The Happiness Hijacker at Yoga Class Or: How I Learned to Spot Moral Capture in Downward Dog

It’s ironic (but not really, it’s the way my life unfolds) that I came South to avoid politics for awhile and yet, found myself right back in the fray at...of all things...my Yoga class!

Some lovely women invited me to coffee after my first class. I explained why I was in Fairhope, what my book Sorry Bob! was about. That I was turning away from divisive politics and searching for more unity, more common ground, more common sense.  They were sympathetic and eagerly shared the name of a Substack spiritual writer: Cameron Trimble. Someone non-partisan, they said. Someone who talks about healing and unity and the spiritual work of seeing each other clearly “Just what you’re looking for!” 

I gave it a real shot. I wanted to like it. I wanted to believe there was a voice out there that genuinely transcended the noise.

Instead, I found the clearest example yet of something I've been writing about in my book. She is a Spiritual Happiness Hijacker. One of the worst kind, a “hidden” hijacker.  She wears the cloak of "I'm here to help you heal" while actually doing the opposite: gently, warmly, spiritually prodding you toward her political beliefs — and hiding the whole operation under moral capture. I’ve included her essay below mine, as well as a link to her work so you can read it and make your own conclusion. 

What I was promised:

A spiritual teacher. Someone above the fray. Someone who would help me see my own blind spots, my own capacity for contempt, my own log.

What I got:

A political sermon wearing a meditation shawl.

The signs:

I've learned to recognize the pattern now. It's not subtle once you know what you're looking at. But here's the thing that makes it dangerous: when we're searching for ideas that confirm what we already believe, we discount the warning signs. We want the teacher to be real, so we ignore the tells.

Here's what I look for now:

The universal opening. She starts with something no decent person could disagree with. We shouldn't dehumanize each other. Labels are spells. Grief is real. Everyone nods. Including me.

The pivot. Then comes the hinge — usually a single sentence, easy to miss if you're already nodding. "Of course, the threats are not equal." That's the moment the sermon stops being about all of us and starts being about them. The universal principle just got a carve-out, and the carve-out always benefits the person speaking.

The one-sided diagnosis. From here on, one side gets understood, humanized, given the benefit of the doubt. The other side (the Right) gets diagnosed. The “Rights” grief is "understandable but rooted in exclusion." The Right’s fears are "misplaced." And just like that, she is doing in her essay what she claimed we should stop doing. The right are not people anymore. They're a problem to be managed.

Then we have the absent mirror. This is the biggest tell. In thousands of words about dehumanization, the author never once asks what log is in her own eye. Never once says "here's how I dehumanize my enemies." Never admits to a single thing that costs her. She is always the one who sees clearly, never the one who is seen.

The loaded questions. Same trick my daughters fourth-grade teacher used when trying to coax my daughter into politics and into the democrat party: "Do you think we should protect the vulnerable?" Yes, obviously. "Then you agree with my politics." No — I agreed with basic decency. You just stuffed your platform inside it and handed it back to me like I ordered it.

The hypocrisy:

Here's where it gets almost funny. The entire piece is an argument against dehumanization — and it is, itself, an act of dehumanization.

She tells us not to turn people into categories. Then she spends the essay sorting her opponents into categories.

She tells us to notice the spell of political labels. Then she casts the spell — just with her own labels.

She tells us to ask what fear or grief drives someone to a position we hate. Then she asks that question about her own side, and only about her own side.

She quotes Jesus on the log in the eye. Then she spends three thousand words removing specks from eyes she has never met, while insisting her own vision is already clear.

The piece doesn't fail at its stated goal. It is the thing it warns against. It just does it with better lighting and a softer voice.

Why we fall for it:

This is the part I keep coming back to, because it's the part I'm still working on myself.

We fall for the happiness hijacker because often times, we want to. We want a teacher who tells us we're basically good and the problem is out there. We want our anger blessed. We want our contempt called courage. We want to feel like we're doing spiritual work without having to do the actual work — which is looking at ourselves.

The spiritual happiness hijacker offers that. She offers reassurance dressed as challenge. She makes you feel like you're growing while you're really just being recruited.

What a real teacher would have written:

A real teacher, someone actually doing the work of seeing clearly, would have asked herself the hard questions first.

How do I dehumanize the people whose politics scare me?

What label do I reach for when I want to stop listening?

What would it cost me to admit that some of my opponents are grieving something real?

Where is my log?

She didn't. She couldn't. Because a real answer to any of those questions would have ruined the sermon.

The takeaway:

I'm not saying Rev. Trimble is a bad person. I don't know her. I'm saying she's doing a thing — and that thing is everywhere, in yoga studios and pulpits and wellness newsletters and think pieces, all of it wearing the same gentle, wise, "I'm just here to help" face.

Learn to see it. Not so you can dismiss everyone who disagrees with you. So you can tell the difference between someone who wants to help you think and someone who wants to help you agree.

The first one will make you uncomfortable. The second one will make you feel wonderful.

That's how you know.

Below is Rev. Trimbles essay that I wanted to love but quickly spotted the patterns of cloaked divisiveness. 

https://substack.com/@camerontrimble

The Spell of the Enemy

A Meditation by Rev. Cameron Trimble

Rev. Cameron Trimble

Aug 04, 2026

“Why do you see the speck in your neighbor’s eye but do not notice the log in your own eye?” —Matthew 7:3 (NRSVUE)

We are living in a time of frightening words: Fascist. Communist. Socialist. Traitor. Marxist. Nazi.

Some of these words refer to real political ideas. Sometimes, they help us see real threats. The current administration has often pushed the limits of presidential power, challenged democratic institutions, and treated vulnerable people as if they do not matter. We need words that are honest about this. If we avoid calling out authoritarianism, it does not make us kinder. It just makes it easier for others to control us through fear.

But when these words show up in our political debates, they stop describing actions and start defining people completely.

“He is a fascist.”

“She is a communist.”

“They are destroying America.”

After we use these labels, we stop listening. We stop asking what fear, loss, or hope led someone here. By calling them the enemy, we feel allowed to ignore them.

The accusation becomes a kind of spell.

When this happens, we start to see our political opponents as less than human. Everything they do seems to prove what we already think about them. Every election feels like the last chance to save the country. Every compromise feels like giving up. Every loss feels like proof that the system is rigged. We stop being curious, because being curious feels risky. This is how a society becomes trapped inside its own fear.

I want to be careful here. The threats are not equal. The Trump administration holds the enormous power of the federal government and has used that power in ways that threaten democratic institutions and place already vulnerable people in greater danger. The growing democratic socialist movement does not possess comparable power, nor does it pose the same threat. Its calls for health care, housing, worker protections, and a more equitable distribution of wealth emerge from real suffering in a country where millions of people work hard and still cannot afford to live.

Being honest about right and wrong means we have to see that difference. It also means noticing how easily we all fall into the habit of turning others into enemies.

If you listen closely to the accusations, you can hear sadness underneath. Factories have closed. Family farms are gone. Small towns have emptied out. Wages have not kept up with the cost of living. Parents who hoped their children would have better lives now see them struggle to pay for rent, health care, or school. The promise at the heart of the American story, that each generation would do better than the last, has been broken. People feel the breaking, even when they do not have words for it.

