I wish I could say that I enjoyed running. Or failing that, that I’ve come to enjoy running. After all, running is not only associated with health and fitness, but a whole slew of admirable character traits: self-discipline, dedication, endurance.

But I don’t like running, not if I’m really honest with myself (and anyone else reading this.)

There was a time when I did. While I was a twentysomething in Washington, DC, one of my colleagues urged me to give it a try. So I did. I started with short distances, 2-3 miles along the Potomac River in Georgetown, accompanied by another coworker who was also a beginning runner. And I found, to my surprise, that I could.
We weren’t fast, and we didn’t go far, but we were at least competent. That spring, on a chilly March morning, I finished my first 5K. And like Forrest Gump, I just kept going.

D.C. is an easy city to run in. It’s flat. It’s scenic. The winters, while cold, lacked the Lake Effect snowfall that I grew up with. And there was no shortage of races.

Here my running followed the expected trajectory: I got better at it, so I could go further, and as I progressed, I found I enjoyed it more, so I did it more. And the virtuous circle continued: 5Ks, 10Ks, the Cherry Blossom, the Army Ten Miler (twice), the Baltimore Half Marathon. Even then, I wasn’t really fast – my best times were sub-11 minute miles – but still, I was doing it.

Sadly, the good times didn’t continue. I moved from my Capitol Hill apartment to a house in the suburbs. My body was the same age, same condition, but my surroundings weren’t. I ran but it wasn’t the same.
 Also, the injuries started. First a MCL tear while hiking in Scotland. I recovered, after months of PT, but it was nearly a year before I ran again. Then a motorcycle accident. Tendonitis. A sprained ankle. Most recently, a torn hamstring.
And of course, age. Add in a few chronic health conditions and running looks – and feels – very different for me now.

Instead of putting on my shoes, cueing up my iPod, and going out for a 10-mile jog in DC, my routine is something like this: a few hours before heading out, take a shot of Pepto Bismol. Take another one immediately before beginning the jog. Stretch copiously. Pack a few Pepto tablets to take with me. Jog slowly, carefully, with small strides to avoid aggravating any previous injuries. A mile or so in, my shins will begin to protest and will probably become increasingly painful the longer I continue.

I will eek out a distance of 3-4 miles. It will be agonizingly slow, Afterwards, I’ll be lightheaded and spent. I might pop a few Advil. I’ll likely throw some ice on my legs later that night.

And I will ask myself: Is it worth it? Is it worth putting so much mental and physical effort into an activity that often doesn’t feel like a release, but instead another obligation on my already lengthy list? Into something that has become not just challenging, but downright hard, with little likelihood of improving? In American culture, we tolerate mediocrity if it’s a stepping stone to improvement. Not so much it it’s the end state.

Even as I write this, I want to protest, “I’m not lazy! I still give a damn about my health.” And that is true. I bike, I swim, I do yoga. Sometimes I break out my free weights. I take my dog for walks.

And yet, even as my rational mind tells me there is no shame is saying adios to running, I won’t quite give it up. Perhaps it is stubbornness. I don’t want to admit that I can’t physically do something anymore. Or perhaps a bit of pride. Yes, I’m an awful runner. But I’m still doing it. Surely that must count for something?

For an activity often lauded for bringing clarity and freeing up one’s headspace, running sure brings up a lot of questions for me. I don’t know the answers. But I do know there’s a run tomorrow night, and chances are, I’ll be there.

Or, What I Learned from Hours Spent Playing Stardew Valley During a Global Pandemic (While Getting Divorced and Laid Off)

From the start, Stardew Valley was more than a game to me. Choosing to download the seemingly innocuous app was a deliberate act of rebellion. Perhaps this stems from my childhood, where my game-averse parents considered any time spent in front of a screen – that is, time that wasn’t doing homework – as time wasted.  So gaming became something covert. Something I did at friends’ houses or on borrowed systems where I could engage in entertainment-as-defiance. Anytime I got a hit of Duck Hunt, Mario Brothers, the Sims, Guitar Hero, or even wholesome Oregon Trail, it smacked with the thrill of insubordination.

