Molly Roxx's Blog

September 14, 2026

Survivor: Congratulations, You’re 16—Now Go Catch Your Breakfast

I have a question.

Actually, I have several questions, because apparently my brain has once again been left unsupervised.

What if the show Survivor were real?

Not reality-TV real, where there are cameras, producers, medical staff, contracts, helicopters somewhere nearby, and presumably somebody standing just out of frame holding a granola bar.

I mean REAL real.

What if Survivor was something every single person had to go through when they turned sixteen?

Think of it as our modern-world version of Rumspringa—except instead of getting a temporary opportunity to experience another way of life before deciding your future, somebody hands you a bandana and says:

“Congratulations on turning sixteen. Here’s a coconut. Try not to die.”

For sixty days, everybody gets shipped off to Survivor Island.

No exceptions.

Rich kids? Island.

Poor kids? Island.

Farm kids? Island.

City kids? Island.

That teenager who has never loaded a dishwasher because “Mom does it better”?

Oh, honey.

ISLAND.

And the entire point is to decide which way you want to live for the rest of your life.

After sixty days, you get a choice:

Modern civilization or Survivor Island.

Choose wisely.

Because once you choose the island, there is no popping over to Walmart because you forgot toothpaste.

There IS no toothpaste.

You have a twig.

Congratulations.

WELCOME TO ADULTHOOD, KIDS!

At sixteen, instead of worrying about getting your driver’s license, you would receive an official government notice:

Dear Citizen,

You are now eligible for your Mandatory Adulthood Survival Evaluation. Please report to the nearest airport with one pair of pants.

Do not bring snacks.

We mean it, Tyler.

Imagine the absolute panic.

Sixteen-year-olds everywhere would suddenly realize that Mom asking them to take out the garbage wasn't actually oppression.

“You mean I have to build my own shelter?”

Yes.

“Where's my bed?”

You're standing on it.

“Where's the bathroom?”

Pick a direction.

“What's the Wi-Fi password?”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Oh, sweetheart.

There is no Wi-Fi.

Your phone is gone.

TikTok cannot help you now.

Alexa is not coming.

Siri has abandoned you.

Google Maps currently says:

YOU ARE SCREWED.

For sixty days, you're living like a contestant on Survivor.

You have to build your own shelter.

Catch fish.

Find fruit.

Make fire.

Deal with bugs.

Sleep through storms.

Bathe in the ocean.

Live with complete strangers.

Compete for food.

And somehow remain civil while you're hungry, dirty, exhausted, mosquito-bitten, sunburned and sharing twelve square feet of damp bamboo with somebody named Chad who has been telling the same story about his high-school football team for FIVE WEEKS.

At that point, murder might technically become a survival strategy.

I'm not recommending it.

I'm simply saying I understand how the conversation might come up.

AND THEN COME THE CHALLENGES

Of course, you couldn't simply live on the island.

That would be far too relaxing.

You'd have to compete.

Want rice?

WIN IT.

Want a blanket?

WIN IT.

Want soap?

Oh, suddenly soap seems pretty damn exciting, doesn't it?

Yesterday you were complaining because your parents bought the wrong body wash.

Today you're willing to crawl through mud, climb a twelve-foot wall, solve a puzzle and balance a coconut on your forehead for forty-seven minutes just for half a bar of Irish Spring.

Civilization has entered the chat.

And naturally, every challenge would have to be ridiculous.

“Today's challenge is for immunity and a cheeseburger.”

I'm sorry.

Did you say CHEESEBURGER?

I will fight all of you.

I don't know these people.

I have no emotional attachment to Kevin.

Kevin is going DOWN.

Then the host announces the challenge:

“You must swim half a mile, climb a rope, crawl beneath a net, carry three logs, untie seventeen knots, solve a 500-piece puzzle and construct a scale model of the Eiffel Tower using bamboo.”

Never mind.

Kevin can have the cheeseburger.

I'll lick this rock.

AND WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE I'M LIVING WITH?

That's another thing.

You wouldn't get to choose your tribe.

You'd be randomly assigned strangers.

Because apparently surviving nature isn't enough.

You must also survive PEOPLE.

Which is significantly harder.

There would always be one person who thinks they're the leader.

Nobody elected them.

Nobody likes them.

Nobody asked.

But five minutes after arriving, Brad is standing on a tree stump saying:

“Okay, guys, here's what we're gonna do.”

No, Brad.

Here's what you're gonna do.

You're gonna get off that stump before somebody discovers how useful coconuts can be as projectiles.

Then there would be the person who does absolutely nothing.

“Has anybody seen Amanda?”

Amanda has been lying under a palm tree since Tuesday.

She says she's “conserving energy.”

We're all conserving resentment.

Then there's the outdoorsy person who has been preparing for this moment since birth.

“I actually prefer sleeping outside.”

Oh, shut up, Mountain Steve.

“This root is edible.”

Nobody asked you, Steve.

“I can make fire with two sticks.”

Wonderful.

Marry the sticks.

BUT HERE'S WHERE IT GETS INTERESTING...

At the end of sixty days, everybody gets the choice.

Do you want to return to modern civilization?

Or...

Do you want to stay?

Most of us probably imagine everybody sprinting toward the first airplane home like somebody just announced free puppies and air conditioning.

But would they?

Because some people actually would choose the island.

And that's where this gets fascinating.

There are people who genuinely love hunting, fishing, camping, living outdoors and surviving off the land.

There are people who would look at Survivor Island and say:

“No bills?”

Correct.

“No mortgage?”

Correct.

“No boss?”

Correct.

“No traffic?”

Correct.

“No emails?”

Correct.

“No robocalls asking me about my car's extended warranty?”

Correct.

“Hand me the spear.”

And suddenly...

Survivor Island doesn't sound completely insane.

Because let's compare lifestyles, shall we?

On Survivor Island, you spend all day hunting for dinner.

In modern society, you spend all day working so you can afford dinner.

On Survivor Island, you're worried about finding shelter.

In modern society, you're worried about making rent.

On Survivor Island, people form alliances and stab each other in the back.

In modern society, we call that the workplace.

On Survivor Island, you're exhausted, confused and never quite sure what's happening.

In modern society, we call that Tuesday.

On Survivor Island, somebody else may steal your food.

In modern society, that's DoorDash after you've already paid $47 for twelve chicken wings.

So maybe we're not as advanced as we think.

We just added receipts.

AND THEN THERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHO WOULD ABSOLUTELY LOSE THEIR MINDS

Some people would last approximately nine minutes.

“There's a bug!”

Yes.

You're outside.

That's where they keep them.

“It's hot!”

Again...

Outside.

“My hair is frizzy!”

YOU HAVE NOT EATEN SINCE YESTERDAY, ASHLEY.

PRIORITIES.

Someone would spend six hours trying to find an electrical outlet.

Someone else would ask if Amazon delivers there.

One person would absolutely try ordering Uber Eats.

And somewhere, somehow, there would be one influencer standing beside a palm tree saying:

“Hey guys! Welcome back to my chan—”

YOUR PHONE IS GONE, NANCY.

Talk to the coconut.

The coconut has subscribed.

BUT SOME PEOPLE MIGHT ACTUALLY FIND PEACE

And that's the weird part.

Because while this whole imaginary situation is hilarious, there's actually something interesting underneath it.

Some people might discover that they're happier without all the stuff we insist we're supposed to want.

No constant notifications.

No credit scores.

No keeping up with the Joneses.

No spending forty minutes looking for something to watch on six streaming services and eventually watching the same show you've already seen nineteen times.

No wondering whether you can afford groceries AND electricity this month.

No commute.

No dress code.

No alarm clock.

Nobody saying:

“Per my previous email...”

You know what?

THE ISLAND IS STARTING TO SOUND BETTER AGAIN.

Of course, there are also no antibiotics.

So...

Let's not pack yet.

Because Survivor Island sounds charming right up until you step on something sharp and your entire medical plan becomes:

“Put a leaf on it.”

AND WHAT ABOUT PEOPLE WHO ALREADY HAVE HARD LIVES?

That's another question.

For some people, modern civilization isn't exactly delivering the luxury package.

Some people are homeless.

Some live in dangerous or abusive situations.

Some work multiple jobs and still can't afford basic necessities.

Some already live without dependable housing, food, healthcare or security.

So, imagine asking someone who already spends every day fighting to survive:

“Would you like to return to your normal life?”

They might look around at the ocean, the fruit trees and their handmade hut and say:

“Define normal.”

And suddenly the joke gets a little uncomfortable.

