Ahhh, storytelling. I love spinning stories about myself. All. The. Time. Almost every moment, actually. I make up stories about the people around me (the guy who keeps sitting in MY spot at Starbucks (in fact, as I write this…)). I make up stories about how I performed at work, justifying why I prioritized one activity over another, deadlines be damned. I make up stories about past events just to make me feel better (sometimes worse!) depending on the context.

Blame it on this Winter Solstice time of year, a critical day in my biorhythm cycle, the phase of the moon, seasonal affective disorder (unlikely since I live in sunny Florida) or whatever, but I’ve been turning inward lately, less sure of myself, and can feel the pull to the comfort and safety of the dark underside of the bed covers.

Sitting on the front stoop of the East Shaulis Road house as a teenager, I remember looking across the road at the rows of corn waving to and fro in unison as if dancing to a swoony song in the warm summer breeze. I smelled the faint scent of fresh cut grass mixed with a waft of my friend’s pig farm down the road and listened to the birds chirping and flitting at the feeder in front of the family room window. I wanted this feeling to last forever. I may not have known much about what I wanted for myself, but I vowed then to go outside to experience nature each day of the rest of my life.

Struggle is part of being human. Say it isn't so. We struggle with physical pain. We struggle in relationships. We struggle with who and where we are in life. Most of us, I imagine, struggle with the struggle, with wanting our life to be something it's not and dissatisfaction with the present moment. I've spent a great chunk of my life that way. One of the reasons I wrote my book is to explore that, put it out in front of me, and share and explore that common human struggle with others.

When I started posting about my book and some of its themes—depression, childhood emotional neglect, dispassionate mother-daughter relationships—I was both humbled and surprised by the outpouring of support and personal stories shared back with me.

I’m a memoir junkie. I confess. I read not only the words of famous people but also more obscure authors. I like hearing and reading other peoples’ perspective on life, how they navigated and view our common “human condition.” There’s a takeaway for me in everyone’s personal story.

Like many people, I have built my life following other people's lead, watching what others are doing and mimicking their steps. This has only led me to pain and depression, but I still wanted what everyone else seemed to have--happiness and contentment.

I took our dog Maverick on a walk today at a nature park about 15 minutes from our home. It was his inaugural ride in my new Murano so I made sure to cover the back floor with a sheet to limit the amount of hair I would have to clean up later (most likely much later).

I am the queen of taking a thought and chewing on it for literally days at a time until it nowhere near resembles the initial actual statement, feeling or idea of its origin. Fellow ruminators will totally get me on this.

She had known for awhile—or at least been warned—that I was a vegan, but I think the unexplored thought passed through her mind without a glance. Then I showed up at her house for a long weekend.

Several years ago I was a volunteer mentor to a young woman (I’ll call her “J”) at Pace Center for Girls, Alachua. I would meet with her once a week at lunch, chatting, supporting and getting to know her. We became friends.