Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Introverted Raspberry

    I feel like I was a completely different person 20 years ago. Outgoing. Spontaneous. A friend to many. The life of any party. Loud.

    Now, not so much. I’m quiet in crowds. I can function in small groups, but I never want to “go first,” and I’m always paranoid I’ll say or do the wrong things. That builds up anxiety – a lot of it – so I usually just prefer to stay at home. By myself.

    How I switched from extraverted to introverted I may never understand. But as life has happened, so did that.

    And when I see someone who knew me “back then,” I can’t seem to meet their expectations.

    People tend to misunderstand introverts, partly because introversion is defined by what isn’t.

    Not loud. Not constantly social. Not energized by crowds.

    But despite my failures to meet the expectations of a few, being introverted isn’t a flaw. It’s not a limitation. And I don’t need to be fixed, at least not in that way. I just interact with the world a little differently now – so much though that I think people have certain misconceptions about that change.

    Some people think that introverts:

    1. Don’t like people. That’s probably the biggest myth I’ve encountered. I like people just fine. I just don’t love constant interaction without breaks. I need those breaks to recharge. I need to pace myself.
    2. Are shy. I’m not shy. Shyness, to me, is about fear of judgment. Introversion is about energy. I am socially capable. I just prefer smaller conversations over loud rooms.
    3. Don’t enjoy socializing. I do. I just do it differently. I enjoy meaningful conversations and one-on-one time. Depth over volume.
    4. Are quiet because we have nothing to say. I like to think before I speak. I listen and process first. If I’m quiet, it’s not because I am not thinking. In fact, it’s the opposite.
    5. Can’t be leaders. I disagree. We listen carefully, reflect before reacting, and consider multiple perspectives. Leadership is not about volume – it’s about clarity and making good judgment calls. And I’m probably better at that now than I’ve ever been.
    6. Need to be fixed. Introversion isn’t something I need to overcome. I’ve grown into this actually.
    7. Don’t enjoy fun. That’s not true – I just might not enjoy your kind of fun. I have a lot of hobbies, and I spend meaningful time with lots of people. It’s still fun. Just quiet.
    8. Don’t like attention. I don’t seek attention. But I can handle it. I can handle a phone call, give a presentation, and even speak publicly. I just need down time afterward.
    9. Live inside our heads. That’s only true in part. I do spend a lot of time reflecting, thinking and processing internally. But doing helps me draw out creativity, insight, and empathy. It’s not isolation, no matter how it looks. It’s observation.
    10. Are judgmental. I am one of the least judgmental people on the planet. My silence and solitude are often misread, and other people tend to perceive it as a skewed sense of superiority. It’s not that. I’m not better than anyone. I just want my responses to be valuable. How can I offer that if I don’t hear your whole story?

    I have so many weaknesses, but introversion isn’t one of them. I just march to a different rhythm – one that reflects depth and meaningful connection. And in a world that often rewards constant noise and activity, I can offer something different – the ability to pause, listen, and think before speaking. Sometimes the quietest voices are the most thoughtful ones.

  • Raspberry on Repeat

    There is a particular kind of shame that comes with repeating a mistake.

    Not once. Not accidentally. But knowingly. Again.

    And there is something humbling about realizing I wasn’t blindsided. I didn’t even really lack self control. I was patterned.

    For a long time, I thought insight would be enough. If I understood why I did something, or felt bad enough afterward, or apologized sincerely, surely that counted as growth.

    But it didn’t.

    I think we fail, sometimes, to learn necessary lessons after one mistake because – while consequences hurt – they don’t transform.

    Pain alone does not rewire patterns. Pain is just pain. And if anything, it stunts your ability to see things clearly so that necessary digging can be done.

    When a behavior is rooted more deeply than logic – when it’s tied to validation, fear, loneliness, ego, survival – awareness itself can’t compete with all of that. So while I recognized my initial offenses as sinful, I still reached for it again. That’s the part I don’t love admitting.

    And after those mistakes, I’d set my eyes on the “bandaid phase,” the phase where I would apologize, patch what I broke, promise differently, and feel sincerely remorseful. And then I would quietly return to the same coping strategy once the internal discomfort resurfaced.

