Tag Archives: life

Running from 999 Happy Haunts

A few years back, in a fit of what I can only describe as pandemic-induced entrepreneurial optimism (or possibly a sugar high), I started a cookie company. I’d love to say it was a calculated business move, but really, it was just me, a mixer, and a vague hope that if I baked enough cookies, I could distract myself from the world falling apart outside my window. I launched the business the year before the “pandy” (as my kids call it), and by 2020, I was happily decorating cookies and shipping them off to rich moms across the USA—women who, I imagine, have never once eaten a cookie in their car while hiding from their children.

Then life, as it does, threw me a few plot twists: a baby, a stroke, and a move to Ohio—because apparently, I like my stress served in a sampler platter. The cookie business went on hiatus, tucked away like a favorite pair of running shoes you keep meaning to break out again. I always hoped I’d pick it back up someday, but between the kids’ schedules, my AFib, and wrestling season (which, if you haven’t experienced it, is like running a marathon in a gym that smells faintly of feet), it just kept slipping down the to-do list.

But I never lost my love for Disney, or for the Haunted Mansion in particular. When it came time to rebrand, I wanted something that captured my passion for all things Disney and my slightly offbeat sense of humor. Thus, Foolish Morsels was born—a nod to the Haunted Mansion’s famous greeting, “Welcome, foolish mortals.” It’s the perfect name for a business that combines the whimsy of Disney with the undeniable truth that cookies are, in fact, the best kind of foolishness.

I’ve done quite a few Haunted Mansion cookie sets now, along with other Disney-inspired treats. And while the business has had its stops and starts (much like my running), my connection to the Haunted Mansion has never faded. It’s a must-do every time we visit the Magic Kingdom. The story is captivating, the details are endless, and every ride in a Doom Buggy reveals something new—sort of like running a familiar route and suddenly noticing a house you’ve passed a hundred times but never really seen.

Now, because I can’t resist a good trivia tangent (and because Len Testa would never forgive me if I didn’t), here are a few delightful tidbits about the Haunted Mansion:

  • It’s older than most of us admit to being. The Haunted Mansion opened in Disneyland in 1969, and in Walt Disney World in 1971. That means it’s been delighting (and mildly spooking) generations of guests for over half a century.
  • There are 999 happy haunts. But there’s always room for one more. (And if you’ve ever run a marathon, you know the feeling of being haunted by at least 999 regrets at mile 20.)
  • The stretching room isn’t actually an elevator in Florida. In Disneyland, the stretching room lowers you into the ride. In Disney World, the ceiling rises instead. Either way, it’s a good metaphor for running: sometimes you go down, sometimes you go up, but you always end up somewhere new.
  • Madame Leota’s head is real. Well, sort of. The face in the crystal ball is that of Leota Toombs, a Disney Imagineer. Her name alone would make a great running team mascot.
  • The ballroom scene uses 19th-century magic. The dancing ghosts are created with a trick called “Pepper’s Ghost,” which uses angled glass and lighting. It’s the same technique magicians used in Victorian times—proof that sometimes the old ways are still the best, whether you’re conjuring ghosts or lacing up your well-worn running shoes.

Much like running, my cookie business has had its ups, downs, and unexpected detours. Some days, I’m sprinting toward a new idea, fueled by inspiration (and maybe a little caffeine). Other days, I’m plodding along, just trying to keep moving. And sometimes, I’m just standing still, admiring the scenery (or the cookies) and reminding myself that even the slowest miles—and the messiest kitchens—are part of the journey.

So here’s to foolish morsels, haunted mansions, and running from everything (except maybe the cookie jar). May your runs be smooth, your cookies be sweet, and your Doom Buggy always have room for one more.

Running from Bad Days

Credit: Philip Barker

Let’s be honest—some days, the only thing I’m running from is my own brain. I’d love to tell you that every morning I leap out of bed, tie my shoes with the vigor of a caffeinated squirrel, and hit the pavement with the grace of a gazelle. But, in reality, some days I’m more like a confused sloth, wondering how I ended up in a world where people voluntarily run for fun.

