Heels, Hope, and the Harsh Reality of Adulthood

Adulthood is wild. One day you’re transferring money into your savings, and 48 hours later you’re transferring it back to survive.” – Unknown

When I was growing up, I could not wait to be an adult. I had this glamorous vision of myself striding into a high‑rise office wearing a sharp suit or a perfectly tailored dress, heels clicking with purpose, leather briefcase in hand. My name would be engraved in gold leaf on the door of my corner office; the one with the sweeping view of the city and the perfect lighting for my collection of fancy pens and color‑coded office supplies.

I thought adulthood meant freedom. No more tests. No more late‑night studying. No more being told where to be and when. Just me, my schedule, and my fabulous outfits. I was wrong on every single count.

After years of stacking beach chairs, slinging burgers at Jack in the Box, and waitressing my way through life, I finally entered the corporate world… and immediately learned that not everyone gets an office or even work vehicles that can take you 100 feet without shutting down. In fact, most people don’t.

Instead of a skyline view, I got neck‑high carpeted cubicle walls. Instead of fine art, I hung production graphs with binder clips and special carpet hooks. Instead of a gold nameplate, I got an index card printed in 24‑point Times New Roman; the corporate equivalent of a sticky note saying, “Don’t get too comfortable.”

I’ve had an office three times, and every time it was taken away in the name of “space optimization.” Translation: Congratulations, you’re being herded back into the cube farm. But here’s the plot twist: I’ve finally figured out how to turn my meeting room into the office I always wanted. I bring in my own furniture, my own artwork, my own little touches of personality and pride. It may not have a door with my name engraved in gold, but it feels like mine. And honestly, that matters more than any cubicle ever could, because the cube farm is simply not where my soul wants to live.

And the dress code? Let’s just say it did not match my childhood fantasy of coworkers sashaying through the halls in bold, colorful outfits like a 1970s Avon catalog come to life. Most places want “pants and a nice shirt,” which is fine, but it left me feeling like my love of bright, confident clothing made me look like I was trying too hard.

But the truth is, dressing up makes me feel grounded. Capable. Like I belong in the room; as if someone believed in me enough to hire me … and I should believe in myself too.

As for the freedom I imagined? Turns out adulthood is just one long series of tests. The studying never ends. And even when I’m not working, my brain is still running laps around unfinished projects.

One thing I learned quickly: heels and the light rail are natural enemies. Last week, I wore my favorite pink heels and attempted to gracefully hurry to the train. I swiped my pass just in time to watch the train pull away without me. My dad, bless him, drove like a cautious NASCAR driver to get me to the next stop. I sprinted across the crosswalk to catch the train, only to go down in the middle of the street like a newborn giraffe. Elbows and knees scraped, pride dented, skirt miraculously intact. Hundreds of cars witnessed my performance.

I still made it to work on time. The ride home, however, was its own episode. At the stop before mine, I stood up a little late to walk toward the doors. Halfway down the stairs, the train lurched forward like it was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Public Transit Edition. I flew backward up the steps, arms flailing, legs outstretched. My heel caught on a steel clip, snapping off and smacking a sleeping dog awake. My ASU lunch bag launched off my arm like a missile. My laptop strap whipped around my neck like it was trying to take me out. Only two people saw it, thankfully, and neither had time to record it. Small mercies. Given that I’m already infamous among certain passengers as “the flying cupcake girl” thanks to the day my cupcakes launched themselves onto innocent bystanders, I’d prefer not to add another nickname to my public transit résumé.

Morals: 1) Confidence comes from dressing like yourself, not like the dress code. 2) Sometimes the office you imagined isn’t the one you get, so create your own. 3) If you fall, fall fabulously.

Music That Creates Memories

All I can do is be me. Whoever that is. – Bob Dylan

The best stories start with, “Remember that concert when…” Everyone remembers their first concert — the lights, the noise, the moment the crowd roars like a single living creature. Me? I don’t remember the details of my first one. I remember the feeling. The pounding in my chest. The way the bass seemed to sync with my heartbeat. The way, for a few hours, I wasn’t just watching something happen; I was inside it.

I once had a boyfriend in high school who didn’t get it. “What’s the point of going to concerts,” he asked, “when you can listen at home or in the car?” He said it wasn’t worth the price. Then I dragged him to a show. The band hit the first note, the floor vibrated, the crowd surged, and he turned to me with wide eyes and said, “I get it. I feel it.” And that’s the thing… music is more than music. It’s a bond between people. A shared pulse. A moment you can’t recreate in your living room no matter how good your speakers are.

I’ve been to more concerts than I can count: N*SYNC, Britney Spears, Pink, Nickelback, Imagine Dragons, Taylor Swift, Chris Stapleton, and a whole parade of others. Each one left a little imprint on me, like the moment the lights drop, and the whole crowd inhales at once.

Some of my favorite memories come from Warped Tour back in high school. My friend and I would go every year, sweating through the California sun, discovering bands before they blew up: Maroon 5, Aqua, Weezer, Bowling for Soup, etc. We still talk about those days like they were our own personal golden era.