Then there’s my own long history of believing in focusing on activities that are productive and meaningful. I’m right there with Jeff Sutherland, a co-creator of Scrum, that “Time makes up your life, so wasting it is actually a slow form of suicide.” I’m the kind of person who thrives on to-do lists – my desk is covered in post-its and stickie notes – and who takes visceral enjoyment in crossing items off.

Until everything changed. My marriage had been disintegrating long before COVID-19. When the pandemic hit, in many ways it became yet another disruption in my life which had already felt increasingly unfamiliar and disorienting. My best efforts couldn’t salvage the floundering relationship. And I certainly couldn’t take on a public health crisis of global proportions on my own.


Like millions around the world, I could only wait. Stay home, and wait, and hope for better days ahead.
 And thus my belated encounter with Stardew Valley was launched. I’d heard about the game from a friend, who’d read about it in a book. The perfect experiment, I thought. How would I respond to intentionally engaging in an activity that served only my own amusement? In those strange days, could I teach myself to be OK with “wasting time”?


Of course a kid and teenager messing around on Nintendo or Playstation is acceptable, if not always encouraged. But adults aren’t supposed to play games. Adult women in particular, unless it’s killing time on our commute with CandyCrush or Angry Birds, or doing board game nights with bougie friends.

So the first hurdle was in my own head. I had compulsively repainted a bathroom, donated to the local food bank, moved thousands of files from my ancient PC onto my new-ish MacBook, and dealt with a dozen other niggling tasks. I had to convince myself that I’d done enough to earn permission to do something that was supposed to be fun. But at last I was ready.

Lesson 1: Surprise and Delight Does Exist

I took the plunge. Having heard hype about the game but with no idea what it looked like, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. And my first reaction was confusion. Being suddenly thrown into a world made of cutesy, pixelated visuals seemed strangely archaic. This can’t be right, I thought.
 But Stardew Valley soon lured me past my misgivings. I related to and relished the escape from the soulless corporate entity of JoJa Corporation to the rural environs of valley. It was true during the pandemic, and true today: Is there anyone on the planet who doesn’t want to get away from something right now? Adulthood be damned. I was in.


Eric Barone has built a world we can get lost in. And it is a thing of beauty. There are games within a game, singing mermaids, and an adorable sim cat who sleeps on your sim bed. There are mysteries to explore and quests to complete. Even swinging a scythe through swathes of grass and seeing the vegetation get cleared away is winningly satisfying. I found myself smiling, laughing, and feeling that elusive feeling that experiences often strive for but rarely deliver: delight.


The game isn’t perfect. I spent many of my first hours being perpetually confused on what I could interact with and what I couldn’t. I missed seeing my first Dance of the Midnight Jellies because I didn’t know I had to speak to the mayor in order to kick the whole thing off. It just appeared to be a bunch of people standing around on the boardwalk at night, looking at the water. Underwhelmed, I went back to the farm.

There were other disappointments, too. A bewildering array of tools that required trial-and-error to figure out. A night of getting lost in the woods and nearly not finding my way back to the farm. Townspeople who seem inscrutable (more on this later).  Still I stayed. Because here was a world where I could actually do something.

Lesson 2: The Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Defeat  

Maybe it’s a sign of the times, but I feel a disproportionate responsibility for everything. In Stardew Valley, I found myself getting wildly agitated over the welfare of my farm animals. When one of my new baby chicks was reported as “looking a little thin,” I freaked out. Could sim animals starve? How could I get her food? And was there a way to make sure she was eating? I frantically amassed the raw materials needed to construct a silo, which was needed to house the animal feed, which had to exist in adequate quantities to be brought into the coop. It was exhausting. And every morning until the project was complete, I was afraid I’d find a dead baby sim chicken.

But Daisy the chicken lived. And I went on to acquire an adorable baby bunny who now is a healthy, happy adult rabbit. I bought myself a fancy tiara and I’m making decent progress romancing the local villagers.

