Mar 3, 2026
I finished Half His Age in two nights — the kind where you look up, it’s past midnight, and you’re already tired for tomorrow. If you read I’m Glad My Mom Died and immediately decided Jeannette McCurdy could write anything and you’d follow, same.
I loved it. Then I read the reviews.
The premise is uncomfortable by design: a high school teacher, a student, an affair. People are calling it gratuitous, irresponsible, unnecessary. And I understand the instinct to recoil. We want stories like this to come with clear moral framing, warning labels, and a neat bow that tells us exactly how to feel.
But that’s not what she’s doing.
McCurdy has spoken openly about being in a relationship with an older man when she was 18 — someone with power over her, someone who should have known better. Half His Age is her processing that experience through fiction, which is what writers do with the things that are too sharp to hold any other way. The discomfort isn’t incidental; it’s the whole point.
What she captures — the way a young woman can mistake control for love, intensity for intimacy, attention from the wrong person for proof of her own worth — is not gross. It’s true. It happens constantly, quietly, to girls who grow up to be women who are still untangling it decades later.
Brilliant coming-of-age stories are rarely comfortable. The ones that stay with you usually aren’t.
And maybe the urge to look away says more about us than it does about the book.
Mar 2, 2026
There’s a very specific flavor of disappointment that can sneak into birthdays in your 30s. Not because anything goes wrong, exactly, but because the day rarely lives up to the cinematic version in your head. You’ve accumulated a whole life by now — kids, losses, career pivots, years of inside jokes in the group chat — and somehow you expect one dinner reservation and a slice of cake to capture all of it.
For the last few years, my birthday has landed in the middle of something: infertility, then pregnant and terrified after a loss, counting weeks instead of candles, then newly postpartum, which is less “birthday glow” and more “have I brushed my teeth today?” Every celebration felt slightly hijacked by whatever chapter I was white-knuckling through, like the day couldn’t just be a day; it had to carry the emotional weight of everything I was hoping would change.
This year was different. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t pursuing anything. No monitoring appointments, no two-week waits, no bracing for news. Just a regular Friday that happened to be mine.
My husband gave me the most beautiful earrings (the kind that make you feel more pulled together than you actually are), and two of my closest friends took me out for drinks where we laughed about nothing and everything. My kids presented homemade cards and a dessert that was 90% sprinkles and 10% structure, which felt deeply on brand for our household.
Nothing was extravagant, and for once, I didn’t want it to be.
After years of wanting something so badly it tinted every single day, ordinary felt luxurious: healthy kids singing off-key, a stiff drink, jewelry I’ll wear on our next night out.
Thirty-seven wasn’t flashy or transformative; it was steady — and after everything, steady feels like winning.
Feb 27, 2026
Today is my 37th birthday, and if I could have one gift — no wrapping required — it would be a small reprieve from two-factor authentication.
I know. Cybersecurity. Identity theft. I’ve heard the arguments. I’m not unreasonable. I just also have ADHD, which means the gap between your code has been sent and me actually locating my phone, unlocking it, finding the text, reading the six digits, switching back to the original app, and entering them before they expire is… not always a gap I can close in time.
I have requested new codes while the original codes were still technically valid. I have, on at least one occasion, given up entirely and decided that whatever bill it was could wait until a more focused version of me showed up.
This isn’t laziness; it's a working memory thing. ADHD brains genuinely struggle to hold information across interruptions, which is, unfortunately, the entire premise of two-factor authentication. You disengage, reorient, hold the number in your head, switch back, and somewhere in that shuffle, the thread is gone. The code has expired. You’re back at square one.
There’s a specific kind of ADHD tax nobody talks about much: not the big, dramatic stuff, but the thousand tiny friction points that make ordinary life feel slightly harder than it looks from the outside. Two-factor authentication just happens to be the hill I’m choosing today, mostly because birthdays have a way of making you notice where your energy goes.
Thirty-seven feels like the age where you’re allowed to say that out loud. So happy birthday to me. Please send cake. And for the love of God, just let me log in.
Feb 27, 2026
Somewhere between the protein obsession and the cold plunge discourse, sleep quietly became the coolest thing you can do for your health. And honestly? It's about time.
Bustle recently ran a piece on sleep tips from Olympic athletes — the people whose entire careers depend on physical recovery — and what struck me wasn't how extreme their routines were. It was how unsexy most of the advice was. Consistent bedtimes. Dark rooms. No screens. The boring stuff, done with unusual commitment.
I have been doing the boring stuff, and I will not be entirely humble about it: my Oura ring recently gave me a 97% sleep score. In my family, this is not surprising. We are, all of us, gifted sleepers: the kind of people who can fall asleep anywhere, at any time, under any conditions. It's less a wellness practice and more just how we're wired. My contribution to the family legacy is simply that I go to bed and wake up at the same time every day. That's genuinely the whole routine.
