Changes.

So many things are happening in my life right now. 

Quickly, as 2025 wrapped up, I found myself in the perfect mindset - and at the perfect (for me and my kiddo!) house. 

And so, I made an offer. 

And on New Year's Eve, I got the word that the offer was accepted, after a little back and forth, and I was going to be buying a new house in the new year. 

We would be moving. And semi-soon. 

A few weeks earlier, I said goodbye to my childhood home for the first time. 

Honestly? That deserves a post of its own. 

I'll come back to it. Someday. When I'm really ready. 

But the new house? The contract? 

It took about 30 days into the new year, and I closed. I was a homeowner. 

We did it!!! 

We bought a new house. 

I did it!!!

Completely on my own.

And a week later? 

I was laid off.

Well, in actuality, I learned I was going to be laid off at the end of the month. 

February felt dreadful. 

I simply didn't wanna. 

The process of finding a new job was so damned overwhelming. 

I just couldn't. 

I had to pack. 

I had to move. 

But wait, I still had to 'work'. Sort of. 

End of February was my final day of work. 

Though I hadn't seen clients in some time. 

And now - ? 

I am reminding myself that I am still a therapist. 

I can still support people. 

I know what I am doing. 

I have this degree for over twenty years. 

I have my clinical license for seventeen. 

So.

I put myself out there. 

I looked at what I really wanted. 

Want. 

And now? 

I have a few positions lined up. 

Three jobs, essentially. 

And I'm so excited. 

And so nervous.

And also happy. 

Because this shoe that finally dropped at the previous job? 

Has kicked me in the ass, and shoved me in the right direction. 

So. 

As I mention in the title of this post? 

Changes. 

They're here. 

They're coming. 

They're the path I see before me with every shift in focus. 

The move isn't complete yet. 

But it will be. 

The new jobs haven't started yet. 

But they will. Soon.

My life hasn't fully shifted yet. 

But it will, too. 

Changes. 

Such a terrifying, overwhelming, enlightening and exciting word. 

Let's see what such changes bring. 

Join me? 

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The C-word

Nearly every single person you know has been touched by cancer. 

Honestly. 

Everyone knows someone who has fought it. 

Knows someone who has beaten it. 

Knows someone who hasn't. 

Let's keep it real for a second. 

The C-word is a bitch. 

There's a reason that eff cancer is a hashtag. 

It's awful. Devastating. Crushing. 

Curable for some. Fatal for others. 

It was announced yesterday that President Biden has prostate cancer. 

It's aggressive. 

It's scary. 

But they're hopeful. And that matters. 

As expected, social media is FULL of people who are sharing their stories. 

Whether their own. That of their loved one(s). Of someone they knew but never met. Of someone they may have met once. 

Of someone who touched the lives of their loved ones. The friend of a friend.

Their friend's mother. Aunt. Sister. Brother. Father. Child. 

Their own mother. Aunt. Sister. Brother. Father. Child. 

You see what I'm saying, right? 

So. If you, like me, are finding all this talk about the C-word to be a lot? 

Protect your peace. 

Scroll by. Put the phone down. 

Don't get me wrong, share if you want to. 

I did initially. And I posted how thankful I was that my feed included so many positive thoughts, prayers, comments about the President. 

And then today, I realized it was so so very much. 

Never mind the stupidity that you'll see out there. Whew. The eyeroll emoji belongs everywhere. 

But the stories where people share how quickly they lost loved ones. How unexpectedly. How diagnoses are reported out of the blue. 

You don't have to read them all. 

It's not disrespectful to monitor your intake. 

To protect your peace. 

It's okay. 

Scroll by. Put the phone down. 

Take care of you. 

Just like Joe and Jill and their family and loved ones will do for themselves. 

It's okay. You're allowed. 

xo

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Survival.

The world is on fire. 

California was. Literally. So much lost. So much to do to heal and recover. 

