woman wearing glasses getting splashed in the face with water

Turns out the Real ‘Water Weight’ is Rage Suppression

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

Water is 60 percent of my body, 70 percent of the world’s surface, and 100 percent a pain in the ass.

Look, I know we need water to, like, live and stuff. But couldn’t evolution have chosen something tastier and more readily available? Like the tears of my enemies? The fizz off a freshly poured Diet Coke? Literally anything that doesn’t betray me every single time I get near it?

Water is supposed to be good for you. At least according to the Stanley Cup girlies and people who think drinking lemon-paprika water at sunrise will cure their childhood trauma. But all I’ve ever gotten out of hydration is disappointment, inconvenience, and a friend smacking me upside the head because I peed in that Stanley Cup during a long road trip. (Honestly? No regrets.)

Pools? Athlete’s foot.

Water parks? Swimmer’s ear.

Rivers? Yeast infection.

Lakes? Diarrhea.

Oceans? Sharks, obviously. Because Nature was like: “Look at all this water! Now let’s fill it with teeth!”

Fish out of Water
And don’t even get me started on H2O in professional settings. The first time I went to the Investigative Journalists Conference, I was SO EXCITED. My professor had invited me to a luncheon with the president of the association. There I was, jaw dropped, trying to look poised and intelligent while also being young enough that I didn’t understand health insurance or why deductibles exist. (PS: I still don’t.)

We all converged on the table, and I was thrilled to be seated across from the big cheese. Following the P’s & Q’s crash course my school tried to pass off as “life skills,” I wiped my sweaty palms on my dress and stood up to shake his hand… immediately knocking an entire pitcher of Evian straight onto his pants. His khaki pants. He gave the opening keynote speech looking like he’d lost a battle with potty training.

Even the water inside my body hates me. I once choked on my own spit during a job interview. One minute I was sitting in my modest-yet-colorful blazer wondering why pantyhose were ever invented, and the next I was gasping like a Victorian child with the croup. The interviewer—already convinced I should be at home breeding—did NOT appreciate my attempt at levity: “Just checking if I can breathe my own spit. Nope! Haven’t reached that evolutionary milestone yet. Darn.”

So if water is the bringer of life… why is it always kicking me in the cojones?

Water Off a Duck’s Back
Water isn’t always soft. It floods, storms, erodes, destroys. It wipes out entire coastlines. Water is powerful, and water be giving zero fucks. And yet we talk about it like it’s a gentle hug in beverage form.

Sound familiar?

Like every woman I’ve ever met, water is expected to play nice. To soothe, not push. To cool, not rage. And when it doesn’t? Y’all are scandalized. How could something so “pure” misbehave?

I’m full of something I resent. Multiple somethings. Water, yes. But also anger.

Waterworks
My husband recently suggested I use “I statements.” So I said, “I’m angry at you.” He blinked at me like I’d slapped him with a trout. Apparently that wasn’t the right kind of I statement. Couldn’t I phrase it differently? Softer? Sweeter? More subdued?

I get it. I’ve been socialized that way, too.

When I was little, my temper tantrums were treated like public safety threats. I was told the neighbors could hear. My grandparents could hear. Santa could hear—and he was judging me. Meanwhile, my brother would scream like he was auditioning for Metallica and everyone just shrugged. Boys will be boys, after all. Girls must be quiet fountains of serenity.

Anger, like water, is unavoidable and genuinely essential, yet constantly policed.

Treading Water
I’m tired. Bone-deep tired. Anger is supposed to be the alarm bell that tells you something is wrong, and dearest, something—so many somethings—is VERY wrong.

If I keep my anger locked down, I’ll get sicker, unhappier, and die younger. But if I let even a teaspoon of it surface, I get labeled dramatic. Hysterical. PMS-ing. Difficult. And society will kick me to the curb. (Where I’ll get sicker, unhappier, and die younger.)

You can’t be angry at bosses or husbands or strangers who say “smile” like you’re a malfunctioning Barbie. You can be angry at designated Safe Targets (traffic, long lines, the weather), but not the adorable cat that shits in your backyard. Or the dude who’s breaking noise ordinances to blow leaves at 6-fucking-o’clock. And god forbid you direct your rage at anything or anyone that might actually benefit from hearing it.

Head Above Water
“Your anger is showing” is a sin worse than visible bra straps on a ‘90s school picture day. More scandalous than Godzilla with a hard-on. More shameful than, well, Godzilla with a hard-on.

And if you ladies and minority groups DO let your anger show? You’d better giggle. Apologize. Spin around thrice, knock on wood and sacrifice a small animal (just not the goddamn cat) to Polite Society.

I call BS. My anger is deep and vast, and I deserve it. I’m done pretending otherwise.

Because what would happen if women actually expressed our anger? Really, truly said what we knew to be true? Yelled, slammed doors, punched walls, let the world know we’ve had absofuckinglutely ENOUGH?

I don’t know. But I’d like to find out.

Darlings, let’s make some waves.

Image Credit: Ryan McGuire
Description: Woman wearing glasses getting splashed in the face with water

Graffiti depicting Charlie Brown holding a cigarette and a gas can on the side of a brown building.

My Doctor Told Me I’m Broken and Now I Understand Why Charles Schulz is a Genius

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

Yesterday my doctor told me I was broken, and—shockingly—that’s when I finally understood why Peanuts is funny.


Until that moment, Peanuts had always struck me as the slowest, saddest, most inexplicably beloved snoozefest this country has ever mass-distributed. Now? Oh, I get it. I get why Charlie Brown keeps trudging back to that football. I get why the adults all talk in wah-wah nonsense. I get the whole grayscale, existential doom-as-childhood-charm aesthetic. Because there I was yesterday, sitting on that crinkly paper like a grown-up Peanuts character—hair slightly frizzy, dignity slightly compromised—getting emotionally bludgeoned by someone who pretended he was offering me wisdom.