    What I mean is…my behavior wasn’t random. It was soothing something.

    And until I addressed those things, the behavior remained available.

    The turning point wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t public fallout. It wasn’t even fear of losing everything.

    It was loneliness. Not the dramatic kind – the internal kind. And the moment I figured that out, I realized that I was the common denominator, which feels more isolating than empowering.

    And now I can’t just fix the external circumstances. Now I have to sit with myself.

    Feelings of regret say, “I wish I hadn’t done that,” and focuses on the mistake itself. It’s reactive.

    But reconstruction asks, “What part of me keeps reaching for this?” Reconstruction focuses on the wiring more than the mistake. It’s surgical. And surgery isn’t comfortable.

    These days, I don’t attempt to resolve loneliness. I sit in it, as gut-wrenching as it is sometimes.

    I forced my patterns to come to a screeching halt, but I didn’t immediately feel strong – I felt exposed. When the coping strategy was removed from office – when the distraction disappeared – and when temporary relief was no longer an option – the only thing left was the original ache. The ache that I hurt other people, over and over. The ache of the emptiness. The ache that it took me so long to even get here.

    I have had to learn to just exist with unmet needs, insecurity, the fear of not measuring up and the fear of being too much…

    …without outsourcing that pain or seeking any kind of relief.

    And that kind of healing is loud in my own head, but externally quiet. Incredibly lonely. Without encouraging applause. Just me, choosing differently. And no one even knows.

    I figured out that we repeat mistakes because the lessons we learn from those mistakes aren’t intellectual. They’re structural.

    We don’t stop destructive behavior when we feel bad enough. We stop when we value integrity more than relief. We stop when staying the same costs more than changing. And we stop when we’re ready to embrace the discomfort we tend to love to avoid.

    Change at the surface is fragile. Change at the core is slow.

    But once that core shifts – once I learn how to regulate, tolerate loneliness, and meet my own needs without self-sabotage, the repetition no longer controls the narrative. The temptation might not ever disappear. But I can fight it, because I won’t need to try to escape myself.

    I used to think, even as recently as a few weeks ago, that repeating mistakes meant I was broken. Now I think it means I have focused on white-knuckling the habit when I should’ve been focused on healing. Living a life of any kind, when unhealed, isn’t satisfying.

    And as painful as it is, I am putting in that work by myself, with honesty and without shortcuts. And I’m doing it for me – no one else. And for the first time, I finally learned the lesson.

  • Rejected Raspberry

    There is a very specific brand of grief that comes with changing. Not because the work is hard (even though it totally is), but because not everyone stays long enough to see said change.

    The reality is that some people will not forgive us for the mistakes we’ve made. Some people will not trust that our growth is genuine.

    And in my experience, people have pinpointed and analyzed the worst things I’ve ever done, tallied them up, and then framed those mistakes as the truest things about me.

    And the painful part? They’re allowed to do that.

    It is the hardest lesson I have ever learned.

    Forgiveness, unfortunately, cannot be demanded. It can’t be negotiated, argued for, or evidence-based into existence.

    I can, and have, apologized sincerely, taken full ownership, and taken intentional, consistent steps to switch directions…

    …and some people still decided that they’re done.

    But that does not mean that the work I’ve done, and continue to do, is not real or sincere. It means that forgiveness belongs to them.

    On the flip-side, however, self-forgiveness belongs to me.

    Sometimes the consequence of betrayal, harm or repeated transgressions is distance. And unfortunately, that distance can become permanent.

    That kind of hurt is unlike any hurt I have ever experienced. Even though I can understand why it happened, it still feels so unfair.

    I know I’m not the same person. I recognize the internal work, because I am doing it. And when I reflect on that work, I notice changes, both small and large.

    When safety is fractured, though, it doesn’t restore itself on my timeline. The fact of the matter is that I cannot control whether or not someone trusts my evolution. I can only live in it.

    Many people in my life seem to have frozen my character in time, as if taking a snapshot of my worst season defines who I am.

    No updates. No revisions. No footnotes. Just labels.

    And because I have made so many mistakes I have a lot of experience with being written off. And my knee-jerk reaction used to be to over-explain, over-perform, and metaphorically gather witnesses who would testify that I’d changed.