And I think that's kind of the point.
We’ve spent so long treating sleep as the thing you sacrifice to prove you’re serious: about work, about ambition, about being the kind of person who has a lot going on. Hustle culture turned exhaustion into something aspirational. I’ll sleep when I’m dead was said out loud, by adults, as if that were a flex and not at least a little concerning.
Meanwhile, the research keeps piling up. Sleep shapes cortisol, immunity, appetite, and emotional regulation. Even Olympians talk about it now not as indulgence, but as infrastructure. What I notice most, though, is simpler than any data point. I’m steadier when I’m rested. Kinder. Slightly less reactive in the group chat.
I don’t have an elaborate wind-down routine. I just keep my bedtime. The ring doesn't lie.
Feb 24, 2026
They say death comes in threes, but lately it feels less like superstition and more like a pattern I can’t unsee. And the cause, in so many of these losses, is colon cancer.
First, the headlines about colon cancer and Catherine O’Hara (RIP, Moira Rose). Then James Van Der Beek — yes, our Dawson, forever standing on that dock in my teenage memory — opening up about his diagnosis before his recent passing. And then the one that truly knocked the wind out of me: my mom’s best friend Nancy, who felt more like an aunt, gone far too soon from the same disease.
I kept asking myself: Is this actually happening more, or are we just at the age where it starts touching our own lives?
According to the American Cancer Society's latest report, colorectal cancer rates in adults under 50 have been rising since the mid-1990s. It’s now the leading cause of cancer death in men under 50 and the second leading cause in women in that age group. That’s a staggering shift for something many of us still think of as a “later in life” diagnosis.
Researchers are still untangling why. Diet, ultra-processed foods, sedentary habits, microbiome changes, environmental exposures. Likely a mix. What we do know is practical: screening now starts at 45 for average-risk adults because of this rise. And symptoms matter, even if you feel healthy. Blood in the stool. Ongoing digestive changes. Unexplained weight loss. You're not dramatic for getting it checked out.
Lately, beneath the carpools and grocery runs and half-finished emails, there’s this heightened awareness of how fragile it all is, how ordinary and precious these days can be at the same time.
So yes, plan the trip, celebrate the birthday, stay up too late with your friends, and order the good bottle of wine. But also call your doctor, know your family history, and schedule the screening you’ve been putting off.
Two things can be true at once: life is precious and unpredictable, and protecting it is part of loving it.
Feb 23, 2026
They say some people eat to live, while others live to eat. As a second-generation Italian-American girl from Queens, I have always, proudly, lived to eat. Food is how we say "I love you" without actually saying it. It's Sunday sauce simmering for hours, it's too much bread on the table, it's arguing about whose meatballs are better.
"Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" has, quite frankly, never resonated with me. Carbs are a personality trait where I'm from.
But here's the part that might surprise you: for most of my adult life, I didn't love to cook. I loved eating, I loved restaurants, I loved being cooked for, but the actual act of planning, prepping, and executing dinner on a random Wednesday when you have three kids, a full-time job, and approximately zero mental bandwidth left felt… exhausting.
And then, honestly, ChatGPT changed the game.
Now I type in what's in my fridge ("chicken thighs, San Marzano tomatoes, half an onion, a sad piece of pancetta"), and I get a straightforward, no-frills recipe in seconds. No life story, no ads, just clarity, which removes the friction and means I actually cook.
And here's what I didn't expect: I love what happens while I'm cooking. Not the chaotic, multitasking version, but the steadier one: audiobook in my ears (hi, Wild Reverence), hands moving, knife hitting the cutting board in a rhythm that somehow settles my nervous system. I don't even particularly love chopping, but I love how it quiets my brain while I'm doing something useful — something that ends with everyone gathered around the table.
For me, this isn't about being a trad wife or optimizing protein. It's about reconnecting to something that's always been part of my identity — food as joy, food as love — in a way that finally fits into my actual life. And realizing that maybe in your late 30s, you just become the nonna, whether you planned to or not.
Feb 11, 2026
I did not have “Bridgerton teaches us about the pleasure gap” on my 2026 bingo card, and yet… here we are.
Just when we’d all quietly filed Francesca away as the soft-spoken, piano-playing sister, season 4 gently (and brilliantly) flipped the script. The Pinnacle storyline doesn’t rely on scandal or smolder. It slows down, turns inward, and asks a far more interesting question than “Will this romance work?” It asks whether she’s actually fulfilled.
There’s a moment when Francesca asks her mother what a “pinnacle” even is, and it’s tender and awkward in a way that feels almost too real, because how many of us were taught how to be desirable long before we were taught how our own bodies work?
What feels radical about her arc isn’t the steaminess; it’s the attentiveness. Intimacy unfolds with her, not to her. She’s allowed to not know, to ask questions, to figure it out in real time.
