Tender as a Molotov: The Art of Self-Immolation

All dynamos die, even those soft arsonists setting locked rooms ablaze just to discover the treasures therein.

And at the end of her life, they’ll remember her not as infallible, but as a woman who learned to hold pain and power in the same hand.

Let it be known she was here. At any moment ready to ignite.

Let it be known that she was tender as a Molotov.

Chapter 38: Riding the Rails with My Shadow Self — And Yeah, I Still Got It

Well, lookie here—a July 7th baby turning 38 and laying her troubles down on the railroad tracks. I spent my birthday in my historic little hometown doing all the things I love: soaking up the sun on the river, strolling through the cemetery, wandering haunted buildings, sipping cold beer, and hanging out at an old train station. Low-key and perfect.

Two more years to go until the big 4-0.

Shit.

Hey, it’s not over. It’s just getting started, right? Sure, at 38, I’m basically halfway to death. But it’s not like I’m the Crypt Keeper, for God’s sake. Though if I were, I’d fully embody the darkness that came with it. Life’s too short not to embrace your whole self, right?

You know, there was a time when I used to get wildly existential about this birthday business. I’m talking full-on panic attacks about unrealized potential, the fact that time is rushing by quicker than I can grasp it, and the inevitable ache of wasted youth and beauty. I spent a painful amount of time overthinking and over-dramatizing potential outcomes that, in hindsight, don’t seem to matter much now. It’s safe to say I’m far less histrionic these days—but no less astonished by how quickly time passes.

Somehow, life feels better here. Sure, I’ve got a perpetual case of mom brain, but in many ways, my thoughts are clearer—more distilled. I’m no longer weighed down by questions of who I’m supposed to become, or whether I’ll ever find her.

My mid-thirties were a time warp for good reason: raising young kids, losing intimacy in the drudgery of trying to keep my home and family life rolling seamlessly, losing myself. Followed by one existential reckoning after another about where this path of motherhood was leading. It was a season marked by intense, often painful growth—filled with lessons I probably should’ve learned in my twenties, but didn’t.

It was humbling. Messy. And somehow, I’m grateful for all of it. Pain, as it turns out, is a potent teacher. It holds a mirror to the parts of yourself you’d rather not see, but eventually can’t avoid.

And out of every so-called “truth” I’ve uncovered about myself, here are a few standouts:

First off, I’m not emotionally volatile. I’m emotionally courageous. There’s a subtle difference here, and I’ve been gaslit my entire life about it. I will almost always let people know what my emotional landscape looks like. I’m willing to be vulnerable and authentic with whatever feelings arise in the moment, and this probably scares those who are more repressed in that way. As the resident empath and know-it-all in my household (they called me Lisa Simpson), I grew up being the emotional archivist of my family. I held what they couldn’t. But obviously, I had no levee back then, and so sometimes I erupt and revert to a much younger place emotionally. It’s been helpful to validate this instead of judge or shame myself for it.

Secondly, I’m not too old to do anything. Be that having a baby (as I’ve found out in the best, most beautiful way), writing a book, starting a Master’s degree, or changing careers. I tell myself that story so I don’t have to begin something entirely new and walk into the forest of uncertainty. It’s a work in progress to buy into this—but I’m getting there. Time to fully embrace that beginner’s mind, right?

And as far as other people go? It’s okay to let go of relationships that no longer serve you, even if they’re family. Not everyone deserves access to your life. This is one of the most beautiful things about having a family of your own to tend to, and I think it’s powerful to model those boundaries for your children.

And you know, above all, I’ve learned about integration. Being able to merge all the “less desirable” aspects with all the good things into one full, capable, grounded sense of self—instead of denying them or feeling shame. It’s a nuanced shift, but it’s not performative. It’s freeing. That’s where authenticity lies. I’m excited for what the next couple of years have in store as I move through the world with more self-possession and containment. Come what may, I know I’m whole as I am, and I can get myself through the next chapters just fine.

As it turns out, I’m not just riding the rails—

I’m the damn locomotive.

Cheers to 38, baby.

I Used to Fetishize Myself, Now I’m Talking to My Houseplants

I used to know exactly what kind of beautiful I was. Not the sweet, wholesome kind. Not the kind that feels safe to hold, lest you upset your equilibrium—the kind that made men ache a little. Part femme fatale, part philosopher queen, glowing under the gaze I had learned to both resent and rely on. Boys fell at my feet like devoted house pets, making bold and syrupy declarations like, “You consume me.”

Sure, pal. You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.

I moved through the world like a carefully edited portrait—always the prettiest, most enigmatic one in the room. Though small in stature, I held myself like a dancer performing perfect pirouettes, as if she hadn’t been training her whole life for it.

I understood my power, and I knew how to wield it. What else do you do but play the cards you’ve been dealt? I could weaponize a glance. I thrived in the tension between intellect and allure, between snark and seduction. But desire wasn’t something I chased; it just seemed to follow me around like smoke. Simpler days, back then.

Now I’m here, a couple of days shy of 38, carrying soft flesh atop a collection of unmet needs—however buried. My body is run ragged, my mind slightly unhinged from sleep deprivation—talking to my houseplants like they’re old friends who remember who I used to be. Every so often, I find fragments of a more distant self in those curated portraits from the past. I read words from old journals just to see if I can ignite a spark of familiarity.

Most days I wake up, one boob out, and try to reconcile the simmering person I see on the outside with the one still burning on the inside. I don’t long for the aesthetic vacancy of the past, but I don’t want to shrink into nothingness either. I’m constantly trying to catch myself, to tend to myself like a garden growing more beautiful and wild with every season. But it’s hard to water yourself when you’re watering everything and everyone else. And as I nurture the life around me, I wonder what kind of example I’m setting for my baby daughter.

But I don’t let myself shrink in front of her. I resist telling her fairy tales about princes and stone towers. I tell her to look around at everything, eyes wide open. I don’t want her to be landlocked to a passive dream. I want her to fully claim herself before anyone else can. I don’t want her to dim herself under the fickle glow of stage lights. I will do my best to remind her that it’s not just about being seen, but about seeking, too.

There’s something so authentic about this second stage of motherhood. There’s a freedom here. I don’t have to be on anymore. I can be a little more rough-cut and not have to atone for it. If anything, motherhood didn’t make me soft; it made me sharp. And I’m not interested in pretending it’s some myth of sacred domestic bliss. There’s nothing delicate about dragging yourself through another day with a body that’s been split open and stitched into something new. There’s nothing dainty about shaping tiny humans while trying not to disappear yourself.

And yet, there’s this strange, volcanic sensuality here. Not performative, not gentle, not always aesthetically pleasing. More like: I am tending to things with intention, with thick thighs and wide eyes and not caring as much about what that looks like to anyone on the outside. The kind of sexy that doesn’t ask permission. That doesn’t perform or give out tickets to the show. Now she doesn’t need an audience.