say more: May 2025
Fairy smut, Amy Polo, and surrendering to the bangs
In therapy, clients will often recount something to me and then wait. Waiting for me to have a set reaction. But often, they haven’t said what this something meant to them, how they experienced it, what they felt. Which leaves me responding, “Say more…”
This is a monthly series where I explore what I engaged with—TV, books, movies, food, movement, maybe the rogue purchase—and what it made me feel.
One thing before we jump in, I show up very much as myself here. Myself first, and all my other labels are secondary. If a therapist speaking candidly feels like too much to your system, that is absolutely is OK and this may not be the best particular newsletter for you.
My creative parts were on one this month. I just counted, not including this piece, I published 8 newsletters in May–and if I had more time, I would have let a few more out the cage. The levy has been broken and things are flowing.
This is all well and good–great, even–but I’m a bit confused by it. May was also a month where I began to take more seriously my sensitivity to sensory experiences–particularly sounds, lights and just overall stimulation. I’ve known this about myself for a while, but I continue to waffle about how much to account for it, accommodate it, defend it.
Which means I’ve been the loosest I’ve been about my writing schedule in a long time. Napping instead of writing. Taking a long walk rather than getting in an editing session. Sitting on our front porch in the relative quiet of our neighborhood rather than hammering away at this screen.1
It occurred to me as I wrote this that—duh—maybe this accommodation has ushered in more creativity. I can hear what is churning more clearly when my insides aren’t screaming and crying for respite. Go figure.
Probably in keeping with my need for less stimulation, this month’s round-up is simpler than most. My pleasures and grounding alike consisted of funneling down to the basics. Laughter. Nourishment. Pleasure. Connection.
Forgive me, but this round-up on what I’ve getting my eyeballs on will consist of more quotes than usual. The words I’m sharing below hit me like lightning bolts. It feels best I just share them in their purity and let them shine as they are. It’s the antithesis of the name of this series, I won’t say more because less is more here.
Florence Welch On Addiction, Eating Disorder Recovery, And Finding True Happiness In Her 30’s | British Vogue
This is a piece from 2019—I know, so current—but it felt apropos as I celebrated two years of sobriety in May.
“Most of the friends that I drank with have had to stop. They wash up one by one like driftwood, and we stand together on the shore in shocked relief. We cook, we talk, we work. People have started having children and going to bed early. And all the boring ‘grown-upness’ that we rejected then now seems somehow rebellious. It is an act of rebellion to remain present, to go against society’s desire for you to numb yourself, to look away. But we must not look away.
To self-crucify in the name of art always means that the art stops, and another voice is lost. At this time in our history, it has never been more pressing to have as many voices singing as we can.”
When Regulation Becomes Compliance: The Subtle Betrayal of Somatics
One of my favorite new finds on Substack has been
, a somatic psychologist who speaks my language (on my bravest day). This piece in particular speaks to the conundrum I come up against all the time in my work with clients. The underlying belief that regulation, calmness, unbotheredness is always the ultimate goal. But if you zoom out, this reads the same as a parent just wanting a child to behave above all else—even if it means they are never really known or understood.In this particular piece she writes,
“True somatic work was never intended to make us endlessly calm. It was designed to return us to right relationship — with ourselves, with the world, and with the irreducible wisdom that lives within sensation. That wisdom does not always whisper be still. Sometimes, it says this is intolerable. And sometimes, it demands that we rise.”
Who Gets "Quality" Leisure?
This piece from
circa November 2022 about the wild gender divide in what leisure looks like was a re-read for me. I need to keep reading it to get it through my thick, thick skull. In a very meta moment, my husband is off watching soccer somewhere uninterrupted as I write this with one eye on my five year old while we’re on “vacation.” Ooop, now he’s yelling for me. Moment over.The Hardest Winter Of My Life
continues to tell the truth of what it’s like to face one’s mortality on a daily basis and it’s beautiful. I don’t say it lightly, this whole piece is a must read for our souls. “Because I didn’t pretend to be okay—something new rooted between my parents and I. An even deeper tenderness. The kind of closeness that grows when no one is trying to spare anyone else from what’s hard to hear.” —Andrea Gibson
In terms of books, I have fallen into a fairy smut hole I can’t get out of and I’m not mad about it. I was gifted the first book in the ACOTAR series last fall and I left in it my TBR stack since then; collecting dust, as well as my intrigue and shame in equal measure. Oh, sex.
This is why you don’t get holier than thou about something because then one day it’s you panic buying the remaining books in the series so you don’t run out. I blazed through the first two books and have more slowly worked my way through the third which will be my companion on the family trip I write this piece from.
Also: The Pitt’s Dr. Mel King Is a Small but Meaningful Step Forward for Neurodivergence Onscreen;
’s “The mysterious alchemy of holding space” and ’s Mental health is personal — and politicalDisclosure: I am an affiliate of Bookshop.org—an organization that supports local independent bookstores. I may earn a small commission if you click through and make a purchase. The thoughts and feelings written here are all my own.
I mostly watched The Four Seasons2 this month, obviously.
The Rehearsal
Oh my word. This show. This man.
Out here making me talk like a grandmother in the 1950’s.
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