And that’s the part that lingers for me, especially in a culture where female desire has so often been framed as reactive or performative, something we measure by whether everyone else is satisfied. But for many women, desire builds with safety and emotional connection, which isn’t prudish; it’s physiology. When we understand our anatomy and communicate what actually feels good, intimacy shifts. It becomes less about performance and more about presence.
Francesca doesn’t suddenly become louder; she becomes more attuned to herself, and somehow, in 2026, that still feels groundbreaking.
If a Regency-era drama can help normalize curiosity, communication, and centering our own pleasure, I’m all in. Read the full Rescripted breakdown here.
Feb 10, 2026
People don’t talk enough about how hard it is to know you’re “done” having kids after years of infertility. Mostly because “done” implies a level of certainty that infertility never really gives you.
For some of my friends, done was a feeling. A conversation that landed. A vasectomy scheduled. Boom, chapter closed. Their families felt complete in a calm, decisive way that I still find a little impressive.
For me, it’s blurrier.
My husband and I still pay for embryo storage, which means the question never fully goes away; it just kind of lingers in the background of our lives. Every month, that charge hits my card and gently reminds me that the possibility is still there, quite literally frozen and waiting, even if I’m not totally sure what I want to do with it.
It’s not that I don’t love the life we have — I really do. But in another universe, one where groceries were cheaper, and someone reliably cooked us dinner every night, I could absolutely imagine a fourth kid fitting right in. In this universe, I mostly imagine needing a nap. And maybe a personal assistant.
What I’m realizing is that after infertility, certainty is hard to trust. You get so used to living in the “maybe,” holding multiple futures in your head at once, that it becomes your default setting. Embryo storage just keeps that muscle strong.
Maybe being done doesn’t come with a clear, confident moment. Maybe it’s just noticing you don’t feel the same urgency anymore. Or that the ache is quieter than it used to be. And still, if I’m being honest, there’s a small part of me that hesitates every time that storage bill hits. Like… are we sure?
Feb 9, 2026
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If 2025 was peak protein, I was fully on board. I tracked it, prioritized it, and mentally calculated grams while ordering lunch. For a while, it felt empowering, like we were finally done with the “eat less” messaging and stepping into something stronger. That era mattered. Muscle, bones, metabolism: it all still matters.
But lately, the conversations I keep having with friends sound different. They’re less about hitting 100 grams and more about why we’re bloated, crashing at 3 p.m., or thinking about sugar even when we technically “did everything right.” And more often than not, the missing piece isn’t protein. It’s fiber.
Most women need around 25 to 30 grams a day, and many of us aren’t even close. Fiber supports blood sugar balance, digestion, cholesterol, and estrogen metabolism (which becomes especially relevant in our 30s and 40s when hormones start doing their own unpredictable dance — hi, perimenopause). It’s not glamorous. No one is bragging about their chia seeds. But it is foundational.
When I started paying attention, I realized I was building meals around protein and treating plants like an afterthought. So I began adding flax to smoothies, berries to breakfast, and vegetables to basically everything. Nothing extreme. Nothing restrictive. Just more color. More variety.
In hindsight, I think I’d been chasing optimization when what my body really needed was consistency.
What I noticed wasn’t dramatic, but it was meaningful: steadier energy, fewer intense cravings, more regular digestion — the kind of subtle shifts that make a long week feel a little more manageable.
This isn’t about abandoning protein or chasing another wellness headline. It’s about supporting our bodies in ways that feel sustainable and grounded, the kind of care that doesn’t need to “trend” to be worth it.
If you’ve been feeling off, take a look at your plate this week. Not to critique it, just to notice. Sometimes caring for ourselves starts with something as simple as adding one more plant.
Feb 2, 2026
I am not, and never have been, a haircare girly.
I didn’t grow up knowing the difference between a mask and a conditioner. I’ve never instinctively understood which shampoo was “obviously” right for my hair type. I’ve always kind of assumed that haircare was one of those skills you either picked up early — or quietly accepted you’d never fully grasp.
For most of my adult life, my hair routine looked like this: wash when it felt gross, condition (because you’re supposed to), heat style if I was feeling virtuous, air dry if I wasn’t. If my scalp flaked, I panicked. If my hair felt dry, I bought something heavier. If it felt greasy, I solved the problem with… a lot of dry shampoo.
Then I started watching Abbey Yung on TikTok, and for the first time ever, haircare started feeling less like a chore and more like a system.
What people on social media refer to as “the Abbey Yung Method” isn’t an official program or a rigid routine. It’s more of a framework: a way of understanding hair that cuts through a lot of the noise, marketing, and frankly, nonsense that dominates haircare advice online.
If you’re starting a haircare journey and don’t identify as someone who’s “good at this stuff,” here’s everything you need to know. You're welcome.
Kristyn Hodgdon
