.

Perspective!

Suddenly my $12 sneakers seem like a pretty damn good investment.

And before anyone gets the wrong idea, unless you’re a hitman, I am not necessarily here to condemn people who have illegal jobs.

People do what they do to survive, and everybody comes from different circumstances, situations, backgrounds, and places in life.

I am not here to tell anyone what they should or shouldn’t do.

I give opinions.

I share thoughts.

I tell stories.

I write about my life.

I occasionally overshare while heavily medicated.

That’s what I do.

Please don’t ever think I am trying to tell anyone else how to live their lives.

That isn’t me.

I just say and publish what is on my crazy, caring, sarcastic, occasionally medicated mind.

Take what you need.

Laugh at what you can.

Ignore what doesn’t apply to you.

And please don’t jump on my freshly operated-on knee.

Especially if you’re a six-pound cat.

Matilda, this means you.

________________________________________

So, to all of my readers:

Thank you again for reading.

I truly appreciate every one of you.

I hope you have a wonderful October!

And if you missed some of my September blogs, they are now on the Blog Archives page of my website, so you can go back and catch up on all of my September adventures, disasters, thoughts, rants, ridiculousness, and whatever else my brain decided to throw at the internet. Or you can just read my books. Those are all my blogs plus a lot I do not publish in the blogs. You get a chance to read private things that I do not broadcast here and some of my poetry too.

I know October 1st is tomorrow...

But I started posting my new blogs today.

Sue me.

I have nothing.

So good luck with that.

Love you all!

Take care of yourselves, be kind to each other, laugh whenever you can, and remember:

Sometimes life gives you lemons.

Sometimes life gives you knee surgery.

Sometimes life gives you a six-pound cat launching herself onto your surgical leg.

And sometimes life gives you $12 sneakers labeled “Fashion.”

You just have to make the best damn lemonade you can.

XOXOXOX

Molly Roxx

P.S. My newest book is out! Just click the ad below to be directed to more info!

September 30, 2026

Second blog for the day

“If you’re not your biggest fan, change until you are.” — Molly Roxx

Oh Mama’s Boys… The Epidemic…

Yep. You read that correctly.

Second blog for the day.

Apparently, one blog wasn't enough for my brain today. My brain apparently looked at me and said, “Oh, honey… we have more opinions.”

And unfortunately for everyone else, my brain won.

So here we are.

Let’s talk about something that has fascinated, irritated, amused, and occasionally made women everywhere stare into the middle distance while silently asking themselves:

“Did I accidentally date a grown-ass child?”

Ahhh… Mama’s boys.

Not sons who love their mothers.

Not men who have a close relationship with their moms.

Not men who call their mother on her birthday, help her when she needs it, or occasionally show up with flowers because they were raised right.

Nope.

I'm talking about the adult man who apparently needs his mother to operate the remote control of his entire existence.

There is a difference.

And honey… it is a BIG difference.

First, let's clear something up.

The term “mama’s boy” has been around since the early 1900s. Over the years, psychologists and child-development experts have studied the relationship between mothers and sons, including how childhood attachment and parenting can affect people later in life.

And here's something important:

Having a healthy, loving attachment to your mother is NOT a bad thing.

Actually, quite the opposite.

A boy who grows up knowing he is loved, supported, and emotionally safe can carry those healthy attachment skills into adulthood.

That is a good thing.

We should probably all want men to know how to love, communicate, trust, and have healthy relationships.

The problem isn't loving Mom.

The problem is when Mom is still running the adult man's life like he's twelve and waiting for his permission slip to go to the school dance.

There comes a point when Mom needs to hand over the steering wheel.

Preferably before he's forty-seven.

So… What Exactly Makes Someone a Mama’s Boy?

It's not simply calling Mom.

It's not asking her advice.

It's not helping her.

It's not even having her over for Sunday dinner.

The issue is dependency without healthy boundaries.

If a grown man cannot make an ordinary adult decision without checking with Mom first, we may have a situation.

If Mom manages his money, cleans his house, handles his responsibilities, solves all his problems, or financially supports him indefinitely while he is perfectly capable of doing those things himself…

Houston, we have a problem.

There is a difference between support and dependence.

A mother can say:

“I love you, and I'll help you when you truly need me.”

That's healthy.

But if the relationship becomes:

“Mom, what should I eat? What should I wear? Should I take this job? Should I date her? Should I break up with her? Can you pay my electric bill? Can you balance my checkbook? Can you clean my house? And while you're at it, can you please explain to my girlfriend why she's wrong?”

Well…

Sir.

At some point, you're not looking for a mother.

You're looking for a personal life-management subscription service.

And Mom apparently has the premium package.

The Boundary Problem

One of the biggest issues with an overly dependent relationship between a mother and her adult son is boundaries.

Healthy families have boundaries.

That doesn't mean people don't love one another.

It means everyone understands:

“I love you, but you are still responsible for your own life.”

That's actually a beautiful thing.

Because raising a child isn't supposed to mean keeping your children forever.

The goal is to eventually watch that little human become an adult who can stand on his own two feet, make decisions, solve problems, pay bills, and figure out that the washing machine does, in fact, have instructions printed directly on it.

You know…

Adult stuff.

And if he screws something up?

He learns.

That's part of becoming an adult.

And Then He Gets a Girlfriend…

This is where things can become especially interesting.

Because suddenly there is another woman in the picture.

And she may have made the unfortunate mistake of thinking she was entering a relationship with a grown man.

Plot twist:

She has accidentally entered a three-person relationship.

Him.

Her.

And Mom.

And Mom has apparently been appointed Executive Director of Everything.

Now, let me say this very clearly:

A woman dating a mama's boy should NOT have to compete with his mother.

That's ridiculous.

She shouldn't have to audition for the position of Woman Who Gets To Make Decisions With Him.

She shouldn't have to wonder whether every disagreement is going to be taken to Mom for review.

And she definitely shouldn't have to hear:

“Well, my mom thinks…”

every time she expresses an opinion.

Because eventually a woman starts thinking:

“That's wonderful. Maybe your mom should date you.”

Okay…

Maybe don't actually say that.

Or do.

I'm not your mother.

I don't tell you what to do.

Establishing Boundaries

If you're in a relationship with someone who has unhealthy boundaries with his mother, boundaries matter.

And no, setting a boundary does not mean being cruel to his mother.

It means being clear about what you will and will not accept in your own relationship.

You can love his mother.

You can respect her.