This life-changing triumph of imagination, this universe-level skill of connecting the dots, has been a long time coming.

Young Me vs. Schulz: The Original Grudge Match

In grade school, I wrote a letter to the editor of our local paper explaining why Peanuts was the worst comic in history and should be summarily banned from the funnies. I laid out the case with great research and even greater authority: the grown-ups clearly had undiagnosed speech disorders; Woodstock was a flying trauma victim; Pigpen was being neglected by every adult in a five-mile radius; Snoopy was flouting leash laws; Lucy was one bad day away from juvie; and then there was Charlie Brown and that endlessly weaponized football. This was NOT a comic. This was a goddamn American tragedy.

I was eight.

My one-kid crusade to purge existential humor from the newspaper fell on deaf ears, and Peanuts endured. (Don’t get Young Me started on Garfield.) And my hatred of the strip endured, too, for decades—until yesterday.

Enter: The Doctor Who Should’ve Been Voiced by a Trombone

My doctor walked into the room, sat down, glanced at my chart like it had personally inconvenienced him and sighed dramatically: “Doctors like me, we hate treating patients like you. You come in with your lists of symptoms and questions. You act ‘chippy’ because of all the other doctors who haven’t listened to you. You all get defensive.”

Yikes. Even Lucy would’ve paused before opening with that.

I looked down at the list in my hand. Oh. Okay. We’re skipping foreplay and going straight to emotional disembowelment. Great. Perfect. Delightful. Why not. Let’s go for the high score today.

“I mean this in the nicest way, but you’re part of the Land of Broken Toys. No offense.”

No offense? NO OFFENSE? If “no offense” were a magical get-out-of-jail-free card, every marriage counselor in America would be out of work.

And this doctor—who allegedly trained somewhere not in the Caymans—just called me defective with the tone you’d use to describe a whimsical Etsy ornament.

Reader, I’d love to say I stood up, planted my feet like Charlie Brown preparing for a righteous kick, and told him off—but I didn’t.

No, I LAUGHED when he told me I was broken. I made jokes. I kept it light. Like he hadn’t just bulldozed my dignity. Because I needed him to help me. And he wouldn’t help me if he was annoyed.

What is a doctor without a patient? On vacation.
 What is a patient without a doctor? Fucked.

“Appeasement Response” or Thanks for the Free Psychiatry, Dr. Snoopy

Then he hit me with this one:
“The way you’re talking right now? All upbeat and to-the-point, that’s called an appeasement response. You do it because of trauma.”

Wow, I’m so glad I have a cardiologist who won’t give me advice on headaches because it’s “not his area,” here to diagnose my speech mannerisms. He didn’t say it for my benefit. He said it to reassert power, to shape the narrative, to keep me compliant, to psychoanalyze me instead of treating me.

Again, I’d love to say I called him out. I’d love to say this was the first time I’ve been in this situation. But I didn’t. And it’s not.

Hello, everyone. My name is Charlie Brown, and this is my football.

The Great Pumpkin of Ableism Rises

“I won’t tell you not to get pregnant. But you feel bad now? How are you going to take care of a baby when it’s born? You can’t put them back in once they’re out, dear.”

Because nothing screams “medical expertise” like infantilizing your patient and disability-shaming.

And let’s be clear: what he said wasn’t “medical advice.” It wasn’t even doctor-adjacent. It was disability shaming with the bedside manner of a printer jam. He didn’t say, “Pregnancy could be physically demanding because of XYZ” or “We’d want to monitor you closely” or even the classic doctor favorite, “Hmm.” No. He skipped right to, “How will you take care of a baby?” as if disabled people have never once raised children in the history of humanity.

And the wild part? He made this sweeping declaration about my alleged inability to parent without even asking the most basic questions. Do I have support? Community? Accommodations? He didn’t care. He immediately filled in the rest of the story with his own eugenics-flavored Mad Libs. In his mind, parenting is done in a vacuum, and my vacuum is apparently haunted. Meanwhile, actual disabled parents all over the world are packing lunches, filling out school forms, and arguing with toddlers about why we don’t eat rocks. But sure, doctor, tell me more about how you have decided I’m unfit.

Lucy Charges Five Cents, This Man Bills My Insurance

Then:
 “The treatment that would help you is a weekly IV… but you know how hard that is to get through insurance? I’m not going to suggest it. Too much paperwork. Do you know how much paperwork us doctors have to fill out? I feel bad for us.”

So he knows what would help me. He’s just choosing not to do it. Because it’s annoying. Cool cool cool cool cool cool.

Imagine a firefighter calmly explaining that the hose would put out your house fire, but the nozzle is kind of hard to twist, so… good luck with the flames, sweetheart.

The truth is, he wasn’t evaluating my health or my capacity to parent or anything rooted in reality. He was protecting his own convenience. And when a doctor decides your existence is too inconvenient, suddenly everything about you gets recast as a flaw: your symptoms, your tone, your questions, your body, your future hypothetical baby. You become a “broken toy” and he becomes the benevolent owner who sadly just can’t fix you. It’s patronizing, it’s lazy, and it’s the medical equivalent of Lucy yanking the football away: predictable, humiliating, and somehow always your fault.

Fragile? No. Just Tired of Adult Voices Going Wah-Wah

He added, “I bet you know people in your family who are fragile like you.” I don’t consider myself fragile. And I don’t know anyone else in my family with this condition—but he didn’t ask.

What about my family history? He didn’t bother with questions. He just said not to worry about it. Or go to the ER if I felt sick.

It was at that moment—truly, spiritually—that I became Charlie Brown. Because even when you try to be polite, to be precise, to be soft enough that no one accuses you of anything… the football still gets pulled back.