Then there was Train … and yes, the lead singer held my hand while singing “Marry Me.” Did I briefly consider eloping on the spot? Possibly. However, the boyfriend I went with in College would not have approved.

My dad once snagged a guitar pick at a Sister Hazel concert like it was no big deal. When the band came out, he leaned over and whispered, “Wait… are they the band? They’re all guys.” I had to explain, through laughter, that Sister Hazel is not, in fact, a group of nuns with guitars.

And then there was the Carrie Underwood surprise. My dad and I told my mom we were taking her to a baseball game where I’d be recognized for my work with the state. She hates baseball, but she came anyway, hunched over from back pain, wearing yoga pants and a T‑shirt, no makeup, no idea. On the light rail, she whispered, “Why is everyone wearing cowboy boots?” We shrugged. “It’s Arizona.” We got to our seats. She looked around and said, “This is not a baseball game.” When we told her it was a Carrie Underwood concert, she freaked out. “I don’t have any makeup on!” We still laugh about it.

And of course, the Slash concert. I stood up with everyone else, and the guy behind me tapped my shoulder and said, “Sit down, and I’ll give you some of my best nuts.” Sir, this is a concert, not a farmer’s market. I laughed, slid over to the aisle, and kept dancing like a one‑woman pre‑game show. Honestly, I think I single‑handedly boosted concession sales that night; people kept passing by me on their way to get beer, dancing with me for a few steps like I was the unofficial hype crew. The funniest part? The guy who wanted me to sit down spent more time watching me than the actual concert. Sir, you paid for Slash, not a front‑row seat to my dance break.

There are countless little moments like these, tiny stories that glow when the world feels heavy. They’re the memories I pull out like a playlist for my soul. Concerts aren’t just about hearing music. They’re about feeling it. They’re about letting go. They’re about celebrating something: life, connection, emotion, escape. For a few hours, the real world fades. And what’s left is joy, noise, and the reminder that being alive can feel electric.

Morals: 1) Music isn’t just heard; it’s felt. 2) Concert etiquette rule #1: Sit if you want, stand if you want, but don’t be a fun killer.

TSA Pre-Check….The Melgreen Way

The first good news for all of us, the first joyful story of our lives, is that there is a story at all, and an Author who has loved us into being.” – Anthony M. Esolen

Most people go to their TSA PreCheck appointment expecting a quick, efficient, government‑approved five‑minute process. But we are not “most people.” We are Melgreens. And the universe knows it. We were told, confidently and casually, that the whole thing would take five minutes, “In and out,” they said. “You’ll barely warm the chair,” they said. So naturally, we showed up an hour early.

Not because we’re overachievers. Not because we’re excited travelers, well maybe a little. I could say it is because we’re just a productive family, but in reality it was because we completely misread how long it would take to get there.

Despite arriving early, we were still thrilled to be there. Our dream of passing shoeless travelers was coming true, and the TSA PreCheck agent was going to help. But first, we had to survive the appointment. Since we were ridiculously early, we got to enjoy the show: people ahead of us turning their five‑minute appointments into full‑length interrogations. They had questions. So many questions. Questions that could’ve been emailed. Questions that could’ve been Googled. Questions that made the agent visibly reconsider his career choices. By the time our actual appointment rolled around, we’d aged emotionally.

Finally, after what seemed like days, but was only 45 minutes, they called our name. My mom and I both walked in and were done so fast we put Wild Coyote to shame. Routine questions? Easy. Fingerprints? Perfect. Passport scan? Done. Photo? Nailed it. We were in and out in the promised five minutes like we had trained for this moment our whole life.

Then… it was my dad’s turn. He walked in with the confidence of a man who thought he knew what he was doing and got through the questions just fine. He was feeling pretty good, but then came the fingerprints. My dad followed the strict instructions of where to place his fingers; however, nothing showed up. The TSA Agent looked perplexed, wiped down the screen, and moisturized my dad’s fingers. He even stood beside my dad and helped him press them down to ensure it was done correctly, but still nothing. He then looked at my dad’s fingers, and it turns out… he has no fingerprints.. None. Zero. Smooth as a newborn baby’s elbow. After what seemed like 15 minutes, he eventually told my dad to go with what they had, but he would need to come back to finish the process. The Poor TSA agency agent finally admitted, wide‑eyed and slightly traumatized: “You’re the first person I’ve ever had this much trouble with.”

My dad, meanwhile, is standing there looking at his fingers, feeling older by the minute as it sinks in that his fingerprints have evaporated. Mom: done in five minutes. Me: done in five minutes. Dad: nearly broke the machine. But in true Melgreen fashion, we survived, we laughed, and we walked out with a story that absolutely no one will believe unless they know us. Because if something can go sideways, even at a five‑minute TSA appointment, it will. And honestly… it wouldn’t feel like our family if it didn’t.

Morals: 1) Sometimes the journey to skip the line is longer than the line itself. 2) Arriving early doesn’t make things faster; it just gives the universe more time to mess with you.