You can appreciate that she raised him.

But you do not have to become Mom 2.0.

You are his partner.

Not his replacement mother.

You are not required to remind him to pay his bills.

You are not required to clean up after him because his mother always did. You are not required to fix all his meals because he is a grown-up and should now how to eat.

You are not required to solve every problem because he's accustomed to someone else doing it.

And you certainly don't need to compete with the woman who gave birth to him.

Because honey…

That's a competition nobody needs.

And Here's Where It Gets Sad

As funny as I am making this, there is actually something pretty sad about a grown man who never learned how to become his own person.

Because underneath all the jokes is a human being who may have never learned independence.

And that isn't funny.

A mother's love should help a child grow.

It shouldn't keep him small.

There is something incredibly beautiful about watching your children become independent adults.

You don't stop being their mother.

You simply stop being responsible for every decision they make.

That's not abandonment.

That's growth.

And honestly?

A mother should be able to look at her grown son and say:

“I love you. I trust you. Now go figure it out.”

And then sit down.

Preferably with wine.

Or coffee.

Or chocolate.

Whatever gets the job done.

Because Here's the Truth…

A man doesn't become less of a son because he becomes independent.

He doesn't love his mother less because he doesn't ask her permission anymore.

He doesn't disrespect her because he makes his own decisions.

And he certainly doesn't need to stop loving her.

He just needs to grow.

Because there is a difference between being a mama's boy and being a man who loves his mama.

One is dependency.

The other is love.

And I'll take the second one any day.

Love your mother.

Call your mother.

Help your mother.

Appreciate your mother.

But eventually…

Learn how to balance your own damn checkbook.

I'm just saying.

And if you are a grown man who still needs Mom to tell you what to do every time life gets slightly inconvenient, perhaps it's time to put on your big-boy pants.

Not because Mom doesn't love you.

But because she probably raised you hoping you'd eventually be able to survive without her standing three feet away holding the instruction manual.

And to the women dealing with this…

Please remember:

You are not his mother.

You are his partner.

You deserve a relationship where decisions are made together, boundaries are respected, and adulthood is actually being practiced.

You don't have to apologize for wanting that.

You don't have to feel guilty because you expect another adult to behave like an adult.

And you definitely don't have to shrink yourself so someone else can remain comfortable in their dependence.

Because if you're not your biggest fan…

Change until you are.

And while you're at it?

Make sure you're not auditioning for the position of Mother of a Grown Man.

That job has terrible benefits.

And apparently…

Mom already has seniority.

— Molly Roxx

October 1, 2026

One Knee Down, One to Go, and Apparently I Have Things to Say…

Oh, the pain.

And the pain meds.

What an interesting little relationship those two have going on.

The pain is screaming, “HELLO! REMEMBER ME?!” while the medication is standing in the corner going, “Shhhhhh… she doesn’t need to know about any of that right now.”

And apparently, I don't either.

I can barely keep my eyes open. The medication makes me more tired than I already am, and then I sort of pass out—which is actually quite convenient because while I’m asleep, I don't feel the pain.

So, there’s that.

OH MY GOD, THE HORRIBLE PAIN!

Okay, I wrote those last sentences about four hours ago.

I just woke up.

Apparently, my body decided that writing was adorable, but unconsciousness was more important.

And when I finally opened Microsoft Word again, I discovered that almost the entire paragraph was highlighted in red because I had apparently forgotten how the English language works.

Every other word was misspelled.

At this point, Microsoft Word wasn't correcting me. It was judging me.

And honestly?

Fair.

I am taking exactly what was prescribed to me. I don't abuse drugs, but, let me tell you something: these things are STRONG!

They are only supposed to be for the first week, which I am assuming is the worst of it. Then they taper down and I begin physical therapy.

Physical therapy.

Two words that somehow manage to sound both encouraging and threatening.

I am actually looking forward to it because I know it is going to help me walk again.

But I am also absolutely terrified of it because I know it is going to HURT.

There is something deeply offensive about the idea that the thing that is going to make me feel better is also going to hurt me.

It's basically my knee saying, “Congratulations on your surgery! Now let's work through some emotional issues.”

For anyone who hasn't been following along with my little medical adventure, I had a total knee replacement this past Tuesday.

Yep.

Two days ago.

So, if I seem a little loopy, sleepy, emotional, dramatic, hilarious, cranky, philosophical, or like I have just discovered the meaning of life while staring at a bag of frozen peas...

Well...

I have a perfectly good excuse.

Speaking of those frozen peas, my current glamorous lifestyle involves working from home with a bag of them sitting on my knee.

Hollywood, call me.

I nap.

I write.

I ice my knee.

I take my medication.

I contemplate life.

Then I nap again.

Actually, that nap was wonderful.

I want another one.

Immediately.

I may be 51, which apparently sounds old to some people.

Personally, I don't feel old.

My mind is still young, my sense of humor is questionable, my mouth still works entirely too well, and according to people I meet, apparently my face didn't get the memo that I'm supposed to look 51.

I've never been guessed older than 39.

So, I'm going to take that win and put it directly into my emotional bank account.

At 51, I still have a whole lot of living left to do.

I still have dreams.

I still have plans.

I still want to move.

I still want to get my little trailer away from Kentucky.

I want my cats.

I want a Chihuahua.

And maybe a pit bull.

Yes, I realize that sounds like an interesting combination.

But I had my Pit Bull, Princess Cupcake, a few years ago, and she was one of the sweetest, most loving dogs I've ever known.

Other than my Chihuahua.

And let's be honest, Chihuahuas aren't exactly known for being intimidated by anything.

You could put a Chihuahua next to a bear and the Chihuahua would probably say, “You wanna go?”

So, I'm pretty sure a Chihuahua and a pit bull could become best friends.

And hopefully, when I'm walking again, I can give both of them a wonderful life.

And yes, there is always that little voice in the back of my mind asking, What if walking doesn't happen the way you hope?

Well...

Then I'll figure it out.

I'll have my cats.

I'll rent whatever I can rent wherever I can rent it.

I'll adjust.

But I am not going to sit around deciding my future based on everything that could possibly go wrong.

I want to walk.

So, I am going to work for it.

I'll do the exercises.

I'll do the stretches.

I'll do the stair training.

I'll complain about it.

I'll probably swear about it.

I may even dramatically announce that I am dying during physical therapy when I am, in fact, merely experiencing physical therapy.

But I will do it.

Because I want my life back.

One knee down.

