First and foremost, a reminder that in honor of Women’s History Month, and recognizing that many of us are navigating financial strain, I’m offering 50% off an annual subscription through the end of March. For just $25, you’ll have access to monthly live generative writing sessions and all my Substack essays. Additionally, paid subscriptions directly sustain my work as an independent writer. If you have the means and enjoy my work, your paid subscription makes The Understory sustainable.
Two days before my book launch, my son came home with lice.
For the next forty-eight hours, I cycled through endless loads of laundry, doused us both in the strongest lice shampoo I could find, and combed dead bugs out of his thick blond hair. Normally, I would have panicked—most parents do—but instead, I just started laughing. Because sometimes, when life is completely unraveling, laughter is the only sane response. It’s a survival mechanism, and at that moment, I needed it.
On top of watching democracy crumble, my partner and I are both staring down potential layoffs, a loved one is facing mysterious health issues, and when we tried to escape it all with a quick trip to the Smoky Mountains, our car broke down in Evansville, Indiana. In the past few months alone, my son has brought home norovirus, a cold, and now lice—a delightful little sampler platter of childhood plagues. The last few months have tested my resilience in ways I didn’t see coming, and I know the next four years under this administration will be long and grueling. The first sixty days already felt like three hundred.
When you’re bombarded with bad news daily, it can feel impossible to savor what’s good. I know how easy it is to spiral into a doom-scroll rabbit hole. So when I feel myself slipping, I remind myself to intentionally mine for joy. Each night before bed, I write down—or at least think of—three specific things I’m grateful for from the past twenty-four hours. It’s small, but powerful. A reminder that even on the hardest days, there’s always something worth holding onto.
The day of my book launch, instead of fine-tuning my set list, I found myself elbows-deep in the unglamorous task of delousing—a fitting metaphor, perhaps, for the absurdity of life. Panic simmered beneath the surface, but so did an overwhelming gratitude. Gratitude for the friends who showed up early to set up, for a co-parent willing to shift his weekend plans so I could have this night, for my sister and her husband who made the long drive from Kansas City just to stand in my corner.
My brain is wired to latch onto what went wrong, but I’m doing the slow, necessary work of teaching it to also see the good. Not in a forced, “silver-lining” way—because let’s be real, life is harrowing for many of us, particularly right now—but in a way that acknowledges joy as a survival tool. I stockpile it where I can, hoard it like a dragon hoards its gold, knowing I’ll need it for the darker days ahead. And for me, that joy always begins with my loved ones.
As a reminder of how lucky I feel to be alive alongside so many wonderful people, I wrote this poem a few weeks ago. I want to share it with you all because I am grateful for each and every one of you for welcoming me into your inbox, engaging with my writing, and supporting my work.
Lucky Yes, everything feels terrible. Anxiety is a permanent resident in the folds of our sun-deprived skin. We scan the horizon for silver linings as knotted knees buckle beneath the weight of rotted hope. Still, we cling to our humanity. Discover unexpected beauty sprouting through concrete. Weep for the fierce little anglerfish swimming toward the sun. Exchange soup recipes & banana bread & teary phone calls. There are moments I want to escape—this place, this time, this season. Even then, I cannot imagine a world where I don’t feel lucky to be alive, mining my weary mind for joy, alongside you.
Where are you mining for joy right now? I’d love to hear from you in the comments.
Monthly Writing Circle Updates
If you’re looking for a safe, communal writing space, our next writing circle is Monday, March 24th at 7 PM CST. Every month, our Poetry as Medicine generative writing sessions offer a tender, open space to read and discuss the work of a specific poet, to write what needs to be expressed, and to share (if desired). These sessions are unrecorded for a reason—they are meant to be experienced in real time, together. These monthly sessions are a balm, a place of connection and vulnerability. We would love to have you join us!
Below are the poets we’ll be exploring for the rest of this year:
Monday, March 24th at 7 PM CST – Gabrielle Calvocoressi
Thursday, April 17th at 7 PM CST – Alberto Ríos
Tuesday, May 20th at 7 PM CST – Diane Seuss
Sunday, June 8th at 10 AM CST – Ilya Kaminsky
Sunday, July 20th at 7 PM CST - Danusha Lameris
Thursday, August 21st at 7 PM CST - Pádraig Ó Tuama
Monday, September 22nd at 7 PM CST - Maggie Smith
Sunday, October 26th at 10 AM CST - Danez Smith
Wednesday, November 12th at 7 PM CST - Naomi Shihab Nye
Tuesday, December 16th at 7 PM CST - Marie Howe
If Adam Picked the Apple Updates
It has been such a joy to receive messages from you all who have received your books. I’m deeply honored by how many of you have bought copies for friends and family. For those of you who want to avoid Amazon, you can also order signed copies from Left Bank Books, a queer woman-owned independent bookstore in St. Louis.
Thank you all for sharing this book so generously with others in your life. There is no greater joy for me as a writer than to know my words are connecting with readers.
doing a puzzle and drinking champagne with a lifelong friend and reading your poetry aloud. that is a little bit of joy.
Joy as a survival tool. Oof. Man did I need to read this. Thank you ❤️