Hostages are being released and paraded through crowds chanting for their death. Cameras in their faces. Fear in their eyes. 

A baby celebrates his second birthday in captivity. If he is even still alive. Are any of the rest of them? #untiltheyallcomehome

A plane crashed into a military helicopter in DC. Heartbreaking. Horrifying. People hold their breath, hoping but doubting there will be survivors. 

DC is on fire in all the ways at this point, as the orange man paints the people and communities he fears with broad strokes. 

Executive orders. 

To distract us. Confuse us. Paralyze us in fear.

Western North Carolina still suffers. 

Let's dismantle FEMA, he says. 

His followers cheer. 

Women's rights. Demolished. By the white men who speak of what they do not know. 

Transgender individuals looked at with confusion. These are people. People who are loved. 

Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. 

Blamed for what? 

Hearts break. 

And still. We stand as tall as we can. 

Hold and lift one another up. 

Raise our voices. 

Yes. We feel it. 

The fear. The exhaustion. The overwhelm. 

But we will not stop screaming. 

We will not fall into the trap of distraction. 

We will see and hear all. 

We will fight and survive. 

* Take care of yourselves, friends. Protect your peace, as only you can. Do not look away, but do not always look. I'm here if you need me. 💗

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Stay.

* Content warning: mental health; suicide; grief; loss.

It's the holidays. It's the most wonderful time of the year. 

And it's also the most difficult time of the year. For so so many people. 

So I want to take a moment to speak about the *check on your strong friends* posts, AND the *please talk to me if you need someone to talk to* posts.

Mental illness knows no truths. People die by suicide because mental illness takes control and teaches us to believe the things in our head we cannot seem to question. We can't seem to fight hard enough against.

People do not die by suicide because they don't have loved ones checking on them.

They often DO. 

But they just don't have the capacity to feel that is enough. They don't have the energy to keep fighting. They don't believe they deserve to. 

I know these types of posts are shared with love. I've shared similar ones myself. This time, though, I remind you. Remind every single one of you. 

Please stay. 

Stay.

Even if you can't talk to someone in this very moment. Even if you're scared. If you don't know how to let someone help you. Try. See yourself as others see you. 

Stay. 

If you are in need of support, please call the national suicide and crisis lifeline at 9-8-8. 

Stay.

Or text HOME to 741741 for someone to talk to without having to actually speak with your voice. 

Stay.

Please let someone see you, hear you, help you. 

Please. 

Stay. 

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Eleven Years.

Eleven years. 

How is that even possible?

Eleven years.

The math doesn't work. 

It only makes me angry.

Sad.

Hurt. 

Heartbroken. 

Eleven years. 

Without you. 

Momma is with you now. 

You are whole again. 

Complete.

I'm still angry. 

Sad.

Hurt. 

Heartbroken.

Eleven years. 

Can feel like forever. 

And then forever times two.

When she's gone, as well. 

It's not supposed to be this way. 

I'm supposed to have you both. 

Here. 

With me. 

To lean on and into. 

To laugh with. 

To hold me when I cry. 

Eleven years. 

Feels like a lifetime.

Without someone who was so very much of your world. 

I miss you, Daddy. 

Love you always. 

And forever.

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It's Still Your Birthday

Happy birthday, Momma.

You're not here, but it's still your birthday.

I don't quite understand how we got here.

To this day. 

Without you. 

My heart hurts. 

I look at the calendar. 

I don't believe it.

Six months. 

You've been gone that long. 

And it doesn't feel real. 

And yet. 

It is. 

But. 

It's still your birthday.

So I celebrate you today. 

I'm not sure how I'll do that just yet. 

I just know you deserve it. 

The cake, balloons, fruit baskets.

Surprise presents that make you smile. 

It's still your birthday, Momma.

Even though you're not here to celebrate. 

I'll forever honor you on this day. 

I'll forever sing to you. 

And I'll forever miss you. 

With love, from me and my broken heart. 