One knee to go.

And then...

WATCH OUT, WORLD!

Here I come.

Eventually.

After my nap.

I Also Write Books.

While I'm sitting here with my frozen peas and my pharmaceutical personality makeover, I'm still working.

Because apparently my brain never got the memo that my knee had surgery.

The day before my surgery, I had completed the first 34 pages of my next book.

It doesn't even have a title yet.

Which is completely normal for me.

I just throw words onto pages and eventually the title usually shows up like, “Hey, remember me? I've been sitting here the whole time.”

When I first started writing these books, I forced myself to write at least 15 pages a day.

Now sometimes I write 30 pages in a day.

And they're actually good.

Okay, I know I'm biased.

But I'm also allowed to be proud of my own work.

I think what I write is good.

I think it comes from somewhere real.

I write about life, relationships, pain, healing, ridiculousness, love, self-help, mistakes, people, feelings, and all the bizarre little things that make us human.

Sometimes it's serious.

Sometimes it's sarcastic.

Sometimes it's probably completely ridiculous.

And sometimes it's all three before breakfast.

My newest book, Truth, is available on the Bookstore-Shop page of my website:

www.MollyRoxxBooks.com

I think it's amazing.

I hope you do too.

And Now... A Tiny Rant

You really think it bothers me what you tell other people?

Honestly?

I'm so secure in who I am that I mostly feel sorry for you.

What a sad existence it must be to feel powerful by trying to tear someone else down.

That's not strength.

That's insecurity wearing a very loud costume.

I can be stubborn.

I can be loud.

I can be ridiculously difficult to convince when I've made up my mind.

I can have an attitude problem so large it probably needs its own ZIP code.

But fake?

Never.

I'd rather wear a neon warning label that says “CAUTION: SAYS WHAT SHE THINKS” than smile in somebody's face while stabbing them with words behind their back.

If you have something to say about me, say it to me.

At least then we can have an honest conversation.

Talking behind someone's back is the easy way out when you know you wouldn't have the courage to say the same thing standing in front of them.

And here's something else people should understand:

I may seem angry sometimes.

I'm really not.

I'm goofy as hell.

I laugh.

I make jokes.

I say stupid things.

I find humor in ridiculous situations.

And I don't carry hate in my heart.

I will never forget being talked about during some of the most painful and vulnerable moments of my life.

Being abused isn't gossip.

Losing a child isn't gossip.

Pain isn't entertainment.

And someone's worst moments shouldn't become ammunition for somebody else's conversation.

If you can look at another person's deepest pain and decide that's something you should use against them, maybe the problem isn't the person you're talking about.

Maybe it's what's happening inside your own heart.

Peace Doesn't Require Perfection

I've learned something important.

It's okay to be grateful and tired at the same time.

It's okay to love your people and still need space from them.

It's okay to be happy and exhausted.

It's okay to be strong and still cry.

It's okay to need a break.

Peace doesn't require perfection.

Sometimes peace simply requires permission.

You have to allow yourself to breathe.

You have to allow yourself to rest.

You have to allow peace to enter your mind, body and soul instead of constantly fighting every battle that walks through the door.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll get a peaceful day without craziness surrounding you.

Oh, how wonderfully relaxing that would be.

I'd like to order one of those.

Preferably with a side of frozen peas.

Don't Become Ugly Just Because the World Is

Don't ruin your beautiful soul just to fit into an ugly society.

There is enough ugliness in the world already.

We don't need more.

We need people who still choose kindness.

People who still love.

People who still laugh.

People who still believe tomorrow can be better.

People who can get knocked down and still say, “Okay... give me a minute, and I'll get back up.”

Hold onto that part of yourself.

Because when the world gets ugly, beauty matters even more.

And if you stay strong, optimistic and hopeful, eventually the tough has no choice but to get going.

Yes, I just made a motivational pun.

You're welcome.

I Am Done Auditioning for a Role I Never Asked For

I'm no longer interested in correcting every version of me that exists inside someone else's head.

Believe whatever you want.

Tell the story however you want.

Make me the villain if that helps you sleep at night.

Apparently, I have been cast in that role already, and nobody bothered to send me the script.

Fine.

Keep it.

I have a life to live.

I don't want to spend my life auditioning to be the “good person” in everybody else's story.

Sometimes misunderstandings are cheaper left uncorrected.

Especially when the person who knows the truth is too uncomfortable to admit their own part in what happened.

And sometimes adults need to stop looking for approval from everybody around them and simply tell the truth.

Yes, even to Mom.

You don't have to create an entire alternate universe just to avoid admitting you made a mistake.

Eventually, you have to grow up.

And I'm going to sugarcoat that because I'm trying to be nice:

At some point, adulthood requires adult-sized honesty.

There.

That was the polite version.

You're welcome.

You Don't Get to Hurt Someone and Then Blame Them for Hurting

You will never feel completely safe with someone who gets angry at your reaction to their disrespect.

You didn't start the drama.

You responded to something that hurt you.

And then suddenly you're being called negative.

You're being told that you always argue.

You're being told that you cause drama.

No.

Sometimes people hurt you and then become offended that you noticed.

You don't get to wound somebody and then act shocked when they feel pain.

That's not how human beings work.

If someone punches you emotionally and then gets angry because you said, “Hey, that hurt,” the problem isn't your reaction.

And here's the part people don't always want to hear:

You are not always the hero in your own story.

Sometimes you're the person who made the mistake.

Sometimes you're the person who needs to apologize.

Sometimes you're the person who needs to stop defending yourself long enough to admit, “Yeah... I screwed that up.”

That's not weakness.

That's character.

Being honest with yourself is actually a whole lot easier than constantly keeping track of which lie you told to whom.

And honestly, I don't want that job.

I have books to write.

You're so vain.

You probably think this blog is about you.

Don't you?

Don't you?

Okay, I'll stop before I accidentally start singing.

Here's the truth:

This blog is about three people whose identities will remain unnamed.

I don't put people's names out there.

I just needed to get my thoughts out.

And this is where I do that.

Writing has always been one of the ways I process life.

I write it down.

I laugh about it.

I cry about it.

I make jokes about it.

I turn it into books.

And eventually, I feel better.

Maybe that's why I keep doing it.

Maybe that's why I write so much.

Maybe that's why 15 pages became 30.

Maybe words are simply how my soul cleans house.

And today?

Apparently, my soul had a LOT of furniture to move.

