This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

My life revolving around the physical and emotional needs of my three children.

In:

Empty nester with one toe in my profession.

Entering:

The cusp of turning 60, realizing that I am entering the senior years of life.

This morning, after completing a pristine 522-day streak of online French lessons, I unsubscribed from my monthly plan and deleted the app from my phone. J’ai abandonné. J’ai arrêté.

A year and a half ago, in anticipation of a dream trip to Paris with my daughter, I downloaded a popular language app and reactivated the sleepy neural pathways that had once absorbed high school French back in the 1980s. My classmates and I had adored our teacher, Madame Thomas. We might have been reduced to tears in Advanced Placement American History while trying to explain the social, economic, and political fallout of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act of 1930, but in French class, the overhead lights dimmed, and we watched slide shows about Impressionist art or memorized dialogues about cheese. Drilling a few irregular verb conjugations or attempting to pronounce the French word for leaf — if you know, you know — felt like a minor price to pay for 50 minutes of whimsy each school day.

With those memories spurring me on, I dedicated myself to completing at least three daily online lessons, cheered on by animated characters with various regional accents and backstories. Today, however, I bid my fictional French friends au revoir. At this crossroads, with a new decade just ahead, I am shedding optional tasks that no longer bring joy. And this old French student has decided that learning through perpetual error, without explanation or structure, is no longer an endeavor I choose.

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Initially, carving out dedicated time for French review brought me satisfaction, if not pleasure. The lessons unearthed memories of subject-verb agreement, long-forgotten numbers and expressions I was surprised to recognize. I enjoyed adding new words and phrases about professions, food, and family relationships to my vocabulary. If I made mistakes, I had the opportunity at the end of each lesson to correct them. The tiny animated characters jumped for joy at my progress and encouraged me with enthusiastic “bravos.” Once I removed the intrusive ads for a small monthly fee, I could power through lessons without distraction. I was gaining mastery and confidence.

But as I climbed levels of supposed language proficiency, I became increasingly frustrated. The app was built on repetition. If I made an error, I could not always press a button that explained why. There were no overarching lessons before the exercises, just a few examples of sentences or verb conjugations. I had to bumble my way through, make mistakes, and infer the rules from whatever corrections followed.

When should I use an indefinite article before someone’s profession? Where should I place the adverb in a sentence? What is the proper order of indirect and direct object pronouns before a verb? How do I know which preposition belongs before the name of a city or a country?

As a risk-averse person, I don’t like making mistakes. I cringe when the app’s mocking sound effect buzzes and the red X appears because I typed “du” instead of “de” in a sentence with 20 other perfectly behaved words.

As an educator (a former English teacher, Hebrew school principal, and current private bar and bat mitzvah tutor) I’m not only ill-suited to this method of pedagogy, I’m incensed by it. I would never ask children to do homework before offering an overview or explanation, then mark the inevitable mistakes with an angry red pen. Yes, learning requires analysis, synthesis, and trial and error. But learning works best when a teacher serves as an engaging, warm-hearted tour guide to unfamiliar terrain.

If students are to learn and feel connected to new material, they need guidance: someone to point out patterns, warn them about bumps in the road, pull together the history of disparate monuments, and create a story that connects with the learner. Sadly, my adventures in French took a different and decidedly less charming direction.

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My 60th birthday arrives in just a few months’ time, and I have learned that I don’t need to be right all the time. As a certain animated member of the animal kingdom advised me this morning, just before I canceled my language subscription, “Mistakes are how we learn.”

I agree. But I have also gleaned some wisdom over the years, and I know that being told you are wrong without the benefit of a map or guide is not a way to teach. It is a way to frustrate a student and create unpleasant associations with a beautiful language.

Turning 60 is a precious gift, one I do not want to squander. Knowing when to jump into new adventures and when to step back from activities that have run their course is a skill I hope to deepen in this new decade.

For now, I’m looking online for a French class with a human teacher who can capture some of the joie de vivre so masterfully conveyed by Madame Thomas. In the meantime, I’m ordering a textbook to walk me through the terrain and explain the landmarks along the way. Don’t mind me if I snack on a bit of French cheese while I’m studying.

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Hi book lovers! So many books come out every week. Which ones should you pay attention to? Let me help. I research every book coming out and select my favorites, so you can read what’s worth your time.

I choose books for my award-winning daily podcast Totally Booked with Zibby and buy books to add to our highly curated shelves at Zibby’s Bookshop in Santa Monica! Some, I love so much I publish them or select them for my book club. And one, I wrote myself!

(To watch yesterday’s pre-launch conversation with about my book, Between Chapters: How I Started Over, Took Some Chances, and Found the Plot, click here!)

Here are the fall books I’m most excited about. Read with me!

• By Category

• By Publication Date

  Download the PDF

By Category

Coming-of-Age

Kit de Waal, Sweet Pea (11/3)

Chad Harbach, The Brightness (10/27)

Hollywood-Adjacent

John Green, Hollywood, Ending (9/22)

Elizabeth Castellano, Proof of Progress (9/15)

Jessica Radloff, Young Sheldon (10/20)

Living on the Land (or Sea)

Ariel Lawhon, The Pirate Queen (9/8)

Meghan Cox Gurdon, Free Range Girl (10/20)

Amanda Peters, The Birthing Tree (9/1)

Grown-ups Behaving Badly

Noa Yedlin, House Arrest (10/13)

Christine Pride and Jo Piazza, I Never Knew You at All (10/13)

Emiko Jean, Before You Were Anne (9/1)

Richard Osman, We Chase Shadows (9/15)

Jonathan Santlofer, Ten Perfect Guests (9/8)

Ann Garvin, Tell Two Friends (9/8)

Taking Care of Yourself – and Others

Natalie Silverstein, Simple Acts of Care (12/1)

Meghan O’Rourke, The Story of the Body (10/20)

Juana Libedinsky, Downhill: A Memoir of an Accident, Two Comas, Many Books, and Starting Over (9/22)

Beth Ricanati, MD, The Braided Prescription: Seven Practices for Living Well from the Ancient Ritual of Making Challah (9/1)

Jodi Picoult, Hollow Bones (9/15)

Rebekah Lowin, A Year of Jewish Joy: Inspired Recipes, Rituals, and Traditions for Beautiful Celebrations (9/8)

Chloe Melas & Judy Batalion, The Girl’s Guide to Guts (11/10)

Allison Sweet Grant, Lump (9/15)

Barry Michels, Ahead of All Parting (9/29)

Social Science Stuff

Yael Schonbrun, Why Don’t You Understand Me? (10/27)

Adam Grant, Vibe (10/13)

David Byrne, Sleeping Beauties (10/6)

Sherry Turkle, Artificial Intimacy (9/29)

Fran Hauser, Twenty Minutes Is the New Hour (9/22)

Reinvention Era (and Proudly Publishing)

Zibby Owens, Between Chapters: How I Started Over, Took Some Chances, and Found the Plot (9/22)

Tarajia Morrell, Desire Feeds the Feast: A Memoir (11/3)

Alexandra Potter, One Good Thing (12/1)

Bookish Books

Bonnie Garmus, Peck & Peck (10/13)

Susan Coll, Word Salad (9/15)

Harlan Coben, Plot Twist: Life, Craft, and the Messy First Draft: A Memoir on Writing (9/8)

Kate Hash, The Mother-in-Law Book Club (10/13)

Meg Mason, Sophie, Standing There (9/29)

Books for the Griever

Matthew Salesses, To Grieve Is to Carry Another Time (12/1)

Celebrity Reads

Dustin Hoffman, Look at Me (11/3)

Gloria Steinem, An Unexpected Life (9/22)

Eric Dane, My Book of Days (11/3)

Sylvester Stallone, The Steps: A Memoir (9/29)

Dame Judi Dench, Is It Too Late to Make a Run For It? (11/3)

