The importance of self-care when you’re a caregiver

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Two-years ago my life changed completely when I became a full-time caregiver to my sister. As a result, I stopped blogging. I wasn’t sure how to talk about my life when it meant talking about my sister’s, too. But I’m learning how to walk that line. And I’m finally starting to write about where I’ve been all this time and what I’ve been doing. For everyone who has stuck around even when it’s been quiet on the blog, thank you.  

Thanksgiving Day marked the two-year anniversary of when I became a full time live-in caregiver. On that chilly November morning two years ago, while I watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV with my husband, Ian, and the smell of turkey drifted in from the kitchen, our life was about to turn completely on its head.

Not long after the pumpkin pies were finished, Ian and I learned how unsafe my younger sister’s living situation had become. My sister is disabled and unable to work, and the family member she was completely dependent on was stealing her money and neglecting her needs. It was clear she needed to move out immediately — so she moved in with us that night.

[Continue reading at HelloGiggles.]


Purity culture slut-shame blues: Everything I know about sex I learned from Bob Dylan

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This article originally appeared in Salon October 2016, right after Dylan had been nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature. I’m happy to finally be able to share it with you here!

I was 10 years old when I sat through my first abstinence series at church. My parents had discussed its age-appropriateness, but had decided that my relative youth was a good thing. It meant my first introduction to sex would come within the safe, godly confines of our church. So I sat in the church sanctuary dutifully every week as various pastors took turns stressing the dangers of things like necking. I didn’t have any idea what necking was, but I made a mental note to avoid it.

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Pike Place Market: A Love Story

Flickr CC Travis Wise

Flickr CC Travis Wise

It was fall 2010 and it was raining — a light misting rain. The tourists pulled out their umbrellas undoubtedly feeling as if they were getting the full Seattle experience, while the locals pulled their hoods up and hunched their backs to protect their newly purchased treasures and others walked on completely unfazed. We strolled down the street, a busy and tangled mess of cars and tourists darting into traffic in an attempt to get the perfect iconic shot in front of the glowing red Pike Place Market sign. Just below the sign a gathering watched the men in white aprons at the seafood stall tossing fresh salmon the way a street performer tosses juggling pins.
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