Eventually, I put my lists away. Not out of defeat—out of recognition. Recognition that this wasn’t a medical appointment. It was a power ritual. And when I finally snapped, I snapped politely. LIKE A LADY. I texted my friends that he was the biggest asshole alive. (A lie. He’s not even top 20.)

Once you see it, you can’t unsee it. The injustice. The imbalance. The absurdity. The way systems shape you into silence, then punish you for being silent. The way you learn to swallow the scream, to laugh instead of cry, to stay pleasant because your survival depends on it.

And eventually you understand—really understand—why Charlie Brown keeps trying. Because the alternative is giving up entirely, becoming one of the adults who only speaks in muffled nonsense and bureaucratic vagueness. You keep running at the football because the fight to stay human requires at least the attempt at hope.

Good Grief, Healthcare

I walked out of that office, and, suddenly, Peanuts was hilarious. I understand why the strip has endured. The adults don’t understand you. They’re not going to. You get knocked down. You get dismissed. You get analyzed instead of helped. And the whole world expects you to stay grateful, cheerful, nonthreatening.

It’s not a classic because it’s traditionally funny. It’s classic because the tragedy is familiar. And if you can’t laugh at the tragedy, you’ll implode.

Oh, that Charlie Brown… when will he learn? Probably the same day my doctor does.

Image Credit: Pankaj Shah
Description: Image of graffiti. Charlie brown has a cigarette in his mouth and is holding a can of gasoline.

Woman in a floral blue blouse holding a happy face balloon over her face in front of a colorful brick wall with gratified daisies.

How to Break Up With Your Therapist (and Other Unhelpful Thoughts)

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

Today, I officially broke up with my therapist of ten years. The real deed was done via email—because nothing says “emotional maturity” like a Dear John letter that fits neatly between a DoorDash receipt and a coupon for aromatherapy.

In my defense, I recently found out that I’m neurodivergent. This explains why 90% of my in-person social interactions do NOT go well. So before hitting “send,” I consulted both ChatGPT and my husband, to make sure I wasn’t too direct, too defensive, or too honest. A tall order for anyone, but especially someone whose internal monologue frequently sounds like a squirrel addicted to cocaine.

She suggested we have a final session for closure. I googled “closure,” and it sounded less like an emotional process and more like a subscription box for people who enjoy campfire renditions of Coldplay. I’m more of a want-to-know-why-as-soon-as-possible kind of gal. And I’ve learned that most people (potentially all mentally healthy people??) don’t analyze every decision to check for logical inconsistencies—they just have feelings and do shit based on whatever those wily fuckers suggest.

Closure, it seemed to me, was a sentimental waste of $300 that I could better spend on my latest obsession: finding the most comfortable compression socks. Or as I call them, emotional support hosiery.

But, I thought, maybe closure is one of those human things you’re supposed to try once—like ayahuasca or improv. And I did learn something. Though I’m still not quite sure what.

Me: I want to go over some key terms to make sure I can practice identifying them correctly by myself. What does your “Self” feel like?

Her: Think of it like… how it felt to move through the world before trauma.

Me: But I was told that trauma adds seasoning to life.

Her: Who told you that?

Me: My mom.

Her: When? Recently?

Me: Preschool.

Her: Sigh…

Me: How do I know which is a “Part” and which is the “Self”?

Her: It can be tricky. You need to wait for a so-called Part to say something vulnerable and true—a statement without ego. That’s probably the Self.

Me: OK…

Her: Of course, all the various Parts can also mimic the Self to manipulate you into doing things. You know some of the Parts, but there are many you haven’t yet discovered.

Me: K.

Her: And then Parts can block the Self using defenses. And sometimes you can think you’re talking to the Self, when really it’s a manipulative Part.

Me: So… I could A/B test it by writing down what I think the Self said, then get each Part’s feedback, cross-reference the overlap, and run an integrity check?

Her: I guess that’s one way you could do it. Or you could look inside yourself for the thing that feels pure and true.

Me: I think imma go with the A/B testing. Feelings are just data points with extra drama.

Her: Your greatest strength is your curiosity.

Me: Really?

Her: Yeah. You’re willing to learn hard truths and face cognitive dissonance to do right by yourself.

Me: Jeez, wow. It just feels like I have to analyze everything. Like, is this healthy? Is it projection? Is it a manipulative Part? Is it a Part being manipulated? It’s exhausting.

Her: Yeah, don’t do that.

Her: You have, like, magic.

Her (later): Our work was magic.

Her (even later): You just have this magic.

Reader, though she said “magic” the magic number of times, she did so WITHOUT summoning a rabbit, a dove, or a coherent metaphor. Why is therapy always so disappointing?

Her: You are quoting me incorrectly. I worry because this is our last session, and I don’t want you to walk away with untruths. But I can’t convince you.

Me: I’m not quoting you. You talked about this for like 30 minutes. I’m taking the essence of what you said and amalgamating it into something I can actually use. Then I file that version in my brain cabinet under “Useful” and move on until it’s applicable again.

Her: But it’s missing so much!

Me: Yes, but you talked for HALF AN HOUR. How could I possibly remember everything?

Her: You’re smart! You remember tons of facts and details.

Me: Exactly! Facts! Details! Not abstract feelings that have one answer when Mercury’s in retrograde and another when you’re burning sage. I can’t live like this.

Her: But it’s not accurate.

Me: You are NOT allowed to play the accuracy card with a neurodivergent woman.

Her: You know, I think more like you than you realize.

Me: Oh! You also wonder what you’d do with all the time you would’ve saved if you didn’t have to go to the bathroom?

Her: Oh my god, yes!

Me: And how amazing life would be without emotions?

Her: Agree to disagree.

Her: It didn’t feel good to keep matching your energy. For a long time, it was an organic connection—us enjoying each other’s company. But then it didn’t feel good for me. So I stopped.

Me: So you thought about it, weighed the pros and cons, and decided to show less affect because it wasn’t healthy for you?

Her: Hmm?

