Teamwork Makes the Dream Work

Things have been admittedly pretty rough lately.

I have a great poker face when I’m going through hardship, but I have to be honest when I say things haven’t been great. Like, worse than they’ve been since me and my ex-husband split nearly ten years ago. So bad, I had to resort to starting a GoFundMe to stay afloat. Due to a series of unfortunate circumstances, I’ve been essentially homeless these past few weeks, surviving only due to the kindness of some very sweet folks. Still, this is the first time I’ve truly felt alone in this world, and it’s scary.

But I’m realizing I’m not truly alone. Like Ringo once famously sang, I get by with a little help from my friends.

The living situation with my girlfriend, Olivia, in South Bend wasn’t able to be made permanent after all (all landlords are bastards), so my dear friend Luke offered to take me in while I figure out my next moves. And while I’m disappointed I have to leave my girl and the city I was reluctantly excited to call my new home, part of me was actually a little relieved to be returning to Kalamazoo. After all, I have plenty of unfinished business here. For one, I started a rap group and a podcast, both under the Kalamazooligans brand.

Which is now the official name for a resident of Kalamazoo. You’re welcome.

I’m excited to revive these projects and hopefully finally get them out into this world. It’s been a long time coming. Both the podcast and the rap group evolved out of my need to collaborate with friends. The idea for the podcast came shortly after meeting a fellow writer named Luke, who came to be one of my most truest friends in the city. We wanted a vehicle with which we could spread joy and whimsy (sound familiar?). The podcast realm is overrun with bigoted fuckheads and terrible takes, so why not do our part to turn the tides in the other direction, you know? The rap group was started by myself with one of my closest male partners, David, as well as Luke and whoever else was in the room with us at time of recording. That project grew when I realized I work better with other people around me instead of in isolation, so when I wanted to work on music, I schlepped my equipment over to David’s or Luke’s. They’d inevitably get curious about how it all worked, and I’d end up creating little beats for them to rap over. From there, it snowballed into something even bigger.

I might be the brains behind the Kalamazooligans, and David is the obviously the voice. But Luke has always been the heart of the project. He’s been there since the genesis of the group, which is basically me, him, David, and, like I said, whoever is in the room with us. Now that I’ll be living in the area again and literally rooming with my main collaborator, the podcast and the musical endeavors are going to be back in full swing.

But there was one small problem. The apartment I’ll be sharing with Luke was a freaking biohazard as it stood. Which, I can’t blame him for. When you live alone and need to spend every waking hour working to afford rent, it’s easy to let shit slip. I can’t fault anyone for neglecting such duties in the current economy. Still though, the place was far from the veritable (wo)man cave it deserved to be. This was to become the Kzoo HQ, and we deserved better.

The problem is I’m not naturally much of a cleaner either. My ADHD makes executive dysfunction nearly insurmountable and I can’t even get started. But something happens when you put another person in the room with me. Suddenly, I feel this weird inclination to clean and tidy things up. It’s a phenomenon called body doubling, and a lot of neurodivergent folks swear by it as a tactic for overcoming that strange paralysis that keeps us from work. And it works! In fact, remember how I said the Kalamazooligans rap project started because I couldn’t work alone? There’s another example right there.

So Olivia and I drove up to my soon-to-be apartment, cleaning supplies in hand. Together, me, her, and Luke tackled the entire place, our shared ADHD be damned. We made quick work of ridding the place of trash, sweeping and mopping the floors, and scrubbing the toilet to perfection. We made it fun. Luke and Olivia showed each other chiptune songs they like, I named the dustpan Dustin, and we sang “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye” to the trash as it gradually disappeared from the domicile. Suddenly, the place began to transform before our eyes.

A lot has already been said in our culture about the power of friendship. Lauren Faust developed a whole show/thirty minute toy advertisement featuring colorful ponies about how friendship is literally magic. Look at any children’s film and the climax usually comes when the protagonist’s besties come back to rescue his dumb ass. In fact, my favorite book of ~~emo poetry~~ the Bible, Ecclesiastes, talks about strength in numbers as well. (Am I actually a Christian, or do I just really like the book of Ecclesiastes?) In Ecclesiastes 4:9-12, King Solomon is said to have written these words:

Two are better than one,
    because they have a good return for their labor:
If either of them falls down,
    one can help the other up.
But pity anyone who falls
    and has no one to help them up.
Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.
    But how can one keep warm alone?
Though one may be overpowered,
    two can defend themselves.
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

This isn’t the only time the Bible discusses teamwork. Even in the New Testament, in Matthew 18:20, Jesus says:

For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.

The orthodox Christian reading of this scripture usually points to church gatherings and prayer groups, but I’m nothing if not unorthodox in much of my beliefs, including religious ones. I think the Good Book is trying to tell us something even bigger than just “Go to church and pray in a group.” Remember that Jesus is considered part of God, and somehow also is God, and that God is love. If those things are true, then anywhere people are gathered in the name of love are gathered in the name of Christ, even if they’re entirely unaware of it. I see more of Jesus at Pride festivals and in the wildly supportive and friendly karaoke group I frequent than I ever did at my old evangelical megachurch, where I never quite fit in (wonder why?).

The truth of the matter is that as human beings, we need each other. I swear I’m going to make it my life’s work to make people realize that we’re all in this together. And I’m not just talking about the Christians. I’m talking everyone of every faith and creed and background. It’s not a secret that nearly every major faith system in the world has a version of the Golden Rule: just be a good person and love people. We try to add all these stipulations and conditions, but it’s really that simple. The answer is love. The answer has always been love. That love may look like scrubbing your best friend’s toilet to perfection and cheering him on as he throws out old socks.

I’ll end with one final note. As I mentioned, I started a GoFundMe to help alleviate some of the financial stress of having to relocate once again. It was a last ditch effort to keep my life from spiraling out of control. I needed yet another Uhaul to get my stuff that I’d taken to South Bend back to Kalamazoo, and I needed a bed, and I still hadn’t even paid my car and credit card payments for the month. I felt absolutely hopeless, and the fundraiser was basically me screaming into the void for help. I was no longer “too proud.” I knew I wasn’t getting by on my own.

I expected crickets.

But I was absolutely blown away by the cascade of support I got from my loved ones. And while the fundraiser stands at $420 (heh) as of writing, I’ve received an even more valuable gift in reconnecting with people I’d long lost touch with. Folks I haven’t heard from in a decade or more reached out to assist in any way they could. An old flame offered me a spare room at his parents’ home if Kalamazoo fell through, and a sweet fellow from a band I adored back in college said he was willing to lend me his truck for the move. People from every corner of my life, from my old piano teacher to my high school besties, checked in to make sure I was okay. Even my uncle, whom I hadn’t seen since early childhood, told my mom he reads my writing and is rooting for me. I hadn’t felt this cared for in a long time, and it made me realize things would maybe be alright in the end. My village is there for me.