Because civilization isn't equally civilized for everybody.

That's worth thinking about.

But we're not staying serious for too long because Mountain Steve just made underwear out of palm leaves and apparently we're all supposed to pretend that's normal now.

I THINK I KNOW WHAT I WOULD CHOOSE

Personally?

After sixty days?

I would crawl onto the evacuation boat before they finished asking the question.

“Would you like to return to modern—”

YES.

“But Molly, don't you want to hear option two?”

NO.

Take me to civilization.

Take me to indoor plumbing.

Take me to refrigeration.

Take me to mattresses.

Take me to shampoo.

Take me to a place where dinner doesn't require me to chase it first.

I don't want my rabbit introducing itself before I eat it.

I want it breaded, anonymous and accompanied by fries.

I want to turn a knob and receive water.

That's magic.

We don't appreciate faucets enough.

Think about it.

You move a tiny metal handle and CLEAN WATER APPEARS INSIDE YOUR HOUSE.

Our ancestors would think we were gods.

And we're standing there complaining because it takes twelve seconds to get hot.

“Ugh.”

Meanwhile, Survivor Molly is three miles away drinking rainwater out of a coconut shell while Mountain Steve lectures me about electrolytes.

Get me off this island.

BUT WHAT IF YOU HAD TO CHOOSE FOREVER?

That's the question.

At sixteen, after sixty days on Survivor Island, you're brought before the Final Adult Council.

They ask:

Civilization or island?

No third option.

No “I'll think about it.”

No going home for six months and reconsidering.

Choose.

Would you take modern life with its bills, traffic, inflation, rent, jobs, taxes, appointments, responsibilities and endless passwords?

Or would you take the island with its freedom, nature, simplicity, bugs, storms, hunger, questionable hygiene and the possibility that tonight's dinner is whatever you can successfully stab with a stick?

I know my answer.

I'm going home.

I will complain about civilization every single day.

But I will complain about it from inside.

With snacks.

And Wi-Fi.

And pants that weren't made from vegetation.

Maybe that's what Survivor Island would really teach us.

Not necessarily that modern life is better.

Not necessarily that simple living is better.

But that every lifestyle comes with its own version of survival.

Some people hunt deer.

Some people hunt parking spaces.

Some people build shelters.

Some people spend thirty years paying for theirs.

Some people fight wild animals.

Some people call customer service.

And frankly, I'm not sure which requires more courage.

So perhaps at sixteen we really should all spend sixty days on Survivor Island.

We'd learn independence.

We'd learn teamwork.

We'd learn gratitude.

We'd learn how little we actually need.

We'd learn how much we take for granted.

And most importantly, we'd return home, walk into the bathroom, flush the toilet and whisper:

“I will never disrespect you again.”

Then we'd turn on the shower.

Order a pizza.

Climb into a real bed.

Turn on the television.

And watch Survivor.

Because apparently humanity learns nothing.

September 15, 2026

Welcome to My Life: Apparently My Body Has Opened a Medical Mystery Subscription Service…

Well, hello there.

Pull up a chair.

Actually, maybe don’t. Apparently I need every available chair for the growing collection of medical specialists who are joining Team What the Hell Is Going On With Molly Now?

I had chest X-rays last week.

You know, just your standard little sit here, breathe in, hold it, don’t move, okay breathe adventure.

I got the results today.

And apparently they saw something they think may be a tumor on or near my heart or lung.

Well.

That escalated quickly.

I was really hoping for something more along the lines of:

“Congratulations! Your chest contains the standard number of chest things.”

But no.

My body apparently looked at my already ridiculous medical résumé and said, You know what this needs? A plot twist.

So now I need CT scans with and without contrast as soon as possible so the doctors can get a much better look at what showed up on the X-ray and figure out exactly what we're dealing with.

And before anybody—including my own anxiety—starts writing the Lifetime movie, an X-ray showing something suspicious is not the same thing as knowing exactly what it is.

That is precisely why we're doing more imaging.

We investigate.

We get actual answers.

We deal with facts when we have facts.

In the meantime, though?

Fuck you, health problems!

There.

Very therapeutic.

Ten out of ten.

Would swear again.

Naturally, my knee surgery has been put on hold again.

Remember my knee surgery?

Neither does my knee.

At this point I'm beginning to think my knee surgery is an urban legend.

People have heard about it.

Somebody's cousin supposedly saw it once.

There may be grainy footage of it wandering through the woods next to Bigfoot.

But nobody can prove it actually exists.

So, let's review Molly's upcoming medical social calendar, shall we?

I've got heart and lung CT scans this month.

A liver biopsy next month.

Knee surgery scheduled for approximately sometime before the sun burns out.

My body has more appointments than a Kardashian.

WHAT'S NEXT?

Do I get a punch card?

BUY NINE MEDICAL PROCEDURES AND YOUR TENTH ONE IS FREE!?

Can I at least get a tote bag?

A mug?

A tiny plastic trophy that says:

CONGRATULATIONS, MOLLY! YOU HAVE UNLOCKED ANOTHER SPECIALIST!

Because I feel like I've earned something.

Anyway, today also involved early-morning fasting for blood tests, which meant no breakfast.

And you know what happens when you combine fasting, scary medical news, postponed surgery, blood tests, and general existential irritation?

Apparently you order Ben & Jerry's for lunch.

Yes.

Lunch.

Ice cream.

I regret nothing.

Okay, technically I regret approximately 37% of it.

But at the time, I decided that if my body was going to behave like an unsupervised toddler with access to WebMD, I deserved approximately ten seconds of frozen dairy happiness.

I had every intention of having a sensible salad for dinner.

Then I finished eating and realized something hilarious.

I ate the ice cream.

I ate the salad.

And...

I LIKED THE SALAD BETTER.

WHO AM I?

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MOLLY?

CHECK THE CT SCAN AGAIN. MAYBE THAT'S WHERE THE REAL MYSTERY IS.

The even stranger part is that after the ice cream, I didn't want more.

Usually sugar has historically had this adorable little habit of whispering:

You know what would go beautifully with that ice cream?

MORE ICE CREAM.

But today?

Nope.

I was stuffed.

Completely full.

Beached-whale level full.

Like somebody needed to roll me gently toward the ocean while a concerned group of volunteers poured buckets of water over me.

And instead of craving another sweet thing, I thought:

I really don't want to order that again.

GOOD.

Progress!

Because I have decided that I need all the crap out of my life.

Apparently my body heard that and misunderstood the assignment because I meant metaphorical crap, BODY.

We did not need to start searching the premises.

But then I got home from my doctor's appointment.

And because apparently today's episode wasn't dramatic enough, my roommate had a severe emotional breakdown.

I'm deliberately leaving out the reason and the details of what happened because some things do not belong on the internet, and this is one of them.

I will simply say that it was serious.

Very serious.

The kind of serious where my funny little sarcastic narrator temporarily packed her suitcase and whispered:

Girl, I have nothing for this.

I was scared.

I was horrified.

And once again I found myself in the position of caretaker, crisis manager, supportive friend, wound bandager, emotional support human, and apparently unpaid employee of Please Everybody Stay Alive Incorporated.

And that is where the jokes get harder.

Because there's a strange kind of emotional prison that can happen when you feel responsible for what another person might do.

You start measuring every word.

Should I say this?

Should I stay quiet?

Will this upset her?

Can I disagree?

Can I leave?

What happens if I make the "wrong" decision?

And when your housing is tangled up in that relationship too?

Oh, fabulous.

Now we're playing Emotional Jenga: Homelessness Edition.

One wrong block and apparently the whole tower might come crashing down.

So, I bandaged wounds.

I tried to be supportive.

I smiled when I could.

I tried to be her friend.

And behind my caring eyes?

I was absolutely mortified.

That's the weird part people don't always understand.

You can care about someone and still be terrified by their behavior.

You can love somebody as a friend and still think:

I cannot keep living like this.

You can feel compassion for someone's pain without magically becoming equipped to carry all of it.

I don't have exact knowledge on how her mind works.

I have sarcasm.

They are not interchangeable credentials.

Unfortunately.

And with my surgery being postponed again, there's another thought sitting quietly underneath all of this:

I'm probably going to be here longer.

Yay!

Everybody throw confetti!

Actually don't.

Somebody would probably make me clean it up.

So yes, today was a lot.

Scary X-ray results.

More tests.

More waiting.

Another postponed surgery.

A frightening situation at home.

No breakfast.

Blood work.

Ice cream.

Salad.

And the shocking discovery that apparently salad defeated Ben & Jerry's in a fair fight.