    But I cannot prove transformation by arguing it. I have to prove it by living differently, quietly, consistently, and over time, whether they see it or not.

    Accountability’s narrative is, “I did these things and they were wrong.” Permanent shame invites our mistakes into our identity – “This is who I am.“

    The former is honest. The latter is not.

    I am responsible for my behavior. But I am not required to live forever inside its shadow.

    The work I have done in the last 7 months is valuable, but I’m nowhere close to crossing any finish line, and in fact, I don’t think we really ever finish growing. But I have learned a few things during this excruciating process.

    Forgiving myself when others haven’t feels instinctively disloyal right now. Like I’m excusing the harm I have caused.

    But I know, objectively, that self-forgiveness isn’t erasure. It’s integration. And I don’t escape consequences by forgiving myself – I just have to choose to stop sentencing myself over and over.

    Sometimes transformation happens offstage, without applause, reconciliation or restored trust.

    This process has been lonely. It’s just me, choosing differently, again and again, even though no one is watching, and even though no one is returning. And that’s okay, because genuine growth – genuine transformation – is not performative.

    In trying to reframe my mindset, I have to force myself to refrain from defending my humanity. I have to actively avoid chasing redemption through perfection. I have to curb my desire to collapse into self-hatred when I reflect on my errors. I can neither rewrite history nor live inside it. And I have to accept that some relationships – ones I truly cherish – ones I thought I couldn’t live without – may never again feel the same – but decide to put the work in anyway.

    The bottom line is that I cannot force another person to relinquish the labels they assign to me. The only thing I can really do is take responsibility without becoming a permanent villain in my own story.

    Forgiving myself does not mean the damage I caused isn’t real. Forgiving myself does mean, though, that I do not have to accept that the worst chapters of my are more valuable than the rest of the book.

    I am grieving what I have lost while becoming someone new. That is, in equal measure, exceptionally painful, brave, and necessary.

    May the bravery continue without relapse…

  • Guarded Raspberry

    This new generation loves to talk about boundaries.

    A healthy idea, in theory, except I’ve observed so many misconceptions around the topic.

    Establishing healthy boundaries versus building metaphorical walls. They’re not synonyms.

    Yes, both create distance. Both protect us. Both change how other people can access us.

    But boundaries keep us safe while still allowing connection. And walls keep us safe by eliminating connection altogether.

    Walls appear after pain. After betrayal, disappointment, or the realization that being open exposes us to hurt.

    So we close the door. We stop sharing, stop trusting, stop letting other people close enough to affect us.

    Walls reaffirm that if no one gets close, then no one can cause damage. Ever again. And in some seasons, walls feel necessary. Walls give us breaking room and a chance to rest and recover.

    But walls create another thing too: Isolation.

    Isolation isn’t healthy.

    Boundaries are different.

    They don’t eliminate connection. They just regulate it.

    Boundaries, when set properly, provide a different narrative: You can come this close. You cannot cross this line. This is how I expect to be treated. And this is what I will do if that doesn’t happen.

    Boundaries protect our well-being without requiring us to completely disappear.

    They allow opportunities for closeness, just not chaos.

    Walls are built from a place of fear. Boundaries are built from a place of clarity.

    Walls are very black-and-white. “No one gets access.” But boundaries say, “Access requires respect.”

    Walls shut out the world, but boundaries invite the right people in.

    Walls tend to feel safer at times but they require less vulnerability. Walls mean we don’t have to trust anyone or risk being misunderstood. Walls don’t make us explain ourselves.

    But walls also prevent the very thing for which human being are wired – connection. It’s true that you can’t be hurt behind a wall. But the price of not hurting is not being fully known.

    On the other hand, boundaries require us to stay open. We have to communicate clearly, tolerate disagreement, and enforce consequences calmly. And that’s a lot harder than disappearing.

    At various times throughout my life, I exercised both options. I’ve built walls when I felt wounded and unsafe. And as I’ve slowly learned to trust my own discernment, I have replaced those walls with boundaries.

    My goal isn’t to never protect myself. It’s to protect myself without losing my ability to connect.

    Walls are about survival. Boundaries are about healthy living.