Some people who support MAGA are mourning the loss of a world where white Christian identity shaped public life. That world gave some people a sense of belonging and meaning, but it did so by leaving others out. For those who grew up believing this was normal and right, its end can feel unsettling.

Many people on the democratic left feel a different kind of grief. They mourn the promise of a multiracial democracy that has not been fulfilled. They are upset by the huge gap between the very rich and those who have to choose between medicine and food. They grieve for lives hurt by racism, unfair work, environmental harm, and being ignored by politics.

These kinds of grief are not the same, but they are both real. When we cannot talk honestly about our grief, we often look for someone to blame.

That might be where we are today. We face losses that are too big and complex to handle, so we turn them into enemies we think we can fight.

We blame immigrants for struggling towns. We blame billionaires for a broken economy. We call MAGA voters monsters and socialists thieves. We take problems that have built up over generations and put a face on them so we have someone to hate. When we are scared, hating someone can feel powerful.

But hate can also stop us from seeing a deeper truth: many of our problems cannot be fixed just by beating one political group. This country was built on stolen land, enslaved labor, cheap energy, and the idea that growth could go on forever, even though the planet has limits. Both major parties have relied on this system. Both have promised that, with better leaders and policies, things can keep going as they are.

But now, the system is destroying the things we need to live. Our soil is worn out. The climate is changing in dangerous ways. Our communities are tired. Money keeps going to the top, while loneliness, sickness, and sadness spread. No old label can really describe the world we are living in now.

Maybe that is why we are so afraid. We do not know what will happen next. So we turn to old enemies and old stories: fascism versus communism, freedom versus tyranny, real Americans versus those who want to destroy America. Using these old words makes the world feel understandable again. It tells us who we are and who we should fight.

Jesus once asked why we see the small fault in someone else but ignore the big fault in ourselves. He was not saying we should ignore what is wrong. He wanted us to see how judging others can keep us from looking at ourselves.

What is the log in our collective eye? Maybe it is our wish to see ourselves as innocent. We want to believe that only the other side is cruel. We want our own fear to look like virtue, our contempt to look like courage, and our desire for power to look like justice. We hope that if our side wins big enough, we will finally be safe.

But no political victory can heal grief we refuse to grieve. We need to do more than just be polite. We must call out authoritarianism when we see it. We must stand against policies that cause harm. We must protect people who are targeted by the government. We must speak honestly about unfairness and racism.

As we do this, we also need to protect our own humanity. We should not let ourselves enjoy putting the worst label on someone else. We need to be curious about what pain lies behind anger, even our own. We must learn to grieve what is lost without blaming others for it.

This week, pay attention to the words you use for people whose politics scare or upset you. Ask yourself what the word shows, what it hides, and what it lets you ignore.

Then try to speak more precisely. Name the action. Name the harm. Name the history. Protect the person in danger. Oppose what must be opposed…

But do not let yourself be taken over by hatred for the enemy.

We are in this together,

Cameron

Places Like Fairhope Alabama Could Put Pharmaceutical Companies Out of Business!

 

Good Morning from Fairhope, Alabama!

Well, this is my second to last Sunday here in Fairhope. I'm already sad to be leaving. But, a bit surprisingly, I'll be happy to return home. Not to Pennsylvania, per se, but to see my family. And also to be home, where every object has its designated place, meaning my brain has more space to allow room for writing.

One lesson I've learned on this 7 week journey…my brain still works! Mostly. Traveling days — going to unknown places, unpacking for a week, sightseeing, trying to write, chatting to strangers, parallel parking (of which I'm horrible at, but oddly, have gotten pretty good at down South), having anxiety whenever I have to use a roundabout (also, have gotten pretty good at down here), repacking only to do it all over again…causes my brain to feel like a circuit breaker tripped from overload, leaving me dang well exhausted.

Since landing in town in Fairhope, not a morning walk goes by without meeting people who are only happy to offer advice on things to do, places to eat, and events to attend.

I've met Chad and Amy, Jim Waters and Gus, and Dr. Izzy.

I stopped off at the Tiki Bar at the American Legion so I could watch the sunset from their beach, and I was going to put my Diet Coke on my credit card, when a lady behind me told the bartender to put it on her tab. I believe her name was Courtney, but I may be wrong (like I said, my brain is crowded right now!) but I do know she is a great karaoke singer, as is the bartender at the tiki bar, because they were lauding each other's excellent singing chops.

And then, of course, the awesome women (and men!) from the yoga studio immediately invited me out for coffee and gave me more advice: "Get a massage from Kristen Kelly at the Lotus" (and so I did, and it was the most relaxed I've been since…I can't remember!).

I also think I've lost about 10 pounds with all the walking (and let's be honest, sweating (or, as they call it in the South, glistening!)) and all the clothes I brought with me are baggy and far too roomy.

Oh, I also met Chris. It's his 77th birthday today! I was taking photos of the lovely yellow flowers decorating his mailbox, and he came out to talk to me. Which led to an invite to sit on his porch, where he told me all about the Jubilee here in Fairhope (more on that later!) and how he became a respiratory therapist, and how his company sent him to Fairhope (he had requested Alaska!) but he's so glad it worked out the way it did, since Fairhope is…well, Fairhope!

And that's the thing about Fairhope. I go out for a walk, and it becomes a Dr. Seuss book, "Oh The People You Meet!"

I suppose if more places were like Fairhope, the pharmaceutical companies would be out of business. My sleep is better. My mental health hasn't felt this good since…honestly can't remember! It's community. It's nature. It's exercise. It's the pelicans. It's the flowers. It's the kindness. It's the bay and the beach. It's the jumping fish (mullets).

I'm so sad to be leaving, but I'll be taking the lessons about small town living with me. If I can't be in Fairhope, I can bring the spirit of Fairhope with me wherever I go.

The Truth About Belonging

We say we love truth tellers. We don't. Not really.

We love the movie version — the whistleblower who wins in the end, vindicated, applauded, everyone suddenly pretending they were on her side all along. But the real truth tellers? The ones who spoke up and lost friends, lost jobs, lost their place at the table? We look away. Not because we don’t believe them, but because the media or the people who are “in charge” do not want the real truth out there. The truth tellers are painted as difficult. A little crazy. A tinge unhinged.  

I know this story. I've been living it since I was a freshman in a very small Midwestern Catholic school. My best friend was having an affair with a teacher — a married man with children, a family friend of their family. When her parents found the letters, they came to me. They already knew. They just needed me to say it out loud. So I did. They cried. I cried. 

Mr. Zick was made to resign. Quietly. He moved not too far away and became a basketball coach and teacher at another school. No charges. No consequences. Just a fresh start down the road. I told the truth and the whole institution turned on me. Not so much my best friend, because she did not squeal on him, I did. Students were mad at me. The gym teacher/football coach was mad at me, and even called me into his office to tell me that she wasn’t his first affair and named girls I knew who had graduated. 

The lesson was clear: belonging has a price, and the price is silence. 

And here's the thing…I want to belong. Most of us do. Belonging isn't weakness. It's human. It's wired into us from the days when being cast out of the tribe meant you didn't survive. We want to be liked. We want to fit in. We want someone to save us a seat.