Jane Leeves, Daphne & Me (10/20)

Eriq La Salle, Laws of Solomon (9/8)

Edward Burns, The Marlboro Road Gang (9/15)

Michael Douglas, One Helluva Ride (10/6)

Bob Woodward, Secrets: A Reporter’s Memoir (9/29)

Second-Chance Romance

Becca Freeman, Back Where We Started (10/13)

True Story

Michael Lewis, Blockers (10/6)

Robert Kolker, The Vanishing Family (9/29)

Jimmy Chin, Rules to Live By (9/29)

Kara Kavensky, Tell Me About Joy (9/8)

Dara Horn, The Final Solution to the Jewish Question: A Love Story for the Living (9/1)

Family Lore Behind Closed Doors

Mary Beth Keane, Whale Harbor (11/3)

Min Jin Lee, American Hagwon (9/29)

Hank Phillippi Ryan, Mother Daughter Sister Stranger (9/1)

Elizabeth Wellington Rollins, The Three Graces of Pearl Street (9/1)

Marriage, Motherhood, and Memory

Amy Irvine, Almost Animal: A Memoir of Motherhood, Wildness, and the American West (11/10)

Carolyn Huynh, Fetal Position (12/8)

Julie Orringer, Luna, Phoenix, Queen (10/13)

Julianna Glasse, This Is What Happens When Women Read (10/13)

Barbara Kingsolver, Partita (10/6)

Sarah Langan, Trad Wife (9/29)

Sona Movsesian, The World’s Worst Mom (9/1)

Friendship

Natalie Baszile, Friends and Family (10/6)

Candice Carty-Williams, Queenie is Working on It (9/8)

Alex Durand and Tom Carles, Pardon Our French: The Parisian Way to a Happier Life (9/8)

Books That Make You Laugh

Laurie Notaro, I’ve Got a New Complaint: Essays on Aging Disgracefully and Other Small Disasters (9/1)

Chris Olsen, I Think My Therapist Hates Me (9/1)

Another Time & Place

Philippe Collin, The Barman of the Ritz (9/1)

Leigh Bardugo, Dead Beat (9/15)

Chloe Benjamin, Under Story (9/1)

Sarah Addison Allen, Paper Ghosts (9/1)

Sarah Hepola, The Only Thing There is to Want (9/29)

Audrey Niffenegger, Life Out of Order (10/6)

New Books by Old Favorites

If you loved Lessons in Chemistry, you’ll love Peck & Peck by Bonnie Garmus

If you loved The Berry Pickers, you’ll love The Birthing Tree by Amanda Peters

If you loved Save What’s Left, you’ll love, Proof of Progress by Elizabeth Castellano

If you loved Pachinko, you’ll love American Hagwon by Min Jin Lee

If you loved The Half Moon or Ask Again, Yes, you’ll love Whale Harbor by Mary Beth Keane

If you loved Sorrow and Bliss, you’ll love Sophie, Standing There by Meg Mason

If you loved Demon Copperhead, you’ll love Partita by Barbara Kingsolver

If you loved The Invisible Kingdom, you’ll love The Story of the Body by Meghan O’Rourke

By Publication Week

September 1

Amanda Peters, The Birthing Tree (9/1)

Beth Ricanati, MD, The Braided Prescription: Seven Practices for Living Well from the Ancient Ritual of Making Challah (9/1)

Chloe Benjamin, Under Story (9/1)

Chris Olsen, I Think My Therapist Hates Me (9/1)

Dara Horn, The Final Solution to the Jewish Question: A Love Story for the Living (9/1)

Elizabeth Wellington Rollins, The Three Graces of Pearl Street (9/1)

Hank Phillippi Ryan, Mother Daughter Sister Stranger (9/1)

Laurie Notaro, I’ve Got a New Complaint: Essays on Aging Disgracefully and Other Small Disasters (9/1)

Sona Movsesian, The World’s Worst Mom (9/1)

Philippe Collin, The Barman of the Ritz (9/1)

Emiko Jean, Before You Were Anne (9/1)

Sarah Addison Allen, Paper Ghosts (9/1)

September 8

Alex Durand and Tom Carles, Pardon Our French (9/8)

Ariel Lawhon, The Pirate Queen (9/8)

Ann Garvin, Tell Two Friends (9/8)

Eriq La Salle, Laws of Solomon (9/8)

Harlan Coben, Plot Twist: Life, Craft, and the Messy First Draft: A Memoir on Writing (9/8)

Rebekah Lowin, A Year of Jewish Joy: Inspired Recipes, Rituals, and Traditions for Beautiful Celebrations (9/8)

Jonathan Santlofer, Ten Perfect Guests (9/8)

Kara Kavensky, Tell Me About Joy (9/8)

Candice Carty-Williams, Queenie is Working on It (9/8)

September 15

Allison Sweet Grant, Lump (9/15)

Elizabeth Castellano, Proof of Progress (9/15)

Jodi Picoult, Hollow Bones (9/15)

Leigh Bardugo, Dead Beat (9/15)

Edward Burns, The Marlboro Road Gang (9/15)

Richard Osman, We Chase Shadows (9/15)

Susan Coll, Word Salad (9/15)

September 22

Fran Hauser, Twenty Minutes Is the New Hour (9/22)

Juana Libedinsky, Downhill: A Memoir of an Accident, Two Comas, Many Books, and Starting Over (9/22)

Gloria Steinem, An Unexpected Life (9/22)

John Green, Hollywood, Ending (9/22)

Zibby Owens, Between Chapters: How I Started Over, Took Some Chances, and Found the Plot (9/22)

September 29

Jimmy Chin, Rules to Live By (9/29)

Meg Mason, Sophie, Standing There (9/29)

Min Jin Lee, American Hagwon (9/29)

Robert Kolker, The Vanishing Family (9/29)

Barry Michels, Ahead of All Parting (9/29)

Sherry Turkle, Artificial Intimacy (9/29)

Bob Woodward, Secrets: A Reporter’s Memoir (9/29)

Sylvester Stallone, The Steps: A Memoir (9/29)

Sarah Hepola, The Only Thing There is to Want (9/29)

Sarah Langan, Trad Wife (9/29)

October 6

Audrey Niffenegger, Life Out of Order (10/6)

David Byrne, Sleeping Beauties (10/6)

Michael Lewis, Blockers (10/6)

Natalie Baszile, Friends and Family (10/6)

Barbara Kingsolver, Partita (10/6)

Michael Douglas, One Helluva Ride (10/6)

October 13

Adam Grant, Vibe (10/13)

Bonnie Garmus, Peck & Peck (10/13)

Christine Pride and Jo Piazza, I Never Knew You at All (10/13)

Julianna Glasse, This Is What Happens When Women Read (10/13)

Julie Orringer, Luna, Phoenix, Queen (10/13)

Kate Hash, The Mother-in-Law Book Club (10/13)

Becca Freeman, Back Where We Started (10/13)

Noa Yedlin, House Arrest (10/13)

October 20

Jane Leeves, Daphne & Me (10/20)

Jessica Radloff, Young Sheldon (10/20)

Meghan Cox Gurdon, Free Range Girl (10/20)

Meghan O’Rourke, The Story of the Body (10/20)

October 27

Chad Harbach, The Brightness (10/27)

Yael Schonbrun, Why Don’t You Understand Me? (10/27)

November 3

Dustin Hoffman, Look at Me (11/3)

Kit de Waal, Sweet Pea (11/3)

Mary Beth Keane, Whale Harbor (11/3)

Tarajia Morrell, Desire Feeds the Feast: A Memoir (11/3)

Eric Dane, My Book of Days (11/3)

Dame Judi Dench, Is It Too Late to Make a Run For It? (11/3)

November 10

Amy Irvine, Almost Animal: A Memoir of Motherhood, Wildness, and the American West (11/10)

Chloe Melas & Judy Batalion, The Girl’s Guide to Guts (11/10)

December 1

Alexandra Potter, One Good Thing (12/1)

Matthew Salesses, To Grieve Is to Carry Another Time (12/1)

Natalie Silverstein, Simple Acts of Care (12/1)

December 8

Carolyn Huynh, Fetal Position (12/8)

What do you think?! Please share with your friends!

