Tag: mental-health

Things I’m Unlearning in My 30s (A Work in Progress – Like My Laundry)

March 10th, 2026
My 30s have turned out to be less about adding things to my life and more about gently setting things down. Not in a dramatic, “reinvent yourself” way—more like cleaning out a closet (not good at it) and realizing half the stuff in there never fit me anyway. My 20s were loud—full of striving, proving, performing. My 30s feel quieter, but in a way that feels like truth instead of retreat. I’m unlearning the parts of myself that were built for survival instead of joy.

Here are the things I’m unlearning, one tender, stubborn layer at a time:
- That productivity equals worth — I’m slowly releasing the idea that rest is something you earn. Rest is a right. Rest is a rhythm. Rest is a full-body exhale that makes everything else possible.
- That saying “no” is rude — I’m learning that “no” is actually a boundary-shaped “yes”: yes to my energy, yes to my peace, yes to the things that matter. Plus it’s my favorite word.
- That I need to be easygoing all the time — Spoiler: I am not. I have preferences, opinions, and a deep emotional attachment to my routines. And that’s allowed.
- That I have to be the strong one — Turns out vulnerability isn’t weakness; it’s connection. And letting people show up for me doesn’t make me a burden—it makes me human.
- That growing up means growing harder — I’m unlearning the idea that adulthood is all grit and no softness. My softness is not a liability. It’s a compass.
- Being “chill” — I’m not chill. I have strong feelings about throw blankets, grocery store layouts, and how many notifications should exist in a group chat (zero). I’m done pretending otherwise.
- Finishing books I’m not enjoying — Life is short and my TBR pile is tall. Next.
- Apologizing for everything — I’m replacing “sorry” with “thanks for your patience,” “no,” and “that doesn’t work for me.” Revolutionary.
- Trying to be liked by everyone — If someone doesn’t vibe with me, that’s fine. I don’t vibe with me before caffeine either.
- Ignoring my own needs — I’m learning to listen to the tiny voice inside me that says “hey, maybe we don’t need to be overwhelmed all the time.”
- The belief that I must earn love — I’m learning that love isn’t a performance review. It’s presence. It’s consistency. It’s being known.
- The instinct to shrink — I’m unlearning the habit of making myself smaller to make others comfortable. I’m allowed to take up space—emotionally, creatively, physically, spiritually.
- The fear of disappointing people — Disappointment is not a catastrophe. It’s a normal part of being a person with boundaries.
- The idea that healing is linear — Healing loops, spirals, circles back on itself. And that’s okay. I’m allowed to be a work in progress without being a failure.
- The pressure to have everything figured out — I’m unlearning the myth of the “right timeline.” My life is not late. My life is mine.
Unlearning isn’t glamorous. It’s messy, repetitive, and sometimes uncomfortable. But it’s also freeing. It feels like coming home to myself—finally, fully, without apology.
🌞 Sunday: The Day I Pretend I Have My Life Together

March 8th, 2026
Sundays in our house begin not with peace, but with Lenny bringing his favorite toy onto the bed and Gilbert pawing me in the face. I open my eyes and immediately regret being conscious. The boys, however, are thrilled. They believe every day is about them (they’re not wrong).

☕ Tea/Iced-Coffee, or Whatever You Call Survival Juice

The first cup of tea is less “morning ritual” and more “medical intervention.” I shuffle to the kitchen like a ghost haunting her own home. I stare out the window dramatically, as if pondering the meaning of life, but really I’m just waiting for the caffeine to hit before I attempt anything requiring hand‑eye coordination.

Sometimes I read a book. Sometimes I scroll my phone. Sometimes I just stand there like a Sims character whose action queue is empty.

🧺 The Illusion of Productivity

Sunday cleaning is not real cleaning. It’s performance art.
- I fluff pillows so it looks like we don’t sit on them aggressively all week.
- I fold blankets that Gilbert has turned into abstract sculptures.
- I light a candle that claims to smell like “Enchanted Woodland Retreat” but mostly smells like books and ambition.
- I put things in little piles that my husband leaves laying around. Smaller piles makes it seem more doable.
- Also, all the laundry in the worrld gets chaotically washed – maybe folded… likely not.
This is the kind of tidying that says, “I tried,” and honestly, that’s enough.