From a stale fortune cookie I found at Luke’s.

Nobody is meant to go it alone. Together, we’re unbreakable.

Please consider helping with my fresh start by clicking this link! For every donation, I’ll draw a Krubby!

Finding Joy and Embracing Whimsy in the Face of Terror

Sometimes I seriously wonder why I subject myself to the internet.

If I’m honest, my fears regarding technology are nothing new. In fact, in college, my tech aversion got so bad, I’d have to ask my mom to check my email for me at times, and this was when I ran a freaking newspaper. I was never as bad as my dear late father, who died without ever having an email address. Don’t assume I’m a total troglodyte — I have fond memories of painstakingly editing my MySpace profile to reflect my perfect mix of prep and scene, with a touch of emo.

These days, I still loathe the World Wide Web of Lies and Secrets, but it’s a slightly more manageable loathing. I guess I’ve come to accept that most of the planet is only accessible through it, and by shutting myself off from it, I’m limiting my opportunities. That being said, it feels like a very necessary evil. There’s a lot of dark and shit that happens online, and much like the Grinch, I would not like to touch any of it with a 39-and-a-half-foot pole. People feel tempted to drop their masks on here, and it gets ugly. Take, for example, this exchange of pleasantries on the slightly better X Twitter, Threads.

I was tempted to leave the dude’s name uncensored, since he clearly wanted attention.

I’m not upset at the guy, but like, bro, why? It was just unnecessarily mean for no reason. This was not on any of my numerous political or religious posts, mind you, which left me extra confused. I give right-wingers a lot of material to work with, being a mentally ill polyamorous pansexual, so you’d assume I’d be getting a lot more hate for that. Nope, just a stupid video of me fucking up on mandolin.

I initially brushed off his dumbassery. Trolls are gonna troll, and feeding them only screws you over in the end. After a while, though, part of me wondered why I still subject myself to this. Why do I open myself up to be hated on a platform that is openly hostile to women, queer people, and — let’s be honest — anyone who wouldn’t look out of place in His Orange Highness’s golf buddy group? Was I just doing this all for “content,” whatever the hell that even means? Why do I make anything I make? Why do I even write this stupid blog? (I already answered that question, but bear with me.)

Sometimes I feel like I am screaming into a void. But then I remember that if I’m screaming, it means I still have a voice. And much like how Anne Frank immortalized and humanized herself through her work, I hope the things I’m putting into the world do the same for me and my loved ones. It’s not a secret that the world is a very twisted and dangerous place right now, and the future looks bleak at times. Sometimes I feel like posting little whimsical whatnots like making up dumb songs or silly attempts at playing the mandolin aren’t consequential at all in a world that wants to crush all whimsy and creativity. I’ve realized this world is full of joy terrorists, and terrorists are called terrorists for a reason: they want you to live in terror. But in a way, spreading joy and whimsy and art and fun is a quiet act of rebellion. They want us to live in fear. They want us to be quiet. Don’t let them win.

Back in January, I had the incredible opportunity to go on an emo cruise (which I will never financially recover from). There was adventure. There was romance. There was music. There was me meeting the frontman of Dance Gavin Dance and not realizing who the fuck he was. (In my defense, I am faceblind.) I will never forget the amazing experiences I had and the friends I made along the way.

And meanwhile, back home in the Midwest, another white queer woman just like me was murdered by the government.

The entire time, I couldn’t get the thought out of my head. I felt so guilty, this horrible, grating sense of survivors guilt, of “it should have been me, not her,” of “what if it is me next?” I was experiencing this strange cognitive dissonance of everything being amazing immediately around me, but on fire everywhere else. And there was a part of me that just wanted to refuse the fun that was being served to me out of principle. How could I, Jessa, have fun, when people are dying? It felt wildly insensitive.

But joy has a way of finding you even in the midst of darkness. Funnily enough, the ship’s freakin’ name was Joy. And it hit me that I don’t need to take on all of the pain of the earth at once. I can lighten up and enjoy the good things I have while I still have them, because tomorrow isn’t promised. Renee didn’t know it was her last day when she dropped her child off at school that morning. Everything I have can be taken from me at any moment, so I’m going to live it up while I can. Even my favorite book of emo poetry, Ecclesiastes, has this to say:

“So I say a man should enjoy himself. For there is nothing good for a man under the sun except to eat and drink and be happy.”

Life is hard, but life is good. Two things can be true, and I’m learning every day to wrestle with that. I don’t know how much longer I will have on this little planet, but while still have a voice, I will use it to spread joy, and I will revel in that joy myself. That’s what it means to be alive. That’s what it means to be human.

Music Reviews Nobody Asked For: Six Pop Artists I Can’t Stop Listening To

I consider myself something of an armchair “popologist.” Pop music has fascinated me since junior high, when I discovered the Swedish pop duo Roxette and realized there was a real art to crafting catchy tunes. It was an art form I became obsessed with. I studied Max Martin religiously. I went to school for music and learned the power of chord progressions. I even became a songwriter myself, and my personal litmus test of whether a song was a success was if my friends confessed to me that they got it stuck in their head at some point. I love good old hard rock as well, and honestly, rock and pop are such close cousins that rock could technically fall under the “pop” umbrella (that’s a whole other conversation). But despite being more of a rock instrumentalist, much of my songwriting is rooted in pop tradition.

I have a lot of inspirations when it comes to the craft of songwriting, including the aforementioned Max Martin, a Swedish guy (what’s in the water over there?) who codified popular music for the 21st century by penning hits for Britney, the Backstreet Boys, and pretty much every A-list artist of the past 30 years. Taylor Swift, love her or hate her, is another one of my strongest influences, dating back to when I was a fellow towhead femme armed with an acoustic guitar and big dreams. Paul McCartney is another, and so is Per Gessle of Roxette, who I mentioned earlier as well.

Today, the music world has never been so oversaturated, and the market is flooded with new upcoming pop stars. The vast majority of them will never reach astronomical levels of fame in our post-monoculture world, but many of them have small but loyal fanbases and are carving out a path in this new era. Here are some of the pop artists I’ve been watching intently for a while.

1. Alessi Rose

I discovered Alessi in a 7-11 while buying snacks for a road trip. I heard a song with an infectious bassline and knew I had to Shazam that shit. The song, it turned out, was “Get Around,” an absolute banger of a track about eyeballing a promiscuous guy. I seldom do deep dives on artists because I will get hyperfocused and ignore all other music out there for some time, but Alessi seemed worth taking a chance on. And it paid off, because I instantly fell in love with Voyeur, her full-length debut. (It is hilariously classified as an EP on Spotify — I’m sorry Alessi but you can’t call an album with eleven three-minute tracks an EP!).