Now, Back to the Really Important Things

My frozen peas are thawed.

This is a crisis.

A new bag is required.

And while I'm up, I believe a Zero Sugar Starry is also necessary.

This is not negotiable.

This is medical research.

Probably.

So, I'm going to go get my frozen peas and my Starry, continue healing, continue writing, continue being stubborn, and continue trying to become the woman I know I still have inside me.

Do for yourself.

Vent when you need to.

Rest when you're tired.

Cry when you need to.

Laugh whenever possible.

Take care of your beautiful mind.

Take care of your beautiful soul.

Start being honest with yourself and others.

And don't let somebody else's ugliness convince you to become ugly too.

Some days you just have to let it all out.

Today was apparently my day.

And honestly?

I feel better.

I hope you do too.

Thank you for listening to my rant.

Thank you for reading my words.

And thank you for being here while I navigate this ridiculous, painful, hilarious, beautiful thing called life.

It's October.

So, let's get ready for changing leaves, bonfires, cool nights, cozy blankets, and pumpkin spice everything...

And apparently one woman with a brand-new knee, a bag of frozen peas, a can of Zero Sugar Starry, and absolutely no intention of slowing down.

One knee down.

One to go.

World... you have been warned.

Oh, and I hate pumpkin spice!

xoxoxx

October 2, 2026

Let Them Do Them While I Do Me

There comes a point in life when you have to stop trying to understand people who have made a career out of being impossible to understand.

And yes, I said career.

Some people could lie professionally. They could probably get a degree in it, earn a certificate, and still somehow blame the professor for giving them the wrong answers.

But seriously…

I have learned something important about people, relationships, and healing:

You cannot change someone who does not believe they need to change.

And you definitely cannot love someone into becoming a better person.

I know a little something about psychology. I actually went to school for it, so I understand that people are complicated creatures with complicated histories, complicated emotions, and enough baggage to require their own U-Haul.

I also understand that I am not qualified to diagnose someone simply because their behavior hurts me.

So, this isn't about putting a label on one particular person.

This is about behavior.

This is about patterns.

This is about narcissistic behavior, manipulation, lying, refusing accountability, playing the victim, and hurting other people while somehow believing you are the only injured party in the room.

And, honestly, if you recognize yourself in some of this, congratulations!

You have just discovered something called self-awareness.

Now do something with it.

Because here's the thing about being a human being:

We all screw up.

I screw up.

You screw up.

The person next door probably screws up.

The dog probably has a few things on his résumé too, although I'm pretty sure he isn't going to admit it.

Making mistakes doesn't make you a terrible person.

Refusing to take responsibility for them over and over again is where the real problem begins.

I can be stubborn.

I can be loud.

I can be difficult as hell to convince when I already know I'm right.

And yes, I can probably argue with a brick wall and somehow make the brick apologize.

But fake?

Never.

I would rather be brutally honest and occasionally misunderstood than spend my life creating pretty little lies so everyone will think I'm an angel.

Because here's a little secret:

You don't become your highest self by convincing everyone you're wonderful.

You become your highest self by working on the things nobody can steal from you.

Your mindset.

Your character.

Your integrity.

Your honesty.

Your discipline.

Your ability to admit when you're wrong.

And your ability to stay kind without becoming someone's doormat.

That's strength.

Lying isn't strength.

Manipulating people isn't strength.

Hurting someone and then pretending you're the victim isn't strength.

Running away from every uncomfortable truth isn't strength.

That is weakness wearing a costume.

And sometimes the strongest thing a person can do is sit down with themselves and say:

"Okay. Maybe I am part of the problem."

That's not humiliation.

That's growth.

That's where real change can begin.

Unfortunately, some people would rather rearrange the entire universe than rearrange one ugly little habit inside themselves.

And I suppose that's their choice.

Let them do them.

I'll do me.

Because eventually you have to stop standing outside somebody else's emotional house knocking on the door yelling, "HELLO? ARE YOU HOME? WOULD YOU LIKE TO DISCUSS YOUR BEHAVIOR?"

At some point, you just walk away.

Not because you don't care.

Because you finally understand that you cannot do someone else's healing for them.

And that brings me to closure.

I used to think closure meant getting the conversation.

Getting the apology.

Getting the explanation.

Getting the confession.

Getting that magical final sentence that suddenly makes everything make sense.

But maybe closure isn't that at all.

Maybe closure is the day you stop needing someone else to give it to you.

Maybe it's the day you stop waiting for the apology.

Maybe it's the day you stop wondering whether they'll finally tell the truth.

Maybe it's the day you look at their actions, accept what those actions have already told you, and say:

"Okay. I understand now."

Not because you got every answer.

Because you finally realized you don't need every answer to move forward.

Sometimes the truth is already sitting right there in front of you wearing a neon sign.

You just weren't ready to read it yet.

And healing can be weird.

You can know someone isn't good for you and still love them.

You can be disappointed in someone and still care about them.

You can know someone has hurt you and still hope they eventually become a better person.

And yes…

Sometimes you can even tell yourself you're done and then realize that if that person ever genuinely needed someone, you'd probably still show up.

Is that stupid?

Maybe.

But I don't think kindness is stupidity.

I think there is a difference between being kind and allowing someone to continually destroy you.

I can keep my distance and still care.

I can stop participating in someone's chaos and still hope they find their way out of it.

I can stop rescuing someone and still wish they would learn how to swim.

And if I have given someone my word that I would be there in some way, I tend to mean what I say.

That's not weakness.

That's me keeping my word.

I just wish more people understood that there is help available.

Real help.

Deep help.

Not the kind where you go once, say, "Yep, I'm totally fine," and then leave with a parking receipt and a new story about how everyone else is crazy.

I'm talking about doing the uncomfortable work.

Real therapy.

Real self-reflection.

Real accountability.

Learning why you behave the way you behave.

Learning how your actions affect other people.

Learning how to communicate without manipulating.

Learning how to apologize without adding a twelve-paragraph explanation about why it was actually somebody else's fault.

Learning how to hear "you hurt me" without immediately responding with "well, YOU hurt ME."

Because healing isn't about becoming perfect.

It's about becoming honest.

And I genuinely wish that for anyone who struggles with narcissistic or toxic behavior.

Not because I want them punished.

Not because I want them miserable.

Not because I want revenge.

Actually, quite the opposite.

I want people to become the best versions of themselves.

I want them to become strong enough to look at their own behavior without needing someone else to be the villain.