But what happens when fitting in means shutting up? When belonging has a price tag and the price is your silence?

I've wrestled with that my whole life. The truth-teller part of me — the part I think I was just born with — keeps opening my mouth. And the belonging part of me tells me to be silent. 

Up North — and I say this having lived in Bucks County, Pennsylvania since the 1900’s (haha, late 1900’s) — people want to figure you out immediately. What's your politics? What's your stance? Which team are you on? They sniff around for your tribal affiliation before they decide whether to let you in. It's exhausting. It's cold. If you don’t check this box, and this box, and the people claiming to be the most tolerant were the least.

Then I came on this seeking Southern Charm book tour. 

Down here, something different happens. People have manners. They take pride in themselves — not in a fussy way, but in a "I'm going to change out of my pajamas into real clothes before I  leave the house" way. They look you in the eye. They smile. They say hello. They ask how you’re day is going, and they wait for an answer. 

And they don't lead with politics. They don't open with ideology. The old adage still holds in the places

I've visited — you don't talk politics, sex, or religion at the dinner table. Not because people don't have opinions. Because hospitality comes first. Because making someone feel welcome matters more than winning an argument.

Sure, they might ask what church you go to. But as it was explained to me by a gentleman in the Book Cellar in Fairhope (which is a little bar attached to the Page and Palette bookstore) it's not about judging you. It's about making you comfortable. It's about saying, "If church is your thing, here's a good one nearby. We want you to feel at home."

And if you say your church is the moon and the stars, the Pelicans and the sea or if you say you're still figuring it out? They don't flinch. They don't recoil. They open their arms anyway.

That's the difference. That's what my life in Pennsylvania didn't give me and one month in visiting the South did. 

On history tours in Charleston and Beaufort, I was reminded of the history I’d learned but have forgotten…especially in the divisiveness of modern day; the Founders who signed the Declaration of Independence— they lost everything. Their wealth. Their friends. Their safety. They weren't celebrated. They were called traitors. And they signed anyway.

Aristotle said virtue isn't a single brave moment. It's a habit. A lifelong practice. It's never easy. No journey worth taking ever is.

But here's what I'm learning, slowly, in the southern heat and humidity and beauty of Fairhope, Alabama; maybe you don't have to choose between telling the truth and belonging. Maybe you just haven't found your people yet. Maybe they're down here, on a porch somewhere, saving you a seat. Not asking you to be quiet. Not demanding you pick a team. Just glad you showed up.

I'm still on the road. Still telling the truth. Still figuring out where I belong. But for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like I have to apologize for either one.

Yours from the porch,  

Birdie Jane Lane

Seeking Southern Charm: Why I Left Pennsylvania With No Books, No Plan, and No Winter Left in Me

How you can help and/or follow: For a photo journey: Follow me on Instagram @BirdieJaneLane If you enjoy reading, please consider buying my published books if they appeal to you! To follow my Southern Journey thru stories, please visit BirdieJaneLane.com.  And please sign up to be notified for when Sorry Bob! is released. Thank you so much!!! 

I left home on Monday, July 6th. No books in my trunk. Just a bumper sticker that says SorryBob.com, a car full of everything I own for the next 7 weeks, and a bet on myself that I'm honestly too scared to say out loud most days. I've been dreaming about the South for so long, and the time was never right. And then when it finally was, my husband was diagnosed with cancer, our dog Rocky passed suddenly (he was 14, still, we were not expecting it) and that was after our wonderful chocolate lab, Jack, passed 8 months prior. It didn't feel right to leave then. Even though my husband said, "Go! I'll be fine!" (and honestly, he probably wanted the silence!). But, still, I stayed. And then my husband got the 'all clear' this Spring, and so, the dream was back on again, with much less savings and more fear. 

I was a military brat and moved around much of my life. Even when my dad left the Air Force, if he had the itch to leave a place, he would. But, in all those moves, I'd never been in the South. 

I watched Steel Magnoli
as in 1989, a new wife, about to be a new mother, and something about those women on that porch felt more like home than home did. I subscribed to Southern Living for years after that and just... dreamed. I read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil — Berendt's book came out in January 1994 — and something in me went quiet and paid attention. The South is full of fascinating characters. What a rich, unhinged, fascinating story. Of course there was also Pat Conroy, and one of my favorite Southern authors, Michael Lee West. 

These places kept popping up in my daydreams: Beaufort. Charleston. Savannah. Fairhope.

This tour is about nature, nurture, and bookstores. Bookstores I hope to be in myself someday! (It's very dangerous though, all these bookstores because it's so hard to leave without adding more books to my collection! I am on a tight budget that's already dwindling!)

This tour is about nature, nurture, and bookstores — bookstores I hope to be in myself someday! I walk in and I stand there a minute, the way you do in a place you love. I run my fingers along the spines like I'm looking for something specific, though I'm not. And for just a second, I let myself imagine my own name on one of those shelves.  That's reason enough to go, even before anything else gets decided. I'm waiting to hear from an agent, and if that doesn't come through, I don't know what I go home to — except that I already know I can't survive another Pennsylvania winter, so "home" might not even be the word anymore.

I keep waiting for something to go wrong. That's an old habit of mine — when things go right for too long, I brace for the other shoe. Car trouble. Or Worse.

But after spending three morning's on Sullivan's Island watching the sun rise (sorry to my family for all the sunrise videos and photos!) here's what I keep landing on instead: even if the agent never calls, even if I end up figuring out the rest of this from the front seat of my car — this was still worth it. 

More from the road soon — Beaufort's next, then Savannah!

PS: Every Sunday, you'd find me at the Horsham library farmer's market, elbow-deep in the discount book bin like it's a garage sale at The Lilly Pulitzer. That's where I met Caroline- a volunteer at the library.  She took one look at my Spartina 449 bag and recognized it right away. Unheard of in Yankee Pennsylvania!  She too, felt a calling to the South. She too, felt that calling after reading Goodnight in the Garden of Good and Evil! (I did not, however, mention that I was about to pack up my car and go find out if my Southern soul had a return address- I should have and regretted it immediately after leaving).  Caroline, if you're reading this: we are officially Southern Soul Sisters, and this journey is as much for you as it is for me!

Day Four - Charleston and Sullivans Island!

 Will be back to properly do a write up but for now, I'm going to give you some pictures! For only pictures, please follow me on my Instagram @BirdieJaneLane  !

This was headed to the water taxi that will take us over to Charleston from Mt. Pleasant. Thanks to my airbnb hostess for giving me this tip. So grateful!!!

Love this! Give us your Trash, Gurl! I'm thinking a woman owns the company. Lord knows women can take out the trash better than anyone!!!

The cutest park on Sullivans Island! 

Sunrise on Sullivans Island. 

Harrisonburg VA: A Stars Hollow Glow Up

 

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Day Two on the road, and I think I've found a little slice of heaven in Virginia.

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The Airbnb & Gwen's Southern Hospitality

Let me back up to where it all started: Gwen.

Gwen was my Airbnb host, and she is the very definition of Southern hospitality. On day one, I landed in a place that felt like exactly what I'd been seeking — and I'm discovering it's more the norm than the exception around here. Southern hospitality is actually a real thing, y'all.