Alessi herself is British and had taught herself music production while bored during lockdown. She has an ear for catchy melodies, and her writing captures the Y2K girl-rock sound of artists like Hilary Duff and Ashlee Simpson, especially with songs like “That Could Be Me” and “Falling Forever.” She saved her funkiest songs for the second half of the album, like the Sabrina Carpenter-esque “First Original Thought” and the previously mentioned “Get Around,” but the entire release is a solid one. Her older material is worth looking into as well — I love the unusual chord progressions in “imsochillandcool.” Also worth mentioning is the fact that, like me, Alessi has OCD! Her recent song “Skin” is her take on mental illness, and it is a heartwrenching one. There is a lot of heart hidden behind her coquette aesthetic and catchy hooks.

Recommended tracks: “That Could Be Me,” “Skin”

2. MARIS

MARIS popped up randomly on a drive and I didn’t immediately change the song when I heard the opening notes of “MOSH⭐️PIT.” Yes, the star is part of the song title and also part of MARIS’s brand. She wants to be a “super fucking mega star,” in the words of her own song, and she believes everyone is a star in their own right as well. I went all in on supporting this girl when I found out her opening act for her tour was karaoke! If you know me, you know I’m a huge proponent of karaoke as a way to build community and express yourself. Everything I’ve seen from MARIS indicates that her and I would probably get along really well as human beings. She, like me, is violently bisexual and appreciates Freddie Mercury and Heart as much as I do.

Her collaboration with fellow queer artist Caroline Kingsbury on the very gay “Give Me a Sign” is full of yearning and layers of harmonies. Meanwhile, her ode to cannabis, “Mary + I,” has some of the strongest vocals I’ve heard in recent years, completely eschewing the “whisper singing” that many pop girls lean into these days. Another favorite, “Body Is On Fire,” is a bouncy, sexy tune you can dance to, and the euphoric “Salt Water Taffy” has been my song of the summer, with its multiple nods to the little things that make the season special.

Recommended tracks: “Give Me a Sign,” “Salt Water Taffy”

3. little luna

little luna (the lowercase is intentional) is a modern pop singer with a hippie soul. Starting out as a Disney actress and moonlighting as a yoga instructor, little luna even inserts guided meditations into her albums, which I thought was incredibly cool. I’ve been trying to get more into mindfulness myself and I played her meditation “garden” while sitting out in my girlfriend’s backyard one morning. I will tell you, that shit made me tear up. little luna has a way of making you feel cared for with only her voice, and that’s something precious, something I haven’t really found with other artists. She has a warmth to her entire persona that I very much appreciate.

little luna’s trademark style and bright orange branding is intriguing to me, drawing influence from the art of the sixties and seventies. She feels very much like a spiritual successor to the likes of Stevie Nicks and Linda Ronstadt. The song that made me fall in love with her music was “upward spiral,” a jaunty pop-rock number with a seriously catchy chorus. There’s also “wildflower woman,” somewhat of a signature song of hers, where she breezily croons “I’ll be growing where I’m going.” It’s more than just a song — it’s a statement. Also worth mentioning are her meditations, which are very relaxing and encouraging if you’re into that kind of thing. If you’ve never tried a guided mediation, hers are a wonderful introduction.

Recommended tracks: “upward spiral,” “forest (guided meditation)”

4. Awkward Marina

If Ann Wilson wasn’t my all-time favorite flute-wielding belter in the world, that title would go to Awkward Marina (with Lizzo now at a distant third after the…banana incident). Awkward Marina is probably the least known name on this list, and it is a damn shame. She should absolutely be in the same league as Taylor, and I’d go as far as to say her songwriting is incredibly Swiftian. This is not an accident — Marina is a Swiftie herself, covering some of her songs and creating whatever this is. But there’s another fandom she’s very involved with as well. You see, she truly found her voice in the My Little Pony fandom, and as something of a Pegasister myself, I can get behind that. She’s also a Jewish lesbian, which is pretty neat.

I really value diversity in musicianship, and Awkward Marina is a fantastic example of this in action. She’s written 80s-inspired synthpop, baroque pop, a capella, ska, recession pop — and that is one fucking EP. Speaking of, the Doodle EPs are a god-tier set of EPs. The power ballad “Lonely” features a flute solo that’s been loaded with effects to make it sound nearly electric guitar-like in timbre, and an entire choir of Marinas accompany Marina in the triumphant “Doodle,” where she revels in the joy of being a creative. Another gem, “Princess,” is a charming baroque pop track about the expectations of femininity which features both flute and harpsichord prominently. She even has a cover of “867-5309/Jenny,” the 1981 Tommy Tutone hit, featuring a smattering of retro phone sounds. Her creativity is astounding when it comes to arranging songs.

Recommended tracks: “Matter of Time,” “Lonely”

5. Candi Carpenter

I was originally going to call this list “Pop GIRLIES I Can’t Stop Listening To,” but to do so would be to disregard a vital part of their identity. They, like me, are nonbinary! That’s not where our similarities end. We’re both autistic, we grew up in the same state, we have some country roots, and we’re both very much exvangelical. We differ in that I held onto my faith, while they let go of theirs, but I have mad respect for anyone who goes on the deconstruction journey. Just getting out of that cult is praiseworthy enough, and often, irreligious people are just as nice, if not nicer, than religious ones. Needless to say, religious trauma is an enormous part of their music and aesthetic.

The song that introduced me to Candi’s world doesn’t really contain any spiritual references at all. “Nervous System” is just a silly but heartfelt song about their struggles with anxiety and mental health issues. It’s very tongue-in-cheek, as are many of Candi’s songs. “Cult” also deals with the heavy topic of the dark side of American Christianity in a lighthearted manner. It references Left Behind-style end times theology and that creepy post-Columbine martyrdom obsession that inspired “Cassie” by Flyleaf (great band, though not-great theologically). There’s also the punky, sapphic “Strawberry Starburst.” The song that really got me, though, was “Everybody Goes to Hell,” in which Candi explains that “everybody goes to hell in somebody else’s religion.” We all want to be right, but in the end, toxic theology does much more harm than good, so maybe it’s worth abandoning those closed-minded beliefs. They end the song with a heartfelt apology to their parents and anyone they tried to convert while in the thick of it.

Recommended tracks: “Nervous System,” “Everybody Goes to Hell”

6. Tessa Violet

I saved Tessa Violet for last because of all of the artists I’ve been bingeing recently, her music has been the most influential for me emotionally and mentally. Originally starting off as a vlogger when YouTube was less shitty, she’s a “bad bitch” with a heart of gold. My girlfriend initially introduced me to her music years ago, but I just now started deep-diving into her discography. I’ve loved the song “Games” for years now, but I had no idea the kinds of music this woman was truly capable of making. I loaded up her most recent release, a six-song EP titled Something to Lose, and was not expecting to be emotionally devastated. Her strength as a songwriter is similar to Awkward Marina’s in that she can nail practically any style and emotion in her songs. The chasm between tracks like “BAD BITCH” and “I Love Being Wrong” is enormous, but somehow, they’re both intrinsically Tessa.