Yet when I make mistakes, they hit hard. I’m pretty lousy at most of the games-within-the-game. I’ve lost more fish than I caught. I accidentally took a pickaxe to the first melon I grew, which delayed my filling a neighbor’s request by an entire year. I passed out in the mines. I had to research how those stupid fishing poles worked. But I kept at it.                

Here was a world where I could win. And achievements, even virtual ones, still hold an allure.

Lesson 3: Jerks Are Everywhere

For a game in which much is driven by relationship-building – whether that’s working your way into the town’s good graces, befriending locals, or finding a romantic partner – navigating the interpersonal dimensions of Stardew Valley is excruciating at times. Almost without exception, dialogs are one-sided. When approached, NPCs spew out a couple comments but it’s nearly impossible to tell when the conversation is over, and if the player is supposed to respond to anything. It drives me nuts. It triggers all my triggers on the perpetual emotional labor that women often undertake, and with equally little return.

 Then there’s the sh*t that some of the eligible bachelors say. Many others have written about gender and the gaming industry; I’ll leave the broader topic in their capable hands and restrict my examples to the context of Stardew Valley.

There are the statements from male NPCs that are merely eyerolling (“If I just disappeared would it really matter?”); some that are cringe-inducing (“I have to brush my hair daily, or else it’ll clump up into messy knots. It’s a lot of work. I’m surprised I haven’t just shaved it off in a fit of passion. I suppose I am too vain.”); and others that make me want to immediately donate to Planned Parenthood (“Hey, it’s farm girl. Did you get new pants? You’re doing something right.”). I wonder when a qualified therapist is going to move into town to help these guys sort out their issues. And I wonder why it’s the job of the player to engage in interactions that serve mainly to rehabilitate others’ bad behaviors.

It’s a game. I know, I know. But games are worlds, too. And there is crossover between what we live and how we play. The elusive yet strangely intriguing Sebastian is exactly the kind of bad boy I would have gone after in high school and college, if I’d had the nerve. He exasperates and fascinates me in turn. I leapt at the chance to take a ride on his motorcycle under the Stardew Valley moon. I remind myself that I owned a motorcycle IRL – a Harley-freakin-Davidson – and that I don’t need to put up with moody nonsense generated by pixels and bytes. Yet in-game, I experiment with how far things will develop with Sebastian while also running a flirtation with aspiring novelist Elliot. Elliot is sensitive and while he can be self-absorbed, also seems genuinely interested in building a connection. He dedicated his novel to me, which is flattering. I ask myself if it may make putting up with some of his more inane comments worth it.

The experiences are simulated but in the best games, the emotions are real.  The escape is real. My trips to Stardew Valley are journeys to somewhere where there is no pandemic, no failures of leadership, no economic collapse.

When I’m not working at my day job, I write novels. And it occurs to me that the storyteller and the game creator have much in common. We each call into existence a world that is different from the one that we have. We invite others to join us and slide into a reality that is better or kinder or more exciting than the one we inhabit. Where monsters can be vanquished, love sometimes wins, and none of the chickens starve.

I’ve been cleaning house. Part of this is your typical spring cleaning – opening windows, giving surfaces a good dusting, laundering the slipcovers on the sofa. And part of this is a deep dive into an area largely untouched since I moved into the home: my basement.

The beauty of having a basement is being able to put things down there where they are out of sight, and don’t need to be dealt with – at least for awhile. I took full advantage of this when I bought the place. Camping equipment, unneeded furniture, boxes of holiday decorations, gardening tools. Random bits of family memorabilia. An inflatable kayak. Lawn games. All went to the basement.

There is a logic to this: basements are for storage, after all. But they also tend to be magnets for accumulation. At a certain point, I had to ask myself: How much is too much?

There were my college notebooks, filled with neat handwriting that seems almost unrecognizable, and printouts of articles I used for a research paper in 1999. It is hard for me to throw these away, even though I’m unlikely to need to revisit the topic of vector-born diseases anytime soon. I find other school materials as well: class photos, a program from my kindergarten graduation. And items from my teen years, like paystubs from my first “on the books” job at a fast-food restaurant, and a mood ring, safely tucked into the box I’d kept it in since high school.