Honestly, that may be today's biggest medical mystery.

But here's where I am tonight:

I don't know what that X-ray finding is yet.

So, I'm not going to give it a name it hasn't earned.

I'm going to get the CT scans.

I'm going to get the liver biopsy.

I'm going to keep going to the appointments.

I'm going to keep asking questions.

And someday, perhaps during the reign of our future robot overlords, I may even get those knees fixed.

Until then, I'm still here.

Still writing.

Still laughing at inappropriate times.

Still making terrible jokes.

Still finding tiny pieces of ridiculousness inside days that aren't particularly funny.

Because sometimes that's what humor is.

It isn't pretending something doesn't hurt.

It isn't pretending you're not scared.

It isn't painting a smile over something awful and calling everything wonderful.

Sometimes humor is just looking at an absolutely absurd pile of problems and saying:

“Seriously? ALL OF YOU came today? Nobody could reschedule?”

So tonight I'm going to appreciate one tiny victory.

I wanted the salad more than the ice cream.

Look at me.

Growing.

Evolving.

Becoming responsible.

Frankly, it's disgusting.

Tomorrow I may even drink extra water and start comparing insurance plans.

Somebody stop me before I become a fully functioning adult.

But for tonight?

I'm calling it.

Today has officially exceeded its recommended daily allowance of bullshit.

Office closed.

Please take all additional crises, medical mysteries, emotional catastrophes, questionable X-rays, postponed surgeries, surprise procedures, and general fuckery...

...and kindly leave them in the little basket by the door.

I'll get back to you never.

September 16, 2026

The Brady Bunch, Baseball Bats, and Apparently Whatever Else My Brain Is Doing Tonight…

I wonder what it would have been like to be raised as part of The Brady Bunch.

This is apparently what my brain has decided we need to investigate today. Not taxes. Not world peace. Not why fitted sheets turn into an enraged fabric octopus the second you put them in the dryer.

No.

The Brady Bunch.

And more specifically: Which Brady would I have been?

My first instinct is Alice.

I know Alice technically wasn't one of the children, but hear me out. Alice knew everybody's business, was perpetually cleaning up everybody else's crap, had sarcastic facial expressions before sarcastic facial expressions were even officially recognized as a language, and somehow survived living with six children, two adults, a dog, and approximately 42 pounds of polyester.

That woman deserved hazard pay.

But if I absolutely have to choose one of the Brady children, I'm going with Jan.

Yes.

Jan Brady.

A little tomboyish. A little awkward. A little nervous. A little envious. Occasionally overlooked. Frequently confused about why everyone was making such a huge damn deal about Marcia.

You know...

Marcia, Marcia, MARCIA!

Eventually even Jan seemed like she was thinking, You know what? Keep her. I'm going outside.

And I respect that.

Marcia always drove me nuts.

She had that whole "I have arrived and everyone may now begin admiring me" energy.

The hair.

The dresses.

The dramatic entrances.

The boys.

The way she walked around like the hallway itself had personally requested her appearance.

For a family-friendly television show, Marcia certainly had the confidence of a woman who knew exactly where every teenage boy within a twelve-mile radius was standing.

And those dresses!

Some of them ended approximately seventeen seconds after they started.

I'm not judging. I'm just saying if she bent over to pick up a pencil, NBC probably had to go to commercial.

And she flirted with EVERYBODY.

The mailman could have shown up and Marcia would've been like:

"Oh, Mr. Henderson... is that a package for me?"

Calm down, Marcia. It's the Sears catalog.

I also always got the feeling Marcia treated her sisters like they were contestants in a beauty pageant nobody else realized they had entered.

Meanwhile Jan was standing there thinking:

"Can I just eat my sandwich?"

THAT'S MY GIRL.

I identify much more with Jan.

I have anxiety. I have awkward moments. And I don't merely tolerate my dorkiness—I have landscaped it, installed patio furniture, and declared it my permanent residence.

Also, I'm saying it:

Jan had better hair.

There.

I said what I said.

Marcia's hair looked like a Pantene commercial.

Jan's looked like a Nexxus ad.

And I have always preferred Nexxus.

This is the kind of hard-hitting investigative journalism you come to this blog for.

Forget CNN.

We are comparing fictional 1970s teenage hair using shampoo brands.

Pulitzer committee, call me.

I also think being a little tomboyish is cooler anyway. You can hang out with the guys, joke around with them, climb trees, get dirty, and then—plot twist—you can also decide one of them is cute.

It's a very versatile business model.

If I actually lived in the Brady house, though, I'm pretty sure I would spend most of my time with Tiger, the dog.

Remember Tiger?

He occasionally appeared whenever the writers remembered the Bradys owned a dog.

One week: Tiger!

Next week: No Tiger.

Three episodes later: Tiger!

Then apparently Tiger entered the Witness Protection Program.

I would have found that dog and claimed him.

Actually, I probably would have slept in Tiger's doghouse just to get away from Marcia.

Mike Brady would come outside:

"Molly—Jan—whatever your name is, don't you want to sleep inside?"

No, Mr. Brady, I mean dad, I mean stepdad, I mean whoever you are.

Tiger doesn't talk about popularity, dating, school elections, or whose hair is shinier.

Tiger and I have boundaries.

I'd hang out with Cindy sometimes. Bobby too. Maybe Peter.

Cousin Oliver?

Absolutely not.

I realize violence is not the answer, but Cousin Oliver certainly made me want to beat him up a bit. Or just at least punch him in the face to shut him up from time to time.

And then there's Greg.

Or Craig.

For years I was never completely sure.

Apparently it was Greg.

He had enough confidence for both names anyway.

Greg Brady walked around like he had a record contract, three girlfriends, a Corvette, and a Vegas residency.

Then came Johnny Bravo.

Because apparently regular Greg could no longer contain all that Greg.

He required an alter ego.

I would've kept my distance.

Not because I disliked him.

Because his ego needed its own ZIP code and I didn't want to pay the toll to enter.

Alice and Sam, though?

Those would have been my surrogate parents.

I loved Alice.

Sam the Butcher seemed nice enough.

Plus, having a butcher in the family seems incredibly practical.

Thanksgiving emergency?

SAM.

Need steaks?

SAM.

Zombie apocalypse?

Sam.

Everybody laughed at Alice for dating the butcher until suddenly Sam controls the meat supply.

WHO'S LAUGHING NOW, MARCIA?

Mr. and Mrs. Brady were just too wholesome for me.

They were so calm.

Six children could be simultaneously having emotional breakdowns while the house was on fire and Mike Brady would sit everybody down and say:

"You know, kids, sometimes life gives us difficult choices."

SIR.

THE CURTAINS ARE BURNING.

Carol would just stand beside him smiling like:

"Your father's right."

NO, CAROL.

GET THE DAMN FIRE EXTINGUISHER!

Maybe I think about families like the Bradys because mine wasn't anything like that.

My childhood could be complicated, painful, ridiculous, funny, chaotic, and sometimes genuinely frightening.

And this is where the jokes stop for a moment.

I remember roller-skating in our basement when my brother began beating me with a metal baseball bat.

That wasn't sibling teasing. It wasn't a funny childhood squabble or one of those stories that becomes cute decades later. It was violence, and it was terrifying.

What has always stayed with me almost as much as the attack itself was what happened afterward: his punishment was being grounded, and later that same day my dad took him to a movie.

As a child, what are you supposed to do with that?

How do you make sense of being seriously hurt and then watching the person who hurt you go to the movies hours later?

There isn't a punchline for that part.

And maybe that's one reason my brain occasionally takes a completely ordinary thought like I wonder which Brady kid I'd be and suddenly opens a trapdoor into something that happened decades ago.

Memory is weird that way.

One minute I'm mentally giving Jan Brady a Nexxus endorsement deal.

The next minute I'm back in a basement wearing roller skates.

Then five minutes later I'm wondering where Tiger disappeared to.

WELCOME TO MY BRAIN.

There are no guided tours.

There is no map.

The gift shop is closed.

Maybe those fantasy questions—What if I'd grown up there? What if this had been different? What if I'd belonged to that family?—aren't as random as they seem.

Sometimes imagining another childhood is simply imagining another version of ourselves.

What would I have been like in that ridiculously enormous Brady house?

Would I have been less anxious?

Would I still have been the weird kid?

Would I have gotten into trouble?

Would Alice have understood me?

Would Tiger have let me sleep in the doghouse?

Would I eventually snap and hide all of Marcia's hairbrushes?

Okay, that last one is almost certainly yes.

But here's what I do know.