    And the longer I do this work – the deeper I dig – the more I realize that safety doesn’t truly come from shutting the world out. It comes from knowing where my lines are, and then trusting myself to hold them.

  • Raspberry Double Standards

    If you came to me hurting, I would listen carefully.

    If you told me you made a mistake, I would tell you with all sincerity that you’re human. I would reassure you that growth is not linear and that it takes time.

    If you admitted that you didn’t know better at the time, or that you had a momentary lapse of judgment, or even that you knowingly and willfully screwed up, I would probably hug you, keeping my ears exposed for extra careful listening.

    But when it comes to me?

    The rules change.

    Suddenly there is no nuance. No context. No gentle explanation. Just judgment.

    I can understand other people’s fear. Their trauma. Their blind spots. Their immaturity in certain seasons of their lives.

    I can say, “They were doing the best they could.“

    But when I reflect on or replay my own worst moments, I don’t offer that.

    Instead, I prosecute.

    That’s weird, isn’t it? How compassion flows outward so easily, but inward so stiffly.

    I think I do that because it feels safer to be hard on myself. Part of my instincts are set up to stay harsh so that I won’t repeat mistakes, like if I punished myself thoroughly, I would somehow prove I understood the damage.

    It has always felt like the responsible thing to do.

    But shame is not the same thing as accountability. And self-attack is not the same thing as growth.

    The idea of control is illusive, and there is something sort of seductive about self-blame. If everything is my fault, then everything is within my control.

    If I am the problem, I can fix it.

    But when I am able to step back and think more objectively, I can see that sometimes I was the only factor. Sometimes I was human in complicated circumstances. Other times I lacked certain tools that I hadn’t learned yet.

    In keeping to a theme, into which I have been putting a lot of energy – grace – I have challenged myself to adopt the following theory: Grace doesn’t erase responsibility. It simply widens the frame.

    I’m not better, or worse, than anyone else. I’m not unique. And like other people, I am allowed to say that I was wrong. I hurt people. I didn’t handle some things very well. And I would choose differently now.

    And I can say all of those things without bookending each declaration with critical declarations that I am fundamentally defective, or that I can’t be trusted ever again, or that I don’t deserve peace.

    Growth does not require self-contempt.

    So what would it look like if I responded to myself the way I respond to others? How would I feel, when reflecting on the mistakes I’ve made, if I acknowledge that I was overwhelmed, seeking relief, and operating from old wounds?

    Not as excuses. As explanations. Explanations that lead to responsibility, not self-erasure.

    Right now, giving myself grace feels foreign. Almost arrogant, like I’m letting myself off the hook.

    But I have to challenge those thoughts, too.

    I am stepping off the gallows.

    Grace says, “I am accountable. I am changeable. I am not irredeemable.“

    That’s an extraordinarily different posture than permanent self-condemnation.

    It is not my desire to be someone who empathizes with everyone else but lives at war with myself.

    If grace is something I extend, it has to apply exteriorly and interiorly.

    Not because I didn’t mess up, but because I am in charge of my own narrative, and I won’t settle for this warped belief that my worst moments are my final form.

    Maybe the hardest grace I’ll ever extend is the grace I finally offer myself.

  • Gracious Raspberry

    I’m a paralegal. A really good one.

    And that’s not me tooting my own horn. That’s backed with accolades from higher ups and a salary to match.

    (That also does not make me special or ungrateful for the position I’ve been given, or the workload therein. I am humble every time my direct deposit hits, and not only am I thankful to my superiors for seeing something in me I probably wouldn’t have seen in myself, but I am also thankful to the Most High for the opportunity and challenges given to me as a result of His gifting me this career.)

    Being a paralegal often means digging. Fact-finding. Searching for the golden nugget technicality that will win the case. Being as vague as possible when under discoverable scrutiny. And also extraordinarily articulate when defending your position in your cases.

    And I think I am good at my job, in part, because I’ve always been good at finding the golden nuggets in my personal life. I’ve always made mental notes of others’ behavior in case that behavior turned into a pattern which then turned into a definition of character, so that when a disagreement came up outside of a professional setting, I had already analyzed the facts, and I was already prepared for a three-point speech on why they were wrong, why I was right. And for free, I could offer them “advice” they didn’t ask for.