Her confident baddie persona shines through on “YES MOM,” “Play With Fire,” and the already mentioned “BAD BITCH,” but when she drops the armor, you get songs like the sweet “Kitchen Song,” describing domestic bliss with a loved one, or “My Body’s My Buddy,” a simple love song to the vessel that’s carried her through life. “I Love Being Wrong” hits a similar nerve for me as Candi’s “Everybody Goes to Hell,” although Tessa’s song is a bit more somber in nature and lacking the religious references. But it celebrates the fact that we don’t have all the answers as human beings, and it takes comfort in that. The final song I’ll mention is the one that makes me sob uncontrollably, and it’s not at all a sad-sounding song musically. It’s called “Knowing,” and the last few stanzas make me ugly cry every time.

Give yourself the grace to start again
If it hurts you, put it down
If it don’t serve you, look around
You’re doing great, my babe
I swear you’re gonna make it
You never can know what could come
It’s not done until it’s done
You’re doing great, my babe
I swear you’re gonna make it

I can do hard things
Parallel parking
Like it all, it just takes practicing
(Knowing this is not enough is enough)
I can walk a new path
I can get myself back
I can learn to be a better friend
And give myself the grace to try again

And that’s the true mark of a real artist — someone who can make you feel something with whatever they create. Those lines gave me a sense of hope when I needed it most, and for that, I’m thankful.

Song recommendations: “Knowing,” “I Love Being Wrong”

Which of these artists have you heard of before? Do you have any song recommendations? Feel free to share them in the comments!

Find Your Voice and Stop F***ing Up Your Hair: Advice to a Teenage Me

What advice would you give to your teenage self?

Let’s first set the stage by meeting the star of the show. Behold, Teenage Jessa:

My hair is as straight as I was pretending to be.

Teenage Jessa was very different from the Adult Jessa y’all know and love. For one, Teenage Jessa was the goodiest two-shoes that ever existed, long before Adult Jessa learned the hard way that following the rules doesn’t land you the world on a platter. Teenage Jessa would have never cussed or had sex or smoked the devil’s cabbage, that’s for sure. She spent most of her free nights at church events, for fun! She still loved music, but her dreams were a lot bigger back then. Teenage Jessa wanted to be the next Taylor Swift; Adult Jessa would crumble under that kind of pressure. And perhaps the starkest contrast is my state of mental health, because Teenage Jessa had to contend with some of the worst of my OCD and anxiety, while I’ve learned to control a lot of it these days.

It’s funny that I got this prompt today because I often think about what I’d say to a younger version of myself if I ever got to meet her. I consider myself to be very in-touch with my inner child — she’s running the show half the time — but my inner teenager is another story. Maybe it’s because I look back at that stage of my life and cringe a little. It’s easy to give Child Jessa some grace as an undiagnosed autistic little girl who just really loved parakeets, but in retrospect, Teenage Jessa seemed absolutely insufferable. Good little church girl who gets straight As and served as senior class president? I’m surprised I wasn’t voted “most punchable face.” (In reality, I was voted “most gullible,” which is…not much better.)

So what would I do different if I could relive my teen years? Well, this is the advice I’d give Teenage Jessa if I ever got to speak to her:

Be Bolder

Sometimes I think of all the lost opportunities I left unpursued. I could have moved to Nashville or LA or New York and made it big in the music industry. I could have posted more diligently on YouTube or promoted myself better on social media. I could have asked Chase Johnson to prom with me. Looking back through my life, I very seldom regret things I have done. Rather, I tend to regret those things I haven’t done. If I could go back, I’d take so many more risks. As the saying goes, shoot for the moon — even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars. In a lot of ways, I feel like I never even left Earth.

Be Gayer

It took me a long time to come to terms with my bisexuality. Compulsive heteronormativity is one hell of a drug, okay? I definitely flirted with the idea of liking girls as a teenager, and I remember some complicated feelings arising around some of my close female friends, which I confided to my mother and absolutely no one else. Unfortunately, I was very steeped in an evangelical church that frowned upon all things queer, and so I convinced myself I was as straight as my artificially flattened scene kid hair at the time. I wish I’d given ladies a chance sooner, as I probably would have avoided quite a few less-than-stellar hetero relationships.

Be More Open-Minded

I’ll admit I parroted a lot of the bullshit my adolescent friends preached. All that “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve” crap. I didn’t really mean any of it, and a part of me knew it was wrong to believe that stuff, but I wanted my friends to like me, and most importantly, I wanted God to like me. I thought I had to check a bunch of boxes to call myself a Christian. I thought I had to be conservative and marry a man and pop out some kids and live the white picket fence life to make Jesus happy, when that’s not the truth at all. There’s no “wrong” way to be a Christian, unless you’re flying in the face of what Christ stood for (like a good amount of prominent evangelicals).

Develop Your Talents

I’ve always said that if I’d had even fraction of a crumb of an attention span as a youngin’, I’d probably be a virtuoso guitarist by now. Sadly, my ADHD remained undiagnosed for nearly three decades, so I feel like I wasted a lot of time I could have used on productive things, like practicing my instrument or learning another language. It sucks to think of all the potential I could have had. As much as I embrace my neurodivergences, there are aspects of my brain I really don’t like, and this is definitely one of them. If I could talk to my younger self, I’d tell her to pester literally every adult in her life until they get her a damn ADHD assessment. I was literally treading water with a disability I wasn’t even aware of.

Get a Car

This one might be on Mom and Dad, since I was the youngest by a lot and I always got the feeling that they were hesitant to let me “adult” on my own. That being said, it took until well into my twenties before I finally learned to drive, and so I didn’t really gain that sense of independence you should feel as a teenager. I didn’t get my Hilary Duff “Sweet Sixteen” experience of driving around with my blonde hair everywhere, and that’s sad. I wish I’d annoyed my parents about getting a car more than I did, and while I know some of it wasn’t their fault — we were a working class family without a lot of extra cash — I could have totally like, saved up for it, ya know?

Advocate For Yourself

I think this is a running theme. I needed to advocate for so many things for myself. Honestly, I’m a pretty assertive person nowadays. Like, I told off a whole man in the karaoke bar once. Teenage Jessa would have never. But I wish she would have had that energy. There were so many things she needed in order to be successful, and yet she was too afraid to speak up and make her needs and preferences known. It’s why I never got a car, never got ADHD meds, and was basically strong-armed into the uglier side of Christianity despite my gut not aligning with it. It took me a long time to find my voice, and even longer to learn how to use it.