Me: Sorry, I mean… how would you handle this? Um, you meditated on it? Reflected on your innermost Self? Made a plan? Because when I decide to change, I research feasibility, estimate statistical success, internalize the goal, execute it, and only revisit it if I’m prepared to make a new analysis.

Her: No, I just felt not great about it for like five minutes and course-corrected. In retrospect, I probably should’ve talked to you about it.

Me in my head: Probably! Given this is therapy and talking is sort of your thing.
Me out loud: Oh.

Her: I didn’t feel like being so lighthearted—laughing over your life falling apart.

Me: Please explain to me why that’s not exactly the right time to laugh.

Her: I’m not afraid of discomfort. A lot of our work has been uncomfortable.

Me: Oh, really?

Her: Sure, tons of times.

Me: So what makes you uncomfortable? Because it seems like I was rewarded for big emotional displays, so it can’t be that.

Her: Curiosity is uncomfortable.

Me: Holy crap, really? I had NO idea. Curiosity always feels like a driving force to me.

Her: Yeah, like when you were a journalist writing an article and it wasn’t coming together and you didn’t know if it was going to work out.

Me: Hmm, so curiosity is kinda like anxiety?

Her: No, more like when you’re unsure if the approach you took will help your client.

Me: So curiosity feels like the fear of the unknowable?

Her: Forget I said it.

Me: Out of curiosity, how do you define hope?

Her: Hope is the feeling that something good will happen.

Me: Hmmm. I think hope is a huge flaw in human logic that leads us to make stupid mistakes. But it probably also keeps us alive. I was going to kill off all my hope, but now I’ve decided to double down on it.

Her: Well, good. Good for you.

Me in my head: Yeahhhhh, boi. Self-sabotage, but make it optimistic!
Me out loud: Thanks.

Her: The cat was making us miserable. I just thought, I have one life, why do I have to suffer? Someone else can give her a better home.

Me in my head: Huh. I see we have very different interpretations of “responsibility” and yours is wildly disappointing.
Me out loud: That’s valid.

Her: I hope you remember that I adored your quirkiness. It was refreshing, and I enjoyed our work together.

Me: You used to say I was dismissive and often offended you by being too direct.

Her: I enjoyed the majority of our work together.

Her: Having this relationship with you for so long… you’ve truly helped me become a better therapist.
Me: Oh, I know. That was the most annoying part. I didn’t even get a continuing education fee.

Her: I care about you deeply.

Me: Aww, thanks. ¡Lo mismo!

Her: Is there anything you’d like to share with me?

Me: Um, no? I think I said it all in the email.

Her: You can also say it out loud.

Me: Ugh, god, why??!! Fine!!

Me: I miss the memory of you. Like, who you were to me before you emotionally checked out. You were reliable and stable when nothing else was. You taught me a lot. It wasn’t all awful.

Her: Mmhm.

Me: Oh! You taught me emotions. That was pretty big! And I learned that love was an OK thing. And I also feel more free now that therapy is over, which is nice. Like, I could never fully be myself because I was always so worried about being misunderstood or stupid or annoying. It’s like… it’s like I was speaking French to you the whole time, and you only understood bits and pieces.

Her: I speak French.

Me: Sometimes when I talk, I can feel myself picking the wrong dialogue option.

Her: You’ll always have a special place in my heart.

Me: I don’t mean to be dense, but that reminds me of a tumor.

Her: It means you’re thought of as warm and won’t be forgotten.

Me: So exactly like a tumor. Cool, cool, cool.

Me: When I was diagnosed, you told me you were “trying hard” to learn about neurodivergence. But you wouldn’t give me specifics. Why?

Her: I figured you should just trust me.

Me: Wait. Trust? I don’t trust anyone. I don’t even trust myself. You know that. And I love specifics. I crave specifics.

Her: I thought our history would count. It seemed invasive and rude to have to list the things I was doing.

Me: Okay, so what did you do?

Her: A continuing education course, talked to many other therapists, went to a conference talk, listened to podcasts, bought books… things like that.

Me in my head: You should get your money back. Needing specificity is Neurodivergence 101, and you did NOT pass.
Me out loud: Impressive.

Her: You have been very special to me. You are just filled with so much wonder, and I see you… hmm… what’s the word?

Me: Exploding? Like a balloon? *gestures

Her: No! Mollie, no, I see you doing great things.

Me: Great things like finally writing that book on aquatic snail husbandry? I’ll put it higher on my to do list!

Her: You’ve taught me a lot.

Me: Like where to get the best period underwear?

Her: No. What? Well, actually, yes.

Her: We had so many moments of rupture and repair. We’ll always have that mutual love and care.

Me: And the mushrooms.

Her: What?

Me: We’ll always have the mushrooms.

Her: Well, I guess. Yes, that, too.

Her: Well, that’s our time.

Me: Okay! Here’s your check. So long, and thanks for all the fish.

Her: Ooooh, wish I didn’t have to bring this up. But what about the check for the session you missed?

Me: ?

Her: Several weeks ago…

Me: Oh. You mean the one session I missed because I was so sick I couldn’t sit up or talk? The first and only session I’ve missed in a decade?

Her: Yeah, hate to mention it. You’ll mail it?

Me: Ahh, yes, this must be a Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.

It’s funny, the whole “end of an era” thing. Ten years of emotional excavation and all I got was confirmation that the line between genius and insanity is thinner than the toilet paper at a meditation retreat. I still have no idea which side I’m on — or if there even is a side.

I keep waiting for that big, cinematic swell of meaning people describe after major life transitions. You know, that slow-motion montage where you walk away in soft lighting, feeling wiser and freer. But instead, all I feel is the urge to alphabetize my feelings and delete half of them for being really fucking irritating.

