Magazine

Dear Sarah from exactly six months ago. It's October 14th, 2:13 AM, and you're sitting on the very edge of the living room rug, wearing those disgusting gray fleece college sweatpants with the mysterious bleach stain on the left knee...

My oldest daughter was exactly three months old, and I was sweating straight through my deodorant trying to shove her chunky little arms into a stiff, sequined tulle monstrosity for Easter Sunday while she screamed like I was actively torturing...

I'm currently sitting on the concrete floor of my garage in ninety-degree Texas heat, staring into a plastic storage bin from 2018. It's filled to the absolute brim with paper mustaches on sticks, neon blue plastic bowties, and tiny glittery...

I'm currently staring at a cashmere baby cardigan roughly the size of a teacup, aggressively regretting my life choices. My mate Dave’s gathering is tomorrow afternoon, and I'm writing this as a therapeutic exercise directed entirely at my past self—specifically...

It was a Tuesday at 2 AM, and I was sitting on the floor of my microscopic apartment living room surrounded by three black garbage bags full of newborn clothes that smelled aggressively like a chemical factory. Maya was six...

You're currently sitting at the kitchen island with a cold, half-empty mug of Folgers, glaring at a yellow legal pad covered in crossed-out words while your two-year-old quietly colors on the baseboards with a stolen Sharpie. I know exactly how...