Like any reasonably constructed human, I have good days and bad days. Lately, though, my bad days have been stacking up like the laundry pile I keep promising to fold. And these aren’t just “I spilled coffee on my shirt” bad days. We’re talking about the kind of days where my brain seems to have misplaced the instruction manual for “feeling things.” I’m already on Prozac, which is supposed to help, but sometimes it feels like my mental fog has a two-week vacation policy and is determined to use every last hour.

Nothing is technically wrong. My life, on paper, is pretty much the deluxe package: a husband who does more than his fair share (I suspect he’s angling for sainthood), a job I genuinely enjoy, and kids who are thriving—although one of them is determined to taste-test every inanimate object on earth. We have everything we need and a few things we really don’t (looking at you, bread maker). The only things on my wish list are a Disney World annual pass, an endless supply of Reese’s peanut butter cups, and perhaps a set of Apple earbuds that haven’t been personally waxed by yours truly.

Yet, for almost two years now, I’ve been wrapped in this emotional bubble wrap. Sometimes I wonder if it’ll ever pop. But here’s where running comes in—because, as any runner knows, not every run is a runner’s high. Some runs are just… runs. Some are spectacular, some are slogfests, and some are so bad you wonder if you accidentally put your shoes on the wrong feet.

But the thing is, you keep going. You remember how good it feels to cross a finish line, even if you’re the last one there and the volunteers have already started packing up the water table. You remember that not every mile is easy, but every mile counts. Running, like life, is about moving forward—even if it’s at a pace that would make a tortoise look like Usain Bolt.

I know my brain isn’t quite the same as it used to be. I’m only in year three of figuring it out, and if I’ve learned anything from running, it’s that progress isn’t always linear. Some days you sprint, some days you crawl, and some days you just stand there and wonder how you got so much sand in your shoes.

But it will get better. After all, if my three-year-old can enthusiastically lick every cart we grab at the grocery store and still greet each day with the energy of a puppy on espresso, maybe I can keep moving forward too. Maybe we all can.

So here’s to the good runs and the bad ones, the finish lines and the false starts. And if all else fails, there’s always next year’s Disney pass, a bag of Reese’s, and the hope that tomorrow’s run will be just a little bit lighter.

Running from Carl D. Perkins

If you spend enough time around Career Tech Education, you’ll inevitably hear about something called Perkins Funds. The name alone sounds like it should come with a monocle and a top hat, but in reality, it’s the federal government’s way of making sure schools have the resources to prepare students for the workforce—provided, of course, that you follow a series of rules so intricate they make assembling IKEA furniture look like a warm-up jog.

Here’s the catch: if you don’t spend every penny of your Perkins Funds, you have to send the leftovers back to the government. No pressure or anything—just the knowledge that any unspent funds could shrink next year’s allowance. It’s a bit like carbo-loading before a marathon and then being told you can’t run unless you finish every last noodle. Waste not, want not, or in this case, spend not, receive not.

Which brings me to this week’s adventure. I’ve just discovered we have $3,300 in Perkins Funds that needs to be spent by Tuesday. It’s Friday. All the administrators have taken the day off, presumably to avoid frantic emails from people like me. I’m left alone, clutching a calculator and a list of approved expenses, trying to make sense of it all. It’s like lining up for a race only to realize you’re the only one who showed up—and the course map is missing.

Why am I telling you this? Because this is exactly what running and training feel like half the time. You make a plan, you think you’ve got it all sorted, and then—surprise!—you find yourself scrambling to adjust when things don’t go as expected. Maybe you discover you’re short on gels the night before a long run. Maybe you realize you’ve misread your training plan and you’re supposed to do intervals, not an easy jog. Or maybe, just maybe, you’re standing in the kitchen at 10 p.m. trying to figure out if peanut butter counts as a recovery meal.