Download the PDF here.

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The room where it happened! Zibby Media hosted a Petite Retreat in Highland Park, IL yesterday, in partnership with Matchmaker Bookstore, to introduce my book and bring the community together. Such fun!

Bestselling author and On Being Jewish Now anthology contributor Renee Rosen interviewed me in the packed room of sixty women. We laughed. We teared up. We sweated. It was the perfect way to introduce Between Chapters: How I Started Over, Took Some Chances, and Found the Plot as a pre-launch event. The real thing comes out September 22nd! Listen to our conversation here.

(Want my white Quince dress? Shop here.)

Don’t miss our next retreats!

October 2-4: Santa Monica (plus day pass on Oct. 3)

October 25: New York (save the date!)

January 22-24: Naples, FL (plus day pass on Jan. 23)

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This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

The ordinary world of teen drama, hiding my age, and planning for the future.

In:

Between receiving a late-stage cancer diagnosis and having a solid reason to hope.

Entering:

A post-diagnosis world with a clear understanding that nothing is guaranteed and every day is precious — I'm lucky enough to see every single ordinary moment.

On November 13, 2024, during my first appointment with a surgeon after a shocking diagnosis of ovarian cancer, I was told I had a fifty percent chance of living five years.

What do you do when you are suddenly looking death straight in the face?

Besides sob. Because of course, as a mother of two young daughters, I sobbed hard. Ferociously. Endlessly. The grief knocked me flat on the floor.

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There were two weeks between that appointment and my surgery, a surgery I wasn’t sure I’d survive. I felt certain that I had two weeks to live. So, in the moments when the sobbing abated, I did something else: with grim, single-minded determination, I did the only thing I could, the only thing that seemed urgent. I gathered up my long-abandoned writings and started collecting the only thing worth leaving behind.

Excavating this work was like returning to a familiar but distant home. I’ve published two novels with a university press, but there were things worth keeping in my unwieldy drafts of unpublished works, scattered across old drives and computers. The only person who would ever know what was worthy — and how to find it — was me. And so, driven by fear and fatalism, I dove in.

For hours every day, I pulled up each unpublished manuscript, reformatted it, threw it into a book template I found online, and uploaded it to a self-publishing platform. I did not design covers. I did not spend time editing out the brackets or all the placeholders for material I meant to fill in later. This was not a vanity project. It was far more important than that. I needed my words to be printed, to live in the world of my family — to be readable by my children. Those works are my voice. My worldview. They’re what I have to teach them.

Slowly, the works collected in my ready-to-print cart. There was a book of essays I wrote while living in Paris with a French boyfriend — older, disastrous — during the summer of 2003; a novella that was nearly published many times, still unpublished but close to my heart; a novel I wrote while living in Barcelona, one I had tinkered with for years, earning several revise-and-resubmit requests from agents and becoming a finalist in multiple contests; and another novel, one I nearly finished but never got the nerve to submit. I loved that story. I loved those characters. But I was daunted by the prospect of querying again. This was the novel that finally made me think, I can’t do this anymore. In 2021, I put it aside, decided the writing part of my life was over, and got my first full-time job in twenty years. But just because I couldn’t face another querying process didn’t mean my family shouldn’t know the world I had built.

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And finally, there were 500 pages of short stories, written between eighth grade and middle age. Excavating them was a time machine. Those stories held my childhood voice, my adult voice, and the lifelong habit of making sense of the world by putting words on the page. Collecting them in readable form felt like saving my own life.

I ordered five printed copies of each work. I prayed the books would arrive before the surgery, and they did. They arrived in a giant box, all with plain white covers, only the titles in black. By Margo Orlando Littell. They were not beautiful. But they were there.

Knowing that my family would be even more stricken if they knew about my macabre obsession, I showed no one. The box remains in my closet, unsealed but not unpacked.

During those two weeks in November, I held on to the notion that my children, should I have to leave them, would know me. I would not disappear. In reading my words in great volume, they would hear my voice in their heads. They would see the world as I do. They would know compassion for flawed characters, a deep love of small moments, and a way of connecting ideas to form a story of their own lives and the lives of others.

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After my surgery, my diagnosis changed from high-grade ovarian cancer to low-grade ovarian cancer — less aggressive but incurable and difficult to treat. Not exactly a reprieve from the worst, but perhaps a slightly longer timeline. A diagnosis like mine changes everything. I thought I was done with writing, that I’d moved on to a new stage of my life. I see now that I was fooling myself.

With frontline treatment behind me but many more treatments ahead, I’m battered but clear-eyed, stripped of what I thought I knew. What I’m sure of now: I’m a writer. I always have been. It’s how I make sense of the world, and of myself. During those two weeks when I believed I would die, I frantically worked to save my writings from what felt like an impending fire, already close enough to feel the heat on my face. What was important to me had never been more obvious.

Maybe I’m not quite done with those unpublished works. Maybe it’s time to return to the in-progress novel, the one that has suddenly taken on new verve and new layers. Without pressure, without self-consciousness. There can be no imposter syndrome anymore. There can be no question of the value of spending my time this way.

Until I find a treatment that keeps my rare cancer at bay, I’ll be living between chapters of my life; maybe it’s where I’ll always live. But here in this in-between space, my priorities are clear. Aside from being with the people I love, I can’t imagine a better use of my time than leaving my truest voice behind.

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This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

I am no longer wandering or aimless.

In:

I’m in the “questioning all of my career and life choices” phase of midlife (and that stage of grief after losing my beloved dad).

Entering:

I am a seeker: intentional and hungry for joy.

“I need to build a house for him,” I told my husband every morning the week after my father died. Every night, I dreamt of walking through open houses with my dad, the way we had when I was a child and teenager. In my dreams, we were looking for a home for him. When I woke each morning, I tried to sketch what I had seen. I was trying to design the perfect place for him, wherever he was.

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I was six years old when my dad designed our family home. In the blueprints, he drew every bedroom, bathroom, and corridor. He placed a swinging door between the dining room and the kitchen because, as he put it, “You shouldn’t have to cross the house to get from the dining room to the kitchen.” Then he would make me imagine carrying heavy platters of food. “You don’t want to travel far.”

Architecture was only a hobby for him. On weekends, he built entire worlds: train sets with towns arranged around them, and dollhouse rooms for my sister and me. During phone calls for his day job as an attorney, he doodled floor plans. I copied him.

“Don’t forget a powder room and a coat closet — both near the front door,” he reminded me when I was eight. “Rookie mistake, forgetting those. And every house needs a mudroom, where kids can take off their shoes and leave their backpacks. Combine it with the laundry room and put it by the back door or off the garage.”

He had firm beliefs. “Contemporary houses are cold.” “Living rooms are wasted space. The American family isn’t that formal anymore. If a living room already exists in a house, close it off, design built-in bookshelves, and turn it into a library or home office. Great rooms are the perfect combination of family room and living room.” He was also a big fan of entry courtyards and double-sided indoor/outdoor fireplaces.

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I took it all in as I drafted. My staircases looked like ladders. Nothing was to scale. This made him laugh, but never in a mean way.

Late on Sunday afternoons, after temple services and Packers games were over, my dad and I drove around Milwaukee visiting open houses. We weren’t looking to buy; we were looking for fun. If he couldn’t see a powder room and a coat closet upon entry, or a mudroom near the garage, he knew we were in a poorly designed house. And he said so.