    Slideshow not included.

    I used to call all of that a job hazard. And there have been several seasons throughout my life – while coparenting, or during one of my marriages (yes, you read that right), or dealing with a child, or one of my own parents, or cashier, or mechanic – when being right felt urgent.

    Not casually right. Not quietly informed.

    I mean proven right.

    Documented. Footnoted. Backed by examples and screenshots and first-hand experience.

    If I could just lay out the logic clearly enough…
    If I could cite enough evidence…
    Then surely the truth would land.

    Surely people would understand. And if they understood, I would feel validated. Vindicated. Settled. Safe.

    But in the last 8 months or so, I have learned a different valuable lesson:

    Winning the argument rarely won me peace.

    Being right feels powerful. It feels like moral clarity. Justice. Competence.

    And sometimes, it absolutely matters.

    But if I’m honest, most of those moments weren’t really about the “truth.” They were about proving. Correcting. Standing on a soapbox of self-righteous certainty and saying, “See? I told you.“

    And that felt strong in those moments.

    But that also left people scorched. That also left me exhausted, in a state of overthinking, even after I had proven my points. Even after I had gotten my way. Even after the other party conceded.

    I heard someone say once, “You never want to win the argument.”

    Oh, so true.

    Because you can win the argument and lose the room.

    You can present airtight reasoning and fracture the relationship.

    You can be technically correct and emotionally careless.

    And slowly, I started to notice something: The aftertaste of being right is not nearly as satisfying as I once expected.

    I need to be very clear – I am 38 years old. I’m not young. I’m not inexperienced.

    But I am changing. Twenty years of being an adult and having all of the responsibilities therein, I have recently started asking myself a totally different question.

    Instead of “How do I prove this?” I began asking, “What does this person need right now?“

    Sometimes, they didn’t need evidence. Sometimes they just needed to be heard.

    Sometimes they weren’t wrong. They were just shaped by different experiences.

    And sometimes extending grace would’ve done more for the relationship than winning ever could’ve.

    Because the cost of being right is sometimes good terms. It’s open communication. It’s a whole friendship or loved-one-ship that I valued.

    Now, I am learning that I can know I’m right, on paper, and I can also choose to fill a need. I can hold my ground internally without turning heated conversations into a courtroom. And I can step down from that soapbox long enough to hear people, especially if it means preserving someone else’s dignity, finances, tears, struggles, or even peace.

    The things I once thought were a big deal – the contentious moments over which I have lost sleep – the over-analyzation of text messages, emails, social media posts – the disagreements, whether actual or anticipated, are not worth (1) my temporary sanity; (2) the loss of a relationship; or most importantly (3) the grace that the Lord has instructed all of us to give.

    Giving grace, to me, is not optional. And I don’t get to pick and choose the people who deserve my grace, because God doesn’t treat me that way when I mess up.

    The goal should always be the same. “Rightness” and “truth” and “evidentiary support” – all the screenshots and case precedence in the world do not matter without the right motive.

    And more often than not, in the past, my motive was to prove my point, grace be damned.

    Facts delivered without kindness often becomes a weapon.

    Everyone is operating under something – their upbringing, their trauma, their fears, their pride, their insecurities, their blind spots, others’ perception of them, their egos.

    Just. Like. Me.

    Being right focuses on the argument.
    Grace focuses on the human.

    And ten times out of ten, the human matters more.

    So my goal has shifted from being correct to preserving connection. It’s to understand why someone thinks the way he/she thinks. It’s to meet needs instead of satisfying my own ego.

    There will always be moments where truth must be spoken firmly. And grace is not passivity.

    But I no longer measure my own strength by how effectively I can dismantle someone’s position on any topic. Instead, I measure it by how calmly I can hold mine while still seeing theirs.

    And I’ve found that extending grace – especially when I could beat the “right” into the other person – is absolutely the stronger move.

    And that’s because the world will not remember me for being right, but it will remember that I was kind.

  • Old Raspberry v. New Raspberry

    I used to think that transformation was produced via hard discipline. Strict rules. A checklist.

    I’ve learned otherwise in the last 6 months.