In both running and Perkins Funds management, the key is adaptability. You have to keep moving, even when the path isn’t clear and the finish line seems to be moving farther away. Sometimes you run with a crowd; sometimes you’re the only one on the track. Either way, you just keep putting one foot in front of the other, hoping you’ll cross the line with nothing left in the tank—or in the budget.

So here’s to spending every last cent, running every last mile, and embracing the chaos that comes with both. If nothing else, you’ll have a good story to tell at the finish.

Running from The Myth of the School Employee’s Endless Summer

People have this charming idea that if you work at a school, your summer is a three-month hammock nap punctuated only by sunscreen reapplication and the occasional ice cream cone. “Must be nice to get summers off!” they say, with that peculiar blend of envy and disbelief usually reserved for lottery winners and people who actually enjoy running hills.

Let’s set the record straight: I am not a teacher. I am not an administrator. I am, in fact, one of those mysterious school employees who keeps the place running while everyone else is off recharging their batteries. My “summer break” is less “European vacation” and more “please submit your vacation request in triplicate.” The only break I get is the one I schedule myself—and even then, I’m more likely to spend it cleaning up after my family’s daily reenactment of Lord of the Flies.

But here’s the twist: while my colleagues are off, I get to enjoy a school that’s blissfully empty. The pace slows down. The urgent requests evaporate. The phone stops ringing. It’s like the difference between race day and a solo long run: during the year, it’s all adrenaline and chaos, but in the summer, it’s just me, my thoughts, and a spreadsheet that I’m desperately trying to make interesting. (Spoiler: it’s still a spreadsheet.)

Some days, I’m the only soul in the building. And honestly? I love it. There’s a certain meditative joy in moving at your own pace, with no one breathing down your neck or asking if you’ve “got a minute.” You work, you eat lunch, you work some more, and then you go home. It’s the workday equivalent of an easy recovery run—no pressure, no competition, just steady progress and the satisfaction of ticking off the miles (or, in my case, the tasks).

Home, of course, is a different story. Carnage is a good word, and I stand by it. DIY projects in various states of completion, children’s shoes multiplying like rabbits, dirty dishes forming geological strata, and the ever-present frisbee perched on the roof like some sort of suburban gargoyle. But that’s summer at home: a little chaos, a lot of noise, and the sweet reward of snowcones and late bedtimes.

So, I get my quiet miles in during the day—those peaceful, solitary stretches where it’s just me and the hum of the copier—and by 4 p.m., I’m ready to lace up and tackle the wild interval workout that is family life in summer.

Running, working, living—it’s all about finding your pace, embracing the quiet when you can, and knowing that, sooner or later, you’ll be sprinting again. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally get that frisbee off the roof.

Running from Friendship

I don’t have many friends. This is not a cry for help, nor is it a prelude to a heartwarming tale of self-discovery. It’s just a fact, like “I don’t like olives” or “I have never understood the appeal of jazzercise.” The friends I do have are scattered across the country like confetti after a parade—Kansas, North Carolina, California, Colorado, Wisconsin—each one safely insulated from the risk of spontaneous coffee invitations. Not a single one in Ohio, despite the fact that I live here, which is either a testament to my introversion or to the enduring mystery of Ohio itself.

Now, some might say this sounds lonely, and perhaps it is, but I find it oddly comforting. It’s a bit like running solo before dawn: the world is quiet, the air is crisp, and there’s nobody around to judge your pace, your playlist, or the fact that you’ve stopped to walk for the third time in a mile. I avoid judgment the way most runners avoid hills—by plotting elaborate routes and, if necessary, faking an injury.

I’m not what you’d call a “social” person. Every friend I’ve made has been through the forced proximity of work or some shared task. I’ve never met anyone in a bar and thought, “This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” My friendships are more like aid stations on a marathon course: you’re thrown together by circumstance, you exchange a few words, maybe a cup of Gatorade, and then you’re off again, each of you running your own race.