I find items given to me by family members. There is a kitchen towel that still bears the distinctive scent of my Aunt Stella’s house; smelling it takes me instantly back to my childhood, to hours spent in her living room, eating handfuls of peanut M&Ms, where the furniture was always immaculate, and her wall clock chimed the hours in melodic tones. I hesitate to wash it, unwilling to lose that scent, that memory. I fold it and put it aside.

Some surprises are not as welcome. I’m caught off guard, unprepared for the discovery. With the objects come feelings, and I must sort these too.

I find a photograph of myself smiling in a red ballgown, standing next to the man I used to be married to.

There is the antique sausage grinder, passed down between family members and used for countless batches of homemade kielbasa. Its previous owner was my late cousin; his mother gifted it to me after his untimely death, along with a handwritten recipe. I can’t decide what to do with it. It moves from one side of the basement to the other.

Items like this beg the question: Where do I put it in my house? Where do I fit this stuff into my life?

More abstractly: What remainder of my past will stay in my present? Will become part of my future?

This is not merely cleaning, but emotional cataloging. It is taking stock.

Some things don’t stay. Bag after bag is placed in the trash. I take batches of items to Goodwill and other donation centers. A few I try to sell. And there are some that remain.

There is also space. I look at the vacant shelves, the empty areas in the floor and feel satisfied with a job well done. The house feels lighter. What is in it is, for the most part, chosen rather than simply received.

And isn’t that what a home is for? A place to keep what we hold dear, and to let the rest go.

Addendum: I would be remiss not to mention the heroic levels of deep cleaning that Peter engaged in over the course of this project. He swept, he scrubbed, he wiped and vacuumed and he kept me honest. The basement has never looked better. There’s still work ahead, but of the type that involves exploring possibilities: Beer fridge? Home theater? Yoga room? Because after the dust settles, its time to play.

At year’s end, it is tempting to write a retrospective, a list of things done, a catalogue of accomplishments (or at the very least, some interesting statistics.)

Instead, I am going to tell you about what I didn’t do. Or in a few instances, stopped doing. Basically, this is my 2023 quit list

I stopped going to the local book club meetings.

I took a 6-month hiatus from guitar lessons.

I resigned from a non-profit board.

Over the summer, I signed up for an adult kickball league and did not play a single game.

I got off dating apps.

I quit wearing makeup for the most part.

I didn’t do any online teaching, or publish any articles.

I stepped down as the organizer for a Meetup group I’d led for a year and a half.

I could go on. There’s the biography of Hedy Lamarr, begun in January, that has been sitting on my bedside table, neglected. The brown bananas in my freezer, waiting for either ambition or boredom to spur me to transform them into banana bread. The artist’s statement I sketched out this spring and haven’t returned to since.

My reasons for quitting were varied. Sometimes it was simple as limited time. In other cases, it was a matter of reconsidering my priorities, of thinking about what value a particular activity brought to my life. Occasionally I didn’t have a choice; the online program I taught for was discontinued, much to my disappointment.

Even now, as I sit next to my kitchen filled with packages of candied pecans and bags of snickerdoodles and cranberry scones—the outputs of a frenzied weekend of holiday baking—I am glancing sideways at my to-do list and calculating how much remains on it. How little I checked off.

Then I think of how I actually spent my day. Waking to the sound of rain, then snuggling back under the blankets for just a minute longer. Finally getting dressed to venture out for coffee, Rosie in tow. Having a lovely brunch with friends and sharing good food and laughter. Peter’s company. A long afternoon nap.

Those were wonderful things. I would argue those were the most important things I did today. None of them were not on my list.

Life is not made up of lists. Or if it is, that misses the point. After four plus decades on the planet, I am starting to realize this. Not that I’ll ever abandon lists completely; part of me will always thrill to an item checked off, a task accomplished. But they will not be—can not be—how I measure my life.

It’s raining again. The couch calls. I’ll let myself answer.

In writing reflections on a past event – especially an entire year, especially on a digital platform – I struggle to find the right tone. Too bright, and it might feel fake, toxically positive, or even arrogant. Too somber, and it can come across as a slough of negativity.

