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I need to establish a rule. If I hand you my phone to show you a picture... DO NOT SWIPE. I cannot stress this enough. Look at the photo I handed you. Admire it. Comment appropriately. Then return the device to its owner with both hands.

I thought depression meant not being able to get out of bed. Nobody told me it could also look like answering emails, making appointments, paying bills, smiling at people... and feeling absolutely nothing.

There is one healthcare expense I will happily pay every single time. Five dollars to the valet guy. Technically, valet parking at our hospital is free. But obviously I'm tipping the person who takes my car. And every single time I hand over that five-dollar bill, I think: Worth. Every. Penny.

I saw a post this weekend that pissed me off. Not because of the person who wrote it. Because of the comments.

I've spent years telling caregivers they matter too. Apparently I should've been more specific. Because somewhere along the way, "caregiver self-care" became synonymous with things like: Take a bubble bath. Practice mindfulness. Try yoga. Drink a green smoothie. Light a candle. Ma'am. My joints hurt and I need an MRI. I don't think kale is going to handle this one.

I would like to formally resign from being positive all the time. Thank you for the opportunity. It's been terrible. Please forward my final paycheck.

I thought depression meant not being able to get out of bed. Nobody told me it could also look like answering emails, making appointments, paying bills, smiling at people... and feeling absolutely nothing.

There comes a point in every cancer diagnosis when the internet collectively loses its mind. At first, it's innocent enough. You tell a few people what's going on. Everyone is supportive. They ask how they can help. They send meals. They check in. Humanity is beautiful. Then... somehow... the algorithm finds you.

I used to think I was pretty good at showing people I loved them. I'd buy thoughtful gifts. Plan trips. Remember birthdays. Do nice things. You know. Normal expressions of human affection. Then I became a caregiver. And apparently my love language is now: Have you taken your medication?

Before I became a caregiver, I had fairly normal reasons to celebrate. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Vacations. Business wins. Finding a really good airfare. You know. Normal human milestones. Then I started caring for people with cancer and apparently lost all perspective on what constitutes exciting news. Because now? I celebrate some really weird shit.

Nobody tells you that one of the first casualties of long-term caregiving is dignity. Not love. Not commitment. Dignity. That bitch leaves early.

A few years ago, I treated MyChart exactly like I treated texting. "Hi! Just wanted to check in..." "I don't know if this matters, but..." "Sorry to bother you..." "I've probably convinced myself I'm dying again, but..." You know... casual. Then one day I learned that every MyChart message becomes part of your medical record. Excuse me?

The Feral Truth: The most valuable thing I've lost over the years wasn't certainty. It was the illusion that time was unlimited.

The Feral Truth: Some years leave scars. Some years reveal strengths you didn't know you had. Sometimes they do both at the same time. I used to think life changed gradually. A little here. A little there. Small adjustments. Tiny course corrections. A slow evolution. Then I experienced one of those years.

I'd like to discuss the shocking cost of existing. Not thriving. Not living lavishly. Just existing. Because apparently staying alive has become a luxury activity.

I don't remember applying for this position. There wasn't an interview. Nobody discussed salary. There were certainly no benefits. Yet somehow, over the last few years, I have become the official IT department for my entire family.

The Feral Truth: Surviving the crisis is one thing. Learning how to live afterward is a completely different skill. 🦝💗☕ Everybody talks about the crisis. Nobody talks about what happens after.

The Feral Truth: The world keeps going after loss. Not because your grief doesn't matter. Because your life still does. The strangest thing about grief isn't the sadness. It's the normality. The absolute audacity of normal life continuing.

The Feral Truth: Some lessons arrive as gentle reminders. Others kick down your front door and reorganize your priorities without permission. I used to worry about the dumbest things. Not dumb at the time, obviously. Very important things. Life-altering things. The kind of things that kept me awake at night. Like whether people liked me. Whether I looked fat in pictures. Whether my house was clean enough. Whether I was falling behind at work. Whether my hair looked we

The Feral Truth: My emotional support department is underfunded, overworked, and primarily staffed by dogs. 🦝☕💗 I'd like to take a moment to recognize the members of my emotional support department. Because frankly, they've been carrying this operation.