The Struggle Is Real: A Love Letter to People Who Can’t Buy Plane Tickets Correctly

You can’t buy happiness, but you can buy a plane ticket which is pretty much the same thing. – David Lee Roth

There are two types of people in this world:

Those who buy a plane ticket once and everything goes smoothly.
And the rest of us, the ones who apparently need emotional support, divine intervention, and possibly a legal guardian every time we attempt to fly.

This week alone, I witnessed more chaos in the airline app than in my entire 39 years of family holidays.

It all started with someone, who shall remain nameless, proudly announcing they were checking in for their flight and would be in tomorrow at 11 AM. Great! Amazing! Responsible adult behavior… or was it? They called in full panic mode because they couldn’t check in. Turns out the person who booked the ticket nailed the day but completely fumbled the month, off by just 30 days. Turns out the month is important too… shocking, I know, but there is always something we can learn each day, and that was ours for the day.

So naturally, they had to buy another ticket. Because nothing says “I’m thriving” like paying twice for the same trip. After the second ticket purchase, they checked in, and confidence was restored. Bags were packed. Children were enjoying snuggle time. Then the phone buzzed. “Your flight is now boarding.”

Boarding. As in: right now. As in: you have five minutes before the plane leaves without you.

Cue the frantic call to the airline:

“Hi, yes, it’s me again. No, I swear I’m not messing with you. Yes, I bought another wrong ticket. No, I don’t know how. Yes, I’m aware this is becoming a pattern.”

At this point, the airline employees know this person by name, zodiac sign, and preferred emotional support food from Jack In The Box.

While all this was happening, I was at work explaining the situation to a coworker, because nothing bonds people like shared chaos, and I found it funny. That’s when the real twist dropped.

My Co-worker told me her sister had bought a ticket yesterday and told her husband it was a gift for their first anniversary. Cute, right?

Except… He said, “No, you didn’t.”

And she said, “Yes, I did.”

And he said, “No, you got one for the dog.”

The dog.

THE DOG.

So now we know who the real man in her life is. Hint: he has four legs and doesn’t argue about boarding times.

Naturally, the husband had to buy his own ticket and pack in five minutes. Five. Minutes. I can’t even choose a shirt to wear in 5 minutes. Thankfully, the plane was delayed; if it hadn’t been, he’d still be standing in the driveway holding a toothbrush and a pair of jeans, wondering how his marriage got outranked by a chihuahua.

Buying plane tickets is not for the confident and organized. It is for the brave. The chaotic. The ones who live life on the edge of the “Are you kidding me?” button.

So to everyone who has ever:

bought the wrong date
bought the wrong month
bought the wrong YEAR
checked in for a flight they weren’t even taking
or accidentally booked the dog instead of their spouse

Just know: You are not alone. The struggle is real. And somewhere out there, an airline employee is praying for you. Just remember: Life rarely goes as planned, but it always goes somewhere.

Morals: 1) Double‑check your ticket. Then triple‑check it. Then ask someone else to check it because clearly we can’t be trusted with such important tasks without assistance. 2) If you think you’re organized, try booking a flight. Reality will humble you. 3)The real MVP is the airline employee who didn’t hang up on us.

She Lived, She Loved, She Sparkled

Becoming a grandmother is wonderful. One moment you’re just a mother. The next your all wise and prehistoric. – Pam Brown

Some grandmothers bake cookies; mine baked pinsa and gave us the wild, adventurous spirit we will continue to carry on. She lived 93 years with the kind of energy that made you wonder if she had a secret deal with the universe. A woman who wore leather jackets like a rockstar, wore accessories that were only accessible to royalty, and carried herself with the confidence of someone who once flew a plane without a license…. because she actually did. At 14, her friends who had built the plane from scratch told her she could fly it, so she did; one of them sitting beside her as she grabbed the wheel like it was no big deal. No license. No training. Just vibes.

She grew up on a farm where a duck named Mr. Peepers followed her everywhere like a feathery little bodyguard. And because the universe has a sense of humor, her neighbor had a cow named Claira who followed her to the bus stop every morning. Imagine being a kid in New Jersey, casually escorted to school by a cow. That was her childhood, a blend of farm life, city life, and pure absurdity.

She may have grown up on a farm, but she’ll forever be known for her impeccable, unforgettable sense of style. Because of her, people stop me everywhere I go to ask where my clothes or purse came from. My answer is simple: Grandma’s closet. Whenever I wear something of hers, I know I’ll stand out and shine in a way she always believed I could.

One of our most iconic family stories happened in Aruba, when we took her to Frenchman’s Pass to show her where we found our cat, Frenchie. It was supposed to be a sweet little memory lane moment. Instead, a group of men with guns emerged from the bushes like we had wandered into an action movie, and we were the one’s on trial.

My grandmother calmly observed, “There are men all around us. As a hormonal preteen, I thought, Okay… not the worst thing, I can work with this. Then she added, ‘And they’ve got guns.’ Suddenly, it was absolutely the worst thing, and I knew these were not the men I should be flirting with. My brain instantly switched to: How do I escape if I get kidnapped?