    To be fair, 6 months isn’t a terribly long time. No major life haul took place. There was no public announcement. There was no dramatic reinvention or some sort of epiphany that explained what I’d been doing “wrong” all along.

    But certain things in my life have shifted subtly, that I have learned to welcome as positive steps toward a change, more ground version of myself. Not necessarily who I am – just how I inhabit myself now.

    1. I pause before I respond. Six months ago, I reacted faster. Even if my responses to emails and text messages didn’t reflect how I was feeling, I had to actively deny myself the satisfaction of expressing myself. I don’t do that much anymore. What I used to overthink is now dwindled to a brief pause. There’s no internal conversation. My thoughts simply come to a rolling stop, only briefly, and the only question I ask is, “How can I be kind?” And then I answer that way. I don’t over-complicate it anymore. And that simple change has freed up so much time and sanity.
    2. More to that point, there are fewer paragraphs and more clarity. I used to explain everything. Now I say things once, and clearly. If it’s received, great. If not, I am okay with letting other people sit in their disappointment – even if their disappointment is with me.
    3. I allow neutral to stay neutral. A delayed reply is just that. A tone shift doesn’t automatically equal conflict. My nervous system’s knee-jerk reaction just to assume crises. But that is no longer the default.
    4. I want peace more than validation. I know now that peace is something one must practice. It is not inherently given. And I don’t need to be understood by everyone anymore. Walking in alignment with the person I want to be feels steadier than the short term approval in which I used to find my identity.
    5. I make smaller promises, which allow for stronger follow-through. Just like I now know that I can’t reach overnight success, I also know that black-and-white declarations aren’t typically viable. So instead, I practice consistency. I do what I say I’m going to do. And I rest when I say I will. That’s trust built quietly.
    6. I set boundaries that don’t wobble. I am not defensive. I am not aggressive. I just adopted calm limits that I don’t over-explain. And that feels much kinder.
    7. I rest without negotiation. Six months ago, I justified downtime, as if rest had to be earned. Now, I treat rest like maintenance – not indulgence.
    8. I have become accountable without collapsing. Lately I’ve been trying to admit mistakes without spiraling into an identity crisis. If I am wrong, I adjust and move forward. No trial required.
    9. There is less urgency to fix other people’s feelings. I have always had empathy, and that will never change. It is one of the few admirable things about me. But there is a difference between empathy and emotional outsourcing. I care – but I don’t comfort – especially if it requires that I break a boundary or change what I value in order to be accepted.
    10. My internal narrative is quieter. The voice in my head is softer. Less catastrophic. Less self-critical. It doesn’t draw conclusions based on how others treat me or mistakes I’ve made. That voice is more measured and more patient.

    My hobbies haven’t changed. I don’t have “new” personality traits. I’ve simply relinquished some bad habits, with the Lord’s help. And compared to six months ago, my life now is less scrambled. Less performative. Less proving. Better living.

    And those shifts – subtle as they are – feel like progress I can actually trust.

  • Breaking Raspberry Habits

    It seemed like a good idea. Yesterday.

    I made a decision at 9:12 p.m. A bold, responsible, almost admirable decision.

    “I am going to bed at 10:00.”

    I even said it out loud. To no one. Just the dog and the dishwasher.

    I listed the benefits in my head: Emotional stability. Less jaw clenching. Fewer dramatic internal monologues before noon. Maybe even peace, ultimately.

    I pictured Morning Me waking up gracefully at 6:00 a.m. No snoozing. No bargaining. Just light pouring through the curtains and a calm, hydrated woman stretching her arms like someone who has her life together.

    Yep. Seemed like a good idea.

    Yesterday.

    9:47 p.m.

    I brush my teeth early, which feels wildly efficient. I dim the lights, set out tomorrow’s clothes, adjust my ponytail. I feel smug.

    10:02 p.m.

    I am officially in bed.

    This is where it all goes wrong.

    Because now it is quiet.

    And in the quiet, my brain clocks in for a second shift.

    Did I respond to that email properly? Why did I phrase that text like that? What if that one comment from three years ago permanently altered someone’s perception of me? Should I Google the symptoms of burnout again?

    I reach for my phone. Just to check one thing.

    One.

    Tiny.

