The night I met Duncan and he didn't ask for my number, I said to myself, That’s okay, he’s too tall anyway.

And yet three decades (and three kids) later, I always forget how giant my family appears when we’re together in public.

“Wow. There’s some height in this elevator,” I heard someone joke as the doors closed. The voice belonged to a woman wearing a purple track suit. I chuckled to myself.

Mother’s Day was the day we welcomed Charlie into the world. Everyone assured me no one gives birth on their actual due date, but somehow my firstborn—after being suctioned out with a vacuum—managed to arrive exactly between 12 and 2 p.m., just like my calendar had suggested.

Charlie’s 24th birthday didn’t line up with Mother’s Day this year, but when he called from Madrid, I reminisced, “This is one of the most important days of my life…” and then—I don’t know exactly where it came from—“You know, I’m sorry…” spilled out.

I was sitting in the window seat, facing the Atlantic.

To my right, just beyond the yellow wingtip, red-speckled roofs adorned the mountainside.

Over the loudspeaker, I heard: “If you’re wearing high heels, please take them off.”

I chuckled and looked down at my black sneakers—the ones I’d thrown on minutes before leaving the house—grateful I wasn’t trying to look like anything but the tourist I was.

A few months ago, I was holding a blue crystal pendulum between my pointer finger and thumb for the very first time. I had just loaded up on coffee, so the persistent shake in my right hand was pronounced.

“It’s okay, Katherine,” the teacher said gently, “You can hold it with both hands.”

“I wish I could describe the magic of the retreat,” I said to Duncan as we sipped miso soup at the sleepy neighborhood sushi bar we love as much for the mango caterpillar roll as for the six-minute walk from our house.

The retreat had ended just a couple of hours earlier. The last bit of sand had been swept out the front door. I wanted to come home from the beach and have dinner with my husband—but I also wanted to savor the feeling—so I took the longer way along the coastal road. With no guardrail between me and the Pacific Ocean, I slowed to an unusual pace, buzzing with gratitude and excitement.

I finished making the stuffing—my mom’s simple, comforting recipe I make every year—and realized I had enough time to take a walk before the sun slipped away for the day. Excitedly, I donned my fitted weight vest, my new pink hat, and scooted up Lake Street to my favorite lookout where the bay meets the Pacific Ocean.

By late November the sun sets early—today at 4:52 p.m. With Thanksgiving the next day, more people than usual were milling around the path toward the Legion of Honor: families taking selfies, golfers finishing their rounds, couples marveling at the view.

What did you come in for today?” she asked.
I couldn’t help but stare at her hair, wondering if she knew that particular shade of maroon would sing against the warmth of her brown skin.

“I fried my computer,” I answered.
“I spilled water all over it as I ran out the door.”

I wanted to add that I’d been rushing to a funeral, but this was not the place.

“So, liquid damage?” she paused, adding, “Could be an hour wait.”

Growing up, I remember my dad sitting at the head of our dining room table, leading games of Michigan Rummy. The details are fuzzy—I recently checked the internet to make sure the game actually exists—but the spirit of those evenings still lives inside me: a little jesting, some jostling, and always a lot of laughs.

“I think that’s a moth,” I mutter to myself, pausing mid-flight on the second-floor landing. I’ve been racing up and down the stairs to help my 20-year-old son, who’s home for the summer, get out the door when I notice a tiny flutter. With a slight bend of my knees, I lean over and gently pinch the spotted brown wings between my index finger and thumb.

Have you ever found yourself answering “I’m fine” when you’re anything but?

Or putting on a brave face when what you’re really craving is connection, understanding, and a space to be fully seen?

I had the opportunity to talk about this with Jen Marples on The Jen Marples Show. Together, we dive into the courage it takes to speak your truth — and why doing so is one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself and those around you.

One Sunday morning, I stood at Horseshoe Cove—a little inlet just beneath the Golden Gate Bridge—where I meet my cold-water dipping crew every day at 7 a.m.
 
I arrived early that day and found Annie already there—a weekend warrior who drives an hour up the 101 to meet us. Somehow, she’s always the first to arrive.
 
“I’m leading a mother-daughter circle this afternoon,” I told her. “And honestly, the stakes feel high.”

“Take care of that little girl,” I heard Katy say.

I had just moved the pillow beneath my hips to under my head. Out of the corner of my right eye, I could see six other bodies stretched out on their mats, resting in quiet surrender. The sun was shining—a gift. At Stinson Beach, the fog can be so thick and heavy that you don’t know where you are. But this morning, I knew exactly where I was: hosting a two-day retreat, a space I had envisioned to fill us up through deep connection.

I'm thrilled to share that Speaking to What Matters has just won the Literary Titan Gold Award! Thank you to everyone who has supported this journey.

Exciting news! I recently had the pleasure of chatting with Literary Titan about the journey of Speaking to What Matters—what inspired it, the impact it’s had, and why these conversations are more important than ever.

I was standing in the waiting room. I didn’t want to take a seat because I knew I’d be sitting for the next 90 minutes.
I’d reached out to my therapist, working through his new automated system. As I drove to Sacramento Street, I pulled my car over to double check I had the right time and address.