✏️ Creative Hour (Where Chaos Meets Crayons)

This is the part of the day where I convince myself I’m a whimsical creative woodland creature. I open my notebook, stare at a blank page, and wait for inspiration to strike. Sometimes it does. Sometimes I end up reading someone else’s writing – helps clear the writer’s block.

Either way, I clap for myself like a toddler who drew a circle. Growth is growth.

🐾 The Mandatory Poodle Play

Eventually, Lenny and Gilbert stage a coup. They stand in front of me with the intensity of two creatures who believe I have forgotten their existence entirely. Play time must happen now, or the world will end.

Headgehogs, balls, cterpillars, bones, and vaarios other toys line the halls and crowd the floor.

🍲 The Evening Wind‑Down (Featuring Snacks and Denial)

As the sun sets, the house shifts into cozy mode. Lights dim. Music softens. I pretend I’m the kind of person who meal‑preps, but really I’m just stirring something and hoping it tastes good.

James and I settle in with Len & Gib, who snore like tiny lumberjacks. We watch a show, chat, or simply exist in the same room like two people who have accepted that Sunday is for rest, snacks, and ignoring the looming threat of Monday.

🌙 The Real Reason I Love Sundays

It’s the one day where the bar is on the floor and I still feel accomplished. I drank tea. I walked/played with the dogs. I lit a candle. I survived. That’s enough.
Adulthood: The Version I Expected vs. The One I Live

March 5th, 2026

I thought adulthood would feel like arrival. A clean, decisive moment. A door swinging open to reveal a wiser, more hydrated version of myself. Someone who owned matching dishware and knew how to fold a fitted sheet without summoning dark forces.

Instead, adulthood feels like motion. Like walking through a hallway that keeps adding new doors. Like learning, unlearning, and then Googling the thing you just learned because you immediately forgot it. Like holding joy in one hand and a grocery list in the other, and somehow dropping both.

I imagined certainty. I imagined a future where I’d wake up one day and think, “Ah. Yes. I understand taxes. I understand insurance. I understand why there are so many types of milk now.” What I got was curiosity, mild confusion, and a recurring suspicion that everyone else received an instruction manual I somehow missed.

I thought adulthood meant freedom. Stay up late! Eat cake for breakfast! Buy the fancy shampoo! And technically, yes, you can do all of that. But the fine print is brutal. Stay up late and your spine files a complaint. Eat cake for breakfast and your stomach stages a coup. Buy the fancy shampoo and your hair still looks like it’s going through something emotionally.

But adulthood also comes with a kind of magic I didn’t expect.
The quiet kind.
The earned kind.

Like knowing exactly which people feel like home.
Like choosing your own traditions instead of inheriting them.
Like realizing you can survive things younger-you thought would break you.
Like finding joy in the smallest, silliest rituals—your morning coffee, your favorite pen, the way your dog looks at you like you’re the sun, moon, and entire snack cabinet.

I used to think adulthood would feel like becoming someone new.
Now I think it’s about returning to yourself, piece by piece, but with better boundaries and worse knees.

Adulthood isn’t what I imagined.
It’s messier, softer, louder, and far more ridiculous.
But it’s mine.
And I think I’m doing a pretty good job for someone who still forgets her laundry in the washer.
🌿 Things That Feel Like Home

March 3rd, 2026
There are places you live, and then there are places you return to, even when you never physically left. The things that feel like home to me aren’t always rooms or walls or coordinates on a map. They’re moments, textures, sounds, and small rituals that tug me back into myself.

✨ The tiny rituals that anchor me
- The first quiet minutes of the morning, when the house is still stretching awake and the kettle hasn’t yet decided who it wants to be.
- The way I always light a candle before I write, as if summoning a muse who prefers soft flicker over fluorescent bulbs.
- The familiar shuffle of my slippers on the floor, a sound that somehow says, “You’re safe. You’re here.”
💛 The husband who brings the calm (and the snacks)

Home is my husband walking into the room with snacks – my favorites of course. It’s the way he laughs at my jokes even when they’re… generously described as “not funny”
It’s the quiet moments where we’re both doing our own thing, but still orbiting each other like two cozy planets with matching mugs

🐩 The creatures who make the walls warmer

Home is Lenny’s dramatic sighs and Gilbert’s gentle nudges, both of them convinced they are the emotional center of the universe. It’s the thump of paws racing down the hall, the soft curls pressed against my leg, the way they look at me like I’m the keeper of all good things.
They don’t know it, but they’re the heartbeat of this place.

