January 2025 reads
Well, last month was... a lot. Thankfully, I found solace (and let’s be honest, some necessary escapism) in books—some shared with my kids, some devoured desperately ignoring the itch to doom scroll.
Books with My Kids:
The Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb & The Girl Who Cried Monster – R.L. Stine (Goosebumps audiobooks have transformed our morning school runs.)
Catching Fire – Suzanne Collins
Okay, I can feel some eyebrows raising so let’s address the elephant in the dystopian arena. Yes, I’m reading The Hunger Games series with my older two, and yes, I know it’s dark, heavy, and full of adult themes. But when Jax name-dropped the series in a song, Scarlett and Violet had to know more—so here we are, deep in Panem, snuggled into my bed with at least two sleeping pets for comfort. And honestly? Rereading this series now, with everything happening in the world, has been both devastating and cathartic. The themes of power, survival, and rebellion hit harder, and I’ve lost count of how many passages I’ve wept through. But the girls are hooked (they’re firmly Team Peeta, because duh), and our discussions have been some of the most meaningful and memorable moments I’ve had as a parent.
Books for Me (because nothing soothes existential dread like psychological thrillers and horror):
The Crash – Freida McFadden
An Honest Lie – Tarryn Fisher
The Sequel – Jean Hanff Korelitz
’Salem’s Lot – Stephen King (work book club pick)
Swiped – L.M. Chilton No Road Home – John Fram
Thrillers, horror, psychological twists, oh my! And that’s just how I’d describe how the world feels like right now. Anyone else escaping into books lately? What are you reading? Let’s chat—unless you’re Team Gale. In which case, yikes, go get a baked good.
Life Sucks
Life Sucks.
Well, at least that was the title of the play presented by the Theatre Guild of Simsbury on Monday, performed by a standout cast of local actors. The audience listened, laughed, and nodded along to the lyrical, Chekhovian woe of it all. Within the walls of Eno Hall, the absurdity of existence felt a little less lonely-proof that even in the mess of lost dreams and existential spirals, there's still connection, there's still meaning, there's still theater.
And then, because I'm a Libra who values balance, I trudged home and immediately threw myself into the premiere of The Bachelor-a different kind of existential crisis, where love is allegedly on the line but, much like life, does anyone really win? Ah, well. I'm just a girl, standing in front of a TV, asking it for a distraction from the longest January ever, wondering if all the world's a stage or just an extremely unhinged reality show.
Find A Theater Community
Over the weekend I had the pleasure of reuniting with half of my The Outsider cast. A beautiful reminder of the magic of theater. Not only can it turn a group of strangers into a family in just a few short months but it can also be a sanctuary amidst political stress.
The Outsider, Paul Slade Smith’s sharp and hilarious political farce, swept into my life at just the right time, as election season roared on, bringing emotional upheaval and more doomscrolling than I care to admit. The show became a safe place to land, a space where we could laugh at the absurdity of current affairs and get to know a group of wonderfully talented people.
If you let it, the theater is a beautiful escape and home all in one; almost like a summer camp for grown-ups. My advice to anyone looking to meet the very best of humanity: get involved with your local theater community. What a gift it’s been for me. 🎭💗
OENONE
Twelve years ago, I sent in a proposal to write a ten-minute script inspired by Oenone, Paris’s first wife. Here’s that original proposal (spoiler alert: I did set the play in middle school and the play would go on to be published in a collection for teens):
You know that feeling when you Facebook stalk your ex and you have to see them with the person they left you for and you know it’s showing up on everyone’s newsfeed and you get so angry that you predict and ultimately help to inspire a war? A seriously significant war with a lot of death and despair. No? Well, maybe that’s just Oenone then.
The digital age is here and it’s redefining communication and as a result, relationships. And while time rages on and new technologies are formed, some emotions can’t be programmed. The feeling of rejection is timeless. And it sucks. It sucked before the internet and it’ll suck after the internet takes over and turns those who haven’t become zombies into robots.
I want to develop a modern retelling of the relationship between Oenone and Paris (and that bitch, Helen). What it feels like to be left for someone everyone considers more beautiful and important than you are by the one person who was supposed to be faithful and love you forever. And the public humiliation that follows when the truth gets out.
I remember learning about the Trojan War in seventh grade. The prime of my awkward youth. I felt incredibly insecure about my looks at the time (rightfully so; my bangs were growing out, I had braces and the dorkiest glasses, and so on) and Tom P., the boy I thought I was in love with, had recently started to pursue a beautiful blond girl who had somehow managed to miss the trails and tribulations of puberty. And at the time, everything felt like the world in middle school. Every day brought new devastations. It was a war of its own right. So I connected to Oenone in a weird “sisterly solidarity” kind of way and immediately wanted to know more about her and help talk about her feelings when Paris left.
So while I haven’t decided to place this tale in a middle school (though, I haven’t not NOT decided that either…) I would love the opportunity to set a story that captured some of that raw, young emotion into action.
Inspiration for the story: Oenone sure didn’t have it easy. Born a fountain nymph of Mount
Ida as the daughter of River Cebren, Oenone was best known as the first wife of Paris. You know, the guy who caused some real drama when he decided to take on a second “more beautiful” wife. But the two shared the occasional nice time too (well, as nice as things could be for the Greeks). Including welcoming their son, Corythus, Child aside though, when Paris abandoned his nymph it is said that she predicted the Trojan War and when he returned home bruised and broken in need of
mending, Oenone refused, leaving him to die on the mountain slopes. Then consumed by regret and grief, she ended her own life in a fiery passionate move by embracing his burning pyre, forever forcing their ashes together in the fire. Quite the romantic comedy, right?
