Being an Elf is Who I am

I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. – Charles Dickens

Some people slip into holiday spirit like a sweater: seasonal, temporary, something they pull out when the calendar tells them it’s time. But for me? The holiday spirit is not a costume, not a character, not a December-only personality. It’s my baseline. My default setting. My identity.

So when I was invited to Christmas in July, I thought, Finally, my people. Surely this would be a gathering of year‑round holiday enthusiasts, the kind of folks who understand that joy doesn’t have an expiration date and kindness isn’t seasonal. I imagined a whole crowd of elves, reindeer handlers, cookie engineers, peppermint‑powered optimists. Instead… It was me. Just me.

Well… me, Santa, and Mrs. Claus. But even they weren’t exactly radiating the North Pole energy I expected. They weren’t leaning into the magic, the gentleness, the sparkle that kids look for when they’re overwhelmed or shy or unsure. And when the little ones needed help calming down, needed reassurance, needed that soft nudge back toward joy… the room felt strangely quiet. Except for me because that’s where I come alive.

There was this tiny moment: one of those tiny, unexpected sparks that remind me exactly why being an elf matters. A little boy was glued to his phone, overwhelmed and checked out, and I gently told him, “Santa doesn’t stay on his phone all the time. He encourages family time.” He paused, looked up at me, and like magic put the phone down. His father watched, blinked, and slowly set his own phone aside too. Suddenly they were talking, laughing, actually present with each other. That’s the kind of quiet miracle elves live for. Not the big flashy moments, but the small ones where connection is restored, and joy sneaks back in.

Being an elf isn’t a role. It’s a calling. I don’t “act” like an elf. I am one. It’s woven into how I move through the world: the instinct to help, to comfort, to redirect chaos into laughter, to remind children (and adults) that there is still so much to be happy about. Kindness isn’t a performance; it’s a responsibility.

If I could choose any job in the world, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d be an elf. Full-time. Year-round. No off-season. I’d keep everything running smoothly, make sure the details are handled, sprinkle joy where it’s needed, and yes, “Be an Elf with Attitude” when the moment calls for it. Because elves aren’t just sweet; we’re spirited. We’re determined. We’re the ones who make sure the sleigh is polished, the toys are finished, the reindeer are fed, and the magic stays intact.

Elf values aren’t seasonal either. People think elves are just about toys and jingles, but the truth is deeper: 1) Respect for nature and environment: Elves understand that magic comes from the world around us, and it’s our job to protect it. 2) Respect for all life: Every creature, every person, every tiny spark of joy matters. 3) Honor and integrity: Elves do the right thing even when no one is watching. 4) Kindness as a lifestyle: not a holiday accessory. These aren’t traits I put on for an event. They’re the foundation of who I am.

Christmas in July was a reminder. Standing there as the only true elf in the room didn’t make me feel out of place; it made me feel grounded. It reminded me that being an elf isn’t about matching outfits or themed events. It’s about carrying the spirit even when others don’t. It’s about stepping in when a child needs comfort. It’s about being the spark when the room feels dim. It’s about living joy, not performing it. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Morals: 1) Joy is contagious; spread it recklessly. 2) Magic is real if you act like it is. 3) Be an Elf with Attitude when necessary: sass is allowed, cruelty is not.

Surviving the Great Williams Downpour: All I Got Was This Fossilized Poop Knowledge

You know you’re an Arizona native when in your heart you’re sure that at the end of the rainbow there is not a pot of gold but a good Mexican restaurant. – James W. Cook

There are road trips that go exactly as planned… and then there are road trips that decide they are in charge. My recent quest to finally cross Canyon Coaster Adventure Park off my list fell firmly, spectacularly, into the second category.

It all began the moment after topping off the gas tank. I had just queued up the road‑trip playlist, ready to cruise into adventure mode, when the air‑pressure warning light started flashing like it was trying to communicate in Morse code. Not a bathroom break, not a snack stop, nope. The pit stop was hunting down an air machine.