Stop Straightening Your Hair

Seriously, you’re frying the fuck out of it. Someday you’ll appreciate your natural mermaid waves.

Bullied by My Girl Scout Troop Leader (And Why It STILL Affects Me)

What’s something most people don’t know about you?

Once upon a time, I was wildly uncool.

I realize I wrote that as if I’m now like, the bastion of coolness or something. I don’t want to pretend I’m like, George Clinton levels of cool or anything.

Now *there’s* a Clinton I want for president.

But although I’m not cool enough to front legendary funk collective Parliament-Funkadelic, I’m significantly cooler than I was as a child, when I had to eat lunch in the library to avoid being pelted with ranch dressing packets. Bullying was a pretty constant factor in my pre-high school years. I went through it all — one guy punched me right in the gut, another in the face, two girls conspired to get me in trouble so I’d lose my class McDonalds trip (those bastards), and most of the kids I went to school with typically followed any utterance of my name with “sucks.” I managed to mitigate a lot of it by avoiding my classmates, but it’s not like I could avoid people forever, you know? I could count the number of friends I had on one hand, and for most of that period, I could count the number of friends I had on one finger. And she went to a different school!

Flash-forward to 2025, and while I’m not where I wanted to be professionally yet, for the most part, my life is looking pretty swell. I have a loving wife and a sweet girlfriend and now even a few casual male partners that may turn into something serious. I have a band — I’ve been in and out of bands for most of my adult life, actually — and the bonds I’ve formed through these projects have mostly changed my life for the better. And perhaps most importantly, I have friends. Like, a lot of them. And it’s awesome!

But sometimes, something will be dragged up out of my memory that puts me right back into the scared little kid mindset I had growing up.

Meet Mrs. Marsack.

She didn’t actually look like this, but it felt like the right image to use.

I think that’s how her last name was spelled. I kind of hope I spelled it wrong because I totally don’t intend to dox this lady. That being said, if anyone deserves awful things, it’s Mrs. Marsack. Because Mrs. Marsack broke my child heart worse than anyone my own age ever could.

When I was in elementary school, I was in Girl Scouts. I don’t wanna shit-talk Girl Scouts because it’s a pretty neat organization as a whole, and everyone knows the cookies go hard. I still grab myself a box of Samoas whenever I encounter a gaggle of entrepreneurial scouts in the wild. That being said, my experience was not all cookies and roses. That’s because I had Mrs. Marsack as a troop leader.

Mrs. Marsack had a daughter in the program. Her name was like, maybe Abigail or Emily or something. Anyways, she was one of the “cool kids.” Most of the girls in my troop were “cool” to an extent. But not me! I was the little weirdo autistic kid who stimmed by making bird sounds and who wouldn’t shut up about Bon Jovi to literally anyone who’d listen. So needless to say, I had a bad time.

Kids who liked *these* guys were doomed from the start.

But I really did enjoy the activities! So when a huge camping trip was announced, I was absolutely thrilled. I’d never been camping before, and we were about to do it all — swimming, hiking, horseback riding, canoeing, everything a little girl could imagine and more. I almost had my bags packed when Mrs. Marsack called my mom in to “chat.” That’s when she dropped the most devastating news.

All the girls were invited…except me.

Apparently I “wasn’t mature” enough to go on the trip. My mother knew it was a bullshit excuse. I was significantly more mature in all the ways that actually mattered. Mrs. Marsack just didn’t like me.

This is the degree of “fuck you in particular” we’re talking.

So I locked myself in the bathroom and cried for hours. I think my mom had to pry the door open, I was that distraught. I’d always felt ostracised by my peers, but never to the extent that she’d made me feel. That rejection left a scar on my heart that never really healed if I’m entirely honest. Nothing will ever give me that experience back.

These days, I don’t often think about that time in my life. But every now and then, something will jostle that feeling out and I’m once again that scared, sad little kid on the inside. I think that’s why I’m so in touch with my inner child now, as an adult. I never had space to nurture that part of me away from the judgmental eyes of my peers and unsupportive adults like Mrs. Marsack. I think that’s also a small part of why I’m so outwardly outgoing in adulthood. I crave companionship the way a flower craves rain because I was so deprived of that community, that sisterhood. I need to be around people all the time.

It sucks because I had plenty of bullies in my peer group (looking at you, both other Jessica S.‘s in my class), but Mrs. Marsack was the first time an adult showed me not all grown-ups are my friend. I almost feel a little survivorship guilt because this trauma is relatively mild compared to the backstories of many of my friends. Most of their first betrayals by trusted adults were in their own families, and with much, much worse situations. But Mrs. Marsack still left a huge gash in my heart that I still contend with.

So if you’re reading this, let the message be this: be kind to the kids in your life. Especially the weird ones. You never know what kind of influence you might have on them. Don’t be some poor little girl’s Mrs. Marsack.

Creativity Overdose: What It Is and How to Fight It

So my wife and a good mutual friend of ours recently staged an intervention in my living room over a glaring problem that’s been worrying them for a while.

(Okay, it wasn’t an intervention, but it sure felt like it, dammit.)

You see, I suffer from something I’ve dubbed Creativity Overdose.

It’s an insidious beast that comes at the intersection of bipolar and ADHD. Creativity Overdose is when your ideas start to come at the expense of people around you. Another good name would be “Eddy from Ed, Edd, & Eddy syndrome,” since it’s basically what he has. Every three seconds, you come up with some hairbrained get-rich-quick scheme or the newest version of The Best Idea Ever™ that consumes your entire being. And that would be fine if you a. followed through on these ideas and b. they weren’t coming at the detriment of your loved ones.

My poor wife has had to deal with approximately 6,348 new ideas since January, and getting back into academia and becoming a specialist on the way AI affects the brain on a psychological level was the straw that broke the camel’s back (I’m shocked it wasn’t my short-lived oil painting business). I don’t envy her for having to deal with my manic ass on a daily basis, and I want to be a better, more reliable partner for her. She deserves that much from me. So here are four ideas I’m putting into practice to negate my struggles with Creativity Overdose and keep the mental and interpersonal peace:

1. Write down your ideas (instead of burdening people with them)

This is hard if you’re an autistic extrovert like me. Sometimes, the neurospiciness kisses the extroversion just right and you feel the need to infodump about every grandiose idea you’ve ever had to your loved ones. I can assure you, they don’t want to hear about it. I know it hurts, but for the most part, it’s true. This is tough love. Nobody wants to hear about your Parakeet Circus idea, especially when the last time you tried to start a Cirque du Soleil featuring parakeets, you blew up three parakeets. Unless the project is cued to be finished or released, absolutely shut up about it. Not everything is about you. (I’m talking especially to myself here.)