Strong enough to say, "I did that."

Strong enough to say, "I was wrong."

Strong enough to say, "I hurt someone."

Strong enough to say, "I need help."

Because imagine what could happen if all the energy spent protecting the lie was finally used to build the truth.

That's powerful.

And maybe that's the part people don't understand.

The truth doesn't destroy you.

Sometimes the truth is the thing that finally gives you somewhere solid to stand.

People can create whatever version of you they want in their heads.

They can tell their stories.

They can make you the villain.

They can rewrite the history book until you're apparently responsible for the invention of the microwave.

And you know what?

Let them.

I'm no longer interested in correcting every version of me that exists inside someone else's head.

Believe what you want.

Tell your story.

Make me the villain if it helps you sleep.

I have a life to live.

And I refuse to spend the rest of mine auditioning for the role of "Good Person" in everybody else's story.

Some misunderstandings are simply cheaper to leave uncorrected.

And yes, if my honesty offends you…

Imagine how exhausting your bullshit is to me.

See?

There I go.

Still sassy.

Still sarcastic.

Still breathing.

Still writing.

Still here.

That's the funny thing about surviving things that were supposed to break you.

You don't always come out looking graceful.

Sometimes healing is beautiful.

Sometimes healing is ugly crying in sweatpants while eating something you probably shouldn't be eating and wondering why your life feels like a badly written television episode.

Sometimes healing is getting out of bed.

Sometimes it's saying no.

Sometimes it's blocking someone.

Sometimes it's unblocking someone and immediately realizing, "Well, that was a stupid little experiment."

Sometimes it's laughing again.

Sometimes it's remembering who you were before someone convinced you that you weren't enough.

And sometimes healing is simply getting through another day.

One day at a time.

Sometimes graceful.

Sometimes ugly.

Sometimes brave.

Sometimes exhausted.

But still moving.

Still learning.

Still becoming.

And that's enough.

Because I don't want to ruin my beautiful soul just to fit into an ugly situation.

I don't want to become bitter because someone else didn't know how to be honest.

I don't want to become cruel because someone was cruel to me.

I don't want to lose my kindness just because somebody took advantage of it.

And I certainly don't want someone else's behavior to turn me into someone I don't recognize.

So, if you have a toxic person in your life, sometimes loving yourself means creating distance.

Sometimes it means leaving.

Sometimes it means saying, "I love you, but I cannot live inside this chaos anymore."

And sometimes it means accepting that the person you hoped someone could become isn't the person they have chosen to be.

That's painful.

But accepting reality isn't giving up.

Sometimes it's the first step toward freedom.

And for anyone reading this who sees themselves in these words from the other side…

Please get help.

Not because you are hopeless.

Because you aren't.

People can learn.

People can grow.

People can change.

But change requires honesty.

And honesty requires looking in the mirror without immediately blaming the mirror.

You don't have to remain the person you've always been.

You can become better.

You can become kinder.

You can become stronger.

You can learn to love without controlling.

You can learn to communicate without lying.

You can learn to apologize.

You can learn to take responsibility.

You can learn to stop hurting people just because you're hurting.

And maybe, somewhere underneath all the defenses, anger, pride, lies, and fear, there is still the good person you once wanted to be.

Go find them.

Do the work.

Get the help.

Become strong enough to take care of yourself without destroying everyone around you.

As for me?

I'm going to keep doing what I do.

I'm going to write.

I'm going to laugh.

I'm going to love.

I'm going to be stubborn.

I'm going to be loud.

I'm going to occasionally say things that make people clutch their pearls.

And I'm going to keep being honest.

Because I can accept my mistakes when I'm wrong.

But I will not apologize for defending myself against disrespect.

If you lit the fire, don't stand in the ashes and play victim.

And if somebody needs to make me the villain in order to make themselves feel better…

Fine.

I'll wear the cape.

I've always thought capes were kind of fabulous anyway.

The truth is, I don't need revenge.

I don't need the final word.

I don't need somebody else to admit everything.

I just need to keep becoming the woman I want to be.

And that woman is still kind.

Still hopeful.

Still capable of love.

Still willing to believe people can become better.

But now she's also smart enough to know that hope doesn't mean standing in the same fire forever.

So let them do them.

I'll do me.

And somehow, I think I'll be just fine.

Actually…

I know I will.

Because everyone survives differently.

Me?

One day at a time.

Sometimes graceful.

Sometimes messy.

Sometimes with a few sarcastic comments that probably should have stayed inside my head.

But always brave.

Always learning.

And, most importantly…

Always true.

October 3, 2026

Let Them Do Them While I Do Me

I have reached a point in life where I have decided that I simply do not have enough fucks left to distribute.

I used to have quite a collection.

I gave them away freely.

I handed them out like Halloween candy.

“Here! Have a fuck. You seem to need one.”

“Would you like another? I have plenty!”

“Please, take these too. Apparently, your opinion of me is somehow my emergency.”

Well…

No more.

The Fuck Department is officially closed.

Please leave a message after the beep.

And if the beep sounds suspiciously like me laughing and wheeling away, that's because it is.

There is something incredibly freeing about realizing that people can talk about you, misunderstand you, judge you, gossip about you, create their own little homemade documentaries about your life, and…

you do not have to participate.

Let them.

Seriously.

Let them talk.

If somebody has enough free time to pick apart my life piece by piece, I hope they at least have comfortable shoes because apparently they plan on being there awhile.

People who are busy building their own lives usually don't have the time or energy to constantly dismantle somebody else's.

And yes, sometimes people talk because they're hurting.

Sometimes they talk because they're insecure.

Sometimes they talk because they're bored.

And sometimes, bless their hearts, they simply have absolutely nothing else going on.

Rumors can become entertainment for people who don't have enough happiness of their own.

But I am not going to wait around like I’m auditioning for a role in somebody else's drama series.

I have my own show.

And frankly, the ratings are already ridiculous.

I Don't Need to Be Nice

One of the biggest things I've learned is that being a good person does not require being endlessly nice.

There is a difference.

Nice got me exhausted.

Nice got me walked over.

Nice had me swallowing things I should have spit right back out.

Nice had me thinking, “Well, maybe they're having a bad day.”

Meanwhile, I was apparently having a seventeen-year bad day.

No.

I'm not interested anymore.

I can be kind without being available for mistreatment.

I can have compassion without handing somebody unlimited access to me.

I can understand why someone behaves badly without volunteering to be the person they behave badly toward.