Meanwhile, my mom yelled, “THIS IS WHERE WE GOT FRENCHIE!” and sped off like she was trying to qualify for NASCAR.

My older brother, ever the proclaimed strategist, screamed, ‘TAKE MY GRANDMA!’ because in his mind, she had already lived a full life, and that’s just what happens when you’re a grandmother, you are meant to sacrifice. Keep in mind, she was maybe 60, and she did not share this opinion.

When we got home, my dad informed us very casually that we were the only people on the island who didn’t know about the military drills and that the Frenchman’s pass was out of service for the next few days.

As her youngest grandchild, I had the honor of taking her to her first bar, The Blue Martini, at 85. She walked in like she’d been doing it for decades… while pouring half a bottle of water into her martini. After the second visit, where she mistook a car engine for my uncle farting, we accepted that bars weren’t her natural habitat and happily returned to our tradition of drinking apple cider out of champagne glasses at family gatherings.

Then came my masterpiece: getting her to a Magic Mike show. No one believed I could do it. But I did. She stayed for five minutes…. which, honestly, was five minutes longer than anyone expected. Then she went to the casino and won a hundred dollars, proving she always left on a high note. She didn’t just go to humor me; she went to show everyone that fun doesn’t expire. She never let anyone tell her how to live; she simply lived, fully and fearlessly.

A prime example of her mischievous, adventurous style was when, one day, on a whim, she told my mom to drive all three of us to Lofland for New Year’s. She didn’t like the idea of sitting at home doing the same old, same old. She wanted to get out and see the world again. So, without planning, we each just threw a pair of underwear in our bags, as that was all that could fit, and went out on the open road with no hesitation. Just pure, spontaneous adventure, the kind she lived for and instilled in us.

After the 4-hour drive, we arrived to find it packed with people celebrating, but she didn’t care. She was the kind of woman who could walk into chaos and somehow make it feel like part of the plan. She and my mother gambled while I ate gummy bears and played arcade games. When the night ended, and there were no rooms available, we headed home after the fireworks: carrying great memories, a few extra hundreds, and my very happy smile. That trip is where I got my spirit of adventure. The willingness to say yes. The instinct to go. The belief that life is meant to be lived, not scheduled.

She lived boldly. Loved deeply. Laughed loudly. And she left behind stories that feel too wild to be true. She leaves a legacy of joy, courage, and chaos in the best possible way. I am forever grateful to be able to call her my grandmother.

Morals: 1) Live boldly, love deeply, and never apologize for enjoying your life. 2) If life hands you chaos, at least make it a good story. 3) The people who shape us never really go. 4) Family stories are the real inheritance.

Don’t Stop Believin’… In My Dad’s Olympic Dreams

Curling is a game of inches – and of split seconds. – Ernie Richardson

Some dads watch the Winter Olympics and think, “Wow, those athletes are incredible.” My dad watches the Winter Olympics and thinks, “My daughter. The Olympian.”

Before I could blink, he had already called the entire Melgreen family—siblings, aunts, uncles, people I haven’t seen since Journey came out with their number one hit “Don’t Stop Believing” to inform them to start saving up, as they are going to France in 2030. No excuses. Why? Because they would all be attending the Winter Olympics to watch me win gold in curling. Or, at the very least, “show up and represent the Melgreen name with dignity.”

I laughed. I thought it was adorable. Sweet. Classic cheerleader dad energy. The kind of delusional confidence only a parent can have in their child, especially a child who has never curled a day in her life and whose winter sport experience consists of falling on her butt while snowboarding and apologizing to the stranger I accidentally slide into when I tried to stop without falling down. Instead, I landed on top of the stranger, not the worst way to meet a guy, but definitely not the behavior of a future Olympic star.

But he wasn’t joking. Not even a little.

The next thing I know, he’s standing in front of me with a confirmation email letting me know, “Your first curling practice is April 25th at 2:30 PM at Coyote Curling Club.” Lucky for me, it happens to be the only curling facility in Arizona. Fifteen minutes from our house. “Perfect.”

And that was that. No matter what plans existed that day, errands, work, social life, and the possibility of a nap, curling was now on the schedule. My father had spoken it into existence. His daughter was going to be a curler, and the universe would simply have to adjust.

Because here’s the thing: curling didn’t just appear one day when someone got bored on a frozen pond. It began in Scotland, way back in the 1500s, when people decided that sliding giant stones (they like to call Rocks) across ice was not only a sport but a lifestyle. They even found old curling rocks in the bottom of the ghostly floors of long-silent lochs, which means Scottish ancestors were out there centuries ago doing exactly what I’m doing now: trying not to fall, trying to look coordinated, and hoping someone was impressed.

Thanks to my dad, I can now go to Scotland and say with confidence, “Put me in Coach” with a dramatic hair flip. I am, after all, practically returning to the motherland of my new sport.