Your *Million Dollar Baby*.

I love you. 

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Passover 2024

Passover hasn't been the same for my family in years. A decade - to be exact. 

This year is even more difficult. I don't host a Seder. I don't attend one. But still, I miss the ones we grew up with. The ones where my father sat at the head of the table and he and my mother maneuvered around the kitchen throughout the night - serving and plating - and welcoming. 

Over the years so very many of our friends and loved ones attended Seder at my parents' home. Having a dad who could make most anything from scratch meant we never went elsewhere. A dad who cooked so well that other people bought his food for their holidays (it wasn't his store but we know who did the work!).

And though my dad did most of the cooking (minus the pot roast or chicken - cutlets or barbecue), my mom did everything else. And I do mean everything. 

Not having her here to reminisce with hurts something awful this year. To laugh and cry with. To send pics of matzo balls and ask if they looked even close to my dad's. 

My heart hurts and my memories help me grieve and heal, and I watch as another holiday comes and goes.

Happy Passover to those who celebrate. 

May yours be blessed, may our hostages be returned home safely, and may we each witness the strength of the Jewish people as the days go on.

Zeissen Pesach.

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February.

I count the days. 

They make no sense.

Mere weeks ago you were commenting on Facebook posts.

Texting or messaging.

And now.

Now I ask myself.

What is time?

How is it a new month without you here?

February.

My baby's birthday month.

We're supposed to talk about how you left me a message and I called you back from the hospital.

How you made Daddy stop playing the damned claw game and yelled, *Babe!*

Baby is coming.

You're supposed to tell me you've never seen anything like my reaction to being told to push. 

Baby is coming.

How you washed all the baby clothes in the closet (look at that, maybe you knew).

How you went shopping with their dad for their going home outfit.

And made me put a bunting on them in 54° for the ride home. 

I can still see the temperature on the clock in the car.

I can still hear you laughing every year as we remembered.

How you were there for every minute. 

February is here.

You are not.

What is time?

And how do I get through the minutes without you? 

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Nothing Feels the Same

*source unknown*

Nothing feels the same. 

It's been nearly two weeks since you left us. 

I hear your voice in the silence.

I feel your presence so strongly - it's truly a part of me.

But nothing feels the same.

Even as I write these words it seems as though I'm speaking about someone else.

It can't be you.

Not my mother.

So full of life. 

So full of love.

So not ready to go.

Each day you opened your eyes meant another day you could love us. 

Love your children. Your grandchildren.

Even your furry grandchildren.

So many left me ahead of you. 

I always knew Dexter was with Daddy.

But the cats. 

They liked you best. (Even when you weren't sure about them!)

They won you over. 

One left us this week. 

I am trying to take comfort that he has my Momma to hold him. 

But that's not enough.

You're supposed to be here. 

We're supposed to be holding each other.

Our last days together kept me from holding you the way I would have.

Kept me from combing your hair myself.

But you squeezed my hands with a strength unlike many I've ever felt. 

I knew it well. 

And I knew it was still in you. 

And I know it's still there. 

But nothing feels the same.

Because it isn't. 

Will never be. 

Nothing will ever be the same again.

I love you, Momma. 

I miss you so. 

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Lost.

Today I leave New York for the first time knowing you're not here.

I leave without having to let you know that I've landed 500 miles away. 

I leave without texting you after I've settled into the house.

I don't know how to do that. 

I don't know how to head towards the airport without telling you I'll be back soon.

Without telling you I love you.

Without holding up our ILY sign and waving out the car window.

Today I leave a New York that feels a lot less like home.

And return to a North Carolina that will feel just as empty.

I don't know how to do that.

I know my heart hurts.

I know my body aches. 

I know I have aged over the last week, I look at myself and see you and Daddy and wonder where I am in there. 

I know that seeing you both is exactly where I am in there. 

Exactly how I am who I am.

Today.