Still, I learned something. Not about closure, exactly, more about the industry of therapy itself. Some things are just made for certain people. Like skincare serum commercials or cults — both offer the illusion of improvement and cost way too much. And you’re left wondering if what you got was transformation… or just really flattering lighting and a fresh layer of delusion.

So, yeah. The breakup was successful. And I unlocked the “closure” achievement. Now, to try ayahuasca!

Image Credit: Lidya Nada

Photo of three white mannequins in a storefront wearing black and white comfortable clothing.

How to Sweden (And Other Tales of Mild Confusion)

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

Tuesday: We Begin Our Descent into Polite Chaos

One late September afternoon, we (Peg and yours truly) began our journey to Sweden.

Pilot: “Please fasten your seat belts, and put up your tray tables.”
Peg from her extra-leg-room throne: “Except us!! We do what we want!”

Peg’s flight attendant LOVED her. They traded stories about tattoos and travel. She got extra croissants. The flight attendant on my side was skeptical of my presence. It was potentially a mistake to wear socks with sandals on a German-run flight. When I asked if there was milk in the breakfast, she shrugged and walked away. For sustenance, I stole Peg’s croissants.

In my jet-lagged state, I decided to (loudly and insistently) regale Peg with the intricacies of fruit purchasing in Latin America: “When you’re in Latin America, you can’t just go around squeezing people’s fruit—you have to build trust first.”
Peg: “So I need a shirt that says Squeeze My Fruit?”

Yes, I hear it now. No, I did not hear it then. PS Someone please make me that shirt.

Wednesday: The Land of Beige Dreams

Our comfy seats didn’t survive the transfer to the next plane.
Peg: “We’re in steerage now, Mollie.”
Me: “We were meant to live for so much more!”
Peg: “Would I friend-prostitute myself for business class? Absolutely.”

Photo of a department store with clothes on racks. All the clothes are white, black, brown, gray.

When the guidebook politely suggested wearing neutrals to “fit in” while traversing Stockholm, it was not optional—it was a mandate. No one wears color. And they all dress the same. Spotted two neon windbreakers on bike commuters. One dark green suit on a brave young Swede probably rebelling against her parents. Everything else = the color of regret and granite countertops.

Stepford Wives-level creepy. Deviate in any way, and you are Not Approved™. Dogs are small, purebred and perfectly trained. Only a few breeds dare show their furry faces: terriers, poodles, pugs, pomeranians, dachshunds, corgis. Baby carriages? Same make, model, color (black, the hue beloved by all infants). Window plants? Same six varieties in all windows. Public gardens? Same two dozen non-native plants everywhere. Shops and apartments? Like IKEA exploded. Chachkis? Nonexistent. Clothing stores? A sea of beige, brown and boring. Thrift stores? Mostly expensive, mass-produced minimalist junk—or stained old clothes that look like they were worn to a US high school football game for spirit week.

Photo of me in Stockholm in front of a yard of ivy. While my sweater is black, which is acceptable, my hair is bright red, which is not.

Breakfast starts at 11. Shops open at 11. Life starts at 11. Plan accordingly.

Everything in Stockholm technically “closes at 10pm,” which really means “stop seating people at 8 and glare at you by 8:15.”

Do not expect cafes to have bathrooms. Do not expect malls to have free bathrooms. I had to pay $2 for a smart toilet to sing to me and a smartass sink to yell at me for not washing my hands for the recommended 30 seconds.

Photo of white dahlias in a green vase on a blue checkered tablecloth with a window out of focus in the background

Also, everyone buys cut flowers. The places we stayed had no salt or olive oil to cook with, but plenty of empty vases. Priorities, Sweden.

On the plus side, I participated in a public art project! Which means I’m officially an international artist. PS: the app is glitchy, plan ahead if you want to get in on it, too.

Thursday: Flowers and Haters

Found a gorgeously curated flower shop. Then another. Then ANOTHER. These people have skills.

Visited The English Bookshop and a gorgeous, quiet art bookstore called Konst-ig. Perfect for sitting and looking at art… and also getting to chill without a shopkeeper following you around or giving you looks because you wore a shirt with colors included in the rainbow.

Picture of a woman trying to take a selfie with a golden retriever. Photo is blurry.

Met Jetson, a 1.5-year-old golden retriever—the only big dog in Stockholm and also the nicest fluff ever—chilling in a Söders Marley café. Highly recommend both the café and Jetson.

The number of salons and barber shops here is absurd. Which is weird because I only saw two people with visibly dyed hair in the entire city. Maybe hair length is strictly regulated. I wouldn’t be surprised.

Had Peruvian food—in Sweden! Decent. Did laundry with no soap! Slept in a twin bed, despite having left those behind in middle school. Used the equivalent of an American washcloth as a towel. The people here are so tall! But everything is SO small! Unsure if “minimalism” extends to hygiene, but we’re rolling with it.

Woman wearing a pink sweater and black pants while pretending to ride a stone lion like a mechanical bull.

Also, we got kicked out of a restaurant for… being too colorful. Pink sweaters are apparently offensive in Sweden. We waited in the foyer for ten minutes while servers drifted past like ghosts. When I asked to be seated, a server gave me the glare usually reserved for public urination and murder. She reluctantly sat us—then moved us again, and again, physically shoving our table farther from everyone else.

Tired and settling in for a long wait, we set a water bottle on the table. Immediately, three staff members appeared and surrounded us. Visibly scandalized, they ordered us to remove the offending bottle because “this is NOT how we do things in Sweden.”

When the server came by again, it wasn’t to take our order, but to move our table once more. And that’s when we finally took the hint. I tried to get the meal as takeout, and the manager came over three times to confirm we were still leaving.

We tried to eat outside on a bench using toothpicks from the bar next store… because the restaurant wouldn’t give us takeout cutlery. Food was fine, dignity slightly damaged, fashion sense questionable.