The houses he designed always made sense. They connected and flowed seamlessly from room to room. The houses I designed were at first influenced almost entirely by my father’s preferences. Then I branched out, drafting small cabins intended for Door County, the lake town in northern Wisconsin. “I love this loft idea,” he would say to me. “Great use of space.” Or, “Is that a built-in wood dining table and booth on the backyard boat dock? Nice!” He always paid such close attention.

When I visited him in his nursing home — a cold, disconnected space with the facade of a colonial home — as he slowly died of Parkinson’s disease and dementia, I retold my dad our house-design stories. He was only in his early 70s when he became nonverbal. “Remember that house in Bayside with carpet on the walls?” He would give me one of his rare but coveted half-smiles of recognition. I know he remembered.

For five years, we watched this giant of a man be slowly dismantled by disease. The injustice of his illness wrecked me. He had worked so hard his entire life, but never got the chance to enjoy the retirement he’d earned. After his death, I drifted through days in a fog of grief, unable to fathom that my dad was no longer in the world. I felt almost childlike in my confusion. “Where is he?” I would murmur to my husband. “He needs somewhere to be.”

A few months later, during a particularly rainy winter in Los Angeles, I arrived at the stage of grief where I began questioning all of my life choices, including the one that had led me away from architecture. I had wanted to be an architect for most of my childhood and teen years. One year, I asked for and received a drafting desk for my birthday. I memorized the names of every swatch in the books my mom brought home from the local fabric store.

After drawing houses, I would furnish them in my head. The summer before my senior year of high school, I toured a few colleges with excellent architecture programs, but at 18, committing to a career felt impossibly premature. So I chose a strong liberal arts college. In becoming well-rounded, I drifted away from my early passion. Twenty-five years later, and especially now that my dad was gone, I felt as though I had given up on a dream before even officially trying.

I became a writer, which has its own similarities to architecture. In both, you create something out of nothing. I build with words. When I sketch a house or craft an essay, I can feel my heart rate quicken. My face flushes a bit. It has always been this way.

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Like my dad, whenever I doodle, I doodle floor plans — guest houses, artist studios, pool houses, even stables. I have crushes on houses. After a trip to Palm Springs, I became infatuated with midcentury modern style and read everything I could about Jack Meiselman and Bob Alexander. It finally made sense to sign up for an online architecture course at the local college.

“Oh, we have so many beautiful things to see!” the teacher, a slightly older woman barely able to contain her excitement, exclaimed on Zoom. It was the online version of a giant lecture hall course, my first meeting of Introduction to Architecture, and I already knew my father would have loved it. I had to stop myself from searching the hundred little Zoom boxes for his face.

“Let’s get started!” the teacher said, and I felt something stir in my chest.

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The class was a feast for the senses: textiles, furniture styles, color chips, columns, coffered ceilings, and carved walls. We learned bits of architectural trivia, like how a red door on a house now means “welcome,” but once meant, “We have daughters of marriageable age.” Like an early version of Match.com. My dad would have gotten a kick out of that.

During the first weeks of my online class, I took notes and wondered if I was subconsciously taking them for him. I imagined us talking on the phone after each class: “What did she mean by adaptive reuse?” I imagined him making bad jokes after the textiles class, like “God DAMask!”

I knew he would have fallen in love with Spanish-style architecture, with its yellows and blues for sun and sea. He would have laughed, as I did, at words like Churrigueresque, which the teacher described as “like frosting on the front of a Baroque building.” In my head, I was giving him the second act he deserved.

As much as I enjoyed it, the class became difficult to attend, even virtually. It was only one night a week for 12 weeks, but my husband was working long hours, and my preteens needed me at night. Often, I would half-listen with one earbud in and the other out, trying to stay connected to the lecture while still hearing my children.

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I began to resent the homework. I didn’t have time to write four term papers about houses when my own house seemed to be crumbling around me. As heavy rains doused Los Angeles, our roof started to leak in three places. Then a pipe burst beneath the house. My days became consumed by roofing estimates and research into pipe materials to replace the corroded ones beneath us. My nights were spent awake, listening to rain drip into bowls and pots in every bedroom.

Right after I dropped the class, my eleven-year-old daughter drew intricate floor plans for a four-story school. She said she had learned by watching me. She was so proud of the amphitheater and the smaller black-box theater, the indoor pool and two-story library, the science lab separate from the robotics lab. It was her dream school, she said.

I knew in that moment where my dad was. He was right there, watching my daughter with me.

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I’m not sure I want to be an architect anymore. Maybe architecture was an excuse to be close to my dad when I was growing up and, now, a way to be closer to the memory of him. My home as an adult abides by so many of his beliefs: our living room has more than one purpose; our kitchen is next to the dining room; there is a coat closet and powder room near the foyer. I know that to build a home, you need patience, connection, and flow. I have also learned, on my own, that rainy seasons come and go, but slate roofs are the best protection, copper pipes are worth the expense, and our children benefit from us paying close attention.

Last night, with my daughter watching beside me, I sketched a two-story traditional house to all of his specifications: an entry courtyard, a double-sided indoor/outdoor fireplace, and a place, wherever he is, for my dad to keep warm.

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This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

Helping others find their voices while my own work happened quietly behind the scenes.

In:

Learning that visibility requires grieving the safety of remaining unseen.

Entering:

Playing and having fun!

I expected writing my memoir to be the hardest part. I didn’t expect publishing it to feel like grief

For the past five years, Radical Return has lived quietly beside me. It has taken shape as drafts, paintings inspired by dreams and psychedelic journeys, drawings layered with memory, choreographed dances filmed in places that became part of the story, voice memos captured before an insight disappeared, and conversations with trusted friends. Long before it became a memoir, it became a way of living. The medicine journeys, artwork, and dances belonged to a small circle of people who helped me shape them with care. Soon, they will belong to anyone who picks up the book.

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As my publication date approaches, people keep asking whether I’m excited. I am. But excitement isn’t the feeling that catches me off guard. Grief is.

We often think of grief as belonging to death, to illness, to losses we can clearly see. But there is another kind of grief, quieter and less visible, that arrives not only with endings but also with becoming. Radical Return tells the story of reclaiming my body after experiences that taught me silence. It also names systemic issues within my profession that too often remain hidden. Writing was an intensely private act. Publication turns that private act into a public offering. The closer October comes, the more I realize I’m mourning something I hadn’t expected to lose: anonymity.

For nearly two decades, I have worked as a psychologist and psychoanalyst. My profession values listening more than speaking. My work has been about making space for someone else’s story while remaining in the background. I am deeply comfortable being the witness. A memoir asks something entirely different. It asks me to become the one being witnessed.

What I didn’t realize is that this invitation would not end with the book. Until this year, I had spent fifty-eight years happily living under what my friends jokingly call a “social media rock.” I built a career without Instagram. My days were filled with patients, supervision, teaching, training, and writing. Recording videos of myself or thinking about algorithms simply was not part of the plan. Then I learned what every first-time author eventually learns: writing the book is only half the work. If you want readers to find it, you have to show up.

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At first, social media felt incompatible with who I was. It seemed performative and self-promotional. But instead of talking about myself, I began interviewing people whose lives intersected with my memoir: psychologists, psychedelic therapists, artists, choreographers, filmmakers, energy healers, and friends with remarkable stories. To my surprise, I loved it. The interviews reminded me why I wrote Radical Return in the first place. They were not about selling a book. They were about curiosity, generosity, and creating conversations that extended beyond my own story.

Then the comments started appearing: “We want to hear more from you.” Each time, I felt both touched and exposed. I know how to ask thoughtful questions. I know how to help others find language for experiences they cannot yet name. I’ve spent my career illuminating other people’s stories. Learning to trust that my own voice belongs in the conversation feels different.

As I’ve sat with that discomfort, I’ve realized it is not really fear. It’s grief: the grief of losing anonymity, of surrendering the illusion that privacy guarantees safety, of knowing that no matter how carefully I write, someone will misunderstand me. It is the grief of wondering whether people I love will recognize themselves in stories that were never meant to indict them, and of accepting that some relationships may shift simply because I chose to tell the truth.