I'm supposed to return *home* and think of ways to make life go on.

Without you. 

And I have to tell you, Momma. 

I am feeling utterly lost.

I am feeling completely broken.

I am feeling so empty.

I love you, Momma. 

Lost or not, that I know. 

Always.

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Can You Imagine?

Can you imagine?

News of your loved ones missing traveling across the globe.

Over two hundred of them.

Missing.

Women.

Children.

Infants.

Babies. 

BABIES.

Grandmothers.

Grandfathers.

Can you imagine?

As the news travels people ask more questions.

And more.

And more.

What happened?

What do you mean they're missing?

We don't believe that.

What women?

What children?

What babies?

Can you imagine?

It's propaganda! 

They shout.

Cursing as they tear down the photos our people have worked so painstakingly hard to share.

There were no babies!

They scream.

As they take knives and scissors to the tape. To the photos. To scratch out their faces.

Can you imagine?

Professors.

Students.

Americans.

Immigrants.

Shouting. Screaming. Calling for the end of you, your missing loved ones, and anyone like you.

Can you imagine?

Walking down a city street and being told by someone to 'go back to your country' when you were born here and they were not.

When they don't want you to have an actual country.

When they believe the land that you identify as your homeland should be wiped clean of people like you.

Just as was done on October 7th.

To thousands of people.

Women. Men.

Children. Infants. Babies.

Grandmothers. Grandfathers.

Israelis. Americans. 

On their homeland. Or just visiting.

Lives cut down in an instant.

Can you imagine?

And those who remain missing.

All held captive.

Over one month since they were taken.

It's propaganda! 

They shout.

As they call.

For the extermination.

Of all Jewish people.

Can you imagine?

I never thought I could.

But now.

I can.

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What It's Like.

I am almost 51 years old.

I have watched as antisemitic sentiments and hate crimes have risen across America in recent years.

Not that they ever went away.

But the freedom that evil has experienced has been powerful. Fierce. Deadly.

I am almost 51 years old.

I was born in Brooklyn, NY. 

A place I never felt myself to be a major minority. 

A place I called home for much of my life.

A place that felt safe.

I am almost 51 years old.

And as I watch as the hatred against Jewish people grows and thrives?

I'm afraid.

As I hear the chants shouted at so-called peaceful protests?

I'm afraid.

Have you heard them?

Have you seen?

Have you been listening?

Watching?

Can you imagine?

I am almost 51 years old.

And before now I had never seen such death and carnage on my people in my lifetime. 

I had always heard, never forget and never again.

I never thought I would have to FEEL it. 

Your Jewish friends are afraid.

Your Jewish friends feel alone.

Your Jewish friends are watching. Waiting. Listening.

We hear the echo of our own voices.

We see the lack of condemning posts about Hamas and their actions.

We see you sharing your every day lives.

We comment, like, love, care.

And also ...

We wonder.

We question.

We try to breathe.

We question some more.

I am almost 51 years old.

And I never thought in my lifetime I would see this. Live this. Worry so. 

But here I am.

Living. Worrying. Breathing.

Questioning.

And that, my friends. 

That is what it's like.

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Breathe.

Breathe.

But I ---

Breathe.

How can I? 

Breathe.

What about - ?

Breathe.

I can't.

You can.

Slowly.

Gently.

No deep breaths.

Just. Gently. Breathe.

Gently?

Yes.

No deep breaths?

Yes.

Deep breaths are not necessary.

Breathe?

Yes.

Inhale.

Softly.

Exhale.

Gently.

Breathe?

Breathe.

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Laughter

Eyes crinkle.

Tears shine.

Cheeks swell.

Hearty chuckles.

Throaty laughs.

Happiness comes.

Goes.

Ebbs.

Flows.

But laughter.

Somehow.

Remains.

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Where Can We Go?

It's the guns.

A shopping mall.

It's the guns.

Kids playing hide and seek.

It's the guns.