Friday: The Swish and Resting Bitch Face

You need the Swish app for literally everything—parking, tickets, public transport. They say you can use a credit card. They lie. Do not try to download it while off wifi and expecting to go anywhere for at least half an hour—it is a fickle technological beast. Peg and I had to take turns sitting in the car just to avoid getting a fine because the app kept kicking us out and there was no other way to pay!

Photo of a river. The reflection in the water is tall buildings and trees.

Somewhere between an “elusive albino moose” sighting and eating Italian food in Örebro, I realized Google Maps outside the capital is just vibes and folklore. Plan your route BEFORE leaving. Search in English, search in Swedish—the map will mock you either way.

I wondered aloud what my ancestors were doing on this very day back in the day. Probably shoveling potatoes and dying of digestive issues. Some things never change.

Do NOT smile at random people or say hello. If you don’t have Resting Bitch Face, you don’t belong in this country.

Saturday: Moose, Microwaves and Mild Hypothermia

Outside of Stockholm is lovely. There’s a beautiful lake or scenic farmland every few miles. Oddly, all houses are painted the same color red and built in the same style. Stepford-y vibes continue even here.

Woman pretending to be dead inside of a huge freezer. A hatchet is in the foreground.

Peg: “MY HIPS ARE STUCK IN THE FREEZER!”
Me: “OK, take off your pants.”
Peg: “It’s been so long since a woman tried to undress me in the forest.”

We learned that if you hit a moose, you’re legally entitled to eat it. (Still unverified. Don’t test it.)

Peg made tea in the microwave for the first time. Sweden changes a person.

Photo of tall pine trees with light streaming through them and a moss florest floor.

We talked about ancient Siberian tattoos, listened to podcasts about barbarian conspiracies, and Peg was almost abducted while attempting to charm a faerie. Mistakes were made.

Peg: “I think your body just hates you because you planted non-native plants in a former life.” That tracks.

Photo of a plate of crepes and fresh fruit, a cup of tea and three hardboiled eggs.

Then: crêpes labeled as “pancakes” for breakfast.

Sunday: The Cows Are Angry

We took miasma photos in Tiveden National Park, and it was gloriously beautiful.

Peg said the cows were angry. I didn’t ask why. But this one is giving major side eye.

Photo of a cow on a field in the misty morning. Cow is giving serious side eye.

Mollie: “What about Tuesdays? People don’t go to jail on Tuesdays, do they?”
Context withheld for mystery.

Peg succeeded at vacationing by sleeping in!

There is no peppermint tea offered at the cafés here.

The Swedes seem to have a candy problem. Their candy and baked goods aisles took up far more space than fresh produce. Not complaining.

Few restaurants serve fish. IT’S SWEDEN! Definitely complaining.

Monday: Boats, Meese and Lingonberries

“Lingonberry juice,” I say. “The Manischewitz of Sweden.”

Photo of landscape. Lake. Reflected in the water is the clouds, a red house and tall fall-colored trees.

Peg: “Moose don’t give a f*ck.”
“Actually,” I correct, “it’s Meese.”
<blank stare>

Tuesday Again: Pirates and Sweden’s Weirdest Attraction

Rowed ’round a lake in Dalsland while singing sea shanties.

Back of a woman in a flannel shirt as she rows a white boat.

Went into town and saw a cat on a leash named Treeco. We wondered if he was a national celebrity, being the oddest thing in the entire country. We met a highly sophisticated mob boss named Kärl who also happened to be a bird that strategized a coordinated attack with his cronies to steal Peg’s food. (Exhibit A: Frosting on his beak!)

Picture of a black bird sitting on a table. Has frosting on its beak.

Wednesday Again: So Many Roundabouts

Vegan fast food is on fleek here. Max Burgers FTW!

Doors open the wrong way here.

We saw tiny roe deer that I was convinced were definitely a Central American agouti on vacation.

Photo of a river reflecting the image of the clouds above and lined on either side by red houses.

Would I go back?
I have no must-do recommendations for Sweden because I wouldn’t recommend going. And there aren’t any unique foods unless you’re really into reindeer meat or salty licorice.

I may return one day, but only if I can avoid Stockholm and head straight into the countryside. Scenic red houses, infinite lakes, forests and tiny towns where people are allowed to eat at restaurants while wearing a pepto-chic top—that is the Sweden I adore.

Next time, I’m bringing my own towels, peppermint tea and a Swedish phrasebook to negotiate those pesky bathroom fees.

How to Celebrate Lammas: 6 Simple Ideas for the First Harvest

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

Lammas (also known as Lughnasadh) falls around August 1st and marks the beginning of harvest season. It’s a time to pause, take stock of what’s come to life this year, and prepare for the seasonal shift toward fall. It’s a great reason to slow down, reflect and reconnect with nature.

1. Bring the Season Indoors

Celebrate the shift to late summer by decorating your home or workspace with what’s growing now. That might mean:

  • A mason jar of fresh flowers like sunflowers, zinnias, or black-eyed Susans
  • A bowl of tomatoes, cucumbers, or peaches on your kitchen table
  • A few clippings of herbs from your garden

This isn’t about aesthetics—it’s about staying in touch with what’s growing around you. Adding a seasonal touch helps mark the passage of time and reminds us to appreciate the moment.
Inspired by: Tiny Rituals

2. Bake Some Carbs

The name “Lammas” literally means “loaf mass,” and it’s traditionally a time to bake bread from the year’s first grain harvest. You don’t have to be a baker. Just make something simple using grains: banana bread, muffins, canned biscuits or even a box mix!