I wouldn't actually want to be Marcia.

Even if I could.

I'd still pick Jan.

Give me awkward.

Give me dorky.

Give me tomboyish.

Give me the kid standing slightly outside the spotlight wondering why everybody else is acting so damn weird.

Because the older I get, the more I appreciate the people who aren't desperately trying to be the star of every room.

Besides, Jan had character.

Marcia had hair.

And hair can be purchased.

Character takes longer.

Although judging by the amount of money I've spent on hair products throughout my life, apparently hair can also require a small business loan.

So, tonight's completely unnecessary conclusion is this:

If I had been a Brady, I'd have been Jan.

I'd have befriended Tiger.

I'd have annoyed Greg.

I'd have hidden from Marcia.

I'd have asked Alice to adopt me.

I'd have eaten whatever Sam brought over.

I'd have tolerated Cindy and Bobby.

I'd have questioned why nobody in that house ever seemed to lock a door.

And every time somebody yelled—

"MARCIA! MARCIA! MARCIA!"

—I would have yelled back:

"TIGER! TIGER! TIGER!"

Then I'd crawl into the doghouse with a snack, a book, and my superior Jan Brady hair.

Because apparently even in my imaginary 1970s television childhood...

I still need alone time.

September 17, 2026

Accountability, Karma, Kindness, Healing… and Other Things Humans Apparently Need Instructions For…

Today my brain has apparently decided to hold a staff meeting.

Nobody was invited.

There are no refreshments.

Someone forgot the PowerPoint.

And yet every department of my brain has shown up with a complaint, three observations about humanity, two emotional-support pets, and at least one question that probably cannot be answered without therapy, caffeine, or Oprah.

So here we go.

One thing I have learned—and apparently keep having to learn because life enjoys reruns—is this:

You cannot mistreat someone and then act like they betrayed you when they react to being mistreated.

Yet people do this ALL THE TIME.

They hurt you. You say, “Hey, that hurt me.”

And suddenly you are the problem.

Excuse me?

That's like stepping on my foot and then becoming offended because I yelled, “OW!”

“Well, Molly, I really don't appreciate your tone.”

MY TONE?

YOU ARE PARKED ON MY PINKY TOE, BARBARA.

Maybe remove your orthopedic loafer from my metatarsals and then we can discuss my communication style.

This is actually a very damaging pattern. When someone consistently focuses on your reaction while refusing to acknowledge what caused that reaction, accountability gets turned completely upside down. It can leave you questioning whether you're allowed to be hurt, angry, disappointed, or frustrated at all.

You are.

That doesn't mean every reaction we have is automatically healthy. We are still responsible for how we respond. But there is an enormous difference between taking responsibility for your response and accepting responsibility for somebody else's original behavior.

Those are two different bills.

Do not pay both.

I have been around versions of this behavior for much of my life, and I think that is why I have become somebody who calls things out.

Which brings me to another thought:

Disliking me is completely valid.

Seriously.

You are allowed.

Maybe I called you out on something you didn't want called out.

Maybe everybody around you enables your behavior while I'm sitting in the corner holding a tiny imaginary clipboard going, “Ummm… are we all just pretending this is normal?”

Or maybe you're perfectly lovely and simply don't like me.

That's okay too.

Not everybody has to like everybody.

There are people who don't like chocolate.

Clearly humanity has bigger problems than me.

What I am tired of is enabling.

Supporting someone and enabling someone are not the same thing.

Parents, this especially matters when raising children. Loving your child doesn't mean shielding them from every consequence, fixing every mistake, excusing every bad decision, or convincing them that everyone else is always the problem.

Eventually little Timmy becomes 43-year-old Timothy, and Timothy is standing in somebody's kitchen absolutely bewildered that actions have consequences because Mom has spent four decades chasing consequences away with a broom.

“Not my baby!”

Ma'am, your baby has a mortgage and lower-back pain.

Let him learn.

Healthy support says, “I love you, and I believe you can handle this.”

Enabling says, “I love you, so I will handle this for you forever.”

One builds somebody up.

The other can accidentally keep them dependent.

And yes, I realize there are exceptions. People need help. Adults sometimes struggle. Life can kick perfectly responsible people squarely in the pants. Supporting somebody through a hard season is beautiful.

I'm talking about repeatedly rescuing someone from the consequences of their own choices and then wondering why they never learn to make different choices.

You cannot learn to ride a bicycle if Mom is still running behind you holding the seat when you're 37.

At some point, Mom needs a nap.

Then there's karma.

Oh, karma.

My occasionally delightful, occasionally terrifying little cosmic accountant.

I keep thinking about this:

Every lie you spread to tear somebody down becomes a debt you may eventually have to pay—with interest.

Now, I don't know whether karma literally works like a supernatural credit bureau.

Maybe somewhere in the universe there's a tiny spiritual accountant wearing bifocals:

“Let's see… lied about Susan… minus twelve. Helped elderly gentleman with groceries… plus seven. Stole Karen's yogurt from the office refrigerator…”

AUDIT.

But I do believe behavior has consequences.

If you repeatedly lie, manipulate, mistreat people, burn bridges, create drama, or refuse accountability, eventually your world may start reflecting those choices back at you.

And sometimes people call that being cursed.

Sometimes I want to gently whisper:

“Have we considered the possibility that the universe isn't targeting you personally and perhaps there are… patterns?”

Just patterns.

Tiny little patterns.

Wearing neon signs.

Playing trumpets.

Marching through the living room.

Nothing obvious.

I sometimes watch people treat others in ways I wouldn't recommend and then become genuinely confused when their relationships explode like microwaved aluminum foil.

But you cannot force self-awareness onto somebody.

Trust me.

I've tried.

Apparently yelling “BECOME SELF-AWARE!” doesn't activate anything.

Very disappointing.

Another thing I have realized is that one of the most attractive qualities a person can possess has very little to do with appearance.

It's effort.

Effort is sexy.

There. I said it.

And I don't mean only romantically.

Friends. Family. Partners. Coworkers. Anyone.

There is something beautiful about somebody who genuinely wants to talk to you, see you, check on you, include you, remember something you said, or carve five minutes out of their day because you matter to them.

People are busy.

Life is busy.

Sometimes we're all hanging on by one emotional paperclip and a granola bar.

But effort matters.

If you want people to feel that they matter to you, make them feel like they matter.

Text them.

Call them.

Listen.

Remember the thing.

Ask about the appointment.

Celebrate the little victory.

Send the stupid meme.

Especially send the stupid meme.

Sometimes love looks like a grand romantic gesture.

Sometimes friendship looks like:

“This raccoon stealing a taco reminded me of you.”

Both are valid forms of affection.

You reap what you sow.

I think that's the saying.

Plant attention, kindness, loyalty, encouragement and effort, and you're much more likely to grow meaningful relationships.

Plant absolutely nothing and then stand in the dirt screaming, “WHY ISN'T THERE CORN?”

Well.

We have identified the agricultural issue.

Which brings me to kindness.

Be kind. Practice grace. Listen. See the good. Take action.

The world needs you.

Kindness really isn't complicated.

It doesn't require money.

It doesn't require a degree.

There is no kindness licensing board.

You don't have to complete 600 hours of supervised kindness and pass the State Board of Niceness.

You just have to remember there's another human being standing in front of you.

Sometimes kindness requires biting your tongue.

Occasionally very hard.

Possibly until your eyes water.

But kindness does not mean becoming a doormat.

That's important.

You can be kind and still have boundaries.

You can be compassionate and still say no.

You can understand why somebody behaves badly without volunteering to be the person they behave badly at.

That sentence took me years to understand.

As for grace, I used to think practicing grace sounded like something requiring excellent posture, white gloves and the ability to walk across a ballroom without tripping over a decorative fern.

But grace, in this context, is more about treating people with patience, dignity and compassion—even when things are messy.

It can mean giving somebody room to be imperfect without immediately condemning them.

Including yourself.

So apparently grace does not require balancing a book on your head.

Excellent.

Because I would have failed.

Although I still maintain that not burping loudly during an elegant dinner probably earns at least three grace points.

And then there is taking action.

Stand up for what you believe.

Speak when something matters.

But learn how to do it thoughtfully.

Anger can get attention, but an educated argument can get somewhere.

Know what you're talking about.

Ask questions.

Listen to the answers.

Take responsibility when you're wrong.

Change your mind when better information comes along.

Being strong doesn't mean being the loudest person in the room.

Sometimes strength is saying:

“I didn't know that.”

“I was wrong.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Tell me more.”

