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Of course, Halloween has also always felt at least a little bit… forbidden. Growing up, my mother often claimed it was an evil holiday, and she often flip flopped on allowing me and my sister to celebrate. During the years where she allowed it, we weren't permitted to be anything dark or spooky. Ironically, she also made be dress up as a carnival clown twice—once when I was 5 and then again at 10 so I could wear my sister's hand-me-downs. I rarely had a say in choosing my costume since my mother insisted on making them through all of grade school.

Her strict rules were especially tragic for my esoteric self who was already sneaking R.L. Stine, Caroline B. Cooney, and various vampire books into my bedroom by the time I was ten.

I grew up in a household with physical and emotional violence. My parents were not safe people, and their ability to love me… impaired. My first best friend, Jay, died tragically and heroically just three days after my tenth birthday. He was the first person to ever truly make me feel at ease. The first person to make me laugh and demand no performance of me in return.

Jay died at age 11, along with his 14-year-old sister Kia, trying to rescue one of his younger siblings from an undertow in Lake Phalen on August 9, 1992. His death changed the trajectory of my whole life. Made me begin to hate my birthday. Made me feel like my pain was too burdensome for me to share with another human. There was no one, absolutely nobody for me to talk to about losing the one human who'd made my life bearable, though believe me, I tried.

Quickly, I realized the only thing I could do was write about my pain… and of course, read about different kinds of pain.

Dark and frightening horror stories became a natural, immediate escape from my own melancholy reality.

And as far as Halloween went? Ironically, from age ten, I saw it as a promise of better days ahead. One day, I would escape my mother's repressive household rules. One day, I would find people who resonated with me and didn't see me as a burden. One day, I'd get to revel in the spooky holiday on my own terms. No apologies. No shame. No hiding.

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I had to laugh today when I saw that actor Noah Wyle has been named People’s Sexiest Man Alive for 2026. I don’t know if anyone remembers when he starred in the post-apocalyptic sci-fi drama Falling Skies, but back in 2012, he and his character Tom Mason actually inspired the beginnings of a gothic horror romance novel I dubbed The Professor.

My vision for the book was that it would carry a modern mash-up vibe of a few classic romance novels like Northanger Abbey, Rebecca, and A Room with a View… but with a healthy dose of horror and fantasy. I specifically wanted to craft a real contrast between the joy of finally belonging somewhere and feeling completely understood—only to be utterly devastated by a mysterious tragedy and heartbreak that sweeps all of that joy away by the end of the book. Yeah, this novel was always planned to be a tragedy, and I decided that if I could get the world building right (not my forte), the story would continue on in one or two sequels.

In it, a 29-year-old woman from the Midwest named Kassandra “Kassie” Davidsen abruptly quits her office job in search of a more fulfilling life. Kassie packs her belongings into her car and drives straight down to Blowing Rock, North Carolina to interview for an unusual job as a young boy’s art therapist and nanny.

The boy’s father is a 41-year-old widower literature professor named Dathan Holtz who lives with his 10-year-old son Benj and three male Romani in-laws in an ominous grey and black Victorian Gothic mansion perched upon a jagged cliff overlooking a foggy mountain gorge. Professor Holtz is a ruggedly charming and pensive man, but after the death of his wife Mora, he runs disturbingly hot and cold, is generally self-isolating, and frankly a tough man to read as he becomes easily overwhelmed by his emotions and would rather not deal with their complexity.

As Kassie adjusts to her new role as the boy’s female caregiver in a house of men, she grapples with the question of Dathan’s character. Is he the intelligent, carefully measured yet kind and grieving father, or is he the manipulative and wolf-like mastermind who others like Benj’s Aunt Syeira warn her about?

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One of my greatest struggles with making Substack viable is the way a newsletter really requires writers to niche down into fairly specific topics. The niche approach generally attracts more paid subscribers and assists with subscriber retention.

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A few days after our first date, Mr. S, the man I'm seeing from Hinge, described himself as something of “a skittish cat.”

I quickly learned what that meant. He's been a rather reclusive bachelor for many years, so he's used to doing his own thing. Living life on his own terms. And he can become easily overwhelmed by emotional intensity, even when he's enjoying—or hell, contributing to—the deeper connection that produces it.

Considering how I'm used to seeing myself as too much or not enough, ever since he made that admission, I've felt as if it's my job to avoid spooking the cat.

Don't move too quickly. Don't ask for too much. Don't turn every affectionate moment into something more consequential. Don't make him feel trapped in or boxed up.

Lately, though, I've realized something.

He's not the only skittish cat in this relationship.

I'm one, too.

It's just that… skittishness comes in so many different flavors and it doesn't always look like a retreat.

Sometimes, it looks like urgently seeking reassurance, provoking an argument, or trying to force an answer to a question that never needed answering.

And sometimes, you can't recognize what's happening until the aftermath.