As you bake, think about what’s “risen” in your life this year. What have you grown? What’s turned out well? Then share the food with someone as a way to enjoy what the season is offering.
Inspired by: Lancs Green Witch

3. Make a List of What’s Working

Lammas is a good time to pause and check in. Grab a piece of paper or your notes app and jot down a few things that are going well right now. What goals have you made progress on? What habits are sticking? What are you proud of? Some people like to bury the list. But you can also keep it—stick it on your fridge! The point is to recognize your effort and notice your own momentum.
Inspired by: Lancs Green Witch

4. Watch the Sunset

This time of year, the sun is still strong but starting to shift. Set aside one evening this week to watch the sunset. Let your brain go quiet for a few minutes. You can ask yourself:

  • What’s wrapping up in my life?
  • What needs my attention before fall?
  • What do I want to let go of?

Sometimes just being still and noticing the light change is enough.
Inspired by: Lancs Green Witch

5. Clean Up a Natural Space

Give something back to nature. Go to a local trail, park or garden and spend 20 minutes picking up trash or pulling invasive weeds. Bring gloves and a bag, and don’t overdo it. It’s a low-key, concrete way to show appreciation for the land you live on.
Inspired by: Tiny Rituals

6. Try a Simple Seasonal Craft

Try making a small corn husk figure, bundling dried herbs with twine or putting together a small vase arrangement with flowers from your yard.
Inspired by: The Wholesome Witch

Final Thoughts

You don’t have to be a practicing Pagan or celebrate Lammas in a spiritual way to benefit from seasonal rituals. These little check-ins with the land, the kitchen, or your own thoughts are just part of living with intention. They help us slow down in a busy world and notice what’s worth holding on to—and what we’re ready to release.

Bread Image: Wesual Click
Photo of loaves of bread on a black tabletop.

photo of two hands, one holding a small glass amber dropper and dropping essential oil onto the palm of the other hand. black background

Natural Scalp Psoriasis Treatment DIY Recipe

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

I’m incredibly grateful for modern medicine—it’s saved me from so many painful health issues.

That said, scalp psoriasis is tricky. A lot of the long-term medications on the market just aren’t ideal for your overall health, so I started researching more natural options to help manage symptoms. This blend isn’t a cure, but it has seriously reduced the burning, itching and pain I deal with on a regular basis.

A few notes before you dive in:

  • You can tweak the amounts, but start small and increase slowly.
  • Always do a patch test first.
  • Only buy from high-quality, trusted suppliers. Grocery store essential oils (yes, even from Whole Foods) won’t cut it. I recommend Aromatics International for essential oils and Making Cosmetics Inc. for liquid salicylic acid. Want more on why sourcing matters? Check out this post.
  • Several of the recommendations contain antifungal properties. That’s because all humans naturally have fungi and yeast on their skin. When psoriasis causes the skin to crack and triggers an immune response, it can create an environment where these organisms grow more rapidly—contributing to the intense burning and itching that often come with the condition.
  • I also use this recipe for bug bites and itchy rashes.
  • How did I pick these ingredients? I read a lot of academic studies. It was slow going but worth it!

Here’s what I use and why:

Jojoba Oil, 2 tbsp: A lightweight carrier oil that closely mimics your skin’s natural oils—so it absorbs really well without making your scalp greasy. It dilutes the essential oils to make them safe to use.

Rosemary Essential Oil, 8 drops: Soothes itching and irritation.

Turmeric Essential Oil, 5 drops: Powerful anti-inflammatory.

Salicylic Acid (liquid form), 1/4 tsp: Gently breaks down and loosens psoriasis scales.

(Optional) Tamanu Oil, 1 tbsp: Another carrier oil, rich and nutty-smelling, great for skin healing.

(Optional) Cedarwood Essential Oil, 5 drops: Thought to support skin health and calm inflammation.

(Optional) German Chamomile Essential Oil, 3 drops: Deeply calming and anti-inflammatory.

(Optional) Tea Tree Essential Oil, 4 drops: Antimicrobial and soothing for irritated skin.

(Optional) Rose & Geranium Essential Oils, 4 drops: Good anti-inflammatory, according to some studies, and adds a lovely scent.

(Optional) Neem Oil, 1 tsp: Super effective anti-fungal but has a strong smell!

Store the liquid in a glass jar in the fridge if you can. (Tinted glass is ideal if you have it, but not essential.) It melts quickly, and the cool temperature feels amazing on psoriasis flare-ups. I use a paintbrush to apply it to my scalp. Most times, I put it on before bed and rinse it out in the morning, but I also do frequent spot treatments and just keep it on until my next wash.

Image Credit: Christin Hume
Description: photo of two hands, one holding a small glass amber dropper and dropping essential oil onto the palm of the other hand. black background.

Should I Do the Hard Thing Rubric

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

I’m someone who’s very justice-oriented. If I see something wrong happening, I have a hard time just letting it go. Sometimes, that’s a great quality. Other times, it’s absolutely exhausting.

I constantly run into little moral quandaries. Like, when my husband and I were on vacation, we found a lost dog—an older pup, clearly confused, dehydrated, and wandering into traffic. No one stopped. Even though we were just visiting, we spent hours trying to find his owner. When animal control ghosted us, we paid for an Uber to take him to the nearest shelter. Worth it? Absolutely.

But not everything is so clear-cut. Like recently, my doctor’s office overcharged me $30 for a procedure. Do I hate that? YES. Do I think they probably do it to other people too? Also yes. Is it wrong? No question. But… should I spend 3+ hours fighting a $30 charge?

Cue the “Should I Do the Hard Thing?” Rubric!

Even though my entire being wants to go to battle, the numbers don’t lie: it’s probably not worth the soul-crushing hold music and circular phone conversations that would eat up my whole afternoon.

What do you think? Agree? Disagree? How do you decide when it’s worth taking on a fight like that? LMK!

Image Credit: Glen Carrie

Jalynn Norling Autumn Therapy Review

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

Finding a therapist is so hard, y’all. We reached out to Jalynn Norling, who I’m sure is a well-meaning person, but unfortunately, she wasn’t accommodating. Her website specifically says she works with neurodivergent folks, but that didn’t match our experience.

