TLDR: Whew! That title is a mouthful. There are SO many things to consider when picking the “best” sunscreen—it’s exhausting. I’ve narrowed it down for you.
Why you should care: “The Hawaii Sunscreen Ban has intensified sunscreen formula safety discussions, particularly regarding butylparaben, oxybenzone, and octinoxate. Even at low concentrations, these compounds bleach hard corals eventually leading to their death. As well, these chemicals pose threats to marine ecosystems and raise concerns about human health, particularly systemic absorption and the possibility of causing endocrine disruption.” https://www.frontiersin.org/journals/marine-science/articles/10.3389/fmars.2024.1471574/full Plus, tubes of sunscreen are usually made plastic, which ends up in landfills.
What you should buy: https://www.palmpineskincare.com/ Reef-safe, Palm & Pine uses natural (organic, vegan, and cruelty-free) ingredients, come in zero-plastic packaging, is safe for sensitive skin without synthetic fragrances or hormone disruptors, and it’s travel-friendly. It also has none of that problematic beeswax, which is in so many other formulas! I looked at reviews to make sure: 1) it worked 2) it outlasted sweat/water 3) was easy to apply 4) it wouldn’t break the bank 5) it wasn’t shipped from “super far away” 6) didn’t leave a super noticeable white residue 7) zero-waste packaging 8) TSA friendly Only Palm & Pine fit the bill!
Other options that didn’t quite meet the rigorous criteria but could be worth checking out:
If you’re planning international travel from the DMV area, getting your vaccines doesn’t have to be complicated or ridiculously expensive.
I spent hours researching and calling various vaccine providers, and so many of them were total ripoffs, especially the travel clinics. Even Walgreens and CVS were way more expensive than need be. Costco is the cheapest way to get travel vaccines in Northern Virginia, etc.! And… BONUS… you don’t need a Costco membership.
Before you go, search GoodRx.com for your vaccines and screenshot their coupons on your phone. Saved me a few hundred bucks!
Call Costco ahead of time to make sure they have what you need in stock or can order it. Appointments aren’t required, and, honestly, the pharmacy is busy no matter what time/day you go so just pick the most convenient option for your schedule. Budget an hour to 1.5 hours to get your vaccines.
In short: skip the travel clinic markup. Costco + GoodRx is a much easier way to get travel-ready.
Image Credit: CardMapr.nl Image Description: Picture of a passport, credit cards and plane ticket on top of a black backpack.
When you buy your tickets, note that the seats on Latin American airlines are smaller than those in North American/Europe. The “Extra Leg Room” seats are about the same as a standard US economy seat, and the “Economy Seats” are meant for exceptionally tiny people. Plan accordingly!
Panamanians use US dollars, so we were able to tip liberally throughout the trip. Bring lots of small bills!
Can you drink the water in Panamá?
Yeah, you can. But if you’re a gringo, I would recommend sticking with bottled or boiled water. If you’re at a resort, you’re probably fine drinking things with ice, but anywhere else I’d skip it—you don’t know where the water for the ice came from. It’s just not worth getting sick over something that simple.
Where to stay in Panamá City, Panamá
When you’re searching for places to stay or things to do, make sure you’re not accidentally looking at results for Panama City, Florida.
We stayed in a condo in the business district. Oddly, there was a Thursday rooftop party with bongo drums, but thankfully it ended before midnight. Latin American cities aren’t usually quiet at night, so that actually felt like a win.
In the morning there was a lot of honking as people finished their commute, but it wasn’t too bad. I’d still recommend staying in the business district.
The phrase of the day was “ta bien,” or “all good,” which perfectly captured the mood.
Things to do in Panamá City, Panamá
Getting around via Uber is cheap and super easy.
I highly recommend making the MOLA Museum in the Old Quarter your first stop. It’s a free museum (you can leave a tip at the end!), and the stories behind this Indigenous art form are genuinely fascinating. You can get through it in 30 minutes if you’re quick or about an hour if you’re relaxed.
Climb the stairs around the Plaza de Francia and see the molas created by the women of San Blas. If you ask about the stories, they’ll happily tell you. It helps to have someone in your group who speaks Spanish. Even basic Spanish is fine—the accent is very clear and people speak slowly.
