The Thing(s) I've Pretended to Love
breaking my husband’s heart, one essay at a time
Welcome to this tiny corner of the internet where an off-duty psychotherapist keeps the conversation going on how to make sense of this life thing we’re all doing. If you ever wondered what your therapist does off the clock—which, who among us hasn’t?—this is like that. Think of it as the adult equivalent of seeing your elementary school teacher at the grocery store picking out lemons. 🍋
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.
So many things about me shifted after becoming a mother. I hesitate to say almost everything was altered, but I will anyway. One of these shifts stood out to me as kind of peculiar–both in that it seemed so inconsequential and in how vehemently I felt the change: I realized I don’t like watching football. I think I may hate it actually (respectfully).
And not even Taylor in her knee-high boots can convince me otherwise.
It happened in an instant. One weekend, I willingly sat in a grimy, packed bar 9 months pregnant watching a game with my full attention and bursting at the seams enthusiasm…
…and by the next week, with a day-old newborn in my arms, I sat incredulously–repulsed and confused. What in the fresh hell is this?