The Airbnb itself was absolutely adorable. If you ever need that recommendation, drop me a line and I'll happily share the info. It was charming, cozy, and perfectly set the tone for everything that followed.

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The Magpie Diner — Hallmark Could Never

This morning I went to the Magpie Diner, and let me tell you: Hallmark couldn't even come close to this place.

All the feels. Beautiful, bright, wide-open space. Extremely nice staff. I sat at the counter and ordered biscuits and gravy, and I think I can never make it again at home — because this was hands-down the best biscuits and gravy I have ever had in my life. I'm ruined for all other biscuits and gravy now.

Then I asked the server what she recommended from the bakery. She said everybody — including her — loves the vanilla braid. And the gentleman sitting to my right at the counter nodded his head vigorously. Yes. Get the vanilla braid.

So I got the vanilla braid.

And I am here to tell you: it is magnificent. Vanilla-sweet, yet flaky. It's like a croissant, but not as layered as a croissant — yet it has that crispness of a croissant. Oh my goodness. Just trust me on this one.

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Lost Credit Card, Zero Panic

Here's the thing: I left my credit card at the diner.

I didn't realize it until I was browsing the thrift store across town (found some wonderful treasures, by the way — and the people there were so nice too). When I went to pay, it hit me: Oh no. I think I left my card at Magpie.

But here's the beautiful part — I didn't freak out. You know why? Because I knew it would probably be there when I got back.

I drove the four minutes across town in zero traffic (amazing), walked back into the diner, and sure enough — the lady handed me my card immediately. Her name is Kaitlyn, and I love the name Kaitlyn (because family name!) and its one of the best names out there. She told me she tried to run after me but only made it as far as the stop sign before I was gone.

That's Harrisonburg for you. 

The Morning Walk

After breakfast, I took a walk around the neighborhood. Adorable doesn't even cover it. Harrisonburg reminds me of Stars Hollow — but with a glow up. People were out walking, waving, saying good morning. It was garbage day and even the guys on the truck were wearing nice uniforms and were genuinely friendly, calling out good morning as they passed! 

I love that. I love that.

Final Verdict

If I were an influencer, people would be mad at me for broadcasting how wonderful this town is. But since I'm not an influencer, nobody's gonna listen to me — so for the few people who might:

Harrisonburg is probably one of the best towns I have ever been in.

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Oh wait — I forgot to tell y'all about Buccees too. You know what? I'll save Buccees for tomorrow.

I'm currently in North Carolina at a cute little cabin, and I'll post the rest of Day Two along with Day Three when I get to my next stop. Stay tuned!

For photos and videos check out my Instagram @BirdieJaneLane

Chasing Southern Charm: Day One of Birdie's Southern Book Tour!

Guys! I did it! I’m currently at my first stop on “Birdie’s Southern Book Tour” (this name may change. If you have any ideas, please email me!” 

I left Bucks County Pa, to start my Southern Spirit (Southern Soul? Southern Romance (like, I’m in love with the Southern culture – I think I’m in love with the culture – the slower way of life, the manners, the food, the stories. But maybe, once I’ve been immersed in it, maybe I will find I fell under the influence of books like “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” and “South of Broad.” And Michael Lee West (wherever you are, I hope you are ok).)

But I feel like I’m going to love it. 

As soon as I left Pennsylvania, the traffic thinned out. There were a few stretches of road where I was the only car! As someone that loathes traffic (I mean, we all do, right?) this was thrilling. Some people might be thrilled going to a Morgan Wallen concert; I’m thrilled when all drivers keep at least three car lengths away from each other!

I almost backed out. Four a.m. this morning, I woke up, the house was still. It was that time of morning when all inside and all outside the house are quiet. It was the hour where questions of sanity push all confidence aside. The mean girl voice: WHAT IF YOU DIE. WHAT IF YOU GET KIDNAPPED? WHAT IF YOU GET LOST AND CANT FIND YOUR WAY BACK. 

I texted my daughter who was working. She texted back: You’re going. And that’s that!

And so I said, “Yes, that’s that. I’m going.” 

Also, I spent two days packing, unpacking (Chanel’s advice – but traveling wise: pack what you think you’ll need, then, subtract a few things.) and the thought of unpacking it all, trying to reschedule this bucket list/life is short/book tour was more dreadful then heading into the bad weather that the radar was taunting me with. 

I’m here in Harrisonburg. It’s just a quick stop. So no bookstores today. 

But I did stop at a Hardees in Virgina! I grew up with Hardees, and there hasn’t been one in our area for at least 15 years. 

I started out around 7:45 – hit some rain, some fog, some traffic, and then the sky turned blue and I had the windows down because the air just feels…more energetic, more…pure? 

As soon as I arrived at the cutest Airbnb- a big clap of thunder shook the sky. 

Which reminds me, the trip started off on a rocky note. My cooler tipped over and leaked all over everything. I had to pull off the road and ended up throwing the whole thing out because the water had collected in the fabric holder of the cooler. Note to self: only hard coolers while traveling! 

The second incident: I got off an exit for gas. Only, the exit I got off at was under construction and I went at least 8 miles in a slow moving narrow cattle shoot. I will admit to not being a Southern Lady at all with the foul language that was captured on my car camera. (Which has since been erased!). 

All the streets were closed off, and Google kept saying “rerouting” “rerouting” “rerouting” and then Apple wanted me to keep driving for 21 miles (21 miles! Are you HIGH right now Apple?)

So, I used common sense (which I doubt all the time when it comes to travel because my sense of direction is like a five year old chasing fireflies) and made the first left I could, then I reckoned I should stop for gas since it was right there, and the kind gray haired man with the racing t-shirt told me how to get back to 81 South. And then, he did the sweetest thing, he waited for me to top of my car, and I followed him out. When the split came to get onto 81 South, he stuck his arm out the window and pointed to the right, to make sure I found my way. I really appreciated this. And, this is exactly what I mean about the South and manners and a kinder way of life!

Anyway, I’m going to be stopping into bookstores and libraries along the way, as well as doing some touristy things! 

Day 1 is in the books. 

See you tomorrow! 

The Easter Parade, the Cigarette, and the Oldest Con Still Running

 

The Easter Parade, the Cigarette, and the Oldest Con Still Running

Okay so I need to tell you about Easter Sunday 1929, and I need you to really stay with me here because this story is going to make you feel like you've been living inside a magic trick your whole life and someone just showed you where the rabbit actually came from and honestly I have not fully recovered and it's been 11 years!

1929 and we’re in New York City. Fifth Avenue. Wealthy, elegant women, in their pastel Easter dresses are tip tapping their heels on the street as they saunter IN the parade. Their chins up, eyes blazing, and they are smoking cigarettes. Publicly! Defiantly! Cigarettes held aloft like tiny torches of freedom! Liberation! Men can smoke, and doctors advise smoking for anxiety, and weight loss, so why shouldn’t women smoke!  And the press is there, cameras ready, notebooks open, because apparently, miraculously,  word got out that something spontaneous and remarkable and deeply newsworthy was about to happen on Fifth Avenue at Easter and wasn't that convenient. The headlines wrote themselves: Women Light Torches of Freedom! Suffragettes Claim the Right to Smoke! The public watched and thought, well, if it's in the papers it must be real, it must be a movement, it must be the authentic voice of women rising up and claiming their bodily autonomy one cigarette at a time!