There is another grief I hadn’t anticipated: responsibility. Once your voice reaches beyond your own circle, it no longer belongs only to you. Readers bring their own histories, hopes, and wounds. Some will find themselves in these pages; others will not. Some may disagree with me completely. That is no longer mine to control. There is something both terrifying and tender about releasing work that was born in solitude into the hands of strangers.

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As publication gets closer, I find myself thinking less about reviews or sales than about identity. The woman who wrote this memoir in private cannot accompany it into the world unchanged. She needed privacy, trusted readers, and the freedom to change her mind before the words became permanent.

The woman stepping into this next chapter is learning something different: that visibility is not the same as self-promotion, that sharing your own story can create permission for someone else to tell theirs, and that stepping forward does not mean abandoning the work of witnessing. It means becoming willing to be witnessed, too.

Maybe that’s true of every meaningful transition. From the outside, these moments look like beginnings. From the inside, they often feel like endings. We celebrate the courage it takes to answer a calling, but we talk much less about what we have to grieve in order to live it: the safety of remaining unknown, relationships that may change, identities that no longer fit, and the responsibility that comes with having a voice.

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Perhaps that is the quiet work of every new chapter: not simply turning the page, but thanking the person who carried us through the last one.

As I step into this next chapter, I don’t feel fearless. I feel grateful: grateful for the psychologist who spent years helping other people find their voices, for the writer who protected these stories until they were ready, and for the woman who believed that listening was enough. She carried me this far. Now it’s my turn to trust that my own voice belongs in the conversation, too.

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This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

Having little kids at home during the day.

In:

Stay at home mom, raising big kids.

Entering:

Parenting elementary, middle, and high school kids all at the same time.

Gone are the days of double strollers and sippy cups. Gone are the days of diapers and wipes. Gone are the tiny toes, little hands, sticky faces, and high chairs. Gone are the naps, binkies, and blankies. Gone are the middle-of-the-night feedings and snuggles. Gone are the days that seemed never-ending, when my recovering body was exhausted and overworked.

I didn’t think it would happen, but it did.

Independence arrived quietly, then took over. Good-morning hugs are no longer automatic.

And I miss it.

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Now we are in the days of teenagers and big feelings. Now we are in the days of homework, fitting in, and finding their way. Now we are in the days of counting down until moving on and growing up.

It happens too fast.

That’s what they said.

I just nodded my head and rolled my eyes. Did they know the day I had? Potty training was a nightmare. Someone skipped a nap. Someone had an ear infection. The demands. So many demands.

The crying. The endless crying.

Did we lose the binky?

I wasn’t sure I had another day like this in me. And yet, somehow, I did.

But you know what?

It happened.

The realization snuck up on me at 11 p.m., as I scrolled through old photos.

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How was that six years ago?

I finally allowed my heart to grieve, something I wasn’t prepared to do. I didn’t realize I was living in a chapter that was about to end.

I never imagined I’d miss those ordinary days enough to give them a name: the gone days.

I wish I could have held onto those little hands just a little longer. Read Snuggle Puppy one more time. Carried my tiny baby in a sling on my chest again.

I was blessed to do these things five times over. Even knowing that my last time would be the last, I still wasn’t prepared.

Now, sitting at the park watching my children play, I cry over feelings I didn’t know were waiting for me. I cry at a park they will soon outgrow.

I’m somewhere in the middle years now, with children in elementary, middle, and high school. Their needs are different, and that’s okay. My heart feels different too. Maybe it’s called being seasoned. Maybe it’s called getting older. But when I see a double stroller or a baby in a carrier, I think of the days that are gone.

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It terrifies me.

Because the days I’m living now will become the gone days too.

To experience both is a blessing.

A gift.

If you’re still living inside the days I now call gone, try to cherish them.

You won’t know they’re gone until they are.

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This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

Practicing law, running a business, and raising four children on my own.

In:

Becoming a full-time writer and loving my new role as "Nana.”

Entering:

Choosing what really matters to me.

Dear You,

I want to tell you something.

But first I want to smell you, to feel your tiny body nestled in the crook of my arm, to be awed by the length of your fingers and toes, wondering where they came from.

I want to rub the soft bit of black fuzz on the top of your still cone-shaped head, the softest thing I have ever felt.

And I want to fly to a magical place where you must have been imagined, and be connected to you through generations.

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Wake up, so I can stare into those blue eyes, deep and serious, flickering open and closed as you toy with the idea of becoming fully alert, part of this world.

How does love begin? How does it form? The heart needs no instruction; its beating is enough. Love is building with each look, each breath, each touch.

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There is something other worldly about you. I am transported to a faraway place — the moon, perhaps — where there is no gravity and we are allowed to float.

I want to know your two-day-old thoughts, stored in that majestic forehead, the yet unformed eyebrows, already furrowed when you are agitated.

I want to tell you something about this world you have been brought into: its harshness, its unfairness, its disappointments. But I won’t. There is time for the lessons I wish you didn’t need to learn.

Today I want to tell you about sunshine, the feeling of giddiness and warmth when you step outside and the sun greets you with a hug, inviting you to stand under its umbrella of light.

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Today I want to tell you about strawberries, the sensation you have when you pick up the red dimpled fruit, take a bite, and are taken to a land of deliciousness, juice dripping onto your fingers, daring you to lick it off.

Today I want to tell you about how satisfying it is to be immersed in a book, the characters as real to you as friends or family, the worlds strung together in ways that cause you to stop and gasp, their impact so unexpected. I want to tell you about stories that you couldn’t have imagined taking you places, deepening your understanding of the world, making you laugh or cry, but always making you want to stay, to hear more in this sacred place that is always available to you.

Today I want to tell you about the ocean, the thrill of standing at its edge in disbelief at how grand it is, sand getting stuck between your toes, reminding you how integrated with nature you are. Today I want to tell you about looking out at the horizon, knowing that something is beckoning you from the distance, waves rolling up and melting your fear, the refreshing tinkling of cold water splashing while original thoughts fill your mind as you take it all in, better for having been there.

Today I want to tell you about laughter, how giggles are contagious and spread like wildfire and what an explosive release it is to laugh with your whole body, a reminder in the moment that life is worth living. How sometimes, when you laugh so hard that tears come to your eyes, you recognize another emotion, another possibility on the heels of laughing, a nuanced intersection between joy and sorrow that tugs at your heart.

Today I want to tell you about my dad, your great-grandfather, for whom you are named. He was my North Star, my moral compass, and made me feel as loved as I want to make you feel now. He was a reminder of my own goodness and worth, a place of belonging, the only man I knew whose thoughts, actions, and words aligned and in whose love I felt safe and confident. He would have loved you beyond words.

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There’s so much to tell you, little one. But I want to listen even more: to hear what makes you you, what rocks your world, what brings you to your knees, what comforts you, and fills you up. I want to be there to hear about it all.

You are the one to carry on the family name, to make your mark. When I feel your tiny body against mine, I am brought back thirty-four years when your father was my baby and I looked into his eyes and became whole, agreeing in that instant to a purpose-driven life. Caretaking, modeling, providing, guiding, and loving.

This is the passing of the torch. My first son holding his first son. The universe is shrinking around us, pushing away worry and doubt, keeping expectations at bay, a narrowing in, closer and closer, until there is nothing but an unnameable connection. There’s a bond that needs no bridge, a knowing that pounds inside, a beginning, a middle, and an end. A parent and child entering into a pact without rules, without instruction, just intuitive movement towards one another, the sealing of a generational imperative.

I watch the fingers of the child I bore clasping the fingers of the child he fathered and consider the possibility that my work is done.

My heart bursts with love for what possibilities now exist, for our family, for the world, for the future.