Those tiny sentences require more backbone than some twenty-minute screaming matches I've witnessed.

And please remember this:

The world needs you.

Yes, you.

You might need to grow.

You might need to change.

Congratulations, you're human.

Please collect your complimentary emotional baggage at Carousel 4.

We're all works in progress.

But there is something you bring into another person's life that nobody else can bring in exactly the same way.

Maybe you make somebody laugh for five seconds on the worst day they've had all year.

Maybe you listen.

Maybe you notice.

Maybe you encourage somebody when they're ready to quit.

Maybe you create something.

Maybe you simply sit beside somebody so they aren't alone.

Five seconds counts.

Never underestimate five seconds of kindness.

I also came across a thought that hit me particularly hard:

Survival required you to become many things. Healing lets you decide which ones you still want to be.

Now THAT will make you stare at a wall for a while.

When we're surviving, we develop habits that protect us.

We become guarded.

Hyper-independent.

Quiet.

Loud.

Suspicious.

Funny.

People-pleasing.

Defensive.

Detached.

Whatever helped us get through.

And sometimes those traits really did save us.

But healing eventually asks a different question:

Do I still need this?

Maybe I needed this armor once.

Do I need to wear it to breakfast now?

Maybe I needed walls.

Do they still need to be twelve feet high with a moat, three alligators and a security guard named Steve?

Healing doesn't mean pretending nothing happened.

It means deciding what you're taking with you.

I hope mental strength is one thing I always keep.

The fear?

The constant expectation of disaster?

The need to explain myself to people committed to misunderstanding me?

Those can stay behind.

They don't even get luggage.

People love saying:

“Everything happens for a reason.”

Okay.

When do we get to know the reason?

Is there paperwork to fill out?

Does it arrive by mail?

“Dear Molly, regarding that traumatic nonsense from 2008, please find enclosed your explanation. We apologize for the 18-year processing delay.”

Because there are things that have happened in my life that I still do not understand.

Maybe I learned something from them.

Maybe they changed me.

Maybe someday I will look backward and see connections I cannot see today.

And maybe some painful things simply happened because life is unpredictable and human beings have free will and occasionally make spectacularly awful decisions.

I don't think we have to romanticize every painful experience to heal from it.

Sometimes the lesson isn't “This happened for a beautiful reason.”

Sometimes the lesson is simply:

“This happened. I survived it. Now what do I want to do with the person I became?”

I like that better.

I am currently in a living situation that can feel emotionally unpredictable, so I often feel like I have to choose my words carefully and keep the peace more than I'd like. I don't know yet what grand lesson I'm supposed to learn from that.

Perhaps there isn't a grand lesson.

Perhaps the lesson is boundaries.

Perhaps it's patience.

Perhaps it's recognizing what I don't want in my future.

Perhaps it's learning that peace is something worth building toward.

Or perhaps the universe will eventually send me a memo.

Preferably laminated.

Then people say:

“Your life is only as good as the people you choose to surround yourself with. Surround yourself with good souls.”

Oh sure.

Excellent advice.

I'll get right on that.

SNAP.

Look! I'm having brunch with Oprah and Michelle Obama!

That is not how life works.

We don't always have complete freedom over who surrounds us.

Family exists.

Coworkers exist.

Financial circumstances exist.

Housing circumstances exist.

Caregiving exists.

Dependency exists.

Life gets complicated.

Sometimes leaving unhealthy relationships or environments takes money, transportation, housing, physical ability, emotional strength, planning, support, or all of the above.

So, I think better advice is:

When you have choices, choose people who bring honesty, kindness, accountability and peace into your life. When you don't have immediate choices, protect as much of your peace as you safely can while working toward better choices.

That feels more realistic.

Because telling somebody trapped in a difficult circumstance to “just surround yourself with better people” is about as helpful as telling somebody who is broke to “just surround yourself with money.”

Fantastic.

Why didn't I think of that?

And finally:

You learn an awful lot about people when they don't get what they want.

OH YES YOU DO.

Watch somebody hear the word no.

Suddenly you're watching a live-action personality test.

You learn their patience.

Their tolerance.

Their temper.

Their entitlement.

Their ability to compromise.

Their respect for boundaries.

Their emotional maturity.

Sometimes somebody gets the wrong color gumball from a vending machine and reacts like NATO needs to assemble.

“BUT I WANTED RED!”

Sir.

You are 46.

It is grape.

We will rebuild.

Disappointment is part of being alive.

Emotionally healthy people can be disappointed without punishing everybody around them for it.

They can hear no.

They can lose.

They can wait.

They can compromise.

They can be frustrated without turning frustration into cruelty.

None of us does this perfectly. I certainly don't.

Sometimes I'm mature and thoughtful.

Sometimes I'm internally arguing with an appliance.

Growth is a spectrum.

Maybe that's what all these random thoughts have in common.

Accountability.

How we treat people matters.

How we react matters.

How we love matters.

How we apologize matters.

Who we become after being hurt matters.

Being wounded does not give us permission to wound everyone else.

Being kind does not require us to tolerate cruelty.

Supporting someone does not require enabling them.

Forgiving someone does not require giving them unlimited access to us.

Healing does not require forgetting.

Strength does not require hardness.

And boundaries do not make us mean.

Maybe we're all just traveling around carrying invisible bags filled with childhood, heartbreak, mistakes, trauma, lessons, victories, weird coping mechanisms, unanswered questions and approximately fourteen receipts we absolutely do not need anymore.

The goal isn't to pretend the bag is empty.

The goal is to occasionally open the damn thing and ask:

“Do I still need to carry this?”

Keep the wisdom.

Keep the humor.

Keep the strength.

Keep the compassion.

Keep the people who make an effort.

Keep learning.

Keep practicing kindness.

Keep practicing grace—even if you're still not entirely sure whether you're doing it correctly.

And get rid of whatever you safely can that keeps you trapped in a version of yourself built only for survival.

We're all healing.

We're all learning.

We're all occasionally ridiculous.

And apparently some of us are still having emotional breakdowns over the wrong color gumball.

But tomorrow gives us another chance to do a little better.

To listen a little more.

To react a little less.

To love a little louder.

To take responsibility.

To make somebody feel important.

To make somebody laugh for five seconds.

And maybe—just maybe—to become the kind of person we once desperately needed someone else to be.

That seems like a pretty good reason to keep going.

Even if the universe still owes me several explanations.

And interest.

September 18, 2026

I Tried Online Dating… But It Didn’t Click…

Online dating is the worst.

There. I said it.

And somewhere, a man holding a fish in his profile picture just felt a disturbance in the universe.

I tried online dating way back when online dating was practically powered by a hamster running inside your computer. I’m talking Yahoo dating days. It was so long ago that you couldn't even upload a picture of yourself.

Think about that.

You had to choose someone based on their WORDS.

Their personality.

Their conversation skills.

Their ability to form sentences.

My God.

THE HORROR!

You couldn't just swipe left because somebody was holding a dead trout while wearing sunglasses, camouflage shorts, and a facial expression suggesting he had recently lost a custody battle with a lawn mower.

You actually had to TALK.

Of course, people lied then too.

Oh, did they lie!

Apparently, the internet was invented and humanity immediately said:

"Wonderful! Now I can pretend to be six-foot-three!"

Men who were 5'7" became 6'1".

People who were separated became "basically divorced."

People who lived with their mothers were "temporarily helping family."

People who were unemployed were "entrepreneurs."

And everybody loved hiking.

Everybody.

According to dating profiles, approximately 97% of the population spends every waking moment hiking, kayaking, traveling, working out, drinking wine on mountaintops, rescuing puppies and laughing spontaneously on beaches.

Meanwhile, I'm pretty sure half of these people consider walking from the couch to the refrigerator an outdoor activity.

And the profile pictures now?

Sweet Jesus riding a bicycle.

Why is every third man holding a fish?

WHAT IS THE FISH SUPPOSED TO TELL ME?

"Hello, ladies. As you can see, I have successfully captured this bass. Imagine what I could do with your heart."

No.

Put Gerald the Bass back in the lake.

Then there's the bathroom mirror selfie.

Nothing says romance like a toilet visible over your left shoulder.

Bonus points if the toilet seat is up.

Extra bonus points if there's a mysterious towel on the floor that appears to have been there since the Bush administration.

And why are there always sunglasses?

Seven pictures.

Sunglasses in all seven.

Sir, am I dating you or entering the Witness Protection Program?

Then there's the guy whose profile has six pictures and five different men in every picture.

WHICH ONE ARE YOU?

This isn't Where's Waldo: Tinder Edition.