    Thing.

    10:14 p.m.

    I am watching a random mom on YouTube reorganize her pantry and somehow feel both inspired and inadequate.

    10:27 p.m.

    I am reading an article about sleep hygiene and do not miss the irony.

    11:03 p.m.

    Okay, now we’re really sleeping, and I put the phone down.

    My eyes are closed but my brain doesn’t get the memo.

    Since we’re here…let’s revisit every mistake you’ve ever made in chronological order.

    And midnight arrives firmly, like a judge taking the bench.

    Somewhere around 12:18 a.m., I finally fall asleep out of pure exhaustion.

    Morning.

    6:00 a.m. alarm.

    The sound feels violent.

    Morning Me is not glowing.

    Morning Me is betrayed.

    I hit snooze with conviction. 6:09. 6:18. 6:27.

    By 7:03, I’m negotiating.

    Sleep is important. You need rest. Maybe tonight you should go to bed early.

    Which seemed like a good idea. Yesterday.

    And every time I stay up late, I swear it is the last time. I swear I am done stealing tomorrow’s energy to soothe tonight’s restlessness.

    But there is something just so seductive about late hours.

    No one needs me. No one is emailing. There are no deadlines ticking. And the world is quiet enough that I don’t have to perform competence.

    Staying up feels like reclaiming time.

    But it costs me clarity.

    By 10:30 a.m., I am tired and dramatic and slightly fragile in ways that sleep last night would’ve softened.

    And yet, tonight at 9:12 p.m., I will say it again.

    I am going to bed at 10:00.

    And I mean it.

    I always mean it.

    Because I am not nonchalant about change. I am hopeful…in short bursts.

    And that hope extends to counting for something.

  • Caffeinated Raspberry

    I can never finish my coffee before it turns cold.

    This is not a metaphor. This is a documented behavioral pattern.

    Exhibit A: 8:02 a.m. As the workday starts, the coffee is poured. Confidence high. Inbox opened.

    Exhibit B: 8:04 a.m. 28 emails have arrived during my off hours, all of which create more questions – and less clarity – than communication from the day before.

    Exhibit C: 8:06 a.m. The coffee is abandoned while I search my desktop for a requested file, a file I know was saved yesterday as “XYZ_Revised.”

    Exhibit D: 8:11 a.m. I find five versions, saved as “XYZ_Revised,” “XYZ_Revised(1),” “XYZ_Revised(2),” and so on. I decide this is already the worst day of my life and hop down the consequential bunny trail, trying to find the right one.

    The coffee sits 9 inches away from my keyboard. Cooling. Judging.

    By 8:19 a.m., I am six tabs deep into Westlaw, three tabs deep into Google, and one tab deep into, “Are my eyes puffy because I am literally allergic to deadlines?”

    It’s now 8:23 a.m. when my phone chimes. It’s from my boss. “Quick question…”

    And never has a question been quick.

    The question is about a motion drafted a week ago – one I have forgotten about, as I’ve touched 103 files since then. To refresh my memory, I reread the complaint. I find, and correct, 4 formatting errors and double check the caption. I check the local rules to verify correct references, which then prompts the rhetorical question, “Am I, in fact, the weakest link in this entire operation?“

    It is now 8:41 a.m. Coffee status – room temperature. Spirit status – oscillating.

    Working from home is peaceful, in theory. It is certainly marketed as peaceful. “Maintain a work-life balance,” they say. And the idea makes people imagine soft sweaters and scented candles and efficiency.

    In reality, I am whispering, “Why are you like this?” to myself while toggling between an affidavit, a call with opposing counsel, a calendar prompt that reminds me a demand was due three days ago, and a phone alarm that is reminding me to defrost chicken.

    My brain does not process tasks linearly. It ricochets.

    I begin working on some discovery, which reminds me to set a Teams meeting, which reminds me to answer a voicemail, which reminds me to research a statute, which reminds me to question my life choices. Yep, overthinking is always on time.

    Back to the now cold coffee. I place the mug in the microwave and press 1:00. But I can’t watch the timer, because I’ve already thought of something else.

    The microwave dings and I don’t retrieve my beverage, which happens more often than I am comfortable admitting.