That's called having boundaries.

And boundaries are not cruelty.

They're doors.

Some doors are open.

Some are closed.

Some have a very clear sign that says:

DO NOT KNOCK.

And some apparently require a moat, a drawbridge, and a small dragon named Gerald.

Gerald has excellent judgment.

Let People Be Weird

One of the kindest things we can do for another human being is to sometimes simply leave them the hell alone.

Let somebody mispronounce a word.

Let them ramble for twenty minutes about a television show you've never watched and have no intention of watching.

Let somebody get ridiculously excited about something you don't understand.

Let them love the music you hate.

Let them collect something you think is weird.

Let them laugh too loudly.

Let them wear something you wouldn't wear if your life depended on it.

Let them be enthusiastic.

Don’t purposely ever take away someone else’s happiness.

Everyone has something that makes their eyes light up.

Maybe it isn't your thing.

That's okay.

It doesn't have to be.

You don't have to understand somebody's happiness to respect it.

Sometimes kindness is not giving advice.

Sometimes kindness is not correcting somebody.

Sometimes kindness is just sitting there thinking,

“I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, but look at you being happy.”

That's enough.

And Yes… Sometimes I Rant

I know I rant.

I know I occasionally climb onto my little soapbox, put on a metaphorical cape, and begin addressing the imaginary audience.

But I won’t use first names anymore.

I don't use last names.

I don't give exact examples.

I'm not interested in destroying somebody's life.

I'm interested in clearing my own head.

There is a difference between exposing somebody and processing something.

Sometimes you have to get the words out somewhere.

And sometimes that somewhere is a blog written by a woman who has apparently decided punctuation is optional when she's really pissed off.

You're welcome.

And if you're going through something similar, I want you to know something:

You are not alone.

There are people all over this ridiculous planet trying to figure out how to survive people who hurt them, disappoint them, confuse them, betray them, or simply make them wonder whether humanity accidentally skipped several important chapters.

We can get through it.

Together.

And we can absolutely kick the human garbage to the curb when necessary.

Now, if that sentence personally offends you, I have a question.

Why?

If you don't consider yourself human garbage, congratulations!

Carry on.

If you do…

Perhaps that's something for you to work on.

I'm just saying.

Accountability Isn't a Luxury Item

I will no longer accept a relationship where responsibility disappears every time something goes wrong.

I don't want somebody who says,

“That's just who I am. Take it or leave it.”

No.

Healthy love isn't a hostage negotiation.

Real love doesn't say, “This is my personality, so everybody else has to suffer.”

Real love says:

“I see where I need to grow.”

It listens.

It reflects.

It takes ownership.

It admits when it is wrong.

It tries again.

It doesn't run away from every uncomfortable conversation like the conversation is carrying a warrant.

I deserve a partner who can meet me honestly when something is wrong.

I deserve someone willing to look at their own behavior instead of holding a mirror exclusively toward everyone else.

And I am releasing the need to beg someone for accountability.

Because accountability isn't some extravagant relationship upgrade that costs $29.99 a month.

It is a basic part of respect.

If you cannot admit when you've screwed up, eventually your life becomes one giant collection of things that were somehow everybody else's fault.

And at some point, sweetheart…

you might want to put on your big-boy pants and grow the hell up.

About the Things I No Longer Argue About

I am no longer arguing about what I saw.

I am no longer arguing about what I heard.

I am no longer arguing about how something made me feel.

And I am certainly not arguing about whether I'm allowed to be fucking pissed about something that happened to me.

I know what happened to my eye.

I have a lifelong documented injury.

I have medical records.

I have been diagnosed and treated for the resulting recurring corneal problems for more than sixteen years.

This isn't a story I invented last Tuesday because I needed something interesting to write about.

I am dealing with a recurring corneal abrasion connected to an injury from years ago, and I now have to make another appointment with the eye doctor.

And the person responsible may continue to say it never happened.

That does not erase the injury.

It does not erase the medical history.

It does not erase what I experienced.

And it sure as hell doesn't require me to participate in an argument about whether my own experience is real.

There are things in life we can debate.

My own pain isn't one of them.

You don't have to admit what you did.

You don't have to apologize.

You don't even have to care.

But I don't have to pretend.

And I don't.

That part of my life is serious.

The jokes stop there.

Because being funny doesn't mean pretending something didn't hurt.

It means sometimes you survive something painful and eventually find enough strength to laugh again.

And believe me…

I'm still laughing.

Authenticity Is Exhausting for Other People

The beautiful thing about being authentic is that you eventually stop maintaining an image.

You just become yourself.

Some people will love it.

Some people will hate it.

Some will misunderstand it.

Some will talk about it.

Some will probably create a conspiracy theory about it.

And some will simply shrug and say,

“Yep. That's Molly.”

Excellent.

We've reached the correct conclusion.

I don't want to spend my life performing a version of myself that makes everybody else comfortable.

I want to be honest.

I want to be kind.

I want to be weird.

I want to be sarcastic.

I want to be loving.

I want to be occasionally obnoxious.

I want to laugh at clouds.

I want to talk to animals like they're coworkers.

I want to listen to rain.

I want to stare at trees and wonder how old they are.

I want to rescue a ladybug because apparently, I have appointed myself Director of Tiny Insect Transportation.

I want to notice flowers growing through cracks where they weren't supposed to survive.

Because sometimes that's exactly what I feel like.

Something growing where it wasn't expected to.

Something refusing to die simply because the circumstances weren't ideal.

Faith Doesn't Mean Everything Is Fine

Faith isn't pretending everything is wonderful.

Faith is looking at something that absolutely is not wonderful and saying,

“I still believe there is something beyond this.”

Sometimes the light is obvious.

Sometimes you can't see it at all.

Sometimes you have to trust that it exists anyway.

And when you can't find the light, maybe you follow whatever tiny spark is still inside you.

One little step.

Then another.

Stars don't stop shining because nighttime lasts longer than expected.

So neither should we.

Keep shining.

Even when nobody claps.

Especially then.

I Am Not Perfect

I talk about kindness, but I've hurt people.

I talk about love, but I still carry pain.

I talk about peace, but my brain occasionally holds a full-scale committee meeting at three in the morning.

I talk about hope, but some days I feel heavy too.

I talk about forgiveness while still learning what I'm actually ready to let go of.

That's called being human.

I don't claim perfection.

I claim progress.

I'm still learning.

Still healing.

Still screwing things up occasionally.

Still trying.