In my case, I suppose I'm something of a Grumpy Cat. When I get frightened by closeness, I often act out to try and provoke a reaction. Often, I'm actively trying to push the other cat away. Not because I want them to leave, but because some part of me expects everyone to leave eventually.

If I can provoke a rejection first, I can at least tell myself I always saw it coming.

See? I knew I was too much. I knew I'm better off alone.

It's a rather painful reflex I learned long before I knew Mr. S existed.

And I'm beginning to understand how much it was shaped by my earliest experiences of love.

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Unfortunately, after about 90 minutes when them, they referred me out to their Knoxville location, saying I needed to see a specific kind of doctor with my astronomically high prescription, that has been working worse and worse.

Driving two hours for an eye exam (each way) is not how I wanted to spend my Tuesday, but I'm sick of struggling to see properly. So, I made the trek to the appointment today despite my apprehension.

This eye doctor was very intent on figuring out why my vision keeps degrading. My entire life, I've worn a strong prescription that just keeps getting worse.

Honestly, lately my vision has been so impaired that I have been scared to get my eyes checked early (technically I wasn't due for another few months) because I've been worried they're going to tell me I'm going blind.

Yeah. Just as I'm finally making visual art again.

Well, the doctor pretty quickly found the problem—I'm in desperate need of CATARACT surgery. There's no use in getting new glasses or trying contacts until I get the cataracts removed.

Thankfully, it's repairable, but it's also complicated by my connective tissue diseases and Mast Cell Activation Syndrome (MCAS). Apparently, I have to request a whole different surgical protocol to avoid complications with excess swelling or reactions to certain everyday compounds in cataract surgery.

Boooo.

I've got an appointment with a surgeon in early November for my surgical consultation. From there, they'll schedule my actual surgery.

But yeah…. Can't fix my vision issues without going down this road.

Very frustrating and a bit daunting… but I'm glad to finally know what's going on.

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Apparently, Mr. S would like to hone his drawing skills so he can illustrate a comic he's writing. After getting to a pretty confident place, he quit practicing for about 5 months and found that when he returned to drawing it was almost like starting over from the beginning.

The weekend before we met, Mr. S cracked a joke over text that I didn't understand. I later realized that he was simply being absurd but in the moment, I called him cryptic.

“You basically know everything about me lol,” I pointed out, knowing he could never call me cryptic.

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My tween and I got to attend an early screening of the new Sense & Sensibility movie at AMC theaters last night.

What can I say about it? Well, the cinematography is lovely. Really—I could tall about that for hours. I loved the focus on natural elements and animals. The feeling of actually being inside a British countryside. Lovely.

Seeing how completely both Marianne and Margaret gave themselves over to the beauty and warmth of nature. To a lesser extent, Eleanor also was rooted in the nature around them. I loved it all. Show me the fat wooly sheep and dogs at the dinner table. Make me cry as the girls must leave their beloved cats behind with their half-brother when he inherits the only home they've ever known.

In this one visual way, the film was absolutely on point.

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The man I've been seeing from Hinge—uh, let's just call him Mr. S since that's probably easier than constantly saying “the man with the cat”—seems to have this superpower where he calms my nervous system with his voice or his touch.

His text messages, however, have occasionally been another story. Especially as my feelings for him have grown, and some of my texts with him have become more emotional.

Mr. S once told me that he likes to think of himself as “a simple man.” I remember feeling a little bit confused when he first said that because to me, Mr. S is honestly anything but simple.

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On Saturday, my favorite person (yes, the man with the cat) drove about an hour to see me. Again. He parked his truck at my place and we drove about 80 minutes in my car to get to Mercier Orchards in Blue Ridge, GA.

One of my favorite places in the whole world.

At the orchard, we did their apple u-pick and had a really lovely time despite the heat and the fact that I wasn't feeling too great physically with a terrible menstrual period and knees that still like to lock up.

He was once again kind and considerate. Put his arm around me on the tractor rides. He offered his hand to help steady me on uneven ground, or as I stepped off the tractor. We held hands for most of the trip, honestly, that felt like the most natural thing in the world.

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I wanted to let you know I am working on a long post about this past weekend, but my concentration was broken today by needing to go to the hospital for an iron infusion after excessive menstrual bleeding. I've needed one before, and had a pretty good idea I needed one this morning, so I drove myself to the ER after bringing my kid to school.…

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Mostly because that person has felt so far away for so long. But also because I worry about offending readers.

So, I try to recall why I wrote those pieces in the first place: I wrote them because they were honest and human… because I didn't want to be afraid of being honest or human.

Not even when it's awkward.

The Man with the Cat suggested on Saturday that I write about our sex life. At first, I thought he was joking, but he wasn't—I mean, he giggled a bit about the idea, but he was still dead serious.