Two gas stations later, I learned that apparently someone in town had gone on a personal vendetta against air pumps. Wires cut, hoses dangling, metal panels peeled back like a sardine can. Even the ice machine looked like it had been through a breakup and given up on life. At that point, the only logical solution was Jiffy Lube.

Second car in line? Perfect. Quick air, a little oil, maybe a filter change to keep things running smooth; twenty minutes tops. I was already picturing myself flying down the mountain coaster. Twenty minutes passed. Then forty. Then an hour. Finally, someone called us back with the kind of expression people use when they’re about to tell you your favorite TV show got canceled. “So… there was a mishap.”

A mishap. Someone broke the dipstick.

Now, I’ve heard of parts needing replacement. I’ve heard of delays. But a broken dipstick? That was a first, not just for me, but for my entire family. And of course, they didn’t have another one on hand. It would be another hour. But eventually, the new dipstick was installed, the car was whole again, and we were finally, finally, on the road. The drive was supposed to be 2.5 to 3 hours. Easy. Scenic. Relaxing.

Cue Payson. Cue rain. Cue flooding.

The sky opened up like it had been waiting all year for this moment. Visibility dropped to about 1%. The road twisted up the mountain like it was auditioning for a role in San Francisco as the new Lombard Street. We followed the car ahead of us with blind faith, hoping they knew where they were going because we certainly didn’t. And honestly? All I could do was laugh. Alexa had promised me 72 degrees and clear skies. Alexa lied.

By the time we reached Williams, the rain was still coming down in sheets. We decided to grab food and wait it out. The one‑way street meant parking across from the Pizza Factory, so we made the only reasonable choice: run through the rain like dramatic movie characters. I splashed through puddles on purpose because why not? The person with me had a different idea, and instead attempted a Road Runner sprint to avoid getting wet. Their plan failed immediately. Not only did they get drenched, but they also ran to the wrong storefront entirely, landing in front of a gem shop instead of the pizza place. Comedy gold.

After getting our bearings right, Road Runner ran into people not seen in six years, because of course they would. Life loves a dramatic reunion. Just like daughters running into their mothers in Greece without knowing the other was even traveling. The world is wild.

Eventually the rain slowed, but not before I tried washing my hands in the bathroom and the faucet decided it wanted to join the flood party. It wouldn’t turn off. Perfect.

We wandered around town and ended up at the free Poozeum, yes, poo museum, where I learned more about ancient poop and fossilized farts than I ever expected to know in my lifetime. The largest fossilized poop ever found? A 20.47‑pound Tyrannosaurus Rex masterpiece named Barnum. And apparently, beetles, ants, and flies in Lithuania once farted into tree sap, creating fossilized gas bubbles that survived 34–48 million years. Nature is incredible.

After the coaster, the rain, the pizza sprint, and the unexpected education on prehistoric bodily functions, we wandered through Williams to soak in the last bits of the day. That’s when I saw it, in the storefront, the largest Route 66 sign in the world. It wasn’t just a sign; it was a billboard-sized reminder that adventure lives on the open road. Standing there, drenched shoes and all, I couldn’t help but laugh. Somehow, after everything, this giant glowing symbol of Americana felt like the universe giving me a wink. Because of course, on a day filled with broken dipsticks, fossilized farts, and monsoon-level rain, I would end up face-to-face with the biggest Route 66 sign in existence. Williams really said, “You wanted memories? I’ll give you memories.”

Finally, the rain let up enough to ride the Canyon Coaster. One mile long, 35 mph, wind whipping through the pine trees, it was everything I hoped for. Scenic, fast, freeing. Worth every chaotic moment it took to get there. And just like that, I crossed it off my list: with a whole lot more story than I ever bargained for.

If you’re thinking about a mini getaway, even just a few hours, don’t hesitate. Williams will greet you with open arms, unpredictable weather, and memories you never saw coming.

Morals: 1) The best memories are made in the chaos. 2) You haven’t truly lived until you’ve learned about fossilized farts. 3) When life floods the streets, go get pizza.

Living Out Loud: My Journey With Diabetes

Being different is difficult in a world that tells us there is a “normal.” – Sonya Renee Taylor

I have always enjoyed learning. I enjoy the feeling of pen on paper. I enjoy the smell and feel of books. I enjoy learning new and useless facts that I can share at the most random times. One such fact is that jellyfish have survived for over 650 million years without a brain, so all is not yet lost.

