2025 Can Go F*ck Itself: How Grief Became a Book

Let's be honest: 2025 has been a dumpster fire.

I lost my mother. We had the kind of closeness that doesn't need words. And then she was gone. A few weeks ago, I lost my horse. If you don't have horses, you probably don't get it. But anyone who does knows: they're not pets. They're mirrors. Therapists. Truth-tellers. Losing him was like losing a piece of my sanity. So yeah. 2025 can go straight to hell.

I Became a Hermit Who Writes

When things get dark, people tell you to "reach out" and "stay connected" and "don't isolate."

I did the opposite.

I retreated to my farm, avoided humans, and wrote. For months. Like a woman possessed.

Not because I'm brave or disciplined or any of that aspirational nonsense. Because writing was the only thing that made sense when nothing else did.

I wrote about the scripts we inherit. The ones that tell us who to be, how to age, when to shrink. I wrote about the lies we swallow and the rage we suppress and the second acts we abandon because someone convinced us our best years were behind us.

I wrote the book I needed to read. And when I was done, I had a manuscript.

I called it Screw the Script.

Then Came the Terrifying Part

I have given the draft to people I trust—people who won't sugarcoat things, who'll tell me if it's garbage, who won't soften the blow to protect my feelings. And I waited.

That kind of waiting where you question everything. Where you brace for the polite "it's interesting"...

The feedback is coming in. So far? Better than I hoped for. Way better.

Not perfect—there's work to do. But the core? The voice? The message? It landed.

People say: "This is what I needed." "I saw myself in this." "When can I buy it?"

And that's when I realized: I have to actually publish this thing!

Vulnerability Is a Bitch

Being creative—really creative, the kind where you bleed onto the page—makes you vulnerable. You're not just sharing ideas. You're sharing yourself. The messy, unfiltered, "here's what I actually think" version that most people spend their lives hiding.

There's safety in staying quiet. In keeping your work to yourself. In never risking the judgment, the criticism, the possibility that you're wrong or not good enough or just... too much.

But here's what I've learned this year: Staying safe is killing us. All that grief, rage, truth, creativity—bottled up because we're afraid of being seen? That's not protection. That's slow death. So sometimes you just have to say "screw it" and hit publish.

Not because you're fearless. Because you're more afraid of dying with your truth still inside you than you are of what people might think.

The Book Screw the Script: The Gen X Woman's Guide to Midlife Magic launches March 21, 2026.

It's for the women who are done shrinking. Done performing. Done following scripts that were never written for us. And it's for their partners who think we've been possessed by Satan when menopause hits. It's pattern recognition with teeth. It's permission to want more. It's a map for burning nonsense and reclaiming your second act.

If you want to know what's in it—the tools, the truth, the philosophy behind it all—go to screwthescript.com. I've put together a toolbox of resources you can actually use. No fluff. Just patterns, practices, and permission slips for women who are ready to torch the script and live differently.

So Here We Are

2025 took a lot from me. My mother. My horse. My illusion that playing it safe protects you from pain. But it also gave me something: proof that I can survive hard things. That grief doesn't have to be wasted. That creating something from the wreckage is better than drowning in it. The book is coming. Ready or not.

And if you're a Gen X woman who's tired of performing, shrinking, and following someone else's script?

I'll see you on March 21st.

P.S. - If 2025 kicked your ass too, you're not alone. And if creating something from the chaos is how you survive—keep going. The world needs what you're making.