Ringing the wrong doorbell.

It's the guns.

Turning around in someone's driveway.

And again. 

One neighbor asking another to consider their sleeping baby.

Still.

Playing basketball in our own yard.

Yet again.

Accidentally opening the door to a car that isn't ours.

Every.

The grocery store.

Single.

Our schools.

Time.

Churches. Synagogues. Mosques.

It's the guns.

Where can we go?

Is anywhere safe?

What's the possibility of someone we love not returning home?

How can we do anything anymore while living in this fear our elected officials do nothing about? 

The heart breaks. 

But anger prevails. 

Vote them out.

We. Must.

Vote them out. 

Because it's the guns.

Always. The. Guns. 

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It's me. Hi.

Some days we look at ourselves and recognize all of the changes in our faces. We see things others don't see. 

The number of times I've been told *you haven't changed a bit* ... I laugh and laugh and ... whew. 

But it's okay. It's okay to see changes.

 
It's okay to see the crows' feet. The laugh lines (I know they're supposedly the same thing, but still!). The forehead wrinkles (WTH with these, y'all? Is it just me?) (See also, is it time for bangs? Because I'm terrified of those!). The neck hairs (Guys. Not chin hairs, NECK. Nobody warned me about these!).

 
It's okay to need to lift your glasses up high on your head and pull your phone closer so you can read what's in front of you. It's okay to have them sit completely on the tip of your nose so you can try to look over them. And it's okay to do those same movements when you're wearing your contact lenses and think - oh, shit, well that's not great.

 
It's okay to wonder if your hair is growing more slowly, turning different shades on you. Maybe even feeling like the texture is changing (personally, I'm noticing more waves, like back when I was a teenager!).

It's okay to fight night sweats and wonder why you're wearing different pajamas every damned night. And why your skin feels softer, rougher, tighter, squishier.

I see more of my mother and father in me every day (I love you, Momma!) and treasure every crinkle and every smile that reminds me of who I come from.

We're allowed to age. We want to, even.

However gracefully or not; however happily or not; however difficult it may seem on any given day. The changes in our body, our minds, make us who we are.

 
I hope you're feeling good as you are. I hope you can see the joy others see in your smile. That they (we!) hear in your laugh. The heart we see in your tears.

 
I hope you find strength in the acceptance of others and it enables you to accept yourself.

 
It can be a battle, but I'm hopeful that for many of us it becomes more of the norm.

 

As for me, I remind myself that 50 can be fun and fabulous (it's not my birthday, I am approaching 50-1/2!). It can be tough and achy. And it can be all those things at once.

 
But it's where I am these days. 

And I'm going to work at enjoying as many moments as possible. Each day, night, all of the laughter, tears, breaths.

All of them.

 
It's me. Hi.

 
I'm actually *not* the problem.

And neither are you. 

 
{If you don't get that we need to talk!}

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I Will Always Remember

Always so much to say, and never enough, never the perfect words. All these years later my eyes still fill with tears. 

I hear the voices of the people I love, reacting to my telling them I was safe, or learning that they were. Me telling their loved ones for them. 

I hear yelling in the street as we left our offices. 

I remember the smell as soon as we stepped outside.

I see the bluest of skies and hear the sirens before I knew.

I remember the shoes I wore that brought me across nearly an entire city. 

The hug goodbye with a friend as we went our separate ways after walking together for hours.

I hear the silence. And then the sound of the subways running again.

I feel my body collapsing into bed as I looked out my window at a skyline forever changed.

We'll never forget. We'll always remember. Those lost. Those who gave of themselves to save others. 

May those who lost their lives that day, and in the days and years after, be remembered always. May their memories forever be a blessing. 💗

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Barking at the Moon, Tracy Beckerman

                                                        * all Amazon links are affiliate links*

Let me start by sharing that I have known Tracy Beckerman since June of 2012. 