School was my happy place. Thus, it was hard when I would get teased by peers and worse when I got picked on by my second‑grade teacher. I was raising my hand every 30 minutes or so to ask for a bathroom break. It felt like every time I got back to the classroom, I would need to ask for another hall pass. This happened for several weeks. I was not happy.

My teacher was less happy. One morning, she told me that I could no longer go to the bathroom. When asked, “Why?” the reply was, “I know what you are doing and you will no longer be ditching class.” I was furious that my teacher would think I would ever ditch class. I was obsessed with learning and maintaining a straight‑A average. I was also worried about peeing my pants in front of 24 other second graders. After several hours, I begged and pleaded with my teacher to let me go, as my biggest worry was about to come true. She would not. I had her call my mother to explain what was happening, and to warn her that if I wasn’t allowed to use the restroom soon, we were going to need a new pair of pants. My mom arrived quickly and had a blunt, no‑nonsense conversation with my teacher.

She didn’t hesitate. She signed me out of school on the spot and drove me straight to our doctor. After several hours and several tests, we finally had an answer: the flu I’d recently had had attacked my pancreas and essentially shut it down. I was born with a 50/50 chance of getting the autoimmune disease diabetes, and the flu made sure I did. I was taken to the hospital to stabilize my sugar levels and to learn more about how to handle it. I was told that I would have to take at least three shots a day and more if necessary. I would have to poke my finger to get blood readings several times a day. I told my mom that I would rather die than be diabetic. I felt that I was given a death sentence on top of the lingering distress of the torment I already received at school, especially from my teacher.

It was discussed later with my teacher that constant urination is a sign of diabetes, along with dry mouth, fatigue, irritability, blurred vision, etc. My teacher felt horrible for the way she responded and regretted not contacting my mother sooner about my frequent bathroom breaks. A diabetic training was set up for the teachers and continues to this day, thanks to my mother.

My diabetic misadventures did not end there. Awaiting the after‑school bus in the sixth grade, I started to feel dizzy. Not knowing whether I was dizzy from volleyball practice or from my blood sugar crashing, I decided to test myself. I had just lifted the kit and positioned it next to my finger, ready to draw blood, when a teacher suddenly grabbed my shoulder and barked, “Stop playing video games.”

I looked up, completely confused. I tried to explain that I wasn’t feeling well and was about to check my blood sugar to figure out what was going on, but she cut me off, still convinced I was sneaking in a round of Nintendo on school property. Luckily, an eighth‑grade friend of mine, Frans, was nearby and yelled at the teacher, “She is not playing a video game; she is diabetic.” It’s funny how some memories are burnt into our brains.

As I got older, diabetes didn’t magically become easier; it just became different. When I first got my insulin pump in high school, I was so terrified of people seeing it that I wore baggy sweatshirts in the middle of 100-degree summers in California. Nothing says “I’m fine” like sweating through a hoodie in July. I didn’t discover until later that I could tuck the pump inside my bra instead of clipping it awkwardly to the outside of my pants. That discovery felt like winning the lottery.

I’ve always struggled with trying to find places to put it so it doesn’t show, but I can still use it. It makes wearing dresses… interesting. Every outfit becomes a puzzle: Where does the pump go? Will the tubing show? Will I accidentally flash someone while fishing it out? How am I supposed to enjoy white‑water rafting with my family, paddle boarding, or even swimming while dragging my little robot sidekick along for the ride, that insists on not getting wet or it will kill me?

I will never forget the moment in high school when my friends and I were joking around, and they decided it would be hilarious to shove me in, completely forgetting that my robot sidekick was still strapped to me like a very confused barnacle. One second we’re laughing, the next I’m bobbing in the water like a malfunctioning cyborg, and five minutes later we’re on our way to the ER. Nothing says “summer fun” like accidentally baptizing your medical device.

