Month: July 2026

Facebook.  Ugh.  I hate it.  It’s a massive time suck and an anger generator, and I see more ads than friends.  I keep deleting the app from my phone.  I can access it on my computer, so I can post my blogs and occasionally check up on my people.  That will last for a while… sometimes months… and then I need to upload a photo or a video.  Most recently, I needed to post some free kid’s size life jackets on our local ‘Buy Nothing’ group.  And the hassle of transferring the photo is larger than the hassle of re-downoading the app and posting from my phone.  

So I reinstalled Facebook, gave away my life jackets, and proceeded to waste more time scrolling.  It’s been TWO days, and I’m angry again.  

But not in an ‘ignore it and remove the app’ sort of way.  Angry in a ‘this anger is telling me something’ sort of way. 

I saw yet another post about trans athletes and it spoke to my soul.  You can watch it here.  It made me think about all the times I’ve heard some version of, “I don’t have a problem with trans people, BUT…”

Every time, it seems to boil down to, “… X makes me uncomfortable.”  Truly.

-It makes me uncomfortable when I can’t determine someone’s gender by looking at them. 

-It makes me uncomfortable to wonder about someone’s genitals.

-It makes me uncomfortable to think about gendered violence. 

-It makes me uncomfortable to wonder whether someone ‘belongs’ in a gendered space. 

-It makes me uncomfortable when a human doesn’t conform to a visual ‘norm.’ 

Because, truly, the only time this is even a problem is when it’s VISUAL.  Someone I love very much insisted to me that there are only two genders.  And so I brought up my trans loved one.  “If there’s only two genders, then you’re saying that he will always be a girl to you.”  Well, no, she explained.  “I just go by what I SEE.”  And therein lies the crux of the problem. 

There’s so much that we can’t see.  We’re human, so we use our senses to make snap judgements about people.  That’s instinct.  It’s actual biology.  It’s how our brains work.  But the awesome thing about humans is that we have a prefrontal cortex that can analyze data after that ‘lizard brain’ has made a snap judgement.  

If you STOP thinking once you become uncomfortable with a visual difference, you’re missing the beauty of being human.  

Think about all the times that humans have pushed the boundaries of what is socially acceptable and moved toward individual freedom.  It used to make people uncomfortable to see women in pants, or short hair.  It was ‘unnatural.’  It was ‘disrespectful.’  Was it?  Of course not.  It was just unusual.  And it made people uncomfortable.  Does that mean it was wrong?  Was it appropriate to make laws controlling what women could wear to cover their bodies?  

Tattoos and piercings and crop tops… these things might make you uncomfortable, but in those cases, you can acknowledge that other people’s bodies aren’t your business.  

Gendered norms aren’t any different.  If you actually believe that there are two clear genders, I encourage you to do some research.  Intersex people exist.  There is no one characteristic that determines sex, and the beautiful diversity of God’s creation ensures that there is enough variety amongst us that we cannot accurately create boxes to hold us in. Women with high testosterone are women.  Women without a uterus are women.  Women that don’t menstruate are women.  Women without breasts are women.  Women with low estrogen are women.  Women who never gave birth are women.  Women with short hair are women.  Women who love women are women.  And trans women are women.  

Ugh.  And that whole rant is about trans women because we don’t seem to have a problem with trans MEN.  Why is that?  At its deepest level, it’s because we’ve been socialized to believe that the worst thing a man can be is feminine.  You hit like a girl.  Stop being a pussy.  You gonna cry like a little bitch? We can’t fathom a man wanting to be a woman. 

That’s another one I hear a lot.  “I just don’t GET it.”  

I don’t GET people who love gardening.  I don’t try to limit their access to potting soil.  I don’t try to legislate their planting.  I don’t call them nasty names or try to take away their rights or insinuate that they are less valuable humans.  I leave them the fuck alone.  

It’s not that hard. 

Today was a slow, rainy day.  I woke up around 7, and I spent some time working on a new curriculum that we’ll be implementing in the fall.  I’m trying to get a head start by modifying the assessments over the summer.  I packed a lunch for my youngest (I know, I know… he’s too old for me to be doing that, but I haven’t given it up yet).  I ran the carpet cleaner AGAIN, because this old dog can no longer hold her bladder.  

And then I was stuck in the house for a little bit.  Kyle ordered a new lizard (long story) and someone needed to be here to sign for it.  So I promised him I’d hang around at home until his break at 11.  I talked to a friend on the phone, I vacuumed, I read a little, I watched a little TV.  All very low-key.

When Kyle got back, I left for an appointment and then stopped by the grocery store on my way home.  I made some soup and a sandwich for lunch, and I cracked open my book again. I lit a candle.  I’ve been re-watching The Bear, and I was planning to crochet and watch an episode or two.  But then the cat climbed into my lap, and one episode turned into three, minus the crocheting because my girl insisted on a little love.  

I had every intention of enjoying a relaxing afternoon.  I tried to stay mindful and ‘in-the-moment.’  I listened to the purring cat and the sound of the rain and focused on the smell of my candle.  I paid attention to my breathing.  

Nevertheless, the anxiety crept in.  It kept building.  Why?  Who knows.  How can a person be anxious on summer vacation, petting a cat and watching TV?  I don’t know how, but I know that I can.  

It’s been a pattern for as long as I can remember.  The anxiety and panic attacks don’t hit me in the thick of it.  They don’t cripple me when things are hard.  They hit at the most unexpected times.  Like today.  I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I couldn’t get a hold on it.  Most of the time, I can breathe through it or snap myself out of it when I feel the anxiety building.  I couldn’t do it today.  I had to reach for a little chemical assistance.  

The medication is prescribed by my doctor for occasional use.  I just find it odd that I got through the months of May and June without needing it… and couldn’t get a handle on myself today.  

It got me thinking.  Does my productivity, my activity, keep the panic at bay?  Does my body manage the surge as long as I’m in motion?  Is that part of why I find it so hard to relax?  Is that some sort of trauma response?  Like many of my GenX peers, I grew up in a family that valued and emphasized hard work.  I’m proud of that… but did we take it too far?  

In real life and on social media, I sometimes find myself marveling at the clear boundaries and strong self-care skills of the next generation. They don’t worship productivity in the way that we were taught to.  And there’s also value in that.  

Nobody in my life is judging how I spend my summer days except for me.  If the panic is a result of an unproductive day, it is most certainly self-inflicted.    

And of course, there is the bizarre twist that by writing about this, I feel like the day has become more productive.  I’ve created something, and I feel better.  

Or maybe that’s just the Ativan.