Then you finally figure out which one he is because he's conveniently standing next to his much hotter friend in every photograph.

That's just bad advertising.

McDonald's doesn't put a picture of a filet mignon next to the McNuggets.

Know your marketing strategy.

And let's discuss the ancient profile picture.

You meet the person and realize the photograph was apparently taken during the Reagan administration.

"You don't look like your picture."

Of course he doesn't.

HE WAS 17 IN THE PICTURE. HE HAS GRANDCHILDREN NOW.

That picture has been through three presidents, two mortgages and a Blockbuster membership.

Women do it too.

Filters have gotten so advanced that some dating profiles look like people are trying to date as animated Disney woodland creatures.

No pores.

No wrinkles.

No nose.

Just two enormous eyes, eyelashes capable of creating windstorms, and skin smoother than freshly poured pudding.

Then you meet in person and spend twenty minutes wondering whether you're at the wrong table.

I'm not against flattering pictures.

Please.

If I find lighting that makes me look fabulous, I will defend that lamp with my LIFE.

But there should at least be enough resemblance that the other person doesn't need dental records to identify you.

Back when I tried online dating, the bigger problem for me was that everybody seemed to be dating everybody.

I wanted something serious.

I had a child. My first husband had passed away. I had a career and a family. I wasn't looking for twelve men named Chad, Brad, Tad and Possibly Married Dave.

I wanted one person.

One.

Apparently, this was unreasonable.

Because online dating created this strange mentality that even when you met somebody you liked, you still needed to keep looking.

"You're wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, funny, and we have incredible chemistry…but somebody three miles away also likes tacos."

Well, shit.

I can't compete with tacos.

Go.

Be free.

May you and Taco Tammy have a beautiful life together.

I had a few relationships that lasted a few months, but there always seemed to be this invisible revolving door.

Nobody wanted to stop clicking long enough to see what they already had.

Because what if the NEXT profile was better?

What if she's prettier?

Funnier?

Thinner?

Richer?

What if he has a better job?

Better car?

Better abs?

A bigger boat?

A LARGER FISH?

THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS!

And I think that mentality ruined dating for me a little.

When people start viewing other human beings like Amazon products, everybody becomes replaceable.

"I really like this one, but let me check the reviews and see if there's another model with free shipping."

Romance is alive and well, people.

I did eventually meet my current husband online, but not through a dating site.

We met on social media.

Myspace, actually.

Yes.

MYSPACE.

Please respect your elders.

Tom was everybody's friend and apparently also my accidental matchmaker.

There was no membership fee, no swiping and no algorithm screaming, "MOLLY! WE FOUND A 92% MATCH WHO ENJOYS BREATHING AND FOOD!"

I wasn't looking for a relationship.

We just talked.

Emails became DMs.

DMs became phone calls.

We communicated for months before we ever met.

We actually got to know each other.

Imagine that revolutionary dating strategy:

Talking to someone.

Someone alert science.

And social media can still be fun.

I've made friends online. I've met wonderful people online.

But good Lord, some people treat Facebook like a singles bar with pictures of your grandmother mixed in.

You post:

"Beautiful sunset tonight."

And suddenly some man 6,000 miles away messages:

HELLO BEAUTIFUL DEAR.

Oh no.

Here we go.

"Where are you from?"

My profile literally says Kentucky.

"Are you married?"

My profile literally says married.

"Do you have WhatsApp?"

And there it is.

The mating call of the internet.

Then, somehow, despite living on another continent, having exchanged six words with you and knowing absolutely nothing about you, he's deeply offended that you don't want to date him.

 

Sir.

I don't even know your last name.

You could be three raccoons operating one Facebook account.

And these days there seems to be an awful lot of:

"Send me a pic."

You have pictures.

"No, a special pic."

Oh.

You want a nude.

Sure.

Let me just photograph myself naked and send it to a stranger who couldn't even be bothered to correctly spell the word "you."

What could possibly go wrong?

Apparently, some people aren't looking for relationships anymore.

They're building digital spank banks.

How romantic.

Shakespeare would be so proud.

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Also, send boobs."

I miss relationships.

Actual relationships.

Friendship.

Partnership.

Caring about somebody's day.

Knowing how they take their coffee.

Laughing at stupid things.

Sitting together doing absolutely nothing and still enjoying it.

Having someone you can call when everything falls apart.

Someone who actually wants to know what you're thinking instead of pretending to listen while calculating how many minutes until your pants come off.

For me, there has to be a connection.

If you can't even have a conversation with me, I sure as hell am keeping my clothes on.

I don't care how expensive that Cantina Bowl was.

And gentlemen, please understand this:

A Taco Bell drive-thru followed by dinner in the front seat of your brother's borrowed car does not automatically unlock the Sex Expansion Pack.

"But Molly, I bought you a Baja Blast."

Control yourself, Romeo.

I briefly joined the asexual dating crowd.

And honestly?

It was nice.

I dated.

I talked.

I held hands.

I got hugs.

There was some couch cuddling during movies.

A kiss on the cheek here and there.

Nobody acted like buying dinner entitled them to access to my underpants.

It was comfortable.

Peaceful.

I made friends, including some lasting friendships.

And the people I met knew exactly where I stood. I was separated. I wasn't looking to settle down again. I wasn't pretending to be asexual. I knew it wasn't going to be my forever community because I do want passion.

I just want passion with the right person.

Because when somebody is already stuck in your heart, it's difficult to manufacture those feelings for somebody else.

At least it is for me.

So, I cuddled.

I hugged.

I watched movies.

I went on actual dinner dates that involved restaurants with chairs and cars that were not borrowed from someone's brother.

Look at me getting fancy.

And I learned something.

I don't hate dating because I hate romance.

It's actually the opposite.

I hate what dating can become when romance gets replaced by shopping.

I want chemistry.

I want friendship.

I want laughter.

I want conversation.

I want somebody who wants to know my mind before requesting pictures of my ass.

Apparently, I am demanding.

I want someone who isn't constantly wondering whether somebody "better" is one swipe away.

Because people aren't profiles.

They're not products.

They're not a collection of filtered photographs and hobbies selected from a drop-down menu.

And relationships aren't supposed to feel like you're competing in an endless audition against every person within a 50-mile radius who also enjoys tacos and "adventures."

I don't need perfection.

God knows I couldn't live up to that either.

I just want genuine.

Give me weird.

Give me flawed.

Give me sarcastic.

Give me someone who occasionally looks like they were attacked by their pillow overnight.

Give me somebody who can have a conversation.

Give me someone who laughs.

Give me somebody who actually shows up.

Just please…

For the love of everything holy…

PUT THE FISH DOWN.

We believe you.

You went fishing.

Congratulations.

Gerald the Bass and I wish you the very best.

September 19, 2026

When Someone Can’t Control You Anymore… and Apparently Their Brain Files a Formal Complaint

There are some people in this world who are perfectly lovely—as long as everything is going their way.

Agree with them? Wonderful.

Do what they want? You're fantastic.

Never question them? Best friends forever!

Tell them no?

Well.

Suddenly we're starring in an episode of Everybody Has Lost Their Damn Minds.

And unfortunately, most of us probably know at least one person who has some of these behaviors.

Maybe it's a partner.

Maybe it's a parent.

Maybe it's a sibling.

Maybe it's a friend.

Maybe it's a roommate.

Maybe it's somebody you work with who turns a disagreement over the office coffee pot into a three-part Netflix documentary about how you have personally destroyed their life.

And before we go any further, an important little disclaimer:

Someone can behave in narcissistic, controlling, manipulative, or abusive ways without having Narcissistic Personality Disorder. That's an actual mental-health diagnosis, and we're not handing those out today like Halloween candy.

We're talking about behavior.

Because you don't need to know somebody's diagnosis to know that screaming, threatening, intimidating, manipulating, humiliating, frightening, or hurting another person isn't okay.

That's the part that matters.

What Happens When a Controlling Person Starts Losing Control?

Sometimes everything seems relatively peaceful while you're doing what the other person wants.

Then one day you commit the unforgivable crime of saying:

"No."

Or:

"That hurt my feelings."

Or:

"Please don't speak to me like that."

Or the truly scandalous:

"I deserve respect too."

GASP.

Fetch the smelling salts.

For a person who feels entitled to control other people, a boundary can feel like an attack.

But it isn't.

A boundary is basically a fence around your emotional yard.

It says:

This is my property. Please stop driving your emotional monster truck through the petunias.

Some controlling people don't like boundaries because boundaries mean they aren't getting their way anymore.