Friends, it was not a movement. It was business. Not any business. Big Business.  It was Edward Bernays, a publicist for Big Business and government, and he was working for the American Tobacco
Company. Bernays had his receptionist call a magazine (Vogue, because of course!) and gotten the receptionist at Vogue to share the names of society women listed as subscribers, then recruited those women to show up and smoke on cue. He promised them they were liberating women! This was there chance to Be Someone! And for the Good Of Women!!! Yes, of course, because even in 1929 girls girls existed!

Bernays had coined the phrase "torches of freedom" himself, in his own office, at his own desk, because he understood something that should genuinely alarm you: that if you hand people the right story for their existing hunger, they will tell it as if it were their own and never once ask who wrote it.

Ed Bernays was, without a doubt, one the OG Happiness Hijackers. 

Here is what makes this so spectacularly, nauseatingly brilliant, and I say that as someone who is not happy about it. He didn't manufacture a desire that wasn't there. He didn't trick women into wanting freedom — women did want freedom, urgently and legitimately, because it was 1929 and the list of things women were not allowed to do in public was frankly exhausting. What he did was take that real, genuine, completely valid hunger that makes up our human nature — the need to Be Free, to Be in Control, to Be Someone who fights for something, to Belong to a movement of women who understand — and he stapled a cigarette to it. Suddenly smoking wasn't a habit, it was a statement. It wasn't a product, it was a personality. It wasn't something the American Tobacco Company needed you to buy so their quarterly numbers looked good — perish the thought — it was your identity as a liberated woman and how dare anyone suggest you put it down. The influencers weren't called influencers yet, they were just society women with beautiful clothes and a lucky lot in life, and a willingness to show up on Fifth Avenue. But the method was identical to what happens today when someone with four hundred thousand followers posts a very candid, very ‘authentic’, very ‘spontaneously lit’ photograph of themselves using a product they were absolutely paid to hold. The only difference is that in 1929 Bernays had to get the names from a receptionist. Now the algorithm delivers them pre-sorted by engagement rate.

And this is the part where I need you to get just a little bit cynical with me, not in a way that makes you miserable at parties, but in a way that keeps you from being the woman on Fifth Avenue who thinks she's leading a revolution when she's actually working and unwittingly depositing money in a stranger's bank account!

The exact same theater is running today, continuously, on every platform. The production values have improved enormously but the script is identical: find the hunger, name it something beautiful or rebellious, attach a product, and make the whole thing look like it erupted spontaneously from the ‘authentic soul of the people’, and then stand back while the people defend it as their own idea. The women in 1929 genuinely believed they were making a statement. Some of them probably were. That's what makes it so effective: the belief is real even when the event is staged, and real belief is contagious in a way that paid advertising simply isn't.

And can we just pause for one second and ask the question nobody on Fifth Avenue apparently thought to ask, which is; did any of those women actually want to smoke? Cigarettes are a not so charming bouquet of ashtray and regret and stained teeth that arrive in a room approximately forty seconds before the rest of you. But once the story of freedom and rebellion took hold the whole disgusting thing became cool, then normal, then people became addicted and…well, we know how that went!

Jägermeister did the exact same thing to an entirely different generation — a drink that tastes like cough syrup that someone left in a car in August, that no sane person would order if presented with literally any alternative, and yet there we all were, an entire generation of us, doing shots of it at two in the morning and calling it a good time. The product is almost beside the point. It always was.

So when you see a trend that seems to have appeared everywhere at once, a cause that suddenly has a very photogenic spokesperson, a moment that the cameras somehow all caught from different angles, a grassroots movement that comes with its own merchandise — you are allowed to ask. You are supposed to ask. Who got the list from the receptionist? Who coined the phrase? Who is benefiting from me becoming addicted to this product? Who needed this particular longing redirected toward this particular thing right now, and what are they selling? This is not paranoia. This is just the minimum alertness required to walk through the modern world without accidentally starring in someone else's Easter parade!!

What is Sorry Bob!?

 SORRY, BOB!

Are you as exhausted as I am?

Everyone wants something from you now—

your attention, your money, your fear.

Most of it has nothing to do with your actual life.

This is about exposing the happiness hijackers—

so you can flourish anyway.

WHAT ARE “HAPPINESS HIJACKERS”?

They’re the forces that pull you away from your real life:

The outrage cycle

The attention economy

Manufactured fear

Endless noise disguised as importance

They don’t build your life.

They drain it—quietly, constantly, and often without you noticing.

WHO IS BOB?

Maybe you know someone like Bob.

Bob was my dad. 

He was working. Building something. Taking care of his family.

Steel mill. Car dealership. Then finally! His own store!

He was doing what people are supposed to do: living a real life.

Then ALS showed up at 48 and ended it by 50. 

And when he needed help—real help—from the system...

Permission denied.

That’s when it became impossible to ignore:

The people making the rules aren’t living your life.

And they’re not thinking about it either.

THE REALIZATION

Life has become chaotic and confusing.

The system isn't designed to help you flourish.  

It’s designed to keep you distracted.

Pulled into things that feel important—

but don’t improve your life in any meaningful way.

Left. Right. Center. News. Trends. Culture. 

Different flavors.

But It's The Same Machine.

SO WHAT CAN YOU DO?

Focus on what’s real.

Create a life that actually exists when the distractions are turned off.

Help people you can actually reach.

Ignore what doesn’t deserve your attention.

Flourishing doesn’t happen in the chaos.

It happens in the quiet, steady things that still matter.

IF THIS RESONATES

Every Monday, I name, shame, and explain a happiness hijacker.

That way we can start the week together on a positive note. 

And instead of being frustrated, failing, or fearful...

We can find our way back to Flourishing.  

The Game Is Rigged. Flourish Anyway.

Are you as exhausted as I am?

Trying to mind your own business, live a decent life, and still getting dragged into politics like it’s a group project you never signed up for. You decide, “I’m going to focus on flourishing. Being a good person. Getting things done. Not letting today’s outrage buffet created by Happiness Hijackers ruin my appetite.” And yet. There it is again. Loud. Relentless. Everywhere.

And here’s the thing I noticed, whether I wanted to or not: there is no balance. It’s pretty obvious. Media, Hollywood, pop culture, TV shows, movies. One side gets the halo, the other gets the dunce cap. Republicans are punchlines while Democrats are portrayed as brave truth-tellers. Over and over. Like Groundhog day but with people screaming at each about how horrible the other person is, meanwhile the groundhog just wants to stay in his nice warm home and have a normal groundhog life. 

Take The Morning Show. I was watching over the snowy weekend and loved it at first and then...I couldn’t help noticing something. Steve Carell’s character gets absolutely crucified in the name of Me Too. No redemption allowed. No arc. Just erased. Meanwhile, real-life figures who did equal or worse things are either tiptoed around or flat-out ignored. They even mentioned Weinstein at one point, but Bill Clinton? Not a peep. Ever. Nobody canceled him. Nobody even raised an eyebrow. Donations still rolling in.