After many years of dealing with it, I’ve decided that if someone is uncomfortable with me reaching down my shirt to grab my pump or seeing a tube hanging out of me at the beach, that’s their problem. I deserve to live a full life, and I plan to take advantage of that; extra medical accessories and all.

I would like to say that things have gotten better as I have gotten older. I no longer have to stick needles in my arms, thighs, and mid‑section, three or more times a day, thanks to the invention of insulin pumps. I now just have to deal with looking like an IV fluid station and finding a way to make that work with my wardrobe. I still hear comments about my insulin pump and if it is a pager, about being too skinny to be diabetic; if I eat better and exercise, I will be “whole again”; and one woman telling me, “You should only eat salads” because that is what diabetics are only allowed. I now laugh it off as another misadventure.

I also get to educate people: not just about what diabetes is, but what it’s actually like to live with it every day. And if someone learns something while watching me whip out my pump like I’m revealing a plot twist, great. If not, that’s a them‑problem. I’m busy keeping myself alive and looking fabulous doing it.

Morals: 1) Your body is not an inconvenience. Anyone uncomfortable with your medical gear can simply look elsewhere. 2) Never underestimate the power of a friend who yells the truth from behind you. Those people are gold. 3) You deserve joy, adventure, and ridiculous stories, diabetes or not. Take up space. Live loudly. 4) Life will hand you plot twists. You get to decide whether they become tragedies or comedy specials.

America Is More Than a Flag: It’s How We Treat Each Other

Freedom is nothing but a chance to be better. – Albert Camus

Well, folks, it’s that time of year again: fireworks, cookouts, flags everywhere, and that familiar July 4th feeling that makes you pause and think about what it actually means to be American. July 4th celebrates the birth of a nation built by immigrants, shaped by diverse cultures, and strengthened by generations of people seeking opportunity. It’s a reminder that America’s story is one of hope, courage, and unity. And honestly? I think we need that reminder more than ever.

Because being American doesn’t mean you’re always going to love every law, every regulation, or every leader who ends up in office. You’re not always going to agree with the direction the country takes. That’s normal. That’s human. That’s democracy.

But being American does mean understanding that when elections happen and votes are counted, those votes, the voices of millions of people, must be honored. It means recognizing that the best way to be heard is to vote, and the next best ways are to speak up, call your representatives, participate in peaceful protests, and stand up for your values without tearing down the humanity of others.

Being American means remembering that this country was built by immigrants, for immigrants. People who crossed oceans and borders because they believed in hope, opportunity, and the chance to build something better, not only for themselves, but for their children and children’s children. That diversity isn’t a threat; it’s the foundation of who we are.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve let division drown out that truth. We’ve let fear replace compassion. We’ve let cruelty become entertainment. We’ve let kindness become something we need commercials to remind us about.

But July 4th is our chance to pause and remember who we are, not just as a nation, but as individuals. It’s a moment to speak up for our rights and for each other. Everyone deserves caring souls who will stand with and stand up for them, when necessary, without hesitation. Caring Souls who hold space for us even when they don’t feel as strongly as we do. Caring Souls that can remind us that WE MATTER, each and every one of us.

I bring these things up because as I have more rotations around the sun, I find myself thinking more and more about who I am and what I need. I turned 39 this year, and no, I’m not, nor have I ever been married, and I don’t have kids. Not because I’m missing something… but because I value myself enough to wait for someone who understands that worth. We all deserve that. We all deserve relationships built on respect, partnership, and shared humanity, not outdated expectations or narrow definitions of “purpose” based on gender.

What makes me unhappy isn’t the demeaning, hateful, or sarcastic comments people feel entitled to make about my relationship journey. It’s watching us forget how to treat each other. It’s seeing neighbors turn on neighbors. It’s seeing empathy treated like weakness. It’s seeing people forget that supporting, protecting, and caring for one another is the entire point of living in a society.

Being American means doing the best we can for ourselves and others. It means understanding we are not islands; we are connected. We encounter hundreds of people a day, and our choices ripple outward. Kindness matters. Responsibility matters. Truth matters. Words matter.