I’ll do my best to steer between those two extremes. There were good things, hard things, sad things. I felt friendships shift and fade. I was ghosted (twice) and stood up (once). The relationship I was most excited about, a tantalizing multi-month series of dates during which I caught hope – and feelings – ended via a cold text. I experienced professional challenges that required every bit of my patience and discipline to navigate. Despite being drafted in Las Vegas, my fantasy football team did not make it to the playoffs. And for the last night of 2022, I attended a party where the highlight of the event was thumbing through a biography of the Brontës.

And yet. And yet. I am a stubborn optimist, and that isn’t all of the story.

• At midlife, I took on spring break for the first time. It was hot and sunstruck and a little disorienting. In fact, it became just the adventure I needed.
• In that vein, I decided that it was never too late to let a little rebellion into my life. Guitar playing, obviously. But there was also the winter night I laughed and listened to punk in my date’s pickup in a parking lot. Afternoons spent loitering in public parks like a delinquent. Numerous small trespasses against propriety: the flick of a lighter, the use of the f-bomb, a refusal to take up less space.
• I finally watched Sleepless in Seattle. I devoured Ozark, which made me cry. And Bridgerton, which didn’t. Also both seasons of Sanditon just for the heck of it. (I have yet to see E.T. or any of the Rocky films.)
• I went to the opera. Alone. (It was great.)
• I swam 20,000 yards at the local pool. My tan was killer.
• I emerged from comparative isolation and got busy re-building my social life. I took over a Meetup group, renamed it, and nearly tripled the membership. I went on 22 first dates*. I got new business cards. I attended book club discussions after having actually read the book.
• I made a few new friends. In adulthood, that’s no small feat. We need people to laugh with. People to speak our truths to. To eat burritos with, go to for advice, share a hug. If anything, 2022 taught me not to take good connections for granted.
• I got a new writing desk. In fact, that where I am typing this right now.
• And I finally started to learn that my feelings are not liabilities I need to repress, but signals to pay attention to.

Of course, there are things that haven’t changed. I still miss my motorcycle. I still have my fascination with Eminem. There are still my wildling cats that make me laugh, and the books I turn to for comfort like a quilt.

As far as what’s ahead, I don’t have resolutions so much as intentions. I want to get back to Paris. I want to finally finish my damn novel. I want to get through all of “Tonight, Tonight” so that it sounds – and feels – like a song. Plus, the Les Paul guitar I’ve been eyeing.

And there’s this:

We must be willing to let go of the life we’ve planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

Joseph Campbell

*Defined as 1:1 in-person, predesignated meetings. Video chats and random unassigned hangouts not included in total.

The future is a hard thing to imagine, especially when just managing day-to-day life in the present feels so unpredictable. And yet I’m letting myself go there. To explore possibility. To wonder what might yet be found.

My previous post, Feme Sole, was written from a retrospective mindset. Not gonna lie: 2021 was the hardest year of my life. Hands down. That may have been the case for a lot of people. And yet – and yet – this too shall pass. Perhaps even now we see light.

Which raises the question – what next?

The pandemic, and even my life before the pandemic, taught me how capable I am. Responsible, reliable, conscientious. And those are great qualities to have. But when they are one-sided, its exhausting. I’ve found that in many relationships, for most of my life (this includes family, friendships, workplace, romantic interests), I’ve taken pains to be the most likeable, most competent, least demanding version of myself. When there is imbalance, it tends to work out swimmingly for the other party, and not so well for me.

In midlife, I am flipping the script. I have the audacity to hold expectations. And the presumption to voice them.

So much for the theory. What about the practice? What about real-life application? What about… dating?

Here’s the deal: If we go out, I will show up. I’ll be polite and punctual and most likely send a text while I’m parking. I’ll have makeup on, and possibly be wearing hiking boots, or maybe the cute shoes I bought in Paris, depending on the activity.

I’ll laugh at your jokes. I’ll maintain eye contact. I will stay off my phone and hope – please – you do the same.