And later seasons of the show? Biden is spoken of as some brilliant hero. Trump portrayed as a cartoon villain, naturally. Again, no balance. Just a script. Why can't they point out the flaws in every political subject? By choosing to elevate one and mock the other, they are steering people towards the mocked person. It often has the opposite effect. 

I’ve never been interested in politics. Until Barack Obama ran.  And it was crazy, the way that political season seeped into everything. Even my child’s elementary school was giving them pretend ballots and because the teachers were always praising Obama, my daughter “voted” for him. I felt it odd that in all my life in school, we only talked about politics in a balanced manner. I had no idea which way any of my teachers voted! 

Honestly, I liked Obama at first. Everyone did. But then I started digging. And what I found didn’t come from the mainstream. It came from the right. He was friends with Bill Ayers (of the politically violent group the Weather Underground). He was friends with Rev. Wright who said “the chickens have come home to roost” during 9/11. There were other troubling things as well, so I thought, “Well, maybe I’m conservative?” But the truth is, I’ve voted all over the map. Democrat. Republican. Libertarian. One time I voted for a local guy because he made a homemade sign. That’s how radical I was.

What pulled me into the 2008 Presidential race wasn’t ideology. It was noticing that only one side of the story was being told. One side was the hero, and the other was mocked, vilified, and the left that pretend to support all women, it turned out, really only support certain women. 

Fox News used to feel like the “other side,” but by COVID, it was clear they were more performance than principle. Masks, narratives, Ukraine, no real questioning. Just different packaging. That’s when it hit me. Both sides are disgusting. Just in different ways.

But! Here’s where it splinters: When truly horrible things happen, especially involving children, but if the crime is committed by a darling of the left, they don’t mention it. Laken Riley, Kate Steinle, Iryna Zarutska (so many others!).  But if someone on the left is killed by someone the left dislike, they never wait for the dust to settle. Nothing is alleged. They politicize tragedy without blinking. The left build onto the chaos, making it bigger and bigger and feeding into the anger. Now, the right also take advantage of the chaos. Because people (on both sides) donate money, thinking only a politician can solve this. And it brings more views to the news and social media platforms.

 As long as that’s happening, and as long as certain people are forever untouchable while others are declared irredeemable, America is out of balance.

So here’s my conclusion, said kindly but firmly: the game is rigged. No matter what team jersey you wear.

Which is why I hope if even one person reads this and thinks, “You know what? I’m going to focus on myself. My family. My neighborhood. My community.” Because that’s still real. That still matters. That’s where you can actually do some good.

Sorry, Bob… you couldn’t have known how deceptive politics, media, and culture would become. You were busy working. Steel mill. Car dealerships. Then your own carparts auto store. You were busy building a life. You were flourishing. Until ALS showed up at 48 and handed you a death sentence. And then politics did come knocking. You needed permission to try experimental drugs. And the government slammed the door. The answer was no.

I’m glad you missed COVID. You would’ve just stood there shaking your head as the government gave away, for free, something rushed to market, while treatments that actually helped people were mocked and vilified. Along with the people who took them and got better. Funny how that works when there’s no money to be made. 

Who knows what damage has been done. One dose, two, three, four, five, six. And the denial at the top? Deep. Real deep. They protect each other: Left money. Right money Two peas. One Pod.  It’s not about protecting the people. It’s about protecting their power. 

So what can you do? Hold your head high. Keep your hands busy. Build the best life you can where you are. History doesn’t belong to the loudest people on TV anyway. It belongs to the ones who kept going, shoveled their sidewalks, showed up for their neighbors, and didn’t lose their minds while the rest of the world lost its balance. 

Let’s wear ourselves out living our life, helping each other out, and being so exhausted fromactually flourishing, that we’re too exhausted to get outraged by the news. 

Why Fix Potholes When You Can Fix The Weather?

It’s snowing again, which is both shocking and not shocking, like finding out your mayor has been awarding snow removal contracts to his Uncle Don. 

Every time it rains or snows someone says, “We needed this.” I understand that. I try to see that every cloud has its silver lining (the old fashioned silver lining, not the scientific man-made silver lining) And sometimes, yes, we do need moisture.  But, there is a big difference between Mother Nature deciding our weather versus people who wear suits deciding what we need. 

Turns out these “new” silver linings aren’t so new though, they are vintage!  

The first newspaper report of weather modification was On November 13, 1946, up over Mount Greylock, Massachusetts.  Dr. Vincent J. Schaefer of General Electric decided that if Mother Nature wasn’t going to cooperate, he’d just give her a little nudge. Armed with a plane, a bucket of dry ice, and the kind of confidence usually reserved for teenagers and rap artists, he climbed to 14,000 feet and dumped the stuff into a cloud. Within minutes, voilà!, snowflakes began to form. Local newspapers went wild, declaring that man had finally learned to “make it rain,” which sounded more like a carnival act than a science experiment. GE, never one to walk away from a profitable miracle, quickly launched Project Cirrus with the Army, Navy, and Air Force in tow. And just like that, mankind took its first documented stab at telling the weather what to do. Somewhere, Mother Nature sighed, gave the suits the middle finger, and reached for a Gin and Tonic. Hold the tonic.

By the 1950s, states out West jumped in with the enthusiasm of squirrels discovering a freshly planted garden. 

Somewhere between drought and deluge, nine states decided Mother Nature could use a little “help,” so they hired men in windbreakers and mirrored sunglasses to shoot magic dust (chemicals) into the clouds like confetti. 

California (1948) – The pioneers. Pacific Gas & Electric let loose the first silver iodide flares over the Sierra Nevada. California, of course, calls it a “climate enhancement initiative” and will probably bill you for premium raindrops.

Utah (early 1950s) – Never one to miss a good snow opportunity, Utah began boosting winter storms before Elvis even had a record deal!

Colorado (1950s; formal program 1972) – Started seeding the Rockies when ski resorts realized artificial snow was cheaper than disappointing tourists.

North Dakota (1951) – Figured if it could seed wheat, it could seed clouds. The state practically turned weather modification into an extracurricular subject.

Texas (1957) – It was inevitable: if you can rope a steer, you can lasso a cumulonimbus.

New Mexico (circa 1958) – Joined hands with Texas to trade clouds like baseball cards.

Idaho (1960s) – Idaho Power decided if they wanted more hydroelectric power, they’d better make sure the sky paid its utility bill.

Nevada (late 1960s; DRI takes over 1975) – Because nothing says “desert innovation” like trying to make it rain in a place that doesn’t like to.

Wyoming (1971, expanded 2000s) – Came a little late to the party, but now runs one of the most methodical programs in the country. Leave it to Wyoming to make even precipitation orderly.

So by the dawn of disco, about nine states had decided to turn Mother Nature into a cooperative project, proving once again that the attraction of Control and Power is alive and well: if it moves, regulate it; if it doesn’t, seed it.

But here’s the rub: the yin always drags the yang behind it like toilet paper on the heel of a boot.  You flood one area with “extra” moisture, and some poor farmer two states over is left staring at a sky drier than a politician’s sense of humor. The scientists call it “atmospheric redistribution.” Because of course they do, it sounds smart!  In the end, maybe Mother Nature doesn’t need tech support or a gin and tonic (hold the tonic), she just needs us to stop playing meteorologist with a can of aerosol and crossed fingers.