    At 10:12 a.m., I finally take a sip. Tastes like disappointment and productivity.

    And here is the ironic twist: I am very good at my job.

    My files are thorough. Deadlines are met. Case summaries are prestine. I catch things other people (including attorneys) miss. I anticipate arguments before they’re made.

    I just cannot, apparently, under any circumstances, complete the task of drinking 12 ounces of sweet caffeine while it is still warm.

    By noon, there are three half-finished drinks in various states of abandonment surrounding my workspace, like a timeline of my attention span.

    Morning ambition. Mid-morning hyperfocus. Late-morning existential doubt.

    And if liquids were measured in sustained temperature instead of ounces, I would be chronically and willfully under-caffeinated.

    But at 5:01 p.m., when I log off and mentally review the day, the work is done. Clients are satisfied. Attorneys are happy. Malpractice suits are still non-existent. And I consider all of that a win.

    I gather the cups.

    Tomorrow, I will try again.

    I will pour fresh coffee again at 8:02 a.m.

    And I will absolutely not finish it before it turns cold.

    But the motion will be filed.

    And honestly? That feels legally binding enough.

  • Changed Raspberry Purpose

    My old, broken vacuum has been recycled to fill a need besides suction.

    It was never a very good vacuum. Even when it worked.

    It wheezed more than it roared. It left a faint constellation of crumbs along the areas where the couches meet the floor, as if to remind me that perfection was never its calling. I bought it when money was tight and expectations were lower. It did what it could. Which is to say – not much.

    And when it finally broke, there was no drama. No sparks. No tragic last pass across the beige bottom that makes up my living room and bedroom. It simply stopped trying.

    So I replaced it.

    I researched it. I compared reviews. I exchanged notes with a fellow pet-owning homebody. And I got the shiny, upright, high-powered version of what a vacuum is supposed to be – efficient, dependable, unembarrassing. The kind of vacuum that leaves lines in the carpet, as if to prove its own competence.

    It arrived in a large, confident box. While the old one stood in the corner, unplugged and irrelevant.

    And according to my detailed decluttering memo – the tidy, no-nonsense checklist I wrote neatly in my journal – it should have gone out to the curb.

    Because broken things are supposed to leave. That’s the rule.

    But I didn’t throw it away.

    Instead, one afternoon, when the sun was being generous, and as my sweet puppy curiously but tentatively pawed in the direction of The Great Outdoors, I dragged the unfixable, tired, generic vacuum to the foyer and propped it against the open metal door.

    As it turns out, it is the perfect weight.

    It’s heavy enough to hold the door open but small enough to avoid tripping over. It’s sturdy in a way for which it has never been praised.

    It’s been standing there for four months now, not suctioning, not fixing, not over-performing.

    Just holding space.

    The door swings wide. The dog sits in the rectangle of the light, bathing in the sun without any need to brave the wind. The house breathes.

    And every time I walk past it, I think about how quickly we measure worth by function.

    If it can’t clean the carpet properly, it’s useless. If it can’t perform at full capacity, it needs to be replaced. Upgrade it. Discard it.

    There’s always a better model. Sleeker. Quieter. More powerful.

    And I know something about that feeling – the soft but direct suggestion that I should be less worn, less complicated, less…secondhand. That if I were built differently – upgraded somehow – I would be more impressive. More reliable. Easier to keep.

    There are versions of me that exist in expectation. The streamlined one. The unbroken one. The one with better filtration and fewer emotional hose leaks.

    But here I am.

    Not always in the best working order. Not always smooth. Not always what the manual described.

    And still – I hold doors open.

    I create space. I let light in. I anchor something softer to the ground.

    The old vacuum doesn’t know it failed at its original job.

    It just stands where I placed it and does the next small thing of which it is capable.

    It doesn’t apologize for the crumbs it missed. It doesn’t resent the upgrade humming efficiently in the corners of the master bedroom.

    It serves differently now.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    I haven’t decided if I’ll keep it forever. The commanding pull to declutter still fills my head space from time to time. But for now, it stays. A quiet reminder near the threshold.

    Broken things are not always done.

    Sometimes they just get reassigned.

    And in those moments, the work of holding the door open may be even more important than a clean floor.