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On Saturday, The Man With The Cat drove over to my place so we could drive down to Duluth, Georgia for a free Smithereens concert. I grew up loving The Smithereens, especially their Green Thoughts album. Interestingly, when The Man With The Cat first began texting me directly rather than messaging through Hinge, I mentioned wishing I could see The Smithereens before their lead singer died.

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It took nearly 30 years for me to finally get a lipedema diagnosis, and by that point (July 2021), my condition had already progressed to the advanced stage: lipo-lymphedema.

I had no idea what to expect, and to be fair, my lipedema surgeon had no idea that I was going to be among that 5% of his patients who continue to battle lymphatic swelling after surgery.

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Was it perfect? Of course not.

Was it awkward? Oh, absolutely.

Did I have some doubts? You betcha.

Even so, I liked this person enough to want them in my life, and it seemed like they wanted to be in my life since they continued to text my like usual all night after the date. All of the signals that they wished to continue were there.

Or… so I thought.

Some of you already know how I'm not great with people or signals. That's why I analyze so many of my dating interactions with ChatGPT. Because there's a lot of social shit that simply goes over my head.

By Tuesday evening, however, something had changed.

I can't tell you exactly what changed. Perhaps he realized he couldn't get past the current state of my lipedema/lipo-lymphedema body. Perhaps I came across as overly eager the next day because I still have a bad habit of overcompensating when I feel awkward and vulnerable.

Going on a date with someone I really thought I liked after everything I've been though with my lipedema, and after 8-1/2 years of celibacy? That's probably the scariest thing I've done in the past decade.

Honestly, though? It doesn't really matter what happened except for the fact that he decided not to move forward with dating me but hoped we could remain friends.

In that moment, something significant shifted in me. Because the whole time as I was getting to know this man, I felt so damn fearful that he would reject me over my body. I was petrified, and at least, half-expecting it to happen—and I really thought it would break my heart.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I suddenly got the news I'd been afraid of—that meeting me once was enough for this dude to say no thanks—yet, somehow, it didn't break my heart at all.

After all of that worry, I realized there's only one regret for me—I wish I'd realized sooner how much I enjoyed his friendship, and I wish I'd thought to say something to him about how I'd actually like to remain friends if we didn't work out romantically.

Isn't it funny? That's the part that makes me so sad. He would have made a great friend to keep, but now I am afraid that he's thinking he broke my heart and that I'm off pining away for him or something.

Except that I'm not. I like who I am with him, but not in a way that requires sex or romance. It's more like… he helped remind me of the person I'm working so hard to get back.

Me.

At least for now, I'm suspicious about his whole comment about wanting to be friends. I think that's just something people say in these situations? In this case, though, I actually wish he would mean it.*

Which means I learned something valuable from this whole experience. That I miss having guy friends and that the next time I get close to someone on Hinge and it occurs to me that I don't want to lose their friendship, I'm going to speak up and say so.

The good news is that I got myself some decent sleep for the first time in weeks despite feeling sadness over that freshly closed chapter on Hinge. I woke up to drive my kid to school, and then I headed for the local YMCA. There, I got my membership renewed and spent a full two hours listening jamming out to music I love while working out steadily on the recumbent crosstrainer. I wound up working out for two hours straight.

Sadly, the damn machines stop just shy of 100 minutes. We'll see if the other machines count higher.

Working out slow and steady over a long daily session has always worked best for me—not just for my body, but also for my mind. Rocking out to music while breaking a sweat allows me to tap into more creative parts of myself.

Today, I thought a lot about the life I am building. The creative career I'm trying to rebuild.

The last time I was a regular at the Y, I was still using a cane.

Tomorrow, I'm going back to the Y to workout and have a free personal training consultation.

If I've learned anything about myself though these last few weeks of trying the Hinge dating app, it's that I want to work more quickly for a better, healthier life. A big part of that means giving myself more to look forward to.

So, that's what I'm trying to do.

*Update: The date who rejected me has now made it clear that he wants to be friends IRL. For real. Which is really the best news since finding like-minded friends has been so difficult for me in Tennessee

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I already know what mine would be since I've been playing it for 26 years.

It's an obscure little track from a now out-of-print Christian album by Brave Saint Saturn. The band was led by Five Iron Frenzy's Reese Roper, and while they went on to make multiple albums now available on Spotify, there's something almost bittersweet about the fact that their origin album, So Far From Home can now mostly only be found on YouTube.

I first heard the album when I was 18 and living in Garden Valley, Texas as a Teen Mania Ministries intern. As much as I liked the sound and overall space concept theme, it was a single quirky little track that lodged its way immediately into my soul.

Never in my life, have I felt a song so… speak for me—and that's really saying something since I have always interpreted my life through the music I love.

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It's led to more thinking about my past and how I got here. How my childhood and various traumas influenced my parenting and perspectives on life. How various fears changed the trajectory of my entire life.

And how I feel like writing about those topics again… but in a book-length project versus more blogs or articles.

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