While that doesn't remotely sound possible when I do the math in my head, I popped over to check my Lost In Suburbia review and realize, oh. Yep. It is true.

The fortune of meeting Tracy and getting to know her over the years has blessed me with her incredible sense of humor. 

And when you pick up your copy (or Kindle/iPad/eReader of some sort) of Barking at the Moon, you'll know exactly what I mean.

Barking at the Moon is the tale of Tracy's first family dog, Riley. 

*Disclaimer: a copy of this book was provided to me to facilitate my review. All opinions are my own.

Riley was adorable. Riley was mischievous. Riley was the sweetest and goodest boi.

GAH. Look at his face. Y'all, I am quite certain I adore this dog. 

Riley had a taste for socks and underwear, and, of course, most anything he could get ahold of. It also sounds like he quite often had what I refer to as the zoomies, and was just cute enough to get away with all of it. 

What I love about Tracy, and her writing, is how real she keeps things. 

So while we get to experience her introduction to dog-parenting, we also get a lot of human parenting experiences in the mix. And fish-parenting. Chinchilla-parenting. Lizard-parenting. Or is it considered grandparenting if the pet is your child's? I honestly don't know. I'm the fur-baby mama to all the pets in my home at the moment. 

Pick up a copy of Barking at the Moon and you'll find yourself laughing, screaming (lizards eat bugs, y'all - don't ask - just read), and crying a bit, as well. 

I know there's often a saying people share, that we don't deserve dogs. 

I don't know that I agree, because most people I know love their dogs so very much and truly do deserve to be loved as much in return. But I do understand that sometimes the amount of heart they have - many people are just not worthy of that kind of love. /shrug/ It's a harsh truth, but it's still a truth. 

Tracy and her family deserved sweet Riley. 

They also deserved the love and heart of the dog that joined their family later on, just as sweet and cute and special. Meet Monty, seen below with a copy of Tracy's book about his predecessor.  

Now, what you really want to know is how you can get your hands on a copy - right? 

Barking at the Moon has been marked down over at Amazon, and you can get the Kindle version of the book for just $2.99 for the entire month of January. 

$2.99 is a STEAL. 

So go on and grab yourself a copy. And if you prefer to hold your books in your hand so you can fall asleep while reading without dropping an electronic device on your face [come on, I can't be the only one!], you can buy that there, too, by clicking the link below: 

Barking at the Moon: A Story of Life, Love, and Kibble: paperback

And get to know sweet Riley. I promise you'll be glad you did. 

Find out more about my incredible friend Tracy and her other books over at:

tracybeckerman.com

And for more snippets of entertainment and great photos, head on over to tracyinmidlife on Instagram. Be sure and tell her I sent you!

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The Call of Kilimanjaro, Jeff Belanger

*all links to Amazon are affiliate links*

With pandemic living as it is and has been, you may have noticed that I haven't reviewed a book in a while. So when given an opportunity to do so for this book, I was hesitant, but excited. 

Hesitant, because I had no idea if I'd even be able to finish reading. January was FULL of books. I read seven titles. SEVEN. Now. Ask me how many books I completed in February. Go on. Ask. 

Zero. None, y'all. So committing to a book was a bit of a tricky thing. Except I knew I wanted to read this one. And I'm really glad I did. 

Let me offer you a disclaimer right at the start. And it goes beyond the "this book was provided to me by the author" typical blogger detail. Author and adventurer Jeff Belanger is a friend. And so I really hoped I would like his book. But opinions expressed have nothing to do with that. 

Because I really did like his book. 

The Call of Kilimanjaro: Finding Hope Above The Clouds was quite the journey. 

And if you know me? You know that I am not even remotely close to being a climber. 

So, it's no surprise that before reading The Call of Kilimanjaro, I could have never imagined the experience.

I could have never pictured what it meant to make your way up that high. What it would be like to be above the rest of the world, feeling as though you could practically touch the sky.