🧺 The family chaos that somehow feels grounding

Home is my family group chat, where the energy swings wildly between heartfelt check-ins and memes that absolutely should not be funny but somehow are.
It’s the familiar rhythm of conversations we’ve had a hundred times, the inside jokes that have aged like fine wine, and the comfort of knowing these are my people.

📚 The stories I return to

Some books feel like old friends who don’t mind if you show up in pajamas. Harry Potter sits on my shelf like a portal, always ready to remind me of magic, loyalty, and the comfort of worlds that stay the same even when you don’t.
Home is rereading a favorite chapter and remembering who I was the last time I turned that page.

🎨 The creative corners

My coloring books, my doodles, my half-finished sketches—they’re little pockets of calm. A place where my brain stops buzzing and my hands remember how to make something just for the joy of it.
Home is the scratch of pencil on paper, the swirl of color filling a blank space, the quiet satisfaction of creating something that didn’t exist before.

🎶 The sounds that settle me

Music drifting through the house, sometimes soft and moody, sometimes loud enough to make the poodles judge me.
There’s always a song that fits the moment, and finding it feels like opening a window in my own chest.

🧺 The cozy chaos

Home is the blanket that’s always slightly askew on the couch, the mug that’s never far from my hand, the stack of books that insists on growing sideways.
It’s imperfect in the most comforting way—lived-in, loved, and unmistakably mine.

Home, for me, is less about where I am and more about what wraps around me: warmth, creativity, softness, and the beings I love. It’s the collection of small things that whisper, “Stay awhile.”
Why I Started Writing (and Why I Finally Hit “Publish”)

February 22nd, 2026

I’ve always been a writer — even before I was brave enough to call myself one. My childhood notebooks were full of half-finished stories, dramatic poems, doodles in the margins, and the occasional ‘Very Important List’ that absolutely needed to be written right now. Writing has always been how I make sense of the world. It’s how I process, how I stay sane, and keep my shit together.

But somewhere along the way, life got louder. Jobs, responsibilities, routines, the general chaos of adulthood — all of it slowly pushed writing into the background. I kept telling myself I’d get back to it when things calmed down, when I had more time, when inspiration struck, when the stars aligned…, you get the idea.

Spoiler: none of that ever happened.

What did happen was this quiet, persistent tug. A feeling that I wanted a space that was mine — a place to put the thoughts that made me laugh, the stories that made me feel something, the memories that deserved to be remembered, before they slipped away. A place where creativity didn’t have to be perfect to be worth sharing.

So I started writing again. And then, eventually, I started blogging.

Not because I had everything figured out, but because I finally realized I didn’t need to. I just needed to start.

I write because it helps me breathe.

Writing is the one place where my brain feels like it’s firing on all cylinders. It’s grounding. It’s clarifying. It’s a way to slow down long enough to notice the small, beautiful, ridiculous things that make life feel full.

I write because stories connect us.

Whether it’s a heartfelt moment, a messy confession, or a funny anecdote about my dogs being dramatic little gremlins, writing reminds me that none of us are wandering through life alone. Someone, somewhere, has felt the same thing — and there’s comfort in that.

I write because creativity deserves space.

For years, I didn’t think my writing, ideas, lists, or artwork was creative. That it wasn’t good enough. But why? Why isn’t it good enough? I don’t care what people think – so why if I think it’s good enough, can’t it be. I am making myself find space for these outlets in my life. They make me feel good. Make me feel a spark.

I write because it feels like coming home.

There’s a particular kind of joy that comes from putting words together and watching them turn into something that didn’t exist before. It feels like rediscovering a part of myself I didn’t realize I’d been missing.

And I blog because… why not?

Because life is short. Because perfection is overrated. Because I wanted a place to be honest, playful, reflective, and occasionally unhinged in the most delightful way. Because I wanted to build something that feels like a cozy corner of the internet I can enjoy— a place where creativity, humor, and authenticity can coexist without apology.