And that's when the behavior can get worse.

The Anger Explosion

Sometimes a person who feels that they're losing control becomes extremely angry.

They might yell.

They might insult you.

They might threaten you.

They might slam things, break things, punch things, throw things, or behave physically aggressively.

They may suddenly become much scarier than the person you thought you knew.

And here's something adults sometimes need explained as simply as we explain things to children:

Being angry is okay. Scaring or hurting people because you're angry is not.

You may be furious because somebody ate your leftover pizza.

You may privately imagine holding a tiny funeral service for that beautiful pepperoni slice.

But you don't get to terrorize the household.

Feelings are allowed.

Abuse isn't.

Gaslighting: "That Never Happened!"

Gaslighting is when someone repeatedly tries to make you doubt what you saw, heard, experienced, or remember.

You say:

"You screamed at me."

They say:

"I DID NOT SCREAM!"

Possibly while screaming.

Interesting presentation, Susan.

Or they tell you:

"You're too sensitive."

"You're imagining things."

"You're crazy."

"That never happened."

"I was only joking."

"You made me do it."

After enough of this, you can start wondering whether you're the problem.

That's one reason manipulation can be so powerful.

Baiting: Poke, Poke, Poke… "LOOK HOW CRAZY YOU ARE!"

Another trick is provoking somebody until they finally react.

Imagine somebody poking you.

Poke.

Poke.

Poke.

Poke.

Poke.

Finally you yell:

"STOP POKING ME!"

And they announce:

"See how angry you are?!"

Excuse me?

We have apparently misplaced the first seventeen pokes.

That's why it's important to look at the whole interaction instead of judging only the final reaction.

Playing the Victim

This one can make your brain want to crawl out of your ear and hitchhike to another state.

Sometimes a person hurts you, you finally object to being hurt, and somehow five minutes later you're apologizing to them.

You entered the conversation saying:

"That thing you did really hurt me."

Forty minutes later you're saying:

"I'm sorry I brought it up."

How did we get here?

Did we take an emotional Uber?

Manipulative people sometimes shift the conversation away from what they did and toward how terrible you supposedly are for reacting to it.

Accountability disappears faster than cookies at a kindergarten party.

Isolation

Controlling people may also dislike the people who support you.

Suddenly your friend is "a bad influence."

Your family "doesn't understand."

The person who tells you that you deserve better is conveniently declared "toxic."

Funny how that works.

Healthy relationships generally don't require you to throw away everyone else you love in order to prove your loyalty.

A person who loves you should not need to become the entire population of your emotional planet.

Smear Campaigns

Then there's the dreaded:

"Fine! I'll tell everyone what you're REALLY like!"

Some people recruit an audience.

Friends.

Family.

Coworkers.

Neighbors.

Facebook.

Possibly the mailman, the cashier at Walmart, three squirrels, and some woman named Linda who was just trying to buy shampoo.

Suddenly everybody is getting their version of the story.

Why?

Because if they can control the story, they may feel like they can control how everyone sees you.

You don't always have to chase every rumor.

Sometimes protecting your peace is more important than winning a trial you never agreed to attend.

The Silent Treatment

Silence itself isn't abusive.

Sometimes people genuinely need space to cool down.

That's healthy.

But deliberately withholding communication to punish someone, frighten them, or force them to give in is something different.

There's a big difference between:

"I'm upset and need an hour to calm down."

and:

"I'm going to ignore you until you're desperate enough to surrender."

One is taking space.

The other can become manipulation.

And Yes, Abuse Can Happen Outside Romantic Relationships

This one matters.

People hear "abusive relationship" and immediately picture a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, or wife.

But abusive behavior can happen between friends.

Relatives.

Roommates.

Caregivers.

Coworkers.

Basically anywhere humans interact, because apparently humanity did not come with the instruction manual it desperately needed.

You don't have to be romantically involved with someone for their behavior to frighten, control, intimidate, or emotionally damage you.

And you don't have to minimize it because:

"But she's my friend."

"But he's family."

"But we've known each other forever."

"But she loves me."

Love does not magically turn frightening behavior into acceptable behavior.

"But They're Nice Sometimes."

This is where things get confusing.

A person can be hilarious on Monday, helpful Tuesday, loving Wednesday, terrifying Thursday, apologetic Friday, and back to wonderful Saturday.

And your brain goes:

BUT SATURDAY WAS SO NICE!

Yes.

Saturday can be nice.

Thursday still happened.

Good moments don't erase harmful ones.

That's one of the hardest things to understand when you care about somebody.

You don't have to hate someone to recognize that their behavior is hurting you.

Those two thoughts can exist in the same brain.

The brain has room.

Mine stores song lyrics from 1987, several hundred useless facts, approximately forty-seven puns, and things I should have said during arguments in 2003.

There's room.

If This Sounds Familiar, You're Not Alone

Maybe you've spent years thinking:

Why do I keep meeting people like this?

Why do I keep giving people another chance?

Why do I see the good in someone long after everybody else is screaming, "RUN, FORREST, RUN!"?

People who are compassionate, forgiving, helpful, or highly empathetic can sometimes stay in unhealthy relationships longer because they keep trying to understand the other person's pain.

Understanding someone is wonderful.

But understanding why someone hurts you doesn't mean you have to keep volunteering to be hurt.

Compassion needs boundaries.

Otherwise compassion can turn into a giant neon sign that says:

FREE EMOTIONAL LABOR. OPEN 24 HOURS. NO APPOINTMENT NECESSARY.

No.

We're closing early.

So, What Can You Actually Do?

Start small.

Trust patterns, not promises.

Stay connected to people you trust.

Write things down if situations leave you confused about what happened.

Learn what healthy boundaries look like.

Don't let somebody convince you that having boundaries makes you cruel.

And if someone becomes threatening or physically violent, treat that seriously. Your job in that moment isn't to diagnose them, fix them, teach them a lesson, or win the argument.

Your job is safety.

Get distance when you safely can and reach out to someone trustworthy or appropriate professional support.

Because here's the simplest sentence in this entire ridiculously long ramble:

You are allowed to feel safe around the people in your life.

Friendship isn't supposed to terrify you.

Family isn't supposed to control you.

Love isn't supposed to require surrendering your dignity.

And "that's just how they are" isn't a lifetime permission slip for someone to mistreat everybody around them.

One Last Thing…

If you've been dealing with someone like this, please don't spend tonight beating yourself up because you didn't recognize it sooner.

Manipulation would be a pretty terrible manipulation technique if it arrived wearing a name tag that said:

HELLO! I AM HERE TO MANIPULATE YOU!

People are complicated.

Relationships are complicated.

Sometimes people we genuinely love behave in ways that genuinely hurt us.

The goal isn't to diagnose everyone who annoys us.

The goal isn't to start calling every ex, friend, relative, coworker, neighbor, roommate, and mildly irritating cashier a narcissist.

The goal is simpler:

Notice how people treat you.

Believe patterns.

Keep your boundaries.

Stay connected to people who make you feel safe.

And remember that being kind doesn't require being somebody's emotional punching bag.

You can have compassion and boundaries.

You can love somebody and still say no.

You can understand somebody's pain without allowing them to create yours.

And if somebody gets furious because you've finally learned how to say "I deserve respect"…

Well…

Maybe the boundary isn't the problem.

Maybe it's just finally doing its job.

And if you're sitting there reading this thinking, Holy crap, I thought I was the only one dealing with this…

You're not.

Not even close.

There are a whole bunch of us out here trying to be loving, compassionate human beings while simultaneously learning that being nice and being a doormat are two entirely different career paths.

I'm officially retiring from the second one.

The benefits were terrible anyway.

September 22, 2026

My Knees Are on Strike, There Are Kittens Everywhere, and Apparently I Live in a Medical Supply Store…

Well, today was supposed to be THE DAY.

My first knee surgery.

The beginning of my triumphant journey back toward walking! Independence! Mobility! Possibly dramatically strutting into a room someday while inspirational music plays in the background!

But apparently my knees have signed some sort of exclusive contract with Delays-R-Us, because my surgery has been postponed.

Again.

Until next week.

Will I ever walk again?

At this rate, I should probably start learning how to walk on my hands. Sure, it might be inconvenient, but think about the upper-body strength. By 2027 I'll have shoulders like a professional wrestler and absolutely no idea where to put my purse.

I already went to the required pre-surgery class where they explain everything you're going to need during recovery.

And HOLY MEDICAL EQUIPMENT, BATMAN!

Apparently, I am not getting a new knee.

Apparently, I am being converted into a small regional hospital.