2. Write down all of your current projects

Okay, now that we’re not telling everyone all the shit we’re up to, let’s figure out what we’re actually up to anyways. Write down every single thing you’re currently working on, no matter how small or insignificant. My current list has all the musical projects I’m working on, my two jobs, school stuff, my podcast, and even getting my passport. Write down some steps you’ll have to take for each one, too. Putting it all down on paper will help you see how busy you really are and maybe give you a little more perspective on how much you actually need to fill your plate. When you’re excited about stuff, it’s easy to underestimate how much it really takes to get things done.

3. Pick one thing to hyperfocus on for a month

Here is the tricky part. You’ve gotta prioritize. Label the projects on your list from most to least important. Like, “you’ll die if you don’t do this” to “this can wait a few months or even years.” Shelf the stuff that can wait. If writing the book that’s been on your heart for years can wait a few more years, that’s perfectly fine. Like, I’m probably gonna end up releasing Venona at an absolute snail’s pace, but I’m not worried about getting the story out there at this point. Unless something goes terribly wrong, we’ve still got a lot of time on this planet. Don’t worry if you can’t get to everything in the next year or so. Pick one thing (maybe two, since you’ll probably need to pick whatever your main job is for survival reasons) and really buckle down and get it done before moving on. It feels good to get something done for once, trust me.

4. Help someone else create something instead

Here’s something I’m really learning — it’s better to collaborate than work alone, and sometimes it can be just as rewarding helping your loved ones meet their goals as it is meeting your own. My wife wants to be a professional artist and merchandiser, so I’m going to step aside a while and let her work on that. I’m going to take a year off school so she can save for the equipment she needs, and I’m going to support her any way I can. See what your friends need for their endeavors and ask how you can help them. Assisting someone else in reaching their dreams can be a good feeling in and of itself, and it can further inspire you in your own dreams as well. The best part of having creative, ambitious people in your circle is that you can all help each other up.

So what do you think of Creativity Overdose? Have you experienced this in your life? Let me know your thoughts in the comments.

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More Than Words: Five Quotes I Live By

Do you have a quote you live your life by or think of often?

If there’s one thing I can take away from being a writer my whole life, it’s the fact that words are powerful tools. We can use them to build people up, tear each other down, spread information, spread misinformation, and evoke strong emotions. Something I’ve always been fascinated by is the use of mantras or affirmations for self-improvement. Just repeating a certain phrase to yourself can make an impact on your mental health. And here’s the thing — your affirmations don’t have to be anything in particular, so long as they resonate with you.

Like a favorite quote!

As I began writing this post, I realized I have a handful of quotes I constantly repeat in my head like mantras. They’re the words that shape my personal philosophy and the way I approach life. I never really stopped to actively consider and appreciate how these words have shaped my experience as a human being. But I wanted to share a few of these quotes I carry with me.

She refused to be bored chiefly because she wasn’t boring.

–Zelda Fitzgerald

This first quote comes from the iconic flapper wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald, who absolutely should have been absolutely as famous as him in her own right. She was a Renaissance woman — a writer, painter, and dancer, who went on to die tragically in a mental hospital fire. I see a lot of myself in her story. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia, but had she lived today, she would have received a bipolar diagnosis like me.

Zelda was a wild child with many diverse interests, so I can’t imagine a woman like her would ever be bored. That’s kind of how I want to be. I don’t enjoy being idle, and I don’t ever want to be boring. I always want to be involved in exciting new projects and opportunities. Life’s too short to sit around and be bored. You gotta actively make a life worth living. That’s kind of what the quote means to me.

Show love with no remorse.

-Red Hot Chili Peppers (“Dosed”)

I remember the first time I heard this song and being entirely floored by how beautiful it was. It was in the car with my former drummer Jerry and another short-lived bandmate on the way to our bandiversary date. I’d heard plenty of Red Hot Chili Peppers before that day, but this was the song that really made me appreciate them on a deeper level. I loved the guitar work, the harmonies, and perhaps most importantly, the words.

I’ve always said I wanted this exact lyric tattooed on me someday. I just think it’s a simple concept. You’ve got nothing to lose by giving love freely and joyfully. We need much more love in this world, and now is not the time to be stingy with it. You’ll never regret treating people with kindness.

Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.

-Robert J. Hanlon

I hesitate to call this a quote. It’s technically a philosophical razor, which eliminates — or rather, shaves off — weak explanations for a particular phenomenon. The phenomenon at hand when it comes to Hanlon’s razor is “Why are people awful to each other?” And the explanation it offers is simple: people just don’t know any better.

Hanlon’s razor is why I still have faith in humanity, even after I’ve witnessed some of the worst of it. People very seldom intend to hurt each other. We’re all just big dum-dums that say and do the wrong things sometimes, and we really need to treat each other with more grace. That’s why I don’t believe in cancel culture — we need a grace culture. If you make an honest mistake and own up to it, that shouldn’t be held against you. No one is perfect, and we can’t hold people to impossible standards.

Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

-Romans 12:21

I struggled to think of just one Bible verse to include, since so many have been influential to me growing up in the church. But this one felt really relevant with some of my recent posts about loving your enemy and fighting the rampant dehumanization of marginalized folks in our society. It’s easy to lash out against the people who are hurting me and my loved ones. But you have to remember that they’re human and they’re hurting too. Hurt people hurt people. It’s not an excuse, but it’s an explanation. And it’s why I choose love — because you don’t know what someone else is going through.

The verse immediately before this one talks about how offering your enemy water when they’re thirsty is akin to heaping hot coals on their head. The Good Book is telling us to kill them with kindness. I saw a post recently that said the true test of a Christian is not whether they love Jesus, it’s whether they love Judas. I’ll admit it’s hard for me to show love to the people who hurt me. The human part of me wants revenge. But the divine answer remains to be love.

Where words fail, music speaks.

-Hans Christian Andersen

I’ll admit I never knew the person behind this quote was none other than the Danish purveyor of fairytales such as The Little Mermaid, The Emperor’s New Clothes, and Thumbelina. But I’ve always related to this quote. As a child, the signs of my autism were very apparent. I would often stim by pacing or making bird sounds, and I had sensory issues surrounding things such as loud noises and upsetting smells (looking at you, ranch dressing). And like many autistic kids, I struggled to communicate with my peers. My classmates thought I was from France for the longest time because I never spoke in elementary or middle school, so they assumed I had an accent or didn’t know English or something.

But then I picked up a guitar, and everything changed. When I learned to play music and started performing, that was when I truly found my voice. Music was my way of reaching out into the world. I call music my first language for good reason. It was the bridge that connected me to other people for the first time in my life, and for that, I’m forever grateful.

What quotes do you live by? Leave your favorites in the comments!

