Thursday Stream of Consciousness

January 15, 2026. 2:24pm.

I promised myself I was going to write today, just like I promised myself yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Every time I sit down to a blank page, though, I find something else to do. I respond to emails and edit podcast outlines and check Slack messages and pretend to care about doing my taxes. I empty the dishwasher. Start a load of laundry. Pick up three different Diary of a Wimpy Kid books strewn along the couch and fling them into the children’s bedrooms. Vacuum the two steps in our home where somehow, mysteriously, clumps of dog hair accumulate.

It’s not like me to break a promise to myself, I confess to friends over Voxer. What is going on with me?!

Lately, I’d rather do anything than write.

Which is, of course, a sign that I probably need to write.

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Writer whines on Substack about not being able to write.

Alex, I’ll take Subjects Nobody Cares About for $500.

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I’m not actually short on ideas. I’m working on a piece called “getting closer to the ground”—directly inspired by a story I shared on a recent Zoom call where I accidentally burst into tears. The second the call ended, a friend texted, “That’s your next Substack.”

I’ve got a full draft about secondhand shopping. An abecedarian work in progress called “40 Year-Old Virgin” where I outline a list of things I’ve never done. I’m working on an essay called BYO dinner, which is essentially a love letter to low-key hospitality. Other drafts sitting in my Google drive: The Recovering Perfectionist’s Guide to B+ Hosting, A Day In the Life of My Instagram Ads, Film As Rebellion.

The ideas are not the problem, is what I’m trying to say.

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The piece I actually want to write is about my word for the year, but every time I think about doing a deep dive into my own New Year self-reflection, I can’t seem to muster up the energy.

A mother shot in the head. A teacher pulled from her car. A teenager pushed to the ground in the middle of Target. Every time I dare to scan the news I watch some version of the same footage: untrained men in guns terrorizing American citizens in the name of making our country safe. Then we’ve got Elon’s AI creating deepfake sexual images of children, and that same AI being integrated into Pentagon networks. Iran. Venezuela. Redacted files. Everywhere we turn: corruption, greed, sexual predators, racism, violence.

I get on Voxer and attempt to make sense of the senseless with friends who are doing the same. All of us simply trying not to fall into a pit of despair, trying to do as Mother Teresa advised: go home and love our families.

So I vacuum the floors and schedule the dentist appointments and fold the socks and keep the little free library stocked. I show up to yoga and smile at the woman next to me. I cut the crust off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and make protein smoothies for my boys before they go to basketball practice. I go door-to-door with my daughter asking all the neighbors if they’d like to buy girl scout cookies. I photograph the sky in Target parking lots and notice the first camellias blooming outside our front door.

Does any of this matter?
Does all of this matter?

Yesterday on Voxer Sonya asked, “What are we making for dinner at the end of the world?”

I’m not sure.

Last night, I had cereal.

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This morning I watched a woman recount how two men attacked her last week in broad daylight at 10am. They jumped out of the car next to her, wearing hoodies and masks, and grabbed her. Not her keys, not her purse, they grabbed her. She fought like hell, screaming “Get the f*** off of me!!!!!” over and over again until she broke free.

A police report has been filed. Nearby buildings are reviewing security footage as I type this.

She is around my age, my build. A mother. This incident happened one mile from my house, in a parking lot I’ve walked through no less than 50 times.

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A few weeks ago, our boys ventured to Walgreens to buy candy for their friends, a small Christmas gift to hand out before winter break. Despite telling them many times not to leave their bikes or scooters outside the store, they did just that.

Bike, helmet, backpack—all stolen in the six minutes our boys picked up Skittles for their classmates.

Again, this incident happened one mile from my house, at the Walgreens I’ve shopped at no less than 50 times.

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After Christmas, I peruse Facebook marketplace and find what appears to be a similar bike. 26”. Red. Schwinn. We paid over $300 for this bike just two months ago for Carson’s birthday. I message the seller and ask a few questions, explaining how our son’s bike was stolen and we needed to replace it, and could we swing by on Saturday?

He ghosts me after that, marks the bike sold the next day.

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Everyone in my family is convinced this random person on Facebook is the same person who stole the bike in the first place. I laugh at the absurdity. Surely Schwinn made more than one red 26” bike?

Then again, I’m the kind of person who trusts total strangers to watch my laptop at the coffee shop when I need to pee.

I’m starting to wonder if I should stop doing that.

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Earlier this week I received an email from someone who wanted to encourage me in my creative work.

She wrote, “Thank you for showing up on the Internet and making beautiful things.”

I unexpectedly felt the sting of tears in my eyes.

Does any of this matter?
Does all of this matter?

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Five minutes ago, a man at the coffee shop asked me to watch his computer while he went to the bathroom. No problem, I smiled.

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This is not a beautiful thing, but it’s a true thing, and the only thing I know how to write today. I’m hitting publish before I can talk myself out of it, before I head home and figure out what to make for dinner at the end of the world.