Being American means honoring the Constitution, not selectively, not only when it benefits us, not only when our preferred candidate wins. It means accepting outcomes we don’t always like. It means rejecting violence as a solution. It means remembering that patriotism is not about tearing down fellow Americans; it’s about lifting each other up.

Being American also means acknowledging our history, including the painful parts. Racism didn’t disappear because we wish it did. Inequality didn’t vanish because we stopped talking about it. Progress requires honesty, courage, and accountability.

Lastly, being American means being proud that we are a nation of immigrants who came together to build a place where opportunities are endless for those who choose to commit. Hope and resilience are two words I would use to describe America, not because we are perfect, but because we keep trying.

If you want to be proud of being American, start by standing up for truth, compassion, and democracy. Start by condemning violence and division. Start by wanting better for your neighbors, even when you disagree with them. Start by remembering that this country is strongest when we choose unity over hatred.

Thanks for listening. Next time, I promise we’ll talk about watering fake plants, the trivia I found in me that I didn’t even know I had, and ASU (Arizona State University) adventures. But today? Today is about remembering who we are and who we still have the power to become.

Morals: 1.) Words do matter. 2.) We are stronger together than divided. 3.) Nothing is stronger than the truth. 4.) YOU MATTER, and no one gets to make you feel otherwise.

An Ode to a Toe

“Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.”

– Mahatma Gandhi

What could be better than playing golf every morning on a Caribbean island, with ocean views of paradise at every turn? What could be better than playing with a great group of friends where laughs and good‑natured teasing followed every shot? And to top it off, getting to play for free. Well… almost free.

After five years of twisting, turning, and pretending my dad was auditioning for the PGA, He developed a double callus on his right big toe. Five years later, that callus split, got infected, and suddenly his “free golf” came with a hospital bill and a story no one believed until they saw the pictures.

He was sitting on a hospital bed with his leg stretched out like a runway model. The doctor’s back blocked his view as he poked and prodded. Then he turned and casually said, “I’ll be right back. I need a drain tube.” Only then did he see the results of his fiddling, once the doctor had left the room… a pair of scissors sticking straight through his great toe like he’d tried to perform a magic trick and failed spectacularly. He sat for half an hour with those scissors jabbed through his toe, long enough to call my mom and me.

Emergency rooms are wide open spaces full of wandering humans. His toe became a tourist attraction. People slowed down, stared, whispered. Some wanted a closer look. “Yeah,” he’d say, “it goes all the way through.”

The best line came from the doctor himself. When he finally returned, he shuffled through the tools on the tray and asked, “Has anybody seen my scissors?”

Just when I thought the family had fulfilled its toe‑related destiny, my dad decided to contribute a follow-up chapter. Thankfully, this time no scissors were involved. But what we lacked in accidental impalement, we made up for in pure, unfiltered hospital chaos. Eight days of what felt like a never‑ending saga of mishaps, miscommunications, and medical plot twists.

Day 1: He was admitted for an infection in the other foot and started antibiotics. We were told someone would be with us in the morning to discuss test results and take him down to surgery.

Day 2: He continued the antibiotics and immediately was stopped from being given food or water because surgery was “expected.” By three in the afternoon, he still hadn’t been given so much as a sip of water, and I found myself practically begging anyone who walked by to give him anything to hydrate him. Eventually they handed him water via a sponge-on-a-stick that looked like a lollipop for dehydrated adults.

Dinner time arrived, and we learned all the surgeons were out. Every single one. Even the backups to the backups. No surgery, just more antibiotics.

Day 3: They fed him again, which we assumed meant “no surgery today.” We were told multiple doctors would come talk to us. None did. Not one. So another day passed with nothing accomplished, except naming the pigeons outside his window… Ringo, Princess Leia and friends.

Day 4: We finally saw the infection doctor, only to learn he couldn’t view the MRI or CT scan the hospital had already done. After hearing that, the important tasks were yet to be checked off the list; we found ourselves face to face with a random person claiming to work at the hospital with a fellow doctor, either a fellow medical professional or just a paper pusher, who wandered in. She looked like she had her 2-year-old pick out her outfit for the day: long white pants she tripped over, yellow rain boots (no rain in sight), and a black feathered shirt. She wandered in and suggested maybe a vein doctor should check blood flow. Sure. Why not. Add it to the list.