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The Queen of Hungry: Surviving When Food Loses All Appeal

I just had a horrific realization.

All I’ve had to eat today is two mini Reese’s cups and three bites of a Tim Hortons croissant. There was a nonalcoholic beer and a virgin Moscow mule in there too for good measure, but for the most part, I’ve been subsisting off whatever nutrients my body has stored up.

And I’m still.

Not.

Hungry.

It’s not that I don’t want to eat. I simply haven’t had an appetite in months. And it’s getting worse.

My mukbang videos would consist of me staring at a cupcake and maybe licking the icing off while crying.

A few years back, I started Adderall as a way to combat my ADHD symptoms with quite a bit of success. For such a scary drug with so much potential for abuse, I didn’t notice any negative side effects at all — except for the small fact that it nuked my appetite. But I didn’t mind at the time. I was pretty overweight due to having just quit drinking in order to stifle a worsening alcohol problem, and getting sober did wonders along with the Adderall in getting me back down to a healthier weight. But now that I am a healthy weight, I don’t want to go too far in the opposite direction either.

So here’s the real scary thing I realized today. it was around noon and I’d been awake for a few hours when I went to grab food and coffee for me and my wife from the Tim Hortons down the road.

Okay Canada, just annex Michigan already.

I was ordering and nothing sounded appetizing, which isn’t unusual. Except I remembered I hadn’t taken my Adderall this morning. Instant-release Adderall only lasts 4 to 6 hours and the XR version lasts 12 hours, which means yesterday morning’s dose shouldn’t have been affecting me anymore. Typically by noon, if I don’t take my Adderall, my appetite starts coming back, but it was crickets. My appetite was still nowhere to be found.

Desperate, I got home and hit the uh, Penjamin Button.

Typically I can stimulate my appetite with a certain herb that is legal (and very prevalent) in the great state of Michigan. Today was different, though. I could have smoked enough green to make Snoop Dogg and Willie Nelson look at me funny, and absolutely no amount of THC in my bloodstream made me want to eat.

If my Adderall isn’t what’s causing me to stop eating, and if weed isn’t making me hungry anymore…

Am I dying?

Probably not, to be fair. My brother and my mother are certifiable hypochondriacs, so it’s not too outside the realm of possibility that I, too, am assuming the worst about my own state of health. My doctors have all commented on how healthy I seem. Like, high blood pressure runs in my family, and I’m at the age where my siblings had to start worrying about it, but my blood pressure is always low. (Pretty sure I’m a vampire or something — it would also explain the light sensitivity.)

Let’s play “Vampire or Just *Really* British?”

Still, there’s something unsettling about living with anorexia. And that’s what this is, albeit not the anorexia nervosa most people would associate with the term. Anorexia is the medical term for a loss of appetite, and while I’m not intentionally starving myself, I am afraid I’ll start seeing some of the symptoms of the eating disorder if I don’t get some nutrition in me soon. I could develop such nasty side effects as dry skin, bad breath, and even infertility, which is a deep-rooted fear I’ve written about before. Like, not to be TMI or anything, but my periods have dwindled to almost barely extant. And worst of all, I could lose my hair. Female pattern baldness and facial hair already run in my family. If I play my cards wrong, I could spend my twilight years looking like the white woman version of Steve Harvey.

I don’t know what the solution is to this problem either. Forcing myself to eat is nauseating, even when it’s stuff I love. Sometimes, when I need a quick snack, I buy myself a two-pack of Reese’s cups, which are by far my favorite candy, only to leave the second cup uneaten. My wife’s been racking her brain trying to think of ways to get me interested in food again. She’s spent probably well over $100 on fast food in the last few days trying to find anything that will get me eating. Most of it is still in our fridge, languishing. I feel awful about wasting it, but I just can’t bring myself to consume it.

This isn’t the first time an alarming lack of appetite has been a problem for me. As a kid, I was very sickly and uninterested in food for the most part. Part of it was because it often hurt to eat (I was prone to tonsil infections), and part of it was because I was a small autistic child with the taste of a small autistic child. But a lot of it was because I just wasn’t into eating anything. Nothing tasted good to me. And when I got sick (which, again, was frequently), it was even worse. At one point, I dropped down to a potentially deadly weight following an unfortunate flu immediately after my tonsillectomy. I vaguely remember even being turned away from the pediatrician; they didn’t think they could do anything. So my parents stocked up on Pediasure, intent to fatten me up one way or another. My dad would even go out of his way to bring me my favorite food at the time, the only thing I’d eat half of the time — Pizza Hut.

And I mean, I’m still here today. And I’ll get through this somehow. I often think back to just a few short years ago when I wrote about my struggles with being overweight, back when I was still drinking heavily and *surprised Pikachu face* not losing weight. There’s probably a simple solution. My friends who’ve been in a similar situation say they lost their appetites due to stress. And while I personally don’t think of myself as stressed, I do work three jobs (including a new one that’s probably going to be hella stressful), in addition to having classes, several music projects, and two serious romantic partners. My bandmate often chastises me for getting in over my head, and I’m realizing they often have a point.

That being said, I don’t know when things will eventually slow down for me, and part of me doesn’t want them too. I enjoy staying busy, although if it’s coming at the expense of my health, maybe I really do need a break. For now, I’m going to try to be diligent about taking my vitamins and attempt to drink a protein shake every day. That’s what I had been doing for a while, when my Adderall first started messing with my appetite. I made myself a shake every morning to drink with my medications, and I took my multivitamin, and so I knew that even if I didn’t eat anything else for the day, I’d still have some nutrients going into me. I need to get back into doing that.

Anyways, apologies to anyone who reads this and freaks out (Mom). My health has otherwise been pristine, although I am knocking on like, all of the wood. And I promise most of my life is actually going very well for once. I have some creative endeavors to throw myself into, a new job that will help me make enough money to afford the emo cruise I signed up for (IT’S GOOD FOR NETWORKING!), and I have the best support system in the freaking world. I just wish I liked food still, because you could air drop me a chicken shawarma from my favorite restaurant in the entire world and I’d maybe take three bites, tops.

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Grieving in Advance: Why My Brain Won’t Just Let Me Enjoy Things

I have severe OCD. I’ve talked about it pretty extensively on here, but I don’t think I truly delved into how cripplingly bad it was at its height. When I was dealing with fears relating to the internet, I wouldn’t even touch a phone or computer without someone sitting with me in case I had a panic attack. In my “literally everything in this room could be used to kill me” era, I couldn’t even take a shower unless my mom was in the room.

As of writing — and I am knocking on like, an entire lumberyard’s worth of wood right now — I have not had any compulsions in multiple years. I define “compulsion” as a thing my OCD makes me do, like demand my mother watch me bathe at age 14 like a complete lunatic. Lately I haven’t had any of that, so by the looks of it, we’re out of the woods! (I’m not going to make another Taylor Swift reference here, I swear.)