Midway through I’ll excuse myself, grab my purse, and take off to the ladies’ room where I will either text my sister or a friend to let them know how things are going. And to assure them I’m not dead. I’ll do the same once I get home.

When the bill comes and if I have a chance to jump in, I’ll offer to split it and mean it. (I don’t need your money.) In reality, a lot of external markers mean very little to me. I don’t make decisions about someone based solely on the occupation they hold, the salary they earn, the height they are. (Although, it would be nice if you’re taller so that I can wear heels and not feel weird on the 3 occasions a year when I’m in the mood to do so.)

I have a career and a title and a salary. I don’t need to borrow your prestige. I don’t need to borrow any toughness, either. I have that on my own, too. (With the ink and the scars to prove it. Also the facts that I was laid off, got divorced, found a new job, wrote a novel, and bought a house on my own during the pandemic. Say what you will, I get sh*t done.)

What I want is this: to not be asked to make myself smaller. Not to have the price of our connection be contingent on my being less than what I am. In time, to come to trust you enough so that I don’t have to be so self-reliant. To sit on the couch, or on a mountainside, or at the beach and genuinely relax, not because I’ve decided to stop being “so uptight” but because you have created a space where, for a time, you’ve taken care of everything and I don’t have to.  

To not be behind or in front of me, but beside. And to say – truthfully – “We’ve got this.”

Fact: I have too much stuff. I’ve known this since well before Marie Kondo and tidying up became a cultural phenomenon. Since before “edit” became an activity no longer reserved simply for manuscripts or films, but now has haute connotations applied to everything from cosmetics to jewelry to home furnishings.

My stuff, on the whole, is neither fashionable nor glamourous. Much of it I’ve been boxing up and carrying around with me for years. Decades, even. Handwritten letters from overseas penpals and junior high classmates. Theater tickets, bookmarks, notebooks from college courses long since completed. 

Even if these things no longer serve a practical purpose in my day-to-day, they are proof of who I was. All the selves I’ve been, every milestone or throwaway moment of my life marked. The bright orange t-shirt from a 5K race on a crisp October morning. Yes, a relatively short distance, but for me, momentous. It was the first race I completed after tearing my MCL and spending the better part of a year with orthopedists and physical therapists, fearing I’d never be able to run again.

The postcards from France showing colorful vintage illustrations of the Cote d’Azur. Invoices from dental treatments to reconstruct bone and tissue in my jaw. Family albums. The eulogy I wrote for my marriage, and then burned (but not before snapping a photo of the text).

If these things go, what evidence do I have – save memory, which is surely fallible – that I ever was that girl, that woman?

But I can’t take it with me, as the line from the Pulitzer Prize-winning play goes. At the end of the month, I am leaving this house forever. What better time for tidying up and cutting loose? What more apt juncture to consciously release what is no longer needed? When better to intentionally choose what comes with me?

These past weeks, I’ve been setting myself to brush off the dust and survey the goods. There are the documents and papers and clutter that will go. Ill-fitting shoes that I never liked. Superfluous kitchenware. And my beloved motorcycle. Perhaps not for forever. But I’ve taken what I needed from the Harley and I carry a scar and story to prove it. For now, I’m at peace with parting. There’s the hope of meeting again. 

Earlier this spring, I was determined to erase everything. Job, lifestyle, relationships. Then shred the remains and throw them into a dustbin. I looked at houses in the rural environs of Western Pennsylvania where I spent my childhood. I dreamed of acreage and horses. I wanted nothing more than to be away, away from the city and the feints and deflections inherent in many of my daily interactions. I wanted, I think, to disappear into some chrysalis of my own making. And to re-emerge in some other place, as some other self.

But following through on creating my blank slate includes letting go of even the belief that such extreme measures were necessary for preservation, for authenticity.

I am moving, but the distance isn’t far. I don’t need it to be; what I want next is closer than I thought. As for what I’m letting go of, there may be empty spaces, but not a void. And in those spaces, the promise of things hoped for, but not yet seen.

P.S. I played Essie Carmichael in my high school’s production of You Can’t Take it With You. I’m sure I have a few playbills inside a drawer somewhere around here.