When April 25th arrived, my dad watched me with the kind of pride usually reserved for graduations, weddings, or the moment a toddler successfully uses the potty for the first time. Meanwhile, I stepped onto the ice looking less like a future Olympian and more like a confused left-handed bowler who wandered into the wrong sports facility.

I swung my leg around. I didn’t line up straight. My hips had their own agenda. Honestly, I don’t even draw a straight line with a ruler, so expecting my body to suddenly understand geometry felt ambitious. But then came the sweeping.

Let me tell you something: sweeping in curling is not like sweeping your kitchen floor. It’s not even like sweeping a soaked kitchen floor in socks, which is already a hazard. It’s like trying to Swiffer your kitchen floor while moonwalking sideways on ice, chasing a 40‑pound rock that has absolutely zero concern for your survival.

And the rocks? They’re everywhere. Like landmines. But colder. At one point, I tried to avoid falling on one rock, only to fall in a way that should honestly qualify as a Cirque du Soleil audition. My knees hit each other, my legs went in opposite directions, and I landed in a backwards split that I absolutely did not do on purpose. I can now say with certainty: Sweeping is not in my skill set. And my knees agree.

And here’s the wildest part: despite doing everything my way (which the coach repeatedly reminded me was “not standard,” “not ideal,” and “not technically illegal, so… fine”), I was the only one who actually got the rock into the house. Let me repeat that. Me. The sideways‑shuffling, hip‑rogue, geometry‑defying, Swiffer‑on‑ice disaster. The girl who fell into a backwards split, trying not to fall on a rock. The one who met a stranger in her past by crash‑landing on him like a malfunctioning human airbag. I cannot stress this enough. I was able to get the rock in the house. Everyone else had form. Technique. Balance. Dignity. I had… vibes. And apparently, vibes were enough.

My dad nearly levitated. The coach looked like he was questioning every certification he’d ever earned. And I stood there, trying to act like I meant to do it, even though my internal monologue was just me screaming, “HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?”

But hey, results are results. And if doing it “wrong” gets the rock in the house, then maybe I’m not wrong at all. Maybe I’m just… innovative. A curling prodigy with unorthodox methods. A pioneer of chaotic technique. A future Olympic legend whose hips simply refuse to follow instructions. Honestly, Scotland should be honored that I’m coming to sub in.

Thanks, Dad. You really were onto something.

Maybe I’ll never master the art of lining up straight. Maybe my hips will always do their own interpretive dance. Maybe my sweeping form will forever resemble a startled raccoon with a Swiffer.

But I’ll tell you this: There is something magical about having someone who believes in you so fiercely, so irrationally, so wholeheartedly, that they sign you up for a sport you’ve never tried and tell the whole family to prepare for your gold medal ceremony. Everyone deserves a cheerleader like that. And if nothing else, I can now say, truthfully, proudly, and with a dramatic flourish… I am a curler. Even if I look like a bowler doing it. Better get your tickets now. France, here I come.

Morals: 1) Doing things “your way” may not be traditional, but if the coach can’t technically call it illegal, it counts. 2) You don’t have to be an Olympian to feel like one. Sometimes all it takes is showing up, trying your best, and having someone cheer like you’ve already won gold.

Japan: Where Normal Went to Die and I Thrived

Cherish each moment because it will never be repeated. – Captain Jean-Luc Picard

Some people go to Japan for the temples, the culture, the food, the history.
I went for all of that, and somehow still ended up in a sex club, talking to dinosaur robots, and learning that yes, you can fit over 100 people into an elevator if there’s a tiny human whose entire job is to shove bodies into place like Tetris pieces.

Japan didn’t just welcome me.

Japan said, “Oh, you’re weird? Perfect. Let’s play.”

My journey began with rain. Everyone around me pulled out their perfectly coordinated clear umbrellas, a synchronized ballet of practicality. I danced, no umbrella in sight. People stared with their mouths open, probably thinking, “This one is defective. Return to sender.” But rain is an anomaly in Arizona. When it touches my skin, I feel alive. So I danced harder. In that moment, I felt like I told Japan, “Game on.”

Japan took that personally.

Later in the trip, it decided to test my directional abilities, even with Google Maps. I saw a massage place just two minutes away and thought, Perfect. Easy win. It was not.

I got lost. Not “oops, wrong turn” lost. More like “Google Maps is drunk, and the streets are a Möbius strip” lost. I circled the same corner at least twelve times. People complain about Lombard Street in San Francisco, but this was another level, with narrow, winding streets surrounded by skyscrapers that all looked identical.

Google Translate tried to help, but the directions I got led me right back to where I started. Turns out the place was on a staircase behind the building I was in front of, which required four turns and two more streets to reach. By the time I got there, I needed a massage to recover from trying to find the massage, like a pre‑game stretch, but for my sanity. But it truly was the best I’ve ever had.

