There are rules to eating cinnamon rolls. Not written rules, of course. More like the unspoken kind, the slow living kind. You don’t just eat a cinnamon roll. You make it an experience.

I was OVER IT! The treadmill was stuck in the doorway, as if it had decided, right then and there, that this was its forever home. The door frame? Absolutely destroyed. Scratched, hanging on for dear life. At one point, I was distraught that I had torn up the door frame. I touched jagged wood. I just stood there, staring at my finger, now bleeding. So naturally, I Facetime my husband. I’m holding my finger up to the camera, giving him every angle like I’m checking into a virt

I keep hearing it lately, almost like a whisper I can’t ignore. Stop performing. Just… stop. And the truth is, I don’t know how. My whole adult life, I’ve been a performer. Performing my way into being liked, seen, valued. If I’m nice enough. If I work hard enough. If I rarely mess up. If I can just be a little more creative, a little more stylish, a little more kind… More, more, more.