You have a place here because others have departed. The truth of that still raw. Those who loved first, who sacrificed much, and who broke my heart when they said adieu.

It’s easy to say it’s the circle of life, and it is, but knowing that doesn’t alleviate the pain, the sorrow, the missing. Grief dissolves into love and the love is elevated, prescient, remembered, revealed. My grandparents, my brothers, my parents.

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I imagine us all, siblings, parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, babies and children, all siting on the screened porch in my parents’ house in Larchmont, NY. I can hear laughter, intense conversation, a baby’s cry, a toddler’s whine, teenage giggling. My mother is serving cheese and crackers on floral plates, surrounded by figs and grapes and newly shelled walnuts. My father is pouring glasses of Beaujolais Nouveau and everyone is toasting you, the latest addition to the clan.

The old are fading while the young are just getting started. Traits are passed on, strong genes are on display, while traditions are cherished and stereotypes shatter. Time passing on. Lives well lived.

You are a part of it all, my love, this tapestry of humans who have endured and dreamed, survived and succumbed.

I hear my father as he stands and raises his glass.

“You have a strong name, son. You will grow into it.”

I see my mother gently kiss the top of your head.

“Root for the Yankees”, a chorus of voices shout.

“Love theatre!”

“Love fishing,” my brothers chime in.

The chair where my mother used to sit when she held your father, my son, her first grandson, is visible both in the now and the then. The light is peering in through the screen, and she is cast in a rosy glow, her fingers, long like yours, but bony and a little stiff, her sharp blue eyes demanding the truth.

I am in that chair now, older than she was then. Time is collapsing. Decades are circling. There is a collective heart beating, bursting with joy, all of us at the party of life. Applause can be heard. You are welcomed to the world and I to the older generation where I step into the unknown, bringing with me tools I was given by those I honor, which I will share with you, my beautiful boy.

Let’s begin with this. Love well, love loud, love hard, and love in the face of it all.

Love,

Nana

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Behind the Scenes

In March 2021, I was editing essays for our now-defunct Moms Don’t Have Time to Write essay platform when a fabulous piece came in on submission about online exercise. I loved the writer’s voice. Who was this woman !?

After publishing the essay, I asked Alisha if she’d talk. Back then, I was hosting my podcast, an events series, and an online book club, but in the back of my head I’d been contemplating becoming a publisher. This was exactly the type of story I wanted to uplift. After interviewing hundreds of authors I admired, I wanted to do something more to help. What if I launched a publishing company with this author?

What’s the worst that could happen? I thought. I’d fail trying to help authors? I was okay with that.

By July 19, 2021, I’d put together a mission statement and goals.

Mission

To produce exceptional, accessible, mainstream literary content in fiction and memoir that moves and connects us all.

Tagline

Telling it like it is.

A Few Goals

• To pick the books worth making time for.

• To establish new voices as literary superstars.

• To shine a light on women’s decisions, life choices, and interior lives.

• To entertain and delight readers while making them think.

• To treat authors like rock stars.

• To try new things without fear of failure.

Alisha trusted us and came on board with her memoir, then called The 40-Year-Old Intern, about the year in her life as a married mom when she left her big-deal job to take four internships. It would be our first book. A lot happened behind the scenes those first two years. At times, I regretted my decision (it was hard!), but I kept going.

The pride I felt when Alisha’s book came out on February 7, 2023 surpassed the pride I felt when my own first book was published. My What If Year got coverage from GMA, People magazine, and more. It was beyond exciting. We had done it, together, against all odds. We then published Alisha’s debut novel, Someone’s Gotta Give, on August 5, 2025, which became a USA Today bestseller.

So, when I was sitting shotgun in the car last month, Kyle driving, and got a text with a Deadline article announcing that America Ferrera had optioned and would star in My What If Year, I screamed and then literally sat back in my seat, dropped my phone on my lap, and smiled.

What if? You only know when you try.

Here’s Alisha’s take on hearing the news herself.

More Screens

• The show “Lucky,” based on the Reese’s Book Club selected novel by , debuted last week. We hosted Marissa and Showrunner Cassie Pappas at Zibby’s Bookshop to discuss.

• Our booksellers recommend some fabulous books to prep for their adaptations.

• Event alert: Willem Dafoe and Greta Lee star in Late Fame, a film about a poet turned post office worker whose work is rediscovered decades later. My husband Kyle’s production company, Morning Moon, is one of the producers. Join acclaimed director Kent Jones and Kyle at Zibby’s Bookshop on August 13th at 6 pm! The film, which premiered in Venice, comes out August 7th.

  

Reading Recs

Check out the Zibby’s Bookshop bestsellers this week! How many have you read?

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• Isn’t this nuts? Two of my recent Instagram book recommendation reels received 610K and 504K views respectively. That’s more than a million views! Who says people aren’t reading!? Check out which I suggested!

• Here are 20 reads organized by where they take you, which I wrote for Katie Couric Media. Click here.

• Check out the 13 titles I curated by emotion (a la Zibby’s Bookshop) for The Newsworthy podcast.

• Have you seen my Most Anticipated Summer Reads from April? Stay tuned: my Fall Most Anticipated List drops right here on August 2nd!

• The Between Chapters Substack has five new wonderful essays up!

  • If you want to connect with other people going through similar chapters, I’ve launched a WhatsApp Between Chapters community with groups devoted to career, grief, reinvention, relationships, illness, and parenthood. Join here. Let’s talk.

What’s your favorite recent adaptation?! Mine is The Idea of You adapted from Robinne Lee’s novel. By the way, weekend retreaters on our upcoming Santa Monica Retreat will be treated to a special movie screening! Stay tuned for a special offer from my brother Teddy’s movie from Black Bear Pictures: Spa Weekend!

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Warmly,

Zibby

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We’re currently living through the Golden Age of book-to-screen adaptations. It seems like every single day yet another beloved book is getting its turn to shine on the big screen. From Emerald Fennell’s take on the literary classic, Wuthering Heights, to the first trailer dropping for the highly anticipated adaptation of Kazuo Ishiguro’s bestseller, Klara and The Sun, we are constantly rereading our favorites in preparation for their adaptations, adding books and movies alike to our “must read” and “must watch” lists.

Not that we’re complaining! As Los Angelenos, we love all stories—from books, to TV shows, to movies—and love to see how our favorite novels transform in a visual medium. In that spirit, we’re sharing our favorite recent (and most highly anticipated) adaptations coming out, and the books that inspired them.

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• Verity by Colleen Hoover: Before it hits the big screen starring Anne Hathaway, Dakota Johnson, and Josh Hartnett, pick up the thriller that captivated millions of readers. Verity is a dark, twisty psychological suspense novel filled with secrets, obsession, and shocking revelations. It’s the kind of book you’ll race through in a weekend and immediately need someone to discuss with afterward.

  

• Dog Stars by Peter Heller: With a film adaptation directed by Ridley Scott and starring Jacob Elordi, Margaret Qualley, and Josh Brolin on the horizon, now is the perfect time to discover this unforgettable novel. Set in a hauntingly beautiful post-pandemic world, The Dog Stars is both a gripping survival story and a moving meditation on love, loss, and hope. Peter Heller’s lyrical prose makes this literary dystopian tale truly soar.

• Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt: Remarkably Bright Creatures is every bit as charming as you’ve heard. Blending mystery, humor, and heart, this book celebrates the unexpected connections that help us find our way. Read this delightful relationship-driven drama and then cozy up on the couch to watch Sally Field bring it to life in a way only Sally Field can.

• Dark Matter by Blake Crouch: Now adapted into a hit series starring Joel Edgerton and Jennifer Connelly, Dark Matter is the mind-bending thriller that takes the multi-verse to a whole new level. Blake Crouch masterfully explores alternate realities, second chances, and the lives we might have lived, all while delivering relentless suspense. Grab a copy before season 2 drops on August 28th!