Japan taught me many things, but nothing prepared me for the elevator experience. Picture this:
A crowd of over 100 people. One elevator. And a tiny, determined elevator attendant whose job was to physically pack us in. I have never been so close to strangers in my life. I achieved spiritual union with at least three of them. which is why I am glad I went to Hakone and learned the story about the famous black egg prior to entering the elevator. The legend goes that eating the black egg supposedly adds years to one’s life. I ate one, so I’m basically immortal now. So thanks, Japan, for helping expand my life.

Kyoto was sacred, serene, and somehow still chaotic in a way that matched my energy. There, I learned that Japan has spas for everything. Tea bath? Check. Red wine bath? Check. Beer bath? Check.
Sake bath? Absolutely. At one point, I realized I was basically marinating myself like a very relaxed, slightly tipsy pot roast who occasionally got up to sing and dance. I was on top of the world.

Then came the moment:
I lit a candle for Buddha.
It fell into the sand.
It left a mark.
The only one that did.

I panicked. I asked what it meant. No one knew; it had never happened before.

They told me it could mean whatever I wanted it to mean.
So I chose:
That I was special.
That I was open to love and good fortune.
That I could handle whatever came my way.

And then, suddenly, I was surrounded by six women monks, smiling at me like I had just unlocked a spiritual side quest. I didn’t even know women monks existed. Not everyone gets to see them, let alone be encircled by them. In that moment, I felt Japan calling a truce. A quiet message: You’re going to be okay. Believe in yourself. Your future is yours.

While tourists were lining up to take the perfect shot of a temple or Mt. Fuji, I took photographs of traffic cones that looked like giant cheddar cheese wedges, Six‑foot‑tall traffic cones that made zero sense, Toilet‑instruction signs that read like IKEA manuals for your butt, and Business names so whimsical they sounded like they were generated by a toddler with a sugar high, as ” Boo Boo Park” for one’s car. At first, people stared. Then they laughed. Then something magical happened: they started sending me their whimsical finds.

“Linzie, look! A sign that says “Thong Thia!”
“Thought of you, here’s a picture of a cone shaped like a wizard hat.”
“I knew you’d appreciate this toilet diagram.”

They trusted that someone else would capture the temple or the cherry blossom tree.
But the weird stuff?
That was my department.

That reputation was further solidified when I went out dancing and discovered, mid‑groove, that the club also had a sex club in the back, as indicated by the sign that read: Bar Sex. I left with my dignity intact and my curiosity aggressively confused.

The next day, I wandered into a hotel lobby seeking restaurant recommendations from two front‑desk attendants dressed as dinosaurs… only to realize they were animatronic creatures stationed there to charm guests as they navigated the self‑check‑in screens. Japan, once again, refuses to be ordinary. Just the way it should be.

One of the most beautiful moments of the trip was lying under the stars near Tokyo Tower, watching the capital building light up in an electronic show with mi hermana, Yenzully. I’ve known her since childhood and have only seen her twice in twenty years. Her stopping by Japan so we could spend a day together meant everything. She is the perfect partner in chaos, just the right amount of whimsical to match mine. Making Japan the perfect place for us to reunite.

Japan wasn’t normal. Japan refused to be normal. Japan looked at me and said, “Let’s make this trip as strange, magical, chaotic, and unforgettable as you are.” And it did. Everywhere I went, something unexpected happened, not because I was unlucky, but because the universe was matching my energy. Whimsical. Unscripted. One‑of‑a‑kind. Just like me.

And who could forget the day I drove a go‑kart through the streets of Tokyo dressed as Stitch from Lilo & Stitch. Yes, an actual go‑kart. On actual streets. With actual traffic. And me, an adult woman in a blue alien onesie, puttering along like chaos on wheels.

My go‑kart stalled twice at a light, which is humbling in ways therapy can’t prepare you for. Each time it sputtered out, I could feel the judgment of every taxi driver within a three‑block radius. At one point, I accidentally honked the horn, which we were specifically told not to do, and the sound echoed through the intersection, calling out my whereabouts to the police.

I was profoundly grateful we had a guide and were required to drive in two neat little lines, because without that human breadcrumb trail, I would’ve been lost somewhere between Shibuya and a parallel universe. The irony? I am cautioned not to drive in the States because of my seizures, yet there I was, cruising Tokyo traffic like a Disney character who had escaped the theme park.

It was ridiculous.
It was exhilarating.
It was me, fully and unapologetically, in Japan.

Morals: 1) Beauty isn’t always sacred or serious: sometimes it’s absurd, tiny, and hiding in plain sight. 2) Never assume the front desk employees are human. 3) You don’t have to understand a moment for it to matter. 4) The world mirrors the energy you bring to it. 5) If a club feels “too fun,” double-check the back room. 6) Don’t forget to take pictures of stuff that makes you smile and laugh; someone else will always get the tourist pictures.

Magic, Medicine, and the Girl Who Refused to Stay Broken

We never loss our demons. We only learn to live above them. – The Ancient One

Today I went to a Marvel Orchestra movie event with one mission: embody Mighty Thor. Not just “Thor with a hammer,” but full Jane Foster energy: powerful, luminous, worthy. I had the vision. I had the enthusiasm. I even had the tiny prop Mjölnir, which I lovingly wear around my neck. What I did not have was the final look I expected.