And honestly, I think that's the point.

None of us are finished products.

We're all walking around with emotional duct tape, questionable decisions, childhood baggage, and at least one story we wish we could delete from the cloud.

The goal isn't perfection.

The goal is becoming better.

And sometimes when the world says,

“Give up.”

Hope whispers,

“Try one more time.”

Listen to hope.

It's usually quieter than fear, but it's often smarter.

Apparently My Face Has Its Own Opinion

Sometimes I forget people can see my facial expressions.

This has caused problems.

Apparently, my face does not believe in diplomacy.

My mouth can be saying,

“Oh, that's interesting.”

While my eyebrows are filing a formal complaint.

My eyes are conducting an independent investigation.

My forehead has already contacted the authorities.

I can try to hide my thoughts, but apparently my face has a podcast.

No microphone required.

I Want to Be the Girlfriend

And now we arrive at my personal relationship résumé.

I hope that in my next relationship, I finally get to be…

the girlfriend.

Because so far I've apparently been:

The man.

The mom.

The therapist.

The problem solver.

The emotional support department.

The crisis management team.

And occasionally…

the sugar mama.

But somehow, I have never quite gotten the opportunity to be the damn queen!

I'd like that.

Thank you.

I'd like to be loved.

I'd like to be pursued.

I'd like to be taken care of sometimes.

I'd like somebody to look at me like I am the woman who lights up their entire damn universe.

And yes…

I want my man to be completely consumed by me.

Blind to everybody else?

Yep.

Selfish?

Maybe.

But sometimes a little selfishness is healthy.

I don't want somebody settling for me.

Ever.

If I am not the woman who makes your soul light up, please go find her.

I mean that.

I don't want to be somebody's convenient choice.

I want to be somebody's hell yes.

And If Somebody Is Telling You My Business…

Here's a little life rule:

If somebody is telling you everybody else's business, don't assume they aren't telling yours too.

People who make gossip their hobby generally don't have a strict privacy policy.

So, when somebody is bringing you information about somebody else, remember:

You might just be today's episode.

And that's okay.

You don't have to participate.

You don't have to defend yourself to everybody.

You don't have to chase every rumor down the street wearing pajamas and carrying a frying pan.

Although, admittedly, that would be hilarious.

What People Hate About You

Sometimes the qualities people criticize in you are qualities they wish they had.

Your confidence.

Your honesty.

Your independence.

Your ability to walk away.

Your refusal to stay quiet.

Your happiness.

Your weirdness.

Your courage.

Don't automatically assume every criticism is proof that something is wrong with you.

Sometimes it is simply proof that you are being yourself in a way somebody else doesn't understand.

That doesn't mean every criticism is jealousy.

Sometimes we really are wrong.

And that's where the smart part comes in.

Listen.

Think.

Reflect.

Grow.

But don't automatically shrink yourself because somebody else is uncomfortable with your existence.

And Finally… Let Them Do Them While I Do Me

I'm done chasing people who don't want to understand me.

I'm done begging for honesty.

I'm done arguing with people who have already decided their version of reality is more important than mine.

I'm done thinking kindness means allowing myself to be hurt repeatedly.

I'm done believing love requires me to abandon myself.

And I'm done worrying about every whisper happening behind my back.

Let them whisper.

Let them speculate.

Let them gossip.

Let them tell whatever version of the story makes them comfortable.

I know who I am.

I know what I've survived.

I know where I've messed up.

I know where I've grown.

I know where I still need work.

And I know that I am still here.

Still writing.

Still laughing.

Still loving.

Still learning.

Still occasionally making facial expressions that apparently require subtitles.

And still finding little pieces of magic in a world that sometimes seems determined to hand me a bucket of nonsense and say,

“Here. Deal with this.”

Fine.

I'll deal with it.

But I'm taking the bucket,

And I'm dumping the nonsense out.

And I'm keeping the bucket.

Because you never know when you might need a bucket.

That's wisdom.

So shine.

Be weird.

Be kind.

Have boundaries.

Tell the truth.

Take responsibility.

Love deeply.

Laugh loudly.

Apologize when you're wrong.

Walk away when you need to.

And never forget that being a good person does not mean allowing everyone to treat you badly.

Sometimes the most loving thing you can do for yourself is say:

“I understand you. I love you. I wish you well. But you don't get access to me anymore.”

That's not hate.

That's growth.

And maybe that's where I'm at now.

Not bitter.

Not broken.

Just wiser.

A little sassier.

A little harder to fool.

And considerably less interested in arguing with people who aren't even invited to the meeting.

So…

Let them do them.

I'll do me.

And apparently, I'm pretty damn good at it.

October 3, 2026

Apparently, I’m Supposed to Blog About Fashion, Food, and Parenting… So Anyway, Let’s Talk About My Personal Hell and My Dream Apartment…

I am always looking up “good blog topics.”

Why?

I don’t know.

Apparently, I enjoy asking the Internet what I should write about and then immediately rejecting all of its suggestions like a toddler being offered the wrong color cup.

The Internet says:

Write about fashion!

No.

Write about food!

Meh.

Write about parenting!

Well, this took a turn.

These are supposedly the big blog topics people want to read about, which is precisely why I don’t want to write about them. There are approximately 42 billion fashion blogs already, and I am fairly certain at least 40 billion of them have already explained how to “transition your wardrobe from summer to fall.”

Put on a cardigan.

There. I saved you 1,800 words.

Do you really want my fashion advice?

Fine.

I like tight leggings and tank tops.

I also like baggy jeans and tank tops.

Sometimes, just to keep everybody guessing, I wear a T-shirt. But I usually cut the neck into a V-neck because apparently even my clothing has to be modified before I can emotionally commit to it.

In the winter, I enjoy cardigans that make me look like a retired old man who spends his mornings yelling at squirrels and complaining about property taxes.

FASHION BLOG COMPLETE.

You’re welcome, Vogue.

Now, food.

Eat it or die.

That concludes my nutritional seminar.

I have been eating a lot of soup lately. Right now, I am eating broccoli cheese Progresso soup directly out of the can because dishes are just containers that eventually become chores, and I am trying to streamline operations around here.

Is it glamorous?

No.

Is it efficient?

Absolutely.

Do I own bowls?

That is none of your business.

I actually am a really good cook. I have recipes I know by heart, although I rarely share them. I make a pretty damn good banana cream pie.

So apparently I could be a food blogger.