I am, I suspect, a high-maintenance friend, which is why I try to keep a low profile. Most of my friends are older than me—sometimes by decades. My best friend Greg is creeping toward 70, which is perfect because neither of us is likely to suggest skydiving or a spontaneous road trip to Burning Man. What I want is a friend who will sit on the porch with me at 7:30 a.m., sipping coffee after I’ve already done three loads of laundry. Or someone who’ll go to Disney World and not ride anything, just people-watch and critique the churros. I want friends who understand that sometimes, the best part of getting together is knowing you can leave whenever you want, no explanations required.

And food—let’s talk about food. If there’s a tub of cookie dough, and I eat three-quarters of it, I expect nothing but silent admiration. Or at the very least, discretion.

At the end of the day, I just want to be comfortable. And that, I think, is why my circle is so small. Not many people make me feel at ease, and after a few too many disappointments, I’ve learned to stick with the ones who do. The people I keep close are consistent, reliable, and utterly nonjudgmental. I like the person I am around them, which, when you think about it, is a rare and wonderful thing.

In running, as in friendship, it’s not about the size of your group or the speed of your splits. It’s about finding your pace, your people, and your own version of comfort—whether that’s a sunrise run, a quiet porch, or a spoon and a tub of cookie dough. And if you’re lucky, you get to do it all without anyone asking why you’re walking again.

Running from DIY Delusion

If you’ve ever found yourself scrolling through Pinterest, you’ll know it’s a bit like wandering into a bakery after a juice cleanse—everything looks so easy, so achievable, so… not at all like your actual life. Pinterest, with its glossy photos and endless scroll, is the internet’s way of whispering, “You could do this. You really could.” And like a moth to a flame, I believed it.

For months, I’ve been nurturing the idea of installing a board and batten wall. Not just any wall, mind you, but the perfect wall. The sort of wall that, if it could talk, would say, “I was born for this.” I had the time, the motivation, and, after a recent cardiac adventure that left me feeling like a deflated pool float, an urgent need to prove I could still accomplish something more ambitious than folding laundry.

Enter: the nail gun. A tool I’d dreamed of owning, right up there with a self-cleaning oven and a Roomba that doesn’t get stuck on socks. Three months ago, I bought one. I read the directions (twice!); I watched YouTube tutorials; I even made a playlist called “Nail Gun Anthems.” And then, like any responsible adult, I let it sit in the corner for ninety days, gathering dust and silently judging me.

Eventually, the lure of Pinterest perfection proved too strong. I rallied Chas and the kids for a family outing to the lumber yard, which, if you’ve never been, is like IKEA for people who think splinters are a badge of honor. There, I agonized over wood choices, grain patterns, and whether I could pull off flannel in June. Supplies purchased, I returned home, ready to embark on my first real project with power tools that weren’t a drill.

How did it go? Let’s just say it was a rousing success—if you define “success” as “the wall is still standing and most of my fingers remain attached.” I did cut a few boards too short, but I’m convinced the wall is crooked, not my measuring tape. This is the story I’m sticking with, and I dare anyone to prove otherwise.

Like running (which, let’s be honest, is mostly just running from my own questionable decisions), DIY is a marathon, not a sprint. The first training cycle is always the hardest, mostly because you have no idea what you’re doing, and the internet is full of liars. But for a first attempt, I’m calling it a win. I enjoyed the process, I learned a lot, and I only swore in front of the children twice. Progress!

My summer to-do list is still longer than a CVS receipt, but my goal is simple: add value to my grandma’s house (our current rental) and, perhaps, convince my family that I am, in fact, a useful human being. After years of asking for help, it feels good to give something back—even if that something is a slightly uneven wall.

So here’s to another trip to the lumber yard, another project, and another day with all ten fingers. May your Pinterest dreams be slightly more achievable than mine—and may your nail gun always be pointed away from your toes.