• Beach Read by Emily Henry: With The White Lotus’s Patrick Schwarzenegger and Bridgerton’s Phoebe Dynevor set to bring this fan-favorite romance to life on screen, now is the perfect time to fall in love with Beach Read. Equal parts witty, heartfelt, and emotionally resonant, Emily Henry’s novel follows two rival writers who challenge each other to swap genres for the summer. It’s a smart, swoony romance that proves some of the best love stories begin when you least expect them.

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But three years ago, I was asked if I would I like to option the rights to my book—and my life—to brilliant, talented, Academy Award-nominated America Ferrera. That answer was a no-brainer.

So far, the process of taking my book to the screen has been a slow one. I spend a lot of time waiting for emails. I’ve barely let myself imagine what it would be like to actually see my name in a Deadline headline, my book cover front-and-center for all of Hollywood to see.

I definitely did not imagine that when the news popped up on my screen, I would be sitting on my sofa, eating a vanilla yogurt, watching the final episode of America’s Sweethearts: Season Three. But in life, as in books, sometimes, the thing you’re waiting for doesn’t happen exactly how you expected. It’s better.

Since the film adaptation news dropped, I have been inundated with kind messages from everyone I have ever met. This is not an exaggeration. They have been 95% congratulations, 4.99% casting questions (yes, I too am voting for Oscar Isaac to play Carlos), and 0.01% “Can Brad Pitt please play me?” (The answer today, as it was when you first asked, Dad, is “I have zero say over that decision.”)

I’ve been overwhelmed by the support, so please, friends, keep it coming as this project takes shape. Hopefully, the next set of challenging questions for me will include what do I wear to the premiere? Popcorn or Sno-Caps? Or better yet, both?

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This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

Four years of structured university life.

In:

The post-graduation "in-between."

Entering:

Early adulthood and professional independence in a new city.

For twenty-plus years, life had a built-in trajectory. Fifth grade led to sixth. Sophomore year led to junior year Finals led to summer. The school handled the timeline for you. You might have been overwhelmed, but at least everyone agreed on what week it was.

Then, you graduate and the timeline stops. Suddenly, there is no syllabus, registrar, or automated email from an advisor titled, “Important Next Steps.” (You begin to crave that correspondence with humiliating intensity.) The day belongs to you. This is presented as “freedom,” but often feels like being thrown into the water, not knowing how to swim.

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Postgrad life is strange because nothing has technically gone wrong. You graduated! People are proud of you. There were photos and flowers and cards. And yet, immediately after, the ceremony curdles into logistics. Where are you living? What are you doing? Are you moving? Are you saving money?

You apply to entry-level jobs and tweak your résumé because you are unsure whether past responsibilities like “assisted with project management” sound too vague. You write cover letters in a tone of forced enthusiasm: “I am thrilled to apply” and “I have long admired your work.” It feels pathetic, this stream of polite petitions sent into hiring portals that may not even be monitored by real people.

The design flaw of postgrad life is that it begins with a ceremony which suggests completion. We dress up the end of college as a coronation, but the experience is closer to being pushed off a dock while everyone waves from the shore. A diploma has a cruel joke built into it: the document says you are finished, while every practical detail suggests you have barely begun.

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The worst part is having to explain yourself when you don’t have the answers. At family dinners, in the grocery store, or on your mother’s Facebook page, someone always asks: “So, what’s next?”

Before you can think, your anxiety answers for you. Your shoulders tighten, you smile in a way that is highly overqualified and deeply underpaid, and you offer a cheerful response about looking for roles in New York, grad school, or “taking the summer to figure things out.” The question is affectionate, but it lands like a small civic interrogation.

What people want is a clean answer: a job title, a city, a start date, and a salary that does not require parental euphemism. A happy before-and-after story. Student to employee. Dorm room to apartment. Small errands become tests of competence. Returning an online order, refilling a prescription, depositing a check, calling the dentist back. Somehow, they become existential. You wonder: Can I be trusted to manage a life?

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Sometimes the answer appears to be no. It is easy to have a minor breakdown over something ordinary, like choosing an email subject line that sounds professional without sounding embalmed. In postgrad life, the scale gets warped. One ghosted email feels like ruin, one decent networking call can feel like salvation. You start to feel everything more intensely when no one is watching.

After graduation, wanting becomes unsupervised. No one tells you which opportunities are worth your time, which ambitions are real, or which ones you inherited from prestige, panic, or Instagram.

You learn that some jobs look better on paper than they do in real life. You learn that prestige is a drug with a miserable comedown. You learn that a city can feel like destiny in the abstract and a utility bill in the concrete. You learn that comparison turns affection into acid.

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Part of the problem is that postgrad life is unusually public. Everyone is announcing something: a job, a move, a fellowship, a lease, a new city. The language is almost always the same. People are “excited to share,” “thrilled to announce,” and “grateful for the opportunity.” Meanwhile, the actual process is much less photogenic. There are unanswered emails, awkward informational calls, half-written cover letters, and long afternoons spent wondering whether “just following up” sounds normal or desperate.

But the effort accumulates. The cover letters and conversations add up. The humiliations compound too, but so do the recoveries. You send the follow-up. You ask for advice. You survive the silence, fix the sentences, show up anyway, and try again.

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This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

My post-maternity leave chapter.

In:

The querying trenches as an Indie author

Entering:

About to sign with my very first literary agent! YAY!!

This world is not meant to be easy on a childbearing woman.

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Three weeks ago, as I stood making a cup of coffee, cradling my fourth baby, who had been nestled at my breast for the previous twenty minutes, I thought to myself: I can’t wait to go back to work.

The laundry had piled up. The dishes sat unwashed in the kitchen sink. My work as a writer had been placed on hold for months. My still-recovering body was worn down. Bags under my eyes held more fluid than usual. My normal bandwidth — being able to balance it all well — was missing. Instead, I was in a soul-crushing sea of chores, never-ending tasks, and mundane responsibilities of motherhood.

But now, back at my desk as a psychiatric office supervisor, a position I’ve held for almost twelve years, I find myself thinking: I wish I could go back on maternity leave.

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Why is it that women have to choose between quality time with their children or a job we enjoy? What about our ever-fragile sanity?

In my last week of maternity leave, I took time to reflect. I was thankful I had a job to go back to with colleagues who were counting on my return. I was grateful to have another healthy baby. I was fortunate to be married to a supportive husband. Yet inside, I was screaming to be anywhere but home, even though it was a home filled with love, laughter, and good health.

Between the weeks of sleepless nights, the smell of spoiled milk capping each of my shoulders, the extra skin that hung over my pajama pants, and my unwashed hair tossed up into a bun each morning, I longed to be myself again. I was having irrational thoughts, like: if I could just squeeze back into those jeans that once fit, or if I could travel the roads in my own car, then I could get some happiness back.

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Turns out, what I was missing was a routine separate from that of being a wife and mother. One that didn’t involve me holding my beautiful new daughter 24/7 or cleaning up an endlessly dirty house.

The thing is, now that I’ve gotten my routine back, I still feel like something is missing. Sadly and alarmingly, I find myself longing to go back in time. I find with a little more rest, I can now appreciate the moments I can’t get back, no matter how hard I try. Like little toes that curl at the touch of my hand. A coo and a smile when she sees my face in the morning. A cry that is comforted by the crook of my arm, placed just right. A crook no one else seems to be able to offer.

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Why did I rush it? Why did I rush that uninterrupted time with her? She’s my last baby. Everyone else is grown. My oldest hardly seems to need me anymore. It’s all carpooling, and sports, and endless snacks at the ready. I wish I could go back to making those cups of coffee with her feeding at my breast and falling asleep for hours in the crook of my arm.