When I was growing up (yes, not only did we have cars when I was young, but we also had built in ashtrays in our cars!) weather was something that happened on television. You turned on Channel 6, saw a happy man in a blazer gesturing toward a cartoon sun, and went back to worrying about your hair. Now we have apps that predict how many raindrops will fall on your left shoulder between 3:02 p.m. and 3:06 p.m. Progress, apparently, means we can be anxious about things before they even happen and deplete the grocery stores of everything a week prior to the storm. 

Private weather modification firms with names like Weather Modification Inc., Western Weather Consultants, North American Weather Consultants, and Rainmaker Technology Corporation, trade in something called “hydrometeor enhancement,” which sounds suspiciously like it could be marketing for a hair conditioner OR electrolyte replacement crystals. 

They’re running weather modification projects which are legally reported to NOAA but rarely read by anyone (NOAA Weather Modification Project Reports). The GAO (the U.S. Government Accountability Office) confirmed it in an unblinking 2024 report: “Nine states are actively using cloud seeding; oversight minimal” (GAO 25 107328). Translation: Yes, it’s happening. No, there’s no hall monitor. Target and Costco will check your receipt as you leave, but no one is checking the receipts of what’s happening in the skies. 

The technique is old magic: silver iodide or calcium chloride flares tossed into receptive clouds to nudge rain. At best, the extra precipitation helps farmers. At worst, somebody else gets unplanned hail. Science calls it “stochastic,” which is Greek for “your results may vary.”

Officially, we’re told it’s to “stabilize the water cycle.” Which is adorable, considering the government couldn’t stabilize their spending habits. The GAO  report politely adds that “reliable information is lacking” on effectiveness. Translation: it might work, it might not, but everyone gets paid either way. And what do these storms cause? Death, destruction, damage. Which equals people need more help. And guess who’s always promising to help you (hint, they never actually do…).  The irony, of course, is that these same operations might be stealing rain from elsewhere — Utah’s miracle snowpack one week, Arizona’s drought the next. 

It’s so utterly on brand for government. They can’t fix potholes but think they can fix the weather. 

Maybe what bothers me isn’t the manipulation itself: it’s the silence around it. The way it’s treated as impolite conversation, like asking someone how much money they make or why they are still single (or still married?). Maybe we don’t want to know where the rain really comes from, because then we’d have to admit that even our storms are bureaucratic and having any control is simply an illusion. 

So here’s my forecast: scattered anxiety with a heavy chance of absurdity. Carry a shovel for the possibility of snow and 100% chance of government bullshit. And remember, it’s not nice to fool Mother Nature. Or the people.

 

My Dad: Grinches, Gaslighting, and Gifts

Christmas Eve was always a good day in my house growing up. Not a cinematic one, not the kind with twenty-seven relatives shouting over a ham, but a good one. We were a small family, geographically and numerically removed from a very large one, and I spent many Decembers thinking we were missing something important. I imagined long tables, extra chairs dragged in from garages, cousins everywhere, chaos and laughter and noise (like Elf or Christmas Vacation). But what we had instead was simpler and, looking back now, nearly perfect. 

December itself felt enchanted to me as a child. My birthday came first, on December 22nd, and then my father’s, on December 24th. It was as if the month were stitched together by celebration, each day leaning into the next. My father, Bob, however, was not what anyone would call a Christmas enthusiast. If there was a Grinch before the Grinch became a cultural shorthand, it might have been him.

He had reasons. He spent years in the Air Force, and because of that, we moved often. Later, when he got out, he worked in a steel mill, the kind of job that doesn’t care what day it is. Shift work ruled our lives. When he was new, when he was low man on the totem pole, he often wasn’t home for Christmas at all. Holidays, like sleep, were something you caught when you could.

The Christmas tree was another point of contention. We didn’t get it until the week of my birthday, sometimes even later, which struck me as nearly sacrilegious. Christmas, in my mind, deserved a long runway. But we always got a real tree, which meant time was limited. And getting that tree was an event. The whole family went. My dad always chose the biggest one. It was inevitably too big. Too tall. Too wide. Too something. He would shave far too much off the bottom, muttering, while we stood by in coats and impatience. It was chaotic and loud and absolutely perfect.

The house would be filled with plaid and silver, red, green, gold, and blue. The lights sparkled without restraint. There was no theme, no sense that less might be more.

Back in the 1970s, Christmas wasn’t a season of abundance the way it is now. You were lucky to get a few gifts you really wanted. One year I received The Gambler by Kenny Rogers and ABBA’s Greatest Hits on vinyl, along with a Trixie Belden book. I can see them still, even though the photographs are long gone. That kind of seeing - that kind of memory- never fades.

But my best Christmas memory has nothing to do with a gift meant for me.

One year my father bought my mother an Apple computer. You have to understand, money was tight, and splurges were rare. The fact my dad bought this for my mom was so exciting. And he let me in on the secret. That was possibly the best part (and I kept the secret!). The Apple computer back then was rare, futuristic, almost magical. My dad loved a practical joke (his literal nickname given to him when he was about 5 or 6 was "Joke.") so, of course, he had to make the surprise eventful and funny!

On Christmas Eve, we were allowed to open one present. My mother opened her large box and found, instead of a computer, a literal apple inside the box. My father thought this was hilarious. I found it hilarious. My mother? She played along, gracious as always. 

The real computer had been hidden at our neighbors’ house, Ken and Lola’s. We had to wait for them to return from visiting their family, which they didn’t do until late that night. By then, I had been sent to bed. I lay there buzzing with excitement, wishing more than anything that I could be there when my mother finally saw the truth of it. That she really was getting what she hoped for.

We went to church together that year. I remember the feeling more than the details. The sense that everything had aligned, briefly, and that we were all present in the same moment. It remains the Christmas I remember most vividly.

I’m proud of that, even now. That my favorite Christmas memory is rooted in my mother’s joy, not my own. I am not, by nature, a selfless person. So I take that as a small victory.

Christmas Eve meant food, too. Always food. Halupki. Pierogies. Pagach, with its potato and cheese filling spread between layers of dough. Stuffed cabbage with meat. My mother’s Christmas cookies, which began appearing sometime in mid-December and continued until they ran out or we did. Chocolate chip cookies. Peanut butter blossoms. Crinkles. Sugar cookies. Pecan tassies. Frozen doughs filled with lekvar (prune filling) their proper names escape my memory. There was also nut roll, of course, and bolbki. The table told our history even when no one did.

I never quite knew what my heritage was. Slovakian, maybe Hungarian- Austrian. When I asked, I was told simply that we were American. That was enough for my parents. They were proud of it. Back then, people didn’t seem to need to look backward so much. They were busy building forward.

As I grew older, my father finally told me why he disliked Christmas. It wasn’t the holiday itself. It was the way people behaved. How kind they were in December and how quickly it vanished in January. He noticed the performative nature of it, the temporary goodness. This was the 1970s and 1980s. He died in 1997, at fifty years old. I don’t think he would have enjoyed the world much as it is now.

And yet, I feel his spirit clearly at Christmas.

We didn’t have much. Socks and underwear waited for Christmas. Excess was not part of our vocabulary. But there was enough. Always enough. And I wouldn’t trade that upbringing for anything.