I could have never understood why someone would be courageous (foolish?) enough to find themselves in a place where they would be so extremely aware of their own ability [or lack thereof] to breathe in the thin air.

But not only did I learn why one would want to tackle such a literal mountain, I also learned that the mountain itself represented so much more. 

I'm the sum total of my scars and my triumphs. I don't want to change those things. 

- p. 7

You know how it is, when you're reading an ebook and you're able to highlight all the sentences that represent something to you? I read a hard copy of this book, and I do not tend to highlight at all when doing that. 

Which is a very slight detriment to my review - because there were so many highlights to this book that left me assessing and reassessing my own life, my own growth, my own mountains.

But don't worry, as you can see, I have a few to share. 

One important lesson Jeff learned in preparation for this journey jumped out at me early on.

That hike showed me how I sometimes move through life: focusing on the goal, the summit, the end of the project. And often missing a lot along the way. - p. 84

Oh. Hi. How many of us have been there? The destination is always more important than the journey. The focus direct. The need to achieve matters most. 

How much do we miss when we don't avert our eyes from where we're headed? When we don't pay attention to the path? 

Fortunately this revelation came early on in preparation for Kilimanjaro. And ensured that Belanger did not miss anything on that journey. Which, I'd wager, is why I'm able to share this book with you today. 

Along with great detail on how he prepared for this climb, the descriptions and photos throughout the book ensure that we feel as though we are right there with him. 

We meet the porters and guides. His fellow adventurers. 

We take each step along the way. Without the effort. Without the training. 

We feel the temperatures drop. The air thin. Hear the wind whisper. 

We feel the weight of it all. Not just what he carries with him. But of his own body and movements, every choice that he makes and has made up to this point. 

We feel and sense everything. 

Because he shares it with us. 

I know, you already know that. Or you think you do. 

But I promise you this book will give you more than you expected. 

Even if you never ever (not in a million years) plan on physically climbing an actual mountain - I mean, it's a VOLCANO, y'all. 

This would be where I'd insert the wide-eyed emoji. 

The journey goes beyond the physical. Jeff takes us to a place we can all relate to. 

He reminds us ...

With real beauty, you're imperfect, you're scarred, you're misshapen, you're weathered, but you still stand tall for all to see. - p. 154

I thank Jeff so very much for that. 

And I encourage you to pick up a copy for yourself so you can join him and take your very own journey. 

Grab your copy of The Call of Kilimanjaro: Finding Hope Above The Clouds over on Amazon today.

Meet Jeff and learn more about his other adventures on his website: 

Jeff Belanger: Exploring the Unexplained

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January: What I Read

I've decided to start a monthly series here on the blog. 

I used to keep a very long list of all the books I've ever read. I still have that archived somewhere. And I do still track my reading on Goodreads. 

But.

I'm going to post at the end of each month and share the books I've read. 

Which (HOORAY!) I actually have done in January. 

I also used to make a goal of reading 100 books every year. I never hit that goal. 

So now I'm much more realistic and opt for setting a goal of 52. One book per week. If it's possible, it's possible, if not, I won't beat myself up over it. It's still okay. But it's nice to set a small challenge anyway.

And listen, my plan was to review each book. I really wanted to do that for you. And I will try to at some point, but if I don't submit and publish this post soon I'll be adding any books I read in February to the list. So. Bear with me and feel free to ask me my thoughts on the titles listed below. 

*referral links are available for your shopping convenience*

BOOKS I READ IN JANUARY 2021

The Once and Future Witches, by Alix E. Harrow

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, by V. E. Schwab

The Midnight Library, by Matt Haig

The Pull of The Stars, Emma Donoghue

Black Buck, by Mateo Askaripour

The Chicken Sisters, by KJ Dell'Antonia

Dear Justyce, by Nic Stone

Let me know what you've been reading so far this year! Can't wait to hear what you recommend. And be sure to tell me if you've read any of these titles and what you thought. 

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