Day 5: The vein doctor we were told needed to determine if surgery was in fact needed was a no-show. We later found out no one informed him he was needed.

Day 6: The vein doctor arrived, performed surgery, and announced no stent was needed. He cleaned out the vein “a little” since he was already there. But because you can’t have two surgeries in one day, his foot surgery was pushed to Day 7.

Day 7: Foot surgery finally happened after 5 PM. We were told everything went well, except his blood pressure spiked, but they got that under control. He should be able to go home the next day after having more antibiotics.

Day 8: The infection doctor arrived at 7 AM and said he was good to go. No PT needed. The discharge nurse came. He packed. He was told 1 PM. Then 2 PM. We arrived to take him home… Only to be told he had to stay another day because someone forgot to note his medication in the chart. To fill the time, surprisingly… more antibiotics were given.

Day 9: The foot doctor walked in, surprised to see my Dad still sitting there. “Why are you still here?” he asked. We stared at him. “You tell us, doc.”

He walked over to the nearest nurse and asked what was going on. Eventually the discharge nurse returned, disconnected his IV to stop the antibiotics (he didn’t need them anyway), reviewed his 20-page discharge packet, which included 10 pages of dieting instructions, and called transport. I watched her stand outside his room on her phone for several minutes. The moment she saw me, looking at her, she snapped it shut and followed us in. Dad was wheeled out in style in the Batmobile wearing Snoopy pajama bottoms and a SpongeBob shirt that said OVER IT. We threw him in the car before anyone could change their minds.

The medication he supposedly needed wasn’t even ready at the pharmacy. It was medication he was already on. So the extra day? Just another day in the hospital accomplishing absolutely nothing. He’s home now. Free. No scissors required. I’m grateful for the kindness of those who cared for him… But please—please—get things in order. My dad is not good with wasted days.

Morals: 1) Doctors are our friends… even when they lose their scissors. 2) Seek medical attention at the first sign of abnormalities. 3)And for the love of toes everywhere, PLEASE keep your charts updated.

Light‑Up Shorts and a Heart Full of Bass

Where you are right now, blast some music and forget. – Andy Biersack

There’s a moment at every rave when the lights hit just right, the bass rolls through your ribs, and you realize you’re not just hearing music; you’re inside it. Friday night was that moment for me. I went to see the electronic orchestra, expecting a cool show, maybe some glow sticks, maybe a few people in funky outfits. What I walked into was a technicolor fever dream of joy. Men who looked like they had sprouted flowers from their heads. Others in full dog masks, wagging their metaphorical tails to the beat. Women draped in glow‑stick necklaces like neon royalty. And one woman, my personal favorite, was wearing a light‑up crown that made her look like the rave’s benevolent queen. Every single person there had shown up for one reason: the love of music.

Not the casual kind. Not the “I like this song on the radio” kind. The kind where you feel the sound in your bones, and it rearranges your insides a little. I got to dance with people I’d never met, but somehow felt like I’d known for years. There’s something about raves, the way they dissolve the awkwardness of being human. You don’t need names. You don’t need backstories. You just need rhythm.

At one point, an elegant black fairy, wings shimmering, the whole ethereal package, floated up to me and offered me a light‑up piggy ring. She asked politely if she could dance with me. Her partner joined in, and suddenly the three of us were laughing and spinning, all while they hilariously tried to help me with my love life, like we were old friends at brunch. We took a picture together, all of us glowing like we’d known each other forever. That’s the magic of these nights: strangers become characters in your story.

Apparently, I was easy to spot from the balcony. Which… fair. I wore light‑up shorts specifically for the occasion, and disco‑ball earrings that changed colors, like they were trying to communicate with satellites. I got a lot of compliments; the fun kind, the genuine kind, the “you look like you’re having the time of your life” kind. And honestly? I was. I was even asked what I was powered by; the light‑up shorts and my genuine energy had people convinced I ran on something magical.