But these days, I still deal with anxiety, albeit internally. To be fair, a lot of my anxieties about the world are, uh, justified (I don’t even know which awful news article to link to in order to make that point). That being said. I worry about a lot of things normal people don’t think about. Take, for example, my terrible habit of pre-grieving.

“Jessa,” you begin, “what the fuck is pre-grieving?” Glad you asked, nameless faceless reader! This is when I start mourning things that haven’t even happened yet!

Want me to ruin pets for you? By adopting a fuzzy ball of love, you’re basically investing in a shit ton of heartbreak a decade or so down the road. Like, Krubby is gonna die someday, and my brain literally can’t handle that. It’s not an irrational OCD fear like my old ones — this is something that will inevitably happen. And there’s no ritual I can do to alleviate that anxiety. I can’t beg my mom to sit with me. I can’t Google random words until I feel better. I just have to live with the knowledge that one day, I’m going to lose my feline soulmate.

And that fear extends to everything. I was with Olivia, my girlfriend, for our anniversary. We rented the same hotel room we got together three years prior, when we decided to meet in Kalamazoo, but the pool was closed. And you don’t get between a Pisces and the idea of soaking in a body of water. So I had this idea — let’s go to the hot tub gardens instead.

And it was nothing short of magical. We got there well past midnight, after a romantic evening together. We sipped sparkling raspberry juice and she held me under the stars, so close I could hear her heartbeat beneath the bubbles. At the end of the hour and a half session, we dried off and got dressed and I found myself saying something to the effect of:

“That was great. Even if it’s all going to be over soon.”

It really hit me in that moment. Maybe it won’t be that weekend, or in a year, or in 10 years, or even in 50 years if we’re lucky. But there will be a last time I’ll ever see her, and that scares the shit out of me. The current political climate only exacerbates this fear — I don’t want to think about my sweet Olivia being taken and tortured and killed, and it’s unsettling to think that could even be a possibility. I love her so much, and I don’t want to imagine my life without her.

It’s not just Olivia, or Krubby for that matter. It’s my wife Crass and my parents and my karaoke friends and if I’m honest, it’s everyone and everything. It’s all impermanent. Everything will eventually crumble. And I hate that. I hate that eventually, I’m going to lose everyone I love and quite possibly everything I love and then what? I die too?

There was this mostly forgotten very underrated vaguely Christian emo-tinged indie band called Shirock back in the late 2000s. I was a fan of them — my friends took me to see them for my 16th birthday and I got to sing onstage with them, actually. Their music was pretty good, and I still remember a lot of their songs fondly. But the one that stuck with me the most throughout the years is “Everything Burns.” The theme of the song is that nothing lasts forever — everything burns in the end.

But love lives forever. At least that’s what the song implies.

I’d like to think my love will live on in some way after I die. I’d like to think that should my loved ones die before me, their love will live on in some way too. Maybe it’ll live on through me. I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers. I sincerely wish I did, because that would make this whole anxiety thing a lot easier.

Unfortunately, considering my mental health history, I don’t think this is going away soon, but I’m trying to keep things in perspective as much as possible. As upsetting as it is to think about, everyone dies eventually. It’s natural. It’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m going to keep trying to enjoy life as much as I can, though. I don’t know how much longer I have in this earth. If I use this fear as motivation to spend time doing the things I love with the people I love, it might not be all bad.

If you enjoyed the writing in this post and elsewhere on the site, please consider donating to Jessa’s tuition fund! Any help is appreciated!

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Don’t Fear the Reaper: Coming to Terms With Growing Older

Your girl almost had a “crying in the club” moment, and on her own birthday, no less. Ever become like, overwhelmingly aware of your own mortality? Like, really aware?

I was at karaoke and scrolling through That Accursed Platform™ when I stumbled across this picture:

My hero, Ann Wilson, whose trademark long dark hair and straight bangs were the inspiration for my own hairdo. Her signature hair is missing. She looks beautiful, as always, but she no longer resembles me. She resembles another woman now.

My mother.

Ann is getting older.

My mom is getting older.

I’m getting older.

And if I’m honest, it terrifies me.

I don’t want to think about a world where Ann Wilson doesn’t exist. No one wants to think about their hero dying. Dying is such a vulnerable state, and your hero is supposed to be invincible, right? It’s the cracks in that invincibility that give you that unsettled feeling. Also, your hero is supposed to be someone you see yourself in. And seeing Ann get older is like seeing myself get older in real time. I’m seeing an older version of me.

I guess this is a Part Two to my first birthday post, since that last post also talked about my impending death. I won’t lie, I’m actually pretty content in my life right now, but there’s always that nagging feeling of “You are mortal. You will die. You will be forgotten.” It colors everything I do. I thought I was out of the OCD woods when most of my lifelong obsessions and compulsions went dormant a few years back, but now I’m realizing it just morphed into something else. There’s something called existential OCD, and it’s hell. Imagine grappling with the Meaning of Life every single fucking day.

Yeah, it’s not fun.

The good news is…well, I started typing that and didn’t really come up with anything great. I am going to watch all my heroes die. I’m going to watch my mom die. I’m going to watch my dad die. I’m going to probably watch a lot of friends die. And God forbid Crass or Livvy die before me.

But I’m not alone in any of that.

Death is part of the human experience. There’s a reason tarot experts tell people not to fear the death card. Everyone in human history has perished eventually. No man has truly achieved immortality. The closest anyone has ever gotten has been men like Jesus and Mohamed and Aristotle, whose ideas transcended millennia. But they’re rare exceptions. Most humans fade quietly into time. No one remembers who your great-great-grandmother was. In a way, the universal experience of dying and becoming forgotten unites us all.

I may be slowly catapulting toward death, but we’re all slowly catapulting together. I named this post “Don’t Fear the Reaper” for the Blue Öyster Cult song, but when I was writing it, I had the words from “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac in my head. “Time makes you bolder, even children get older, and I’m getting older too.” There’s a good reason I chose it as my daddy-daughter dance (which was the only dance I was allowed to do at my own wedding — long story short, don’t marry a Baptist).

I wish there was an easy answer. I wish I was gullible enough to believe wholeheartedly in afterlife, but I don’t know anymore. I still consider myself a Christian, but a fairly agnostic one. I want to believe more than anything that there’s a special place for our souls after we die. More than that, I want to believe in that elusive Meaning of Life, some higher purpose for our existence, but I’m starting to lose faith in humanity for a lot of reasons.

I want to leave a mark on this world somehow, because I’m finding the only way to quell my fears of death is to life fully and with purpose.

I want to believe that should I die, there will have been some reason for me to have been here.