Running from the Last Day of School

Today is the day every child has circled in red on their mental calendar since September: the Last Day of School. It’s also the day every parent greets with a mixture of dread and existential panic. Not because we don’t want to spend time with our delightful offspring (I mean, we love them, right?), but because the thought of keeping them entertained for the next 100 days is the parenting equivalent of running an ultra-marathon with a backpack full of snacks and a hydration pack filled with cold coffee.

Summer vacation, you see, is not for the faint of heart. It requires the strategic planning of a NASA launch, the logistical coordination of a Disney World vacation, and the snack budget of a minor league baseball team. If you haven’t spent March, April, and most of May quietly panicking about camp sign-ups and wondering if you can buy Goldfish crackers in bulk, you’re simply not doing it right.

Let’s talk numbers. The average child will ask for a snack approximately every 47 minutes during the summer months. Multiply that by three children, factor in the “snack inflation” effect (where a snack is never quite enough), and you’ll find yourself at Costco, staring at a pallet of granola bars, wondering if you should just buy two. Camps are another story: they’re expensive, fill up faster than a Taylor Swift concert, and getting both my 9-year-old and 7-year-old into the same camp, at the same time, is a feat of scheduling wizardry that would make even Len Testa proud.

Now, here’s the real twist: I work all summer. My husband, a teacher, gets to stay home with the kids. This means I can plan every minute of their day with color-coded charts, Pinterest-worthy snack carts (parental approval required, because my middle child would subsist on nothing but snacks if left unchecked), and lists of wholesome activities. But, much like planning a perfect marathon route, I have absolutely no control over whether anyone actually follows the plan. I am the race director who sets up the course, only to watch the runners veer off in search of ice cream.

As a kid, I was never a fan of summer. I liked the reliable routine of school, the thrill of learning, and the predictability of lunch at 11:57 a.m. Summer meant my mom would lock us out of the house until lunchtime, and my dad would sign me up for every volleyball camp in the continental United States. I loved volleyball, but as the perennial “new kid,” making friends was about as easy as running a 5K in flip-flops.

My kids, on the other hand, are thrilled. They’re not yet at the age where sleeping until noon is a competitive sport, but TV, video games, water balloons, and swimming are all firmly on the agenda. Meanwhile, I’ll be working, shuttling to baseball every night, and dodging the daily messes that seem to multiply like rabbits in the summer heat.

And honestly? That’s just fine by me. Because if running has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t have to enjoy every mile—sometimes, you just have to keep moving forward, one snack break at a time.

Running from Design

I have big dreams for my home. Not the kind of dreams that involve marble countertops or a kitchen island the size of an aircraft carrier, but the sort that, if achieved, would allow me to walk into my living room and not immediately trip over a pile of shoes, a sticky patch of mystery goo, or a rogue action figure. My interior design style, much like my running pace, varies wildly depending on the day, the weather, and whether or not I’ve had coffee. But I don’t think it’s bad. And besides, the only person who visits with any regularity is my mom, and she’s legally obligated to say nice things.

Recently, my parents’ friends—who, judging by the amount of furniture I’ve inherited, must be living in an empty box by now—offered me a rug. It’s colorful. Very colorful. The kind of colorful that makes you question whether your brown couch (also from said friends) will ever recover from the shock. After two hours of rearranging furniture, which, by the way, is the closest I’ve come to cross-training in months, the rug was down. And, to my surprise, it looked… good. Not “featured in a magazine” good, but “I won’t trip over it in the dark” good.