Somewhere between getting dressed, adjusting my hair, and trying to channel celestial goddess energy, I ended up looking less like Mighty Thor and more like Doctor Strange, who killed Thorg and was wearing his tiny hammer around my neck for a good chuckle. Not exactly the heroic aesthetic I was going for. But honestly? It was perfect.

I called my friend for an emergency outfit evaluation, and that’s when it hit me: I had missed the mark by a whole multiverse. But he reminded me that there’s always that moment, the one right after you realize things went sideways. where you get to choose. You can panic, start over, spiral, or bail. Or you can shrug, laugh, and say, “Well, this is who I am today.”

I chose the second option. And it made the whole experience better.

And honestly, maybe it makes sense that I ended up looking more like Doctor Strange than Mighty Thor. Because out of all the Marvel characters, he’s the one whose story mirrors mine the most.

Most people watch Doctor Strange and see a man traveling across galaxies to fix his hands.
I watch him and think, Yeah… I get it.

He wasn’t just searching for magic. He was searching for himself, the version of him that existed before everything shattered. And that part hits home. Because while he was learning spells in distant dimensions, I was going through my own transformation right here on Earth. Not the glamorous, swirling-portals kind. The medical kind. The terrifying kind. The kind where you don’t get a cloak that flies, but you do get a piece of your skull turned into a necklace because a device had to be implanted in your head to track seizures. It’s not exactly Marvel merch, but it’s definitely one-of-a-kind.

Doctor Strange had to rebuild his identity after trauma. So did I. He had to relearn how to trust his body. So did I. He had to face the fear that he might never be who he once was. And I’ve lived that fear too.

But here’s the part that matters: He didn’t go back to who he was. He became someone new, someone stronger, stranger, wiser, and more powerful because of what he survived. I, too, have changed into someone much more whimsical, stronger, empathetic, and a wee bit wiser.

People think magic is all sparks and light shows. But real magic is quieter. It’s waking up after surgery and deciding to keep going. It’s learning to trust your body again after it betrayed you.
It’s wearing a piece of your own skull as jewelry and saying, “This is part of my story now.”
It’s surviving something that should have broken you — and then choosing to build yourself back anyway. Doctor Strange had the Eye of Agamotto. I had medical devices, resilience, and a stubborn refusal to quit. Different tools. Same fight.

So Here’s to Us

To the heroes who try.
To the heroes who improvise.
To the heroes who rebuild themselves.
To the heroes who laugh at their own chaos.
To the heroes who don’t need a perfect costume to be worthy.

We are all our own superheroes; messy, mismatched, magnificent.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade my Doctor-Strange-who-murdered-Thorg mishap for anything.

Morals: 1) Going with the flow is its own kind of superpower. 2) Your energy, your real, unfiltered self, is what people connect with. 3) Your scars don’t diminish your worth; they prove your strength. 4) You are already a superhero; it is just a matter of believing it.

The Easter Bunny Grows Up: Now What?

Easter: the only time it’s okay to put all your eggs in one basket. – Evan Esar

Easter used to be all about the hunt.

As kids, we’d sprint around the yard like sugar‑fueled detectives, convinced the Easter Bunny had a personal vendetta against us by hiding eggs in increasingly impossible places, even forgetting to put chocolate in some. We’d spend all day searching, only to discover two or three eggs months later—sun‑bleached, half‑melted, and absolutely not something anyone should open indoors, but we didn’t care; what are a few more germs anyway? Back then, the thrill was in the chase, not the chocolate, well, not all in the chocolate.

There were school scavenger hunts, the kind where you learned, usually the hard way, the importance of reading directions. A lesson we will continue to learn for the rest of our lives. Nothing humbles a person faster than reaching the “final clue” only to realize it was supposed to be the first.

And somewhere along the way, between cursing the world for not letting us be adults and living on our own, to the day that “dream” became a reality, everything shifted, including Easter.

These days, Easter looks different. The Easter Bunny has retired from active duty, and the egg hunts have been replaced with something quieter, something softer. It’s less about the chase and more about gratitude. Less about the chocolate and more about the company, or better yet, the company I eat my chocolate with. I’ve aged into something else, someone who can sit still, be surrounded by love, and not feel bored.

But don’t worry, the chaos persists; just in a more adult, culinary form.

Every year, there’s that moment where you think, I am a chef. I can absolutely make a ham from scratch. And then reality taps you on the shoulder and gently reminds you that the Honey Baked Ham store exists for a reason. Their ham fits in the oven. Their ham doesn’t require a YouTube tutorial. Their ham doesn’t judge you. Their ham has one job: to be edible, and it excels at it every time. So you pick one up, feeling both relieved and slightly betrayed by your own ambition.

