Pam Baldwin

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 virtual ER. “Be...

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.

A Morning Routine for a Loud World If someone turns the TV above a 1  when I first wake up, I feel like my ears are bleeding. My husband thinks I’m dramatic, but when I first wake up, my hearing is basically super-sonic. Every sound feels amplified. You know, like when you get in the car in the morning, and the radio comes blasting because the version of you who drove it last night is clearly not the same. Not to mention, this girl does not wake up to a blaring horn alarm. No ma’am. My alarm...