My husband and I have a short list of questions we send to potential therapists to help us figure out if they’re a good fit—because like many people, we don’t have the time or resources to schedule consultations or pay for sessions only to discover it’s not a match. The questions are very standard—things like “How often do you work with neurodivergent clients?” and “What’s your therapeutic style?”

After a back-and-forth, Jalynn declined to answer our questions or continue the conversation. She responded with some vague, buzzword-heavy language and referenced that most providers are required to offer accommodations—but didn’t actually model that in her own approach. Unfortunately, this kind of response is all too familiar. As a neurodivergent person, I often hear the word accommodations used in theory, but when it comes to putting that into practice, people back away. It’s disappointing and honestly hurtful—especially when it comes from professionals who position themselves as neurodiversity-affirming.

And it felt really out of step with what her website says:

I am tired, unsure and searching—and I was hopeful this could be a good fit. But a truly responsive space includes being willing to answer questions up front. Feeling emotionally safe, especially as a neurodivergent person, often starts with clear communication and flexibility. I didn’t get that here.

I’m sharing this because the process of finding a therapist is already so exhausting. If I can save someone else from the stress, it’s worth the time it took me to write this up.

Image Credit: Leuchtterm Entertainment

Photo of a pink flower crown on the back of a brown chair.

How to Celebrate Summer Solstice

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

As part of my ongoing journey into learning about different religions and traditions, I’ve been especially drawn to Wicca lately. One thing I love is how closely Wiccans connect their celebrations to the natural world—recognizing that the earth’s rhythms mirror our own. Every season has something to teach us.

The Solstice is the longest day and shortest night, when the sun is at its most powerful. In Wiccan tradition, it’s a time to celebrate abundance, warmth, light and play—a big, sun-drenched “thank you” to nature before the days start slowly getting shorter again. It’s also a great moment to pause, soak in the light, and plant a little joy in our lives before the growing season begins to tip toward harvest.

We leaned hard into the sunshine theme with a yellow feast that would make the sun itself proud. The table was full of sunny treats: Twinkies, Capri Sun, Goldfish crackers, bananas, oranges, etc.

Next, we made flower crowns to honor nature in full bloom. In Wicca, flowers are often used in rituals to represent beauty, growth, and fleeting moments. Making something with your hands that you’ll wear—even just for an hour—is a lovely way to stay present.

Then came the main event: the Sun Piñata! Stuffed with candies and sparkly trinkets, it was a big, happy burst of sunshine hanging from a tree. But we added a twist: a magical piñata challenge!

To take a swing, each person rolled a die, and the number they landed on determined their “weapon”:

  • 🎲 1: Rubber chicken
  • 🎲 2: Giant foam finger
  • 🎲 3: Inflatable boxing glove
  • 🎲 4: Child-size sword
  • 🎲 5: Pool noodle
  • 🎲 6: A banana (yes, really)

Watching the kids (and adults!) try to whack the sun with a banana or bop it gently with a foam finger had everyone howling with laughter. The silliness felt just right for this holiday.

In Wicca, the sun at its peak reminds us to shine bright, to play, to be bold, and to enjoy this high point in the wheel of the year. It’s also a great time to check in with ourselves: What are we growing in our lives? What’s blooming? What light do we have to share?

Happy Summer Solstice! Shine on.

Image Credit: Jenn Vazquez

Picture of bay leaves and berries on a wood countertop

How to Celebrate Imbolc

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

Spring is the Maiden, full of youth, curiosity and new beginnings.

Summer and fall are the Mother, whether she’s nurturing children, ideas or community.

And winter? That’s the Crone, the wise elder who brings rest, reflection and endings.

Each phase—and each season—offers its own wisdom.This weekend, we celebrated Imbolc, a Wiccan holiday that marks the shift from winter to spring. It begins at sundown and ends at sundown the next day. Imbolc is about stirring from rest, lighting little fires of hope, and setting gentle intentions for what’s to come. It’s also full of symbolism—especially circles, to remind us of the turning wheel of the year.

We began our celebration by sweeping out the winter. The kids each grabbed a little broom and ran in a big circle around the yard, laughing and sweeping away the cold and gloom to make space for spring’s light. Circles were everywhere, reminding us of the cycle of life, death and rebirth.

Next, we gathered for a moment of stillness. We spoke softly about what spells really mean in Wicca—not sparkles and potions, but setting intentions, kind of like meditation or the affirmations we whisper to ourselves when we need courage or focus. Want to fly high on the swings? Tell yourself, “I can do it.” That’s a kind of spell.

After that, we opened a few small presents and moved on to a craft—painting birdhouses—a way of welcoming back the birds and helping spring feel invited to return. Then came the intention spell.

Each child wrote one meaningful word on a bay leaf—something they hoped for in the coming season. Then, with help from the grown-ups, we burned the bay leaves and sent those hopes off into the universe, carried by the smoke like whispers on the wind.

We finished with warm cinnamon rolls—soft spirals, another nod to the circular year—and mugs of tea. The final moment was a poem, chanted together in rhythm:

Winter is a time for rest
Maiden, mother, crone
Burrow down deep in your nest
Maiden, mother, crone

Sleep and heal and patch and mend
Maiden, mother, crone
Learning that all stories end
Maiden, mother, crone

Goodbye crone, you coldest year
Maiden, mother, crone
Hello maiden, spring is near
Maiden, mother, crone

Thank yee crone, we learned your lesson
Maiden, mother, crone
Keen and ready for spring’s blessin’
Maiden, mother, crone

Finally, we gave the children a choice: collect seeds and examine them under a microscope, or keep painting. Some kids even tried writing their own little spells—tiny poems or words of power just for them.There’s something beautiful about pausing midwinter to honor the quiet wisdom of the crone, even as we turn to greet the maiden. We’re not rushing spring—we’re just giving her a warm welcome. Happy Imbolc!

Image Credit: vojtech Havlis