Starting this blog isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about showing up. It’s about choosing to create instead of waiting for the “right” moment. It’s about letting myself be seen, even when that feels a little scary.

And honestly? It feels good to be here.
To My Forever Roommate (Who I Actually Still Like)

February 19th, 2026

I am sharing a personal note that I had recently wrote to my husband as a gift. For anyone who knows me, I don’t do heartfelt or “lovey dovey” crap. So this was a big deal to him.

To my Husband (James, Jim, Jimmy),

I am writing you this letter as a memento for you to have for times and moments when life is hard and times are tough, or even just because.

Lately, our lives have seemed impossible, one thing happening after another, and we’re always just in limbo. I want you to know how strong of a man you are (both mentally and physically 😉). I wouldn’t have been able to get through the last few months without you and your unwavering support. I wish you could see you the way that I see you. I wish you could feel the way you make me feel, even after all these years. You are steady. You are calm. You are strong. You are silly. You are forever and always loved.

I love hearing you laugh, no matter where you are in the house, or what mood I am in. If I hear you, I immediately smile. We have a special bond like no one else in the world. I trust you with every piece of me. It is surreal that we have been able to grow together, learn together, laugh together, cry together, and be in pain together over the last 15 years. It is weird to think that it has already been so long, and we still have so much more time to enjoy together with more adventures and experiences. We are a team.

I still feel butterflies when you look at me from across the room and smile. It still makes me melt. I love that we can sit in complete silence with each other and be comfortable. You are such a hardworking man which the boys and I definitely take for granted. We don’t always remember how hard you work to give us a warm home and a stable life.

You are THE most handsome man, and I get to look at you every day. How lucky am I? Your loyalty is the most precious gift you could ever give me. You are the only person I want to hug forever and never let go. Thank you for being the kind of husband who lifts me up and supports my choices, and makes sure I am doing what’s best for me.

You are such an amazing Dads to our two boys, and hopefully one day to our child. You deserve the world.

In every lifetime, I would choose you. Endlessly. I love you.

Always,

Your wife,

Kelsey

“Look, in my opinion, the best thing you can do is find a person who loves you for exactly what you are. Good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what have you, the right person is still going to think the sun shines out your ass. That’s the kind of person that’s worth sticking with.”

—Juno (2007)
Wandering in the Woods (Yes, It’s My Last Name — I do not Hike)

February 18th, 2026
Welcome to Wandering in the Woods — a blog named after my last name, not because I’m out here living my best outdoorsy life. If you ever catch me in an actual forest, please have water, I will be out of breath and fighting for my life.

This space will be where all my favorite things collide in one gloriously chaotic swirl: reading, writing, poetry, coloring, drawing, organizing, making lists (I could win awards for list‑making), video games, TV shows, movies, and whatever else currently has a chokehold on my attention. My brain is basically a cozy library, an art studio, and a gaming lounge all stacked on top of each other with strong structural integrity.

And then there are my dogs — Lenny and Gilbert — two standard poodles who are, without exaggeration, the center of my universe. They’re cuddly, dramatic, emotionally intelligent, and fully prepared to appear in this blog more often than I do.

A few of my favorite things you’ll see sprinkled throughout:
- Harry Potter references, because I will never stop wishing my Hogwarts letter simply got lost in the mail (by the way, I’m a Hufflepuff)
- Peacock-themed everything, because why love something subtly when you can love it loudly and colorfully
- Photos of things that make me happy or feel
- Art, doodles, and coloring pages that keep me sane
- Lists — so many lists — because organizing chaos is my superpower
- Thoughts, rants, and ramblings about whatever book, show, movie, or game has taken over my brain
  
  This blog is basically a digital scrapbook of my life: the creative bits, the silly bits, the heartfelt bits, and the “I don’t know why I’m posting this but here we are” bits. Some posts will be thoughtful. Some will be chaotic. Some will be me holding up a metaphorical shiny rock and saying, “Look at this!”
  
  If you’ve wandered in — intentionally or by accident — welcome. Grab a comfy seat, maybe a snack, and follow along.
  Here’s to wandering, wondering, and embracing the magic in the everyday.