Characters:
Oenone: A fairly average middle school girl; she’s in that awkward young stage where you know she’ll grow up to be pretty but she’s not quite there yet and can be a bit self-conscious about it. The one thing she’s got going for her in this cruel world is a boyfriend. It allows her to pretend like she has a higher status.
Heather B: A bit more reserved; an easy target for harsh middle school words but someone who manages to maintain an earnest optimistic demeanor even while surrounded by angst. A true teacher’s pet longing to be accepted by her friends and frenemies.
Tiffany: Confident and effortlessly cool. A tech-savvy, pop culture gossip queen. Someone who somehow lucked out by never needing braces.
12 Green grapes, the number four, and learning to grow balls
December 31, 11:59 PM Eastern Standard Time, 2023. I’m sitting under my kitchen table with a bowl of 12 green grapes, counting down until midnight. After our minivan was totaled and a brutal stomach flu tore through the house just days earlier, I was more than ready to embrace 2024.
I’d learned from TikTok that in Spain, it’s customary to eat twelve green grapes beneath your kitchen table before the clock strikes 12:01 AM. Each grape represents a wish for the new year. Naturally, I had a list prepared. As midnight arrived, I devoured those grapes with earnest determination, silently making my wishes.
One of those wishes was for three deserving couples to find their way to parenthood. I didn’t know how it could happen, but my hope for these deserving families burned brightly.
2024 began, as years do, with little fanfare. In early January, while sitting at a stoplight in a freezing rental car, an unusual thought came over me: It’s time to rework your relationship with the number four.
The number four had always unsettled me—a quiet superstition I carried for years. But something about that moment felt different, like an invitation to let go of an old grudge. Days later, I wandered into a local shop offering free 15-minute readings with a medium if you purchased a candle. I chose one with an owl on it because, obviously.
The reading was surprisingly insightful, but it wasn’t until the medium paused and told me to pay close attention to a particular number this year that I was floored. You guessed it—four.
As January progressed, I celebrated ten years at Platphorm and spent a weekend in New York City seeing Once Upon a Mattress. February arrived with a new (to us) minivan, and soon after, I traveled to Berkeley to support my sister as she opened ImagiKnit’s second location. There, I also reunited with Mariah and the moment I saw her, I knew she was pregnant.
Mariah and Blake were one of the couples I had wished for, and that night, as Katelyn and I chatted about those green grape wishes, we also awaited news about Lindsey. She and Chris were another couple on my list. Before bed, Kate shared a Marco Polo video from Zach, the final couple in my trio, revealing that he and Sarah were moving forward with finding a gestational carrier.
The next morning, Mariah confirmed her pregnancy over a joyful breakfast, and Lindsey shared hers shortly after (in the best reveal possible, another shout-out to Marco Polo). Two out of three couples were en route to being parents.
When I volunteered myself as a gestational carrier for Zach and Sarah, I was 100% sure I would NEVER be considered. My “advanced age,” a gestational diabetes diagnosis from my last pregnancy in 2020, and meds prescribed for antepartum anxiety/depression all seemed like immediate disqualifiers. Yet, when Zach reached out asking if I was serious, I decided to see how far this wild journey might take me—and dared the universe to stop me.
In the following months, life kept moving. I edited my book, pursued a new position at work, and began rehearsals for The Outsider. At the same time, I completed rounds of applications and medical screenings, waiting for the moment I’d inevitably be rejected.
By June 30, we closed The Outsider and hours later, on July 1 (Zach’s birthday), our family left for my in-person appointment at CCRM in Boston. There were multiple interviews, a physical exam, a hysteroscopy I squeezed my eyes shut for, and a bizarrely worded 300-question personality “quiz”. At every step, I was sure this would be the one that ruled me out. But again, the universe seemed determined to keep the door open.
As we waited for the final results, life marched on. We visited Cape Cod, had an incredible 4th of July family vacation with our favorite Collins crew, and I stepped into a new role as Community Manager for Platphorm’s three sites. Then, at the end of August, after more calls and working with lawyers, we got the green light. I started fertility meds, and the transfer was scheduled for September 20.
Pineapple socks, rose quartz, and room number four accompanied us through the procedure (followed by French fries, of course). Days later, I started secretly testing. On October 1, I shared the blood test results with Zach and Sarah: I was pregnant—they were parents.
In the weeks that followed, Mariah delivered her baby boy four days before my birthday, and Lindsey welcomed hers four days later.
Now, at 17 weeks pregnant with Zach and Sarah’s son, I look back at those twelve grapes under the table with gratitude. Wishes are fragile yet powerful things. They require strength, resilience, and bravery to put hope into something that may, at times, feel hopeless. To anyone holding onto something that feels impossibly far away, please keep in mind that wishing is vulnerable work. And, if you’re out there tonight, grasping your own green grapes, holding onto hope despite the odds, try to remember: the universe has a way of surprising us and it has a sense of humor. So thank you, 2024, the year wishes grew roots, friendships flourished, and I started growing some balls. These 525,600 minutes (plus one Leap Year day) unfolded in ways I could only dare to dream. May 2025 keep us all hopeful and if it ever feels heavy, I’m happy to help carry it with you.
