I am so grateful that it’s Friday.

My tour yesterday seemed to go exceptionally well. I could feel the energy in the room, the attentiveness, the thoughtful questions. When the university’s social media featured the tour afterward, it felt like a quiet affirmation that the work we do matters. Moments like that make the preparation and effort worthwhile.

One thing I’ve learned about myself over the years is that I can usually immerse myself in something like a tour and push a migraine to the back of my mind. Adrenaline and focus carry me through. The problem is what happens afterward. When the event ends and things go back to normal, I tend to crash—and the migraine comes roaring back, worse than before. That’s exactly what happened yesterday. I ended up going home and going straight to bed, letting my body do what it needed to do.

Thankfully, I’m feeling better this morning and can take it easy while I work from home. I’m grateful for that flexibility.

And then there’s the calendar: today is Friday the 13th.

I’ve always had a touch of triskaidekaphobia—the irrational fear of the number 13. My paternal grandmother was wonderfully superstitious, and she passed more than a few of those notions down to me. Not black cats—Isabella would never allow that—but other things.

She was adamant that if you were walking with someone and the two of you came to a post, a tree, or any obstacle, you must not split and pass on opposite sides. If you did, you had to go back and pass on the same side, or something terrible might happen. If you killed a snake, it had to be draped over a fence to guarantee rain. And the strangest superstition of all: if you sneezed at the dinner table, you had to get up and walk to the door before you could sit back down—otherwise, a family member would die. More than once, I pushed my chair back, walked solemnly to the back door, touched it, and returned to my plate before I could resume eating.

Looking back, I smile. Those rituals were strange, yes—but they were also part of her world, her way of trying to exert a little order over an unpredictable life.

Interestingly, my mother and her mother both considered 13 to be lucky—after all, they were both born on the 13th. Maybe the number isn’t so ominous after all. Maybe it’s simply a reminder of the women who shaped me.

Hopefully, today will be entirely uneventful.

And since today is Friday, February 13th, that means tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. I want to send my love out to everyone who reads this blog. I keep writing each day not only for myself, but also for you. Your quiet presence, your comments, your encouragement—they matter more than you know.

So wherever you are, and whatever tomorrow looks like for you, know that you are appreciated.

Happy Valentine’s Day. ❤️

It was so hard to get up this morning. I went to bed on time and didn’t wake up during the night, but it still felt like I needed a few more hours of sleep. Maybe it’s because I had to go to work, or maybe it’s because it’s –7 degrees outside and the bed felt especially safe and warm.

Some mornings just carry that extra weight—the kind where your body is awake before your spirit has caught up. I know I’ll make it through the day. I have a meeting this afternoon that I can’t miss or reschedule, and responsibilities have a way of pulling us forward even when we’d rather stay still for a little while longer.

At some point I’ll feel more awake. Coffee and the morning news will come first, easing me into the day, and then a hot shower before getting ready for work. It doesn’t all have to happen at once.

I hope everyone has a gentle start to their week and finds small moments of warmth—whether that’s a hot drink, a quiet moment, or just the reassurance that we don’t have to be fully “on” right away.

Some mornings, the words just don’t line up the way I want them to. Today is one of those days. I’m sitting here with thoughts drifting past, but none quite willing to settle into sentences.

That’s okay. Not every day needs a polished reflection or a carefully shaped idea. Sometimes showing up is enough.

I hope your day brings you something steady and kind—a good cup of coffee, a moment of quiet, a laugh you didn’t expect. Wherever you are and whatever you’re carrying, I hope today treats you gently.

I woke up around 2 a.m. from a dream that felt unusually detailed and annoyingly unfinished.

The setting was Hattiesburg—but not Hattiesburg-me. It was Hattiesburg with the body, mind, and self-awareness I have now. A woman I knew in high school was throwing a birthday party for me at a bar. In real life we’ve drifted far apart into very different worlds (her MAGA, me reality), but in the dream she was cheerful and oddly thoughtful. A former colleague from Vermont was there too, along with several other women I half-recognized. All women…except for one man.

He stayed close to my old friend most of the night. He had curly dark hair, stylishly cut, and tight jeans that made it impossible not to notice his round, compact backside. His mannerisms were just slightly gay, but also comfortably masculine—like someone who knew exactly how he looked and didn’t mind being seen. I assumed he was her date, so I only allowed myself to notice him in that distant, respectful way reserved for attractive men you think are taken.

He seemed shy around me, though, and because he was younger, I didn’t imagine he was paying me any real attention.

We were all gathered near the bar at one point—she facing the counter, me turned sideways—and he stepped into the narrow space between us, his back to me. Then the crowd shifted and he was suddenly pressed right up against me. His backside brushed my crotch, not accidentally but not entirely on purpose either. I put my hands on his hips to steady him, expecting him to step forward.

Instead, he leaned back more, fitting himself against my chest and stomach like it was the most natural thing in the world. He even made a small sound—soft, surprised, and not entirely displeased.

After a moment he said, almost teasingly, “What does it take for you to notice me?”

I told him I had noticed him, but I thought he was with my friend. That’s when she turned around and said, “Oh no, I brought him because I knew he’d be your type.”

He smiled and added, “And you are most definitely my type.”

Dream logic took over after that. Somehow he was from Chicago. Somehow he was in graduate school in a department I couldn’t quite pin down—English? Engineering? Architecture? Polymer Science? Somehow my high school friend and my grad school friend were the same person. None of it made sense, and all of it felt completely reasonable.

I told him I didn’t think someone like him would be interested in someone like me—older, with a dad bod, less hair than I used to have. He told me that was exactly what he found attractive. I told him he was exactly what I found attractive. He wasn’t a twink, but he had that twink-adjacent energy—probably late twenties, the age I was back when I was in grad school.

Eventually the party moved from the bar to a house—everyone came along. It was the house my grad school friend used to live in behind her grandparents’ place. Later in real life, I actually rented that house myself, but in the dream it simply made sense that we were there.

At some point I was sitting on the couch. I motioned for him to come over. He sat down on my lap, straddling my legs and facing me. Everyone else seemed to fade away. It was just the two of us, knee to knee, chest to chest, crotch to crotch, close enough to feel each other’s breath. We kissed. Hands began to roam. Clothes began to shift—shirts half unbuttoned…

And then my brain, like a cruel editor, cut the scene.

I woke up annoyed, amused, and very aware that my body had been fully invested in the story. I went to the bathroom, then typed out notes about the dream before going back to bed, hoping it might resume where it left off.

It did not.

Normally I wouldn’t bother recording a dream like that, but I knew I’d forget it if I didn’t. And since I was off work today for a Botox appointment at noon, I figured I could afford a little extra sleep…even if my subconscious decided to leave me suspended in unresolved tension.

Amazingly, Isabella did let me sleep until after 5 a.m.