Christmas, to me, is not about what arrives wrapped in paper. It’s about memory. About those who are gone but not absent. If you sit very still, if you let the lights on the tree blink without asking them to perform, you can feel it. The nearness. The quiet proof that love doesn’t leave when people do.

Christmas isn’t something that happens to us—it’s something we practice. In thoughtfulness, in the lights we leave on a little longer than we need to, in the meals we cook even when there’s no one else coming. If the feeling fades, that’s okay. It only means we were lucky enough to feel it for a while.

So this year, I’ll end where it began—with him.

Happy birthday to my dad, who wasn’t a Grinch after all. He just had the biggest heart, the kind that wanted people to carry the spirit long after the wrapping paper was gone.

And I might have completely skipped the tree this year, but I decked the house in Christmas sparkle the day after Halloween—because some habits, and some hearts, never fade.

I like to think he’s up in heaven now, watching football with my mom and shaking his head, laughing, because even without the tree, he knows I got the spirit part right.

ps. I know your grandkids are hoping you will help pull off a Super Bowl win for the Eagles!

Redemption Without Consequence: What Luke and Laura Taught a Generation About Love

 When I heard Anthony Geary had passed away, I was instantly transported to the late 70’s. I was in the third grade, a latch key child (left alone at home while my parents worked, but don’t worry, we also very little distractions to get us into trouble while home alone!), and our TV only had three channels (and NO remote!  Imagine the horrors!). I hadn’t thought about General Hospital in years, but suddenly I was back in elementary school, home sick, curled under a quilt with ginger ale and crackers, watching beautiful adults on TV cry in perfect lighting.

Luke (Anthony Geary) and Laura (Genie Francis) were the center of it all. America’s favorite love story. But beneath the soft focus and swelling music, something terrible had happened — something even my child’s mind could sense was wrong, though I didn’t yet know the word rape. On October 5, 1979, Luke assaulted Laura on the dance floor of a disco. Two years later, on November 17, 1981, they were married in an episode that drew 30 million viewers: the most watched soap opera moment in history.

Everyone celebrated, but what exactly were they celebrating?

Though I was young, I knew something was wrong. I had witnessed the violence against Laura and then, two years later a marriage? I just knew it wasn’t love. Years later, I understood the damage: society had turned a violent act into a wedding special. Television blurred crime and redemption into one continuous soundtrack, teaching an entire generation, especially girls, that love can fix what violence breaks.

And I, like so many others, learned the lesson a little too well.

I grew up dating men who treated me unkindly. Men who lied, manipulated, cheated, apologized, and then did it again. I believed, deep in my bones, that my love had healing powers. I thought if I just hung on, if I just understood them, maybe they’d transform like Luke did on TV. The idea wasn’t really mine. It was a cultural hand-me-down, broadcast through tubes and screens and songs.

Because in that era, the ideas were everywhere. “Saturday Night Fever” (1977) gave us Tony, a man forgiven despite sexual assault. “Urban Cowboy” (1980) romanticized Bud’s violence as youthful passion. “Grease” (1978) taught girls to change themselves to win love. And by 1981, America wasn’t just tolerating that narrative…we were dancing to it.

Pop culture was rewriting the oldest story there is: pain equals love. Reality check: pain doesn’t equal love. Love equals love. 

What General Hospital did wasn’t just lazy storytelling; it was moral engineering. By marrying Luke and Laura, the writers taught millions of viewers that redemption could arrive without consequence; that apologies could stand in for justice. It was advertised as romance, but it was toxic influence. Not only that, the reframing and gaslighting of the rape simply opened the door for acceptance of men being “men”, women being “weak”, and love being a cure all. 

I wish someone had told me back then that love is redemptive only if it’s paired with accountability and future, consistent, right action.  Redemption cannot start until punishment happens. And there was no punishment of Luke – in fact, the opposite happened. Luke was somehow painted as a victim and Laura was left with self doubt; how did she cause herself to be violated (hint, she didn't)?  

Anthony Geary was brilliant. He played Luke with a strange mix of darkness and depth. But his character became a mirror for how far we let charm excuse cruelty. His passing reminds me not only of the influence television had, but of the stories I allowed to frame my patience, my hope, my threshold.

What we consume becomes what we believe. And what we believe shapes the kind of people we love and the kind of pain we think we deserve.

Maybe that’s the truest lesson General Hospital ever taught me, though it never intended to.

I see now that General Hospital wasn’t just a soap opera; it was a classroom. The lesson came quietly, broadcast through the glow of the television and the hush of daytime living rooms across America. It taught millions of us not only what love looked like but what we were supposed to forgive.

Because that’s what culture does. Culture doesn’t live in museums or textbooks…it lives in our impulses. It’s the unspoken teacher, setting the temperature for how we think, how we react, how we excuse. Culture teaches people how to act when no one is watching. And whoever controls culture controls the message, which means they shape the conscience of an entire generation.

When culture becomes toxic, it doesn’t scream; it hums. It hides inside stories, songs, and commercials, telling us that devotion means endurance, that redemption comes without responsibility, that pain is the price of belonging. That’s not entertainment: that’s social engineering.

So when I think back to Luke and Laura now, it’s no longer with nostalgia. It’s with recognition. The culture I grew up in taught me to romanticize the unbearable…to believe love could fix what justice ignored. But culture can be rewritten, just like an old script.

And maybe that’s the real work of adulthood: to see the stories that raised us for what they were, to forgive ourselves for believing them, and then to write better ones.

Christmas Bells and Wedding Spells

 Writing Christmas Bells & Wedding Spells felt a little like decorating a tree with one hand while stirring a pot of hot cocoa with the other—equal parts joy, juggling, and the occasional sprinkle of chaos that somehow makes the whole thing magical.

I wanted to craft a story that glows. Not the blinding-LED kind of glow, but that soft, porch-light warmth you get when you’re pulling into your hometown on Christmas Eve. The kind of story that lets you know you’re about to walk into a world where goodness still wins, people still believe in each other, and the cookies are always baked with love. The book blends the charm of Hallmark, the humor of reality TV, and the coziness of small-town holiday magic. No harsh drama, no claws out; just enough sparkle, romance, and mischief to give your heart a happy little flutter.

And now—Lord help me, I’m still squealing about this—it’s published and officially available on Barnes & Noble. Anybody can grab it there, download the free NOOK app, and be reading it faster than you can say “Bless that man’s heart for trying to hang Christmas lights in the wind.”

This book wasn’t written to impress the literary elites or win a prize for “Most Symbolic Use of Mistletoe in a Supporting Role.” It was written for the people who want to curl up with a story that feels like a mug of something warm, a blanket over your knees, and the comforting nonsense of holiday romance swirling in the background. 

At the end of the day, Christmas Bells & Wedding Spells is a story about joy. About friendship. About the kind of love that sneaks up on you between a sleigh ride and a snow-kissed misunderstanding. And writing it reminded me that we all deserve a little enchantment!

So please...grab your sleigh bells, your cozy socks, and your Nook app. The doors of Sugar Hollow Harbor are open, and there’s a slice of holiday magic waiting just for you!

(click the book to be taken to Barnes and Noble website!)