We bought three molas for $50. It takes dozens of hours to make a mola, so we didn’t bother haggling. These women deserve to be paid for their art.
A lot of vendors also sell sea shells. Try not to buy those; it’s not sustainable and it’s bad for the environment.
I’d also recommend stopping by the Artesenias Panamá Vida Mía art studio, which is a short walk from the molas. Great photo ops and we ended up buying some art there, too.
Panama boasts the “most expensive coffee in the world,” but you can try it for cheap in the capital. There are shops offering tasting experiences for much more if you’re a coffee aficionado. I’m more of a regular coffee person, so the $8 cup of geisha at Unido Coffee was perfect for me. We also tried rosemary lemonade coffee, which was surprisingly really good.
If you have food allergies, it’s easier to order through Uber Eats than to go out. Many restaurants have pre-made dishes and won’t be able to make changes, the service is incredibly slow, and sometimes staff don’t know what ingredients are in the food.
If you don’t have food allergies, ta bien! Just relax and don’t plan on getting anywhere quickly—you’re on Latin American time.
After some research, we decided not to go to the Panama Canal Museum. Instead, we stopped at a lookout point, watched the boats inch their way across, took some pictures, and continued on.
If you need groceries, get them in the capital. There are stores in other towns, but nowhere near as many options. And outside the capital, you won’t find souvenirs or basic US-type items—flip flops, towels, etc.—so stock up early and supplement as needed.
Driving in Panamá
Driving here was easier than in any other Latin American country we’ve visited. The roads were well maintained, and although drivers make their own rules, there’s a method to the madness. If you’re a confident driver, you’ll be fine.
Once you get into smaller towns, paved roads can suddenly turn into pocked dirt roads, so I highly recommend getting a car with four-wheel drive just in case.
If you’re trying to make a flight, leave twice as much time as you think you need. We got stuck in an hour-long traffic jam in one of the small towns on our way back to the airport!
Outside Panamá City
We stopped at the Gamboa Rainforest Reserve for a basic lunch. Think white-people food—chicken fingers, tiny burger sliders. I brought instant noodles, and they were happy to give me boiling water.
We bought tickets for a wildlife tour because we really wanted to see the poison dart frogs. They had us buy tickets right before the tour started, since sudden weather changes can cancel it.
We saw a capuchin monkey, butterflies, hummingbirds, dart frogs, sloths, Panama’s national flower and even a one-day orchid. Lots of magical little moments. The guide was knowledgeable and gave us plenty of time to explore. Very hands-off unless we wanted more info.
Visiting Distrito de Portobelo, Panamá
This day was a whole collection of creature sightings: a pelican, falcon, hummingbirds, capuchin monkeys, wild calla lilies, cows, oxen, vultures, a toucan, and a random cat-dog-chicken-duck assortment that felt like the beginning of a folktale. All the dogs were male for some reason. (Can someone explain this to me??)
The howler monkeys sounded a lot like California sea lions, which was disorienting but hilarious. (And then less hilarious when they woke us up at 5 a.m.) We wondered what a group of howler monkeys is called and decided the only correct answer is “a menace.”
No beach worth visiting. Power cut out a few times but not for long. Make sure you rent a place with AC. You don’t need hot water, but it is nice. Many places come without.
You’ll definitely need an eye mask and earplugs. When it rains, the roof becomes a drumline—SO loud. A lot of places don’t have curtains or blinds. I’d also recommend bringing bird-window stickers because birds flew into our windows more than once, and it was startling for everyone involved. *sadfaces
Make sure to bring ziplock bags and keep everything (even toothpaste!) inside one. The ants are determined in the rainforest!!
Overall, it was an amazing trip, and I highly recommend visiting. The city and surrounding areas have something for everyone: the hardcore hikers, photographers, art enthusiasts, foodies, families and folks who just want to meander and sit down for a nice meal and a good café.
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
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.
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!
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
Peg: “Moose don’t give a f*ck.” “Actually,” I correct, “it’s Meese.” <blank stare>
Tuesday Again: Pirates and Sweden’s Weirdest Attraction
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!)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