This minor victory inspired a cascade of home improvement ambitions. I ordered artwork. I mapped out a board and batten wall. I even dusted off the nail gun I bought four months ago—still in its box, like a race medal I haven’t quite earned yet. There are, of course, a few obstacles:

  1. Power Tools: I have never operated anything more complicated than a blender. And that was only because I needed a post-run smoothie.
  2. Blood Thinners: When your blood is basically water, the prospect of wielding a nail gun becomes a high-stakes game of “Will it blend?”
  3. Spousal Support: My husband, bless him, is many things. Handy is not one of them. As my 3-year-old says, “They’re mommy’s tools!” He got the sports gene, not the construction gene.

I know the hardware store will cut boards for me, but the idea of asking for help makes me break out in a cold sweat. I can run a marathon, but apparently, I cannot ask a stranger to cut a piece of wood without fearing I’ll be mistaken for someone making a Pinterest craft gone wrong. (Not today, sir. Not today.)

Why am I doing this? Because, much like running, home improvement is a marathon, not a sprint. It’s a slow, steady process that involves planning, perseverance, and the occasional detour through the land of “What was I thinking?” My living room is rarely clean enough to be proud of—three boys see to that—but I want to create a space that makes me feel accomplished, even if the soundtrack is Phineas and Ferb singing about ‘S’winter’ and the floor is a minefield of Legos.

I’m thinking of documenting the process, because if running has taught me anything, it’s that progress is worth recording. Every training run, every new mile, every tiny improvement adds up. So too with home projects: getting the rug, moving the couch, and planning out the board and batten wall is, by my estimation, about 27% of the project. (Give or take. Len Testa would probably have a spreadsheet for this. Who am I kidding? I have a spreadsheet for this!)

We all have to start somewhere. Whether it’s the first mile of a marathon or the first nail in a wall, the important thing is to keep moving forward—preferably without stepping on anything sticky.

Sometimes, what you’re running from is just a living room in desperate need of a makeover. And sometimes, you run right into a home you’re proud of.

Running from Compression Socks

Let’s begin, as Bill Bryson might, with a confession: I have never been particularly good at moderation. This is a story about legs, socks, and the peculiar lengths to which one will go to avoid being ordinary—told with the sort of self-effacing candor that would make even Len Testa pause mid-spreadsheet.

In college, I played volleyball for four years. Not the “I’ll just jog around and maybe spike a ball” kind of volleyball, but the “I would like my lower legs to feel as if they might detonate at any moment” variety. My post-game shuffle was less “athlete’s swagger” and more “recently escaped from a bear trap.” Eventually, a kindly doctor at the Cleveland Clinic diagnosed me with Compartment Syndrome, which, for the uninitiated, is a condition where the pressure in your leg compartments (there are four, in case you’re keeping score) is supposed to be a modest 1-10. Mine, ever the overachiever, clocked in at a robust 32.

Surgery ensued. For a while, my legs behaved, but my final year was spent rationing my steps like a Victorian miser with his last candle—saving every ounce of leg function for game time. After graduation, my legs, apparently satisfied with their dramatic performance, retired from pain altogether. I have not heard a peep from them since.

Fast forward three years, circa 2008. I decided to start running. This was a calculated risk, since I was fairly certain my legs would recall their old grievances and revolt. But as it turns out, it wasn’t the running that bothered them—it was the jumping. Also, possibly the squatting of 225 pounds and leg pressing 550, but who’s counting? (Me. I was counting. Repeatedly. Because, as you will see, I have a pathological need to prove my toughness.)

Since then, I’ve collected an assortment of race bibs: countless 5Ks, two 10Ks, seven half marathons, and four full marathons. My legs, stoic as ever, have remained silent. I am, as the kids say, “blessed.”

Now, about socks. When I first entered the running world, I noticed a proliferation of tall socks. Not just any socks, but socks that looked like they’d been engineered by NASA and sponsored by a pharmaceutical company. Compression socks, they called them. Supposedly, they reduced muscle vibration and improved blood flow. I, of course, scoffed. I didn’t even wear tall socks for volleyball, and that was the style. Compression socks, I decided, were for the faint of heart, the weak of calf, the people who did not squat 225 pounds for fun.