But then I’d have to photograph the pie next to a decorative tea towel and a tiny sprig of mint while pretending I didn’t eat a spoonful of the filling over the sink five minutes earlier.

I cannot live under that kind of pressure.

FOOD BLOG COMPLETE.

Now parenting.

My parents weren’t particularly good at it.

My son and I were best friends until he passed away in 2018.

And there it is.

Life has this annoying habit of sneaking something real into the middle of the comedy.

One minute you’re making jokes about soup straight from a can, and the next minute your heart remembers something it will never stop remembering.

That is more like what I actually write about.

I write about people.

I write about life.

I write about whatever strange little thought is currently bouncing around inside my skull like a raccoon trapped in a Dollar General.

I write about kindness.

I write about pain.

I write about trying to stay funny when life is standing in front of you holding a clipboard and saying, “Actually, Molly, we’ve scheduled six additional disasters for Thursday.”

And I write about something I think we sometimes forget:

Everybody is going through their own special version of hell.

Isn’t that comforting?

We’re unique!

We each get our own personalized suffering package!

Mine has been carefully customized specifically for me, apparently by someone who clicked DELUXE CHAOS — ADD ALL OPTIONS.

Right now, part of my personal hell is my leg.

I can barely move the leg that was operated on. Sometimes I literally have to pick it up with my hands and arms and move it.

Think about that for a second.

My leg has apparently resigned from the company without submitting the proper paperwork.

“Come on, leg.”

“No.”

“We have places to go.”

“Sounds like an upper-body problem.”

Even getting on the toilet has become an athletic event I never trained for.

Nobody prepares you for these moments.

There was never a high school gym class called Advanced Toilet Maneuvering for Adults Whose Body Parts Have Become Uncooperative.

There should have been.

I would have paid attention in that class.

And when I tell you things like this, I want to make something very clear:

I am not looking for pity.

Never.

I write about my disabilities, struggles, shortcomings, embarrassing moments, difficult days and stubborn body parts because somebody reading this is struggling too.

Maybe not with the same thing.

Maybe your legs work beautifully and you could kick a field goal right now.

Show-off.

But maybe something else hurts.

Maybe you’re grieving.

Maybe you’re broke.

Maybe you’re lonely.

Maybe you’re overwhelmed.

Maybe your relationship is falling apart.

Maybe you’re taking care of somebody.

Maybe you’re terrified about something you haven’t told anyone.

Maybe you smiled at everybody today and then went home and cried.

We never really know what another person is carrying.

That is exactly why I believe so strongly in sympathy, empathy, patience and kindness.

Not pity.

Understanding.

There is a huge difference.

And you don’t need money to make someone’s world a little better.

Donate to charity if you can.

If you can’t donate money, donate time.

Donate effort.

Put someone in your prayers.

Call somebody who is lonely.

Tell someone you’re proud of them.

Help somebody carry something.

Hold the door.

Smile.

Listen.

Actually listen — not that thing we do where we wait quietly until it’s our turn to talk again.

Sometimes the tiniest act of kindness lands in somebody’s life at exactly the moment they desperately needed proof that the world wasn’t entirely made of assholes.

You may never even know what you did.

Do it anyway.

Maybe that is what my blog is actually about.

Not fashion.

Not recipes.

Not parenting tips.

Just being human in this ridiculous world and trying not to make it harder for the other humans.

And lately, there is one particular thought that keeps living in my head.

Moving.

Ohhhhh, moving.

I think about getting a little place of my own so much that I have practically decorated an imaginary home that does not currently exist.

And in my fantasy, it doesn’t need to be fancy.

I don't need a mansion.

I don't need marble floors.

I don't need twelve bathrooms.

Frankly, I don't understand why anybody needs twelve bathrooms unless they're running a Taco Bell.

I just want something to be mine.

My little place.

My rules.

My peace.

My stuff exactly where I want my stuff — although if I accidentally call it my “stiff,” please understand that after everything my body has been through, that could also be medically accurate.

I want to decorate however I want.

I want to look around and know:

This is my home.

I want to curl up in my own bed and stare at the ceiling for three hours if that is what my little heart desires.

And nobody gets to ask:

“What are you doing?”

Nothing.

I scheduled it.

This is my 2:00–5:00 p.m. Ceiling Observation Appointment.

Very important.

I want to listen to whatever music I want without headphones.

LOUDLY.

Maybe I want rock.

Maybe I want dance music.

Maybe I want something embarrassingly cheesy from 1987 and I intend to perform the entire song using a hairbrush microphone.

Nobody knows.

Nobody cares.

FREEDOM.

I want to call whoever I want.

Watch whatever I want.

Eat soup out of the can if I want.

And if I don’t feel like doing the dishes?

Then I shall gaze upon those dirty dishes like a queen surveying her kingdom and declare:

“Tomorrow’s problem.”

Because they would be my dishes.

In my home.

Waiting for me.

Nobody assigning chores.

Nobody making rules for how I am supposed to exist.

Nobody telling me where my belongings can go.

Just me.

Peace.

Quiet.

Freedom.

I want room to paint again.

I want to do puzzles.

I want to make things.

I want a place where creativity can spread out instead of constantly having to fold itself back up and fit into whatever little space is available.

I want the kind of home where you walk through the door, close it behind you and your entire nervous system goes:

Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

Not because the house is expensive.

Not because it’s impressive.

Not because anyone else would even understand why you love it.

Because it feels safe.

Because it feels peaceful.

Because it feels like you.

That may sound like a little dream to some people.

To me, it is enormous.

It is independence.

It is dignity.

It is privacy.

It is freedom.

It is being able to breathe without feeling like I need permission first.

It is having somewhere to heal.

Somewhere to create.

Somewhere to laugh.

Somewhere to cry.

Somewhere to make banana cream pie at 2:00 in the morning wearing an old-man cardigan while blasting music and leaving every single dish in the sink because apparently I have become drunk with power.

UNLIMITED POWER.

leaves one spoon on the counter

I CANNOT BE CONTROLLED.

That is my fantasy.

My prayer.

My hope.

And maybe one day, if God decides the time is right, I’ll unlock the door to that little place.

I’ll roll inside.

I’ll look around.

And there won’t be trumpets.

There won’t be fireworks.

There probably won’t even be furniture yet.

Just me.

A quiet room.

My things.

My choices.

My life.

And I think I might sit there for a while and just take it all in.

Because sometimes the biggest dreams aren't about having more.

Sometimes they're about finally having enough.