There are pumping sock things.

There's some sort of ice-pack-air-generator contraption.

There's a stretching thing.

There's a pulling thing.

There are probably three other things whose names I forgot because halfway through the class my brain simply whispered, We're not retaining any more appliances today.

Then there's the walker.

And physical therapy.

And exercises.

And recovery.

And approximately 47 gadgets that make it sound like I'm preparing to rebuild my knee in my living room using equipment ordered from NASA.

Then, after about four months, I should be doing pretty darn well.

HOORAY!

Except then...

WE DO THE OTHER KNEE.

Because why go through something once when you can purchase the sequel?

Knee Surgery II: Revenge of the Kneecap.

Basically, between both surgeries and recovery, we're talking about close to an entire year of my life.

Had these surgeries not been postponed so many times, I'd already be much farther along. I could practically be heading toward Knee Number Two by now.

Instead, Knee Number One is apparently standing backstage screaming, "I'M NOT READY! GIVE ME ANOTHER WEEK!"

Sir.

You have had YEARS.

Get on stage.

Meanwhile, in the Romance Department...

I got another letter from Scott yesterday.

He seems to be doing all right, considering where he is right now, and I'm glad about that.

We seem to be growing closer as friends again, and maybe there's something more there too. I don't think you can really know that part until you're actually able to spend time together face-to-face.

Letters can tell you a lot.

But eventually you need to be sitting across from someone and discover whether the connection is still there when you're both occupying the same room and one of you is chewing too loudly.

That's romance, people.

I did send him one of those paid email things that goes into the prison system, but I haven't gotten a response and it's been almost a week. I even sent a prepaid email stamp so he could write back.

Did he get it?

Did it disappear?

Is it sitting somewhere in electronic purgatory? I don’t know but so far I have had no response to it.

Did a computer eat it?

No idea.

So, for now, snail mail it is.

And actually?

I kind of like it.

There's something romantic about getting a handwritten letter.

Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but seeing someone's actual handwriting feels different. Somebody sat down, held a pen, thought about what they wanted to say, wrote it out, folded it up, put it in an envelope and sent those thoughts directly to you.

No autocorrect.

No emojis.

No accidentally hitting "send" halfway through a sentence.

Just handwriting.

It's sweet.

It's personal.

It's old-school.

And apparently so am I.

Excuse me while I go churn butter and wait beside the mailbox.

And Speaking of Mail...

I've been getting quite a few emails lately from people who have read my blog and my books since I started this site, and I really want to say:

THANK YOU.

Seriously.

Thank you for your kind words.

Thank you for your interesting questions.

Thank you for taking a few minutes out of your own life to send some encouragement into me.

You never really know what somebody is dealing with behind the screen, and sometimes a simple message saying, "Hey, I enjoy what you write," can arrive exactly when someone needs to hear it.

I've received some incredibly comforting messages.

I even received an anonymous warning about a certain "friend" in my life.

And to that anonymous person:

Thank you.

Also...

Oh, I know.

Believe me.

I KNOW.

Sometimes life puts you in situations where you can't immediately change everything, so you figure out how to survive the situation until you can.

I'm usually someone who tries to make things better rather than escalate them, which occasionally means I sugarcoat the absolute living crap out of things just to keep the peace.

At this point, I have enough sugarcoating experience to professionally frost wedding cakes.

Sometimes peace is worth choosing your battles.

And sometimes you're quietly working toward a different future while smiling politely and thinking:

One day this is going to make a fantastic chapter.

AND NOW... KITTENS!

Because apparently my life needed more plot twists.

We have new kittens again!

A few nights ago, one of my roommate's cats had another litter, and these babies belong to her cat so if you read my books you will understand when I say, I have high hopes for these kittens and if you do not read my books. Sorry, no hints…

So, everybody cross your fingers, toes, shoelaces and whatever else you have available.

These little potatoes need all the good luck they can get.

Eventually they'll be rehomed, but my roommate is keeping one...

And I'm keeping one.

Because apparently I looked at my life and thought:

You know what this situation needs? Another cat.

I've already named mine Cinnamon because she's the exact color of cinnamon mixed with sugar.

I think she's a girl.

She's only a few days old, so I'm not signing any legal paperwork on that yet.

For now, she's Cinnamon.

If Cinnamon eventually turns out to be a boy?

Still Cinnamon.

Cinnamon is a gender-neutral spice.

Problem solved.

I'm hoping she gets along with Ziggy because they'll basically be sisters.

Then I'll have two cats.

TWO.

That's my limit.

I am not opening a zoo.

My roommate is the animal fanatic around here.

Me?

Two cats.

Perfect.

There are already entirely too many birds in this house for my personal taste. I don't need my home sounding like I've accidentally moved into the Amazon rainforest.

But hey...

To each their own.

Some people enjoy peaceful silence.

Some people enjoy SQUAAAAWK SQUAAAAWK SQUAAAAWK before breakfast.

Who am I to judge?

Quietly.

From my corner.

With my two cats.

Speaking of Quiet...

The last few days have actually been pretty calm.

Nothing terribly exciting has happened besides approximately 900 doctor appointments, surgery discussions and the last-minute test that caused yet another postponement.

This is normally a pretty loud living situation, and I'm not just talking about the animals.

It could definitely be more comfortable here.

So having a few quiet days has actually been wonderful.

I appreciate calm much more than I used to.

At this stage of my life, excitement is overrated.

Give me coffee, Wi-Fi, a laptop, a cat and nobody screaming.

That's basically a luxury resort.

Operation: Get Rid of My Crap

Over the next few days, I'm hoping to get a ton of work done.

And cleaning.

So.

Much.

Cleaning.

I only have about an 8-by-5-foot area for all of my belongings.

Including...

You know...

ME.

I am also apparently one of my belongings now.

So naturally things get cluttered pretty quickly.

My roommate has her stuff, and I'm not responsible for cleaning or organizing that. She can clutter however her little clutter-loving heart desires.

I'm concentrating on mine.

I've slowly started going through everything and throwing things away.

And I'm realizing something:

The less crap I own, the more room I have.

WHO KNEW?!

Meanwhile, I'm holding a random charging cord from 2007 thinking:

"But what if someday I desperately need to charge a Motorola Razr?"

THROW IT AWAY, MOLLY.

I'm also thinking ahead.

The less stuff I have now, the less stuff I have to move when I finally get my own place.

And yes...

That's one of my goals.

I would really, really love to move by my 52nd birthday — March 12, 2027.

Will it happen?

I don't know.

Moving requires money.

Cars require money.

Life requires money.

Breathing is still technically free, although I'm sure somebody is currently developing a subscription service.

Air Premium™ — $19.99 a month. Oxygen included. Cancel anytime.

So, I'm working.

I'm writing.

I'm creating.

I'm constantly coming up with new books.

And they're GOOD, dammit!

Which brings me to today's subtle, classy and completely non-aggressive commercial announcement:

BUY A BOOK!

There.

Very subtle.

Did you feel pressured?

No?

BUY TWO.

I'm kidding.

Mostly.

My books are available right here on this site if you're interested, and I'm incredibly proud of them.

And hey...

I've never gotten a bad review.

I'm just saying.

Coincidence?

Possibly.

Evidence that I'm secretly a literary genius?

Also possibly.

Evidence that my I paid everyone off?

Well, that would require my non-existent money so…

Either way, whether you buy a book, read my blog, send me an email, silently stalk my website while eating cookies, or accidentally ended up here while Googling something completely unrelated...

Thank you for being here.

Life is weird right now.

I'm waiting for surgery.

Waiting for knees.

Waiting for letters.

Waiting to see what happens with Scott.

Watching tiny kittens grow.

Trying to make a small space feel bigger.

Trying to make my future better.

Writing books.

Cleaning crap.

Making plans.

And occasionally wondering whether learning to walk on my hands would actually be easier than getting this knee surgery scheduled.

But I'm still moving forward.

Metaphorically, anyway.

Physically, my knees have filed an appeal.

Hopefully next week Knee Number One finally gets evicted and its shiny new replacement moves in.

Until then, I'll be here...

Writing.

Working.

Decluttering.

Checking the mailbox.

Admiring Cinnamon.

Hanging out with Ziggy.

And shamelessly reminding you that MY BOOKS ARE FOR SALE.

Hey, moving money isn't going to fall out of the sky.

And if it does?

Please tell it I live over here.

Love you all — even if you don't buy a book.

Although the people who buy books are obviously getting extra imaginary cookies.

Enjoy your day, everyone!

— Molly Roxx