I pick her up from daycare, a solid ten hours with someone else to rock her to sleep, desperate to see her at the end of my workday. Many women like me have to take those ten hours away from their children to be able to provide for them. Yes, that required time away is spent doing work that I enjoy, but still. It’s a vicious cycle of hoping and praying I am doing the right thing. For me. For them.

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The guilt I felt in my last week of maternity leave was unbearable. How could I wish for time away from the child I prayed for? I reminded myself of the miscarriage I had last summer, thinking, you lucky woman. You got pregnant again so quickly after such a horrible loss, and now you have everything you could ever want. You have things some women will never get to experience. Why aren’t you soaking it up and enjoying this time?

It isn’t that simple.

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This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

Seeing my mother through the lens of her death.

In:

Reaching my mother's age.

Entering:

Deepening my relationship with the woman she became.

I always understood that my mother died too young, which didn’t stop me from thinking of her as old. She made it to sixty-four. As my birthdays came and went, I knew — or, at least, believed — that one day I would reach an age she never did. I wondered what that birthday would feel like. If there would be sadness. If I would resent friends my age who still had their mothers. If crossing into the years she never lived would somehow change our relationship.

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Last year, I turned sixty-five. And suddenly that woman, my mother, seemed incredibly young. For the first time, I stopped thinking about the loss, or even the age at which she died, and started thinking about all that life she was able to live.

When people ask about my mother, I usually begin with her diagnosis. Stage IV ovarian cancer. She was fifty years old. The doctors could have caught it sooner, but for months they told her whatever she was feeling was because of her weight. By the time they finally took her seriously, they gave her two years.

In a rare moment of agency, she looked at them and said, “You don’t know that. You don’t get to tell me how long I get to live. I’ll decide.” And so she did. For fourteen more years.

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Recently, I came at the math differently. (That’s my father’s side of me at work.) Fourteen years is nearly a quarter of her life. My mother spent almost twenty-two percent of her life living with a terminal diagnosis. I had never thought about her life that way before.

I always loved my mother’s story, not simply because she beat the odds, but because she did cancer well. She gave herself permission to do things she had only dreamed about, or things that scared her. She took up acting classes and wrote poetry. She discovered facials, became a grandmother, and started to remove a port-wine stain birthmark from her face. She joined a woman’s support group where newly diagnosed women looked to her for hope. The woman who had spent much of her life doubting herself became someone other women believed in.

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For most of those fourteen years, we lived on opposite coasts. My parents were in Los Angeles. I had moved to New York. There were phone calls and visits. I flew west to watch her perform a scene from the play “‘Night, Mother” at Roxbury Park in Beverly Hills. But there was so much of her life I never knew. I didn’t even know she had cancer until after her first surgery. She didn’t tell anyone except for my father. Not my brothers or her friends. Not even her own sister or mother. She needed to know she was a survivor before letting anyone in.

At first I was angry. She didn’t tell us? Not even me?

Then I realized my feelings weren’t about my mother, they were about myself. My fears, not hers.

Several surgeries followed as the cancer spread to her spleen and other areas. Through it all, she slowly stopped auditioning for her own life and simply started living it. When the cancer found its way into her liver, a three-year-window became three days. And when she left, I thought the lesson was simple: Life is short. Just a few months later my understanding started to change.

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Independent of my mother’s death, I had decided to do something completely out of character. I had never liked massages, spas, or meditation. My workaholic ways were worn like a badge of honor. But I had begun to understand they weren’t sustainable. So I booked a week at Canyon Ranch in Tucson and attended their Life Enhancement Program. Without realizing it, I had arrived during Mother-Daughter weekend, an experience my mother and I never got to share in any form.

At my first-ever hypnotherapy session, the therapist said, “I don’t usually say things like this, but I do feel your mother is with us.” She put me into a relaxed state, eyes closed, body reclined, and guided me down a staircase.

“On the bookcase there’s a black book,” she said. “I want you to reach for it and pick it up. It’s heavy.” She told me it held all the sadness and tears I had been carrying for my mother since I was little. “She wants it all back now. She’s strong enough to hold it herself.”

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From there, I wandered into the gift shop. I don’t like jewelry, but I do like to look at it, which is what I was doing when I heard the two voices.

“Can I help you?”

My eyes were focused downward, studying the jewelry.

“Yes, please let us know if we can help you,” said the other.

I looked up at the two saleswomen standing side by side. One wore a name-tag that read Ellen. The other was Ruth. My mother’s name. In that order. Ellen Ruth.

It was our first mother-daughter weekend after all. Over the years, my mother has kept finding me. On a trip to Merída, Mexico, I found myself writing about her in Spanish. A shift in language helped me understand her with generosity English never had. Each encounter has felt less like remembering her and more like meeting another part of the woman she became.

One year ago, she found me on stage, the night before summer solstice. June 21st was her birthday. I had been invited to perform spoken word at Grand Performances in downtown Los Angeles. The theme was “What is a Woman?”

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“Ellen Ruth. Maiden name Groer. Tonight, I want each of you to know her. So join me in this moment. A word that begins with mom.”

Standing at the microphone, less than three months from the birthday my mother never got to have, I shared her story. Or perhaps I should say, we shared the stage.

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This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

For more than a decade, I have operated under an unspoken, psychological survival mechanism: fake it till you make it. It is a protective armor familiar to anyone who has survived the grueling, high-stakes crucible of medical training. Look in the mirror, pull on a white coat, and repeat the mantra until the boundaries between performing competence and embodying it begin to blur.

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But recently, I have been waking up to a strange realization: I am no longer a student. I am over a decade into my career as a surgeon. The external markers of success are indisputably present; I am trusted with intricate, complex procedures, and, financially, I am comfortably in a higher tax bracket. But internally, my habits, my spending patterns, and my self-image have remained stubbornly anchored to the survival mindsets of my immigrant family upbringing and my exhausting residency years.

My current “in-between” chapter is not defined by a conventional transition like a divorce, a move, or an empty nest. Instead, it is defined by an internal mandate: the desire to elevate. I am intentionally closing the book on the provisional, faking-it phase of my life and learning how to fully inhabit the reality I worked so hard to build. It is an evolution from scarcity to abundance, from holding back to stepping forward.

This friction showed up in the small, quiet corners of daily life, where old habits refused to die. Why, as an established surgeon, was I still instinctively recycling old gift bags or settling for flimsy plastic storage containers? Why was I still, again and again, leaning toward imitation jewelry when I desired precious gems? Why was I telling myself I didn’t need a matching pair of shoes for a formal event, or continuing to use worn-out ladles? More tellingly, why was I still tempted to refer out complex surgical cases instead of fully owning the mastery I have spent thousands of hours perfecting?

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Elevation means moving past the compromises of my twenties. It means trading temporary substitutes for quality that lasts, intentionally supporting small and local businesses, and embracing a visual aesthetic that feeds my soul — neutral tones, better fabrics, organic food, and the deliberate creation of a beautiful home, right down to the gold sink and the intricate Indian-style wallpaper in the powder room.

I often find myself overthinking this shift, wrestling with the guilt that women and daughters of modest upbringings in particular so frequently carry. Is this vanity? Am I just swept up in the polished curation of social media grids and glossy magazines? I struggle with these questions constantly. But I am beginning to realize that true elevation is not about superficial flash or keeping up with external expectations.

In fact, the most vital part of this transition is elevating my boundaries. To elevate is to claim a life well-lived. It means outgrowing the fear of what others will say. It means no longer being passive or allowing myself to be taken advantage of, whether at group outings or when requests for donations arise. It is about moving from a place of chronic overcompensation to one of quiet, solid confidence, and trusting myself with the surgical cases I once would have handed off.

It is the challenging, beautiful process of ensuring that my internal architecture matches my external achievements — and that phase of authentic ownership has begun.

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Thursday, October 1 from 12:30 pm - 2 pm PT: Maria Shriver at me at Zibby’s Bookshop. Tickets here …

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