Even though I’d been stood up for the event, someone else stepped in and came with me, someone willing to cherish the experience even though neither of us knew what we were walking into. For that, I am extremely grateful. But before they arrived, I wasn’t alone. The crowd held me. They made space for me. They made me feel safe, welcomed, and part of something bigger than myself.

Usually, if I am somewhere by myself at first, I feel awkward and out of place. But this time was different. I felt compelled to truly just let myself be in the moment. I let the world fall away. I let the music lift me into a place where nothing mattered except the beat and the bodies moving around me.

Music has this wild ability to transcend us, to pull us into different states of being. Watching people express that through dance, costumes, lights, and pure unfiltered joy was something I’ll never forget. Neither will I forget the kindness. The fairy with the piggy ring. The strangers who danced with me. The compliments. The acceptance. The feeling of belonging, even if only for a night. And the best part of all is I have someone I can talk about it with.

Friday wasn’t just a rave. It was a reminder that sometimes the world is softer, brighter, and more loving than we expect, especially when the music is loud enough to feel.

Morals: 1) You can be disappointed and still have a beautiful night; both things can be true. 2) Joy is easier to find when you stop worrying about who’s watching. 3) You don’t have to know anyone to belong somewhere. 4) Music reminds us that connection doesn’t always need words; sometimes it just needs a beat.

Leveling Up by Aging Up: My Pickleball Power Move

Eventually you will reach a point when you stop lying about your age and start bragging about it. – Dr. Norman Vincent Peale

There comes a moment in every hobbyist’s life when you realize you’ve crossed an invisible line, the line between “This is fun” and “I may have gone slightly unhinged in pursuit of greatness.” For me, that moment happened on a pickleball court. Pickleball started as something simple: a fun way to move, laugh, and occasionally smack a plastic ball hard enough to feel like an Olympian. But somewhere between my first accidental dink and my first triumphant slam, I became invested. Deeply. Emotionally. Possibly irrationally. I’m extremely competitive, so no one should be shocked that I’d resort to something drastic to improve my pickleball skills. I love competition, real competition. I am a Melgreen, of course, which is why I get irrationally frustrated when my “teammate” decides to swat the ball with their hand instead of their paddle. I played one of the best games of my life recently, holding my own against players who were clearly better than me… and still managed to drop way down in ranking. Nothing irritates me more than myself, because I know I can do better. I was a four-year letterman in tennis; I know I have the foundation. I just need to adapt my skill set from precision shots to, essentially, swatting a very determined plastic fly.

So what does a person like me do when I’m determined to crush my opponents but need a little guidance to get there? Logically, I change my age and sign up for a pickleball training camp. Not to make myself younger. Not to shave off a year for vanity. No, I made myself older. Why? Because the skill level in the age bracket above mine was closer to where I wanted to be. Those players were sharper, more strategic, more disciplined. They played with intention. They played with fire. They played like people who had already lived through enough nonsense in life and were not about to let a whiffle ball defeat them. So I bumped myself up a year. Just one.

And let me tell you, nothing humbles you faster than voluntarily aging yourself for the privilege of getting schooled by people who have perfected the art of the cross‑court drop shot. But it worked. Playing with people better than me forced me to level up. I learned to read the court. I learned to anticipate shots. I learned that my backhand, previously as reliable as a politician’s promise, could actually improve with practice. I learned that footwork matters, like a malfunctioning inflatable tube man at a car dealership.

Most importantly, I learned that growth doesn’t happen in comfort zones. It happens when you willingly step into a space where you’re not the best, not even close, and you stay anyway. And yes, I could have just practiced more. I could have watched tutorials. I could have drilled until my arms fell off. But no. I chose chaos. I chose humility. I chose to age myself like a fine wine or a questionable cheese. And honestly? I’d do it again.

Pickleball has taught me that progress isn’t always pretty. Sometimes it’s sweaty and awkward, and it involves lying about your age in the least glamorous way possible. But it’s also exhilarating. It’s empowering, solid proof that you’ll back yourself all the way, even if it means tweaking your birth year like it’s no big deal.

Moral: Don’t be afraid to challenge yourself to get better, even if that means you have to age yourself.

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.