Then you figure, since the ham is taken care of, this is the time to try new recipes, like corn chowder, in the hopes the day will feel more special, even if it’s just for a small group. But maybe that’s part of the magic. Easter evolves, but the heart of it stays the same. It’s still about connection. It’s still about showing up. It’s still about appreciating the people who are there, whether that’s a crowd of twenty or a cozy group of three. You learn that even if you had ordered pizza or gotten Chinese takeout, the time together with those who matter would still be as wonderful, even without the fancy spread.

And no matter one’s religion or background, Easter offers a universal invitation: pause, reflect, and appreciate the journey. Appreciate the people who walk it with you. Appreciate the way life loops back on itself, teaching us the same lessons in new ways until we finally understand them.

Because in the end, everything circles back. The beginning becomes the ending, the ending becomes the beginning, and we, hopefully, become a little smarter, a little softer, and a lot more grateful along the way. Easter reminds us that no matter how we got here, we’re here. Together. And that’s worth celebrating.

Morals: 1) Love makes even the simplest moments feel special. 2) Easter becomes a reminder that love, in any form and any size, is worth pausing for.

Boom Ball: The Only Sport Where You Can’t Hate the Umpire

Never be afraid to try new things as life gets boring. – Unknown

The important thing to remember is that adventure is everywhere when you stay open to it.

There are a lot of things I expect when I buy lawn tickets to a sporting event: grass stains, questionable sightlines, and the occasional elbow from someone who thinks personal space is a myth. What I don’t expect is to find out, the day before the game, that those “lawn” tickets magically transformed into assigned seats. Assigned. Seats. I went from “bring a blanket and hope for the best” to “ma’am, your row is this way” in under 24 hours. Honestly, it felt like winning a tiny lottery I didn’t enter. But that’s Boom Ball for you. Nothing about it is normal, predictable, or remotely grounded in reality — and that’s exactly why it works.

I had plans to meet up with some people, but somewhere between the parking lot and the first inning, I remembered one of my favorite truths: sometimes the best way to have fun is to go off on your own. Not in a dramatic “I walk alone” way – more like “I’ll catch up with you later, I’m vibing.”

And Boom Ball is the perfect place to vibe. The energy is chaotic, the crowd is friendly, and the sport itself is basically what happens when baseball, Mario Kart, and a glow stick rave have a child.

So… What Is Boom Ball?

Imagine baseball. Now imagine someone looked at baseball and said, “Cute. But what if we added obstacles, tiny go-karts, bubble suits, and a glow-in-the-dark home run derby?”

That’s Boom Ball.

Players ride miniature go-karts to the bases
Then they climb into giant bubble balls to get to the next one
There are obstacles on the field, like it’s a competitive game show
And at some point, the lights go out, and everyone tries to hit as many home runs as possible in neon chaos

It’s athleticism meets absurdity, and somehow it works.

One of the best parts of the night wasn’t even the game — it was the people. I ended up meeting a bunch of the players, which already felt like a win. And these weren’t just random weekend warriors either. Some were even semi-celebrities, the kind of faces you recognize from Big Brother or Ninja Warrior, the ones who casually mention they hit game‑winning home runs in college like it’s no big deal. Others were professional athletes, including a legit professional softball player from Europe.

And because Boom Ball refuses to be normal for even one inning, they even brought out a major league softball player who went to the 2020 Olympics, from Arizona State University, no less, to throw pitches in one of the six innings. Just casually. As one does. But then I met one player’s mother and grandmother, who had come all the way from Iowa. They were the kind of warm, proud, salt-of-the-earth women who make you feel like you’ve known them for years. They told me stories about their all-star as if we were sitting in their living room instead of a stadium full of glowing baseballs and bumper-car energy. They were warm, funny, and instantly familiar — the kind of women who could make a stadium feel like a family reunion.

At one point, the player’s mother leaned in and said, “Don’t waste your time on my son. He’s a great guy, but he’s not developmentally ready for real stuff.”

I told her, “Well, you would know better than anyone — you’re his mother,” and we both burst out laughing. There’s something special about bonding with a stranger over the shared understanding that men can be delightful and also… not quite ready.

And then — the cherry on top — the umpire handed me a ball.

Let me repeat that: The umpire gave me a ball. I never thought I would say that an umpire can be my unexpected hero.

Boom Ball might be the only sport in existence where the umpire is universally loved. No boos, no heckling, no “get glasses!” Just pure appreciation for the brave soul trying to officiate a sport that looks like controlled chaos on wheels.

If Boom Ball taught me anything, it’s this: fun doesn’t just happen. You make it.

Whether you’re rolling solo, meeting strangers from Iowa, or catching a ball from the nicest umpire on Earth, the magic comes from leaning in, especially when the night doesn’t go as planned.

So here’s to lawn tickets that become assigned seats, to bubble-suited athletes, to unexpected friendships, and to sports that don’t take themselves too seriously. Boom Ball might not be the next Olympic event, but it’s definitely the next great story.

Morals: 1) Sometimes the best plans are the ones you didn’t plan. 2) People you meet by accident can make the night unforgettable. 3) You don’t need perfection for a perfect night.