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I quit smoking in the old days, back when the “tech support” options were not very advanced. There was no such thing as an electronic cigarette, and doctors weren’t routinely prescribing smoking-cessation medications.  I didn’t exactly have to walk 10 miles in the snow, up hill both ways to get to school, but it was certainly a very different landscape than today’s world. To quit smoking, I was pretty much on my own.

I started smoking to be cool. At 14, I wanted to appear older than I was, and I honestly thought the ability to make excellent smoke rings was a sign of sophistication. As status turned into habit, I wore it proudly, secretly thrilled that the guy at the Crown Gas station would stand outside his g

Six years and about 35 pounds ago, I gazed at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. After six pregnancies and three births, I spoke out loud, "Okay, I’ve got to accept that this is what my middle-aged body is going to look like. It’s time to move on and get healthy.”

Hand on my belly, I deputized ‘the pooch’ as my badge of honor. 

I love writing about inspirational moments when parenthood meets life.  As one who has never been particularly good at small talk, I thrive when there are juicy lessons to learn and wisdom to glean.  My daughter (then age 12) came to an understanding of  “9-11” (then age four)  and the Holocaust in a single, tumultuous day.

That night, I wrote a blog that remains one of my favorite pieces. It’s a blog about listening and parenting, about coming of age and the value of processing challenging emotions, about the importance of story and…most of all…the impo

There is nothing worse than forced, obligatory enjoyment to bring on a solid bout of holiday blues. Seriously, it is absolutely no fun to be any place out of obligation, especially when nearly everyone else there is either: 

1. Thrilled to be there, or
   
2. There out of obligation just like you (misery loves company notwithstanding)

For many, the holidays are a command performance of a show that should have been closed – or revised – years before. In the name of tradition, we allow ourselves to get stuck in routines that no

I’ve had a lifetime love affair with sugar. To be honest, it’s more like an illicit affair. As a child, I would sneak hands full of Oreos into my room, eating chocolate wafers while watching “Gilligan’s Island.” Saving the best for last, I’d treasure the centers, large masses of lard and sugar rolled into a ball that I could savor all the way to “That Girl.” 

That I’m not a diabetic is a pure testament to genetics. But nature will always find a way. Instead, I’ve battled a lifetime challenge with yeast.

It happens every time I push myself past my physical limits. I’m not talking the extreme physical limits of marathons and climbing Everest – let’s not get carried away, here. I’m talking about when I get so engrossed with something happening in my life that I go full throttle for days, weeks, even months on end, rarely slowing down long enough for my hair to stop blowing in the wind.

After I push myself to the limit, I get sick.

When I grew up, it was a time of denial, not acceptance. “Retarded” was commonly used as a derogatory slur, and terms like “mental illness” and “depressed” were indistinguishable from crazy or bug-nuts.  People suffered silently, desperate to appear “normal,” whatever that meant to them.

Over the last several decades, developments in psychology, neurology and related fields have challenged prevailing prejudices around depression. Millions of people who live with depression now have many more options for treatment. Unfortunately, the progress in public acceptance doesn’t seem to have kept pace with the research. 

As I started to write this blog, I intended to tell my story, as I always do, about how my life has been impacted by this particular disease. I expected to speak out, the voice of one impacted by the illness of loved ones. Ironically, I am caught in an internal battle over what to share, and what to withhold, in this blog a

We made a party of it. If Tanta was going to be bald, dammit, we were going to find a way to celebrate and make it joyous. First David said he’d shave in solidarity, then Ken, Kenneth, eventually Joseph and even little Josh. The sum total of bald heads that day was six – okay, little Josh came close with a serious buzz cut – and a great time was had by all. My husband likes to refer to that event as “the Shining.”

We threw the party at the hair salon. Maybe it was a Sunday afternoon –

I’m a little cloudy on the details – but I remember we had the place to ourselves (thanks to our maestro Mudd). There was champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The cameras were flashing, and there was a festive mood in the air.  The event was followed by an impromptu banquet at the restaurant next door – maybe 15-20 people – wine flowing freely along with tears of laughter, joy, sorrow and fear.

A therapist asked me once what my safest space was from childhood. My answer was not my home or my school or even my youth group – it was my summer camp, where the days were long, the cabin was all girls, and the boys only entered by invitation.

There was something pure about my camping experience – like Brigadoon; it existed outside the boundaries of “real-life.” I loved it there. Nestled in the comfort of a crowd most of the time, I could walk the roads at night alone and not feel threatened. I was invincible. I was protected an

When we notice that some aspect of our life is truly out of control, we are likely to have one of three responses: we can take back the reins, we can stay the course (with some degree of denial), or we can surrender to the inevitable.

Most of us want to believe we’d take control. I suspect many of us fear – like me – that we’d surrender all too quickly. (One of my greatest fears, actually, is that I’m basically a chicken at heart.) In truth, the most common response is to stay the course, often with a healthy dose of denial.

I have seen true bravery in my life. I’ve watched my child withstand outrageous medical procedures with hardly a word or a tear (from her – I’ve cried plenty). I saw my spouse dive into a murky river to rescue a drunk stranger he saw disappear beneath the surface. And I’ve witnessed loved ones make the drastic decision to take back