The Creative Nest

I keep seeing these articles pop up lately — “Each State’s Favorite Snack,” “Each State’s Favorite Meal,” “What Every State Loves the Most.” And every single time, I click. Because I’m optimistic. And then immediately disappointed. I won’t name names (okay, I will — my own state), but how is it possible that this is what we’re collectively known for? I read the list and thought, That’s not a favorite… that’s a compromise food. You know the kind. The “it was available” food. The “we were already there” choice. The “nobody complained loud enough” option. Are we being surveyed under duress? Is someone asking these questions in a gas station at 11:47 p.m.? Because I refuse to believe that millions of people woke up one day and agreed, “Yes. This represents us.” What makes it worse is knowing the food options we actually have. We have: incredible comfort food foods people travel for foods that require stretchy pants and zero shame And yet somehow, the title goes t...

I’ve been thinking a lot about what happens after something heavy loosens its grip. Not the crisis itself. Not the stress while it’s happening. But the quiet moment when you realize: oh… this might actually be okay now. That kind of relief can feel strange. Sometimes it shows up as a deep exhale you didn’t know you were holding. Sometimes it looks like tears — even though nothing “bad” just happened. Sometimes it’s a burst of energy. Other times, total exhaustion. I’ve noticed that big relief doesn’t always feel joyful right away. It can feel disorienting. Like your nervous system is still pacing the room, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And then there’s the mental part: Do I celebrate? Do I rest? Do I stay cautious? Do I finally let myself imagine what comes next? I think we don’t talk enough about this in-between space — the space where something important resolves, but your heart and body haven’t quite caught up yet. So I’m curious… How do you process...

There is something no one prepares you for when you adopt a small pet. Not the zoomies. Not the side-eye. Not even the dramatic sighs when you dare move during cuddle time. It’s the snoring . Somehow, in a body that weighs less than a bag of flour, lives the lung capacity of a mid-size man who just finished a long shift and has earned his rest. Enter: Lola . Lola is tiny. Adorable. Sweet. And when she sleeps? She sounds like she’s sawing logs in a forest she personally owns. I’ll be sitting there in complete silence — no TV, no music — and suddenly… RRRRRNNNNKKK… snffff… RRRNNNNKKK. I look around like, Is there a stranger in my house? Did someone break in just to nap? Nope. It’s Lola. Curled up. Living her best life. Completely unbothered. The funniest part? She snores with confidence . There’s no hesitation. No apology. Just full commitment to rest. And honestly? I respect it. Because here’s the thing — that loud snoring means she feels safe . Safe enough to let ...