I have a toxic trait: I must do everything the hard way, just to prove I am tougher than, well, you. Natural childbirth, three times, no drugs? Check. Running for nearly two decades without compression socks? Double check. My “toughness klout” was off the charts.

Until today.

A recent visit to the neurologist (because apparently, one cannot simply coast on bravado forever) resulted in a prescription not for medication, but for hydration, more salt, and—horror of horrors—compression socks. Apparently, my blood pressure has decided to set up camp at 88/53, which is the circulatory equivalent of a sloth on a hammock.

So here I am, scrolling through Amazon, contemplating which shade of compression sock best complements existential dread. My toughness score? Plummeting. My fashion sense? Questionable at best. How, I wonder, does one make compression socks look good in the summer? If you have ideas, please share. Perhaps this is the nudge I need to start running again—this time with a tight, textured addition to my ensemble.

Because if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that you can run from a lot of things. But you can’t outrun the need for a good pair of socks.

Running from Neurological Oddities

There are few things more humbling than spending your lunch hour watching videos of yourself learning to walk, talk, and generally function like a human being again. Today, I found myself rewatching the TikToks I posted during my stroke recovery—a sort of highlight reel of my greatest hits and near-misses, all set to whatever pop song was trending in 2022.

I was, if I may say so, impressively strong back then. Not because I was aspiring to be some inspirational poster child, but because, frankly, I had no other option. I chronicled everything: therapy sessions, daily triumphs, the occasional existential dread about the future. It’s all there, preserved in 60-second bursts for posterity—and, apparently, for my own forgetful self.

What struck me most was how much I’d forgotten. For example, I completely blanked on how much my body temperature regulation went haywire. I’m always cold, which is a fun little bonus when you’re also on blood thinners. I also forgot that I lost nerve sensation on my right side. My brain, ever the improviser, now guesses if something is hot or cold based on what my left side is feeling. If you hand me a mug of coffee and I grab it with my right hand, I couldn’t tell you if it’s piping hot or ice cold. It’s like living with a thermostat that’s been installed by a committee of squirrels.

Showers are a particularly surreal experience. If the water hits only my right side, I have no idea if I’m about to be poached or frozen. It’s weird, I know. But then again, the human body is basically a collection of weirdnesses held together by hope and duct tape.

Another delightful quirk: my sense of hunger has left the building. It’s been three years since the stroke, and my appetite is still on vacation. The cruel irony is that, while I don’t actually feel hungry, I still exhibit all the classic symptoms of hanger. My husband can attest to this, usually from a safe distance. Imagine being grumpy, irritable, and irrationally upset, but having no idea why—sort of like a toddler, but with a driver’s license.

Cognitive symptoms are another fun surprise party that my brain likes to throw, usually when I least expect it. Take last night, for example: I sat through a baseball game and froze my tukis off, and my brain responded by turning into a malfunctioning computer. The cold, combined with the sensory overload of the crowd, left me unable to think straight for the rest of the evening. I couldn’t find words, couldn’t remember which pedal was the brake, and brushing my kids’ teeth felt like assembling IKEA furniture without instructions.

Once I get my muscle memory going, I’m usually fine. But sometimes, just remembering how to start is like trying to recall the plot of a dream you had three years ago.

While I’m not exactly running marathons these days, walking and exercise in general have become my secret weapons. They help me feel sharper, more focused, and a little more like the version of myself I remember. Finding tools and routines that work for me is empowering—proof that, even when your brain is throwing curveballs, you can still swing for the fences.

The trick, I’ve learned, is being honest with myself about how I’m feeling. Denial is tempting, but the worst lies are always the ones we tell ourselves. So I keep walking, keep laughing, and keep sharing—even if it’s just with my future self over lunch.

In the end, recovery is less about “getting back to normal” and more about discovering a new normal, quirks and all. And if that means my right hand is forever confused about coffee temperature, well, at least it keeps life interesting.