Picture this: We are living in a 1923 tudor-style home in the 15th and 15th neighborhood of Salt Lake City and listening to Coldplay’s soul screaming song, “Fix You,” not because me and my actual husband are being splashed on a Jumbotron at a Coldplay concert, but because I am experiencing secondary infertility. I am wrecked. I don’t think I can experience a deeper pain than I felt having my first miscarriages. Beth of 2005 has absolutely no idea that she will experience approximately thirty more miscarriages, including two D&Cs as a result of second trimester losses.

I saw him. In 2013, I saw my baby boy on the ultrasound. He had five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot. He had a cute little nose, just like Kyle’s. That would have been boy number three. We had already nicknamed him, “Sponge Bob.” I was cautiously over the moon at the thought that I would be a mom again. Two weeks later I recall being wheeled down a cold, lonely hallway at LDS hospital. There was no heartbeat. My baby was gone. I would never become pregnant again. 

On days like today I would give anything to go back and be July 2005 Beth. Picture this. Kyle is five years old and Eli is three. My two big, blond, boisterous boys are my world. Kyle is a runaway train of curiosity and creativity. Eli takes a beat and takes it all in. At age three he already has the comic timing of David Letterman. 

In 2005, we are building our Park City home. In September Kyle will begin kindergarten and Eli will go to a new preschool. On that hot summer day, the boys are in their swim suits running around the yard in between the two sprinklers we have set up for them. The band Coldplay plays in the background on the outdoor speaker. Kyle raises his arm high and with the vibrato of Pavoratti he sings, “Lights will guide you home.” Eli gleefully jumps through the water. 

Soon Kyle is throwing paint on 11 x 17” papers we have nailed to a tree for both boys, Eli becomes distracted and asks for a popsicle. 

“Mommy, can I have a popsicle?” 

“Of course.” 

He giggles. Eli’s deep scratchy, little boy laugh fills my heart in a way I never knew was possible. The boys eat their popsicles and Kyle, now covered head to toe in watercolors, quickly returns to his painting. I am transfixed with his wonderful wide-armed gestures as he tells me all about his art, 

“Mom! See, it’s a dinosaur. He is flying. It’s a stegosaurus. Did you know stegosaurs are herbivores? Do you know what a herbivore is? That means they eat plants.”

Eli walks into the house. “Mom, I think I need to pee.” I let Kyle know I check on Eli. 

“Ok Mom. That’s a good idea.” 

Kyle bends over, grabs a bunch of blue paint and throws it at his painting. I walk into our house. 

“Eli. Eli. Where are you?” 

I don’t hear him. I find him on the side of the bed between the wall and the bed. He has taken a pillow with a bug print pillowcase from his bed and is resting on it with his arms crossed behind his head. His big crystal blue eyes are wide open. 

“Hey Eli, there you are. What are you doing?” 

“I’m thinking. Mommy, I like to think.” 

“Do you want to come back and paint?”

“I want to think a little bit more.” 

July 2025: On a whim, earlier this summer, Dave bought tickets to Alaska. Eli couldn’t make it due to his work schedule. Dave bought Kyle a ticket just in case he could. Kyle lives in Brooklyn, New York. This morning Kyle shared that he wouldn’t be able to come to Alaska. My heart cracked wide open and I did that thing I keep telling myself to do. 

“Don’t respond with your big feelings. Give yourself a minute to process.” 

I took a beat. While I was taking my beat, Eli walked upstairs and saw me crying. Eli is signing a contract on a house today. He has already started packing his things. Aside from leaving each summer for out of town jobs with Conservation Corps, Eli has lived at home during college. After finishing his summer internship, he officially graduates from the University of Utah in August. I could not be more proud. 

Eli noticed my tears and asked what was up. 

“You’re moving and we can’t seem to coordinate with Kyle. I am so proud of you, of both of you. You are taking the best next steps. I just love being your mom and,” 

Before I could finish, Eli filled in, “I bet. It’s hard for me too. I’ve lived here so long.”

“You are doing good things.” I responded. 

“Mom, I live so close. I am sure I will be here all the time.” His words carried me. 

I have never experienced greater joy than being a parent. Kyle and Eli are double rainbows after a storm. They are kind people who are doing amazing things. I want them to continue to fly and follow their bliss. I also miss the days of watching them run around the back yard, jumping through sprinklers, eating popsicles and listening to Coldplay.

Well, then again, maybe it is you, but my guess is that it probably is not. 

My husband and I were on a walk when I shared that I had spent the morning in Instagram therapy. (I love-hate those 60 second self help reels!) 

“Did you watch the reel I sent?” I asked. “You know the one about how friends are leaves, branches and roots?” 

He had. Like the gentle dance of autumn leaves falling, we talked about how leaves represent casual friends; friends that come and go. Maybe half of our friends are branches. Those are the friends who love to hear from you, are the ones who show up when they can and are wonderful when they show up. Roots are your darkest hour friends. They are the unwavering, reliable folks who are there when shit goes down and stay. 

“You are my root. I mean, sure there are people who would text me if they knew I was dying. I can count on you. It’s about how we reciprocate and show up for one another. I don’t have to think about it. I know you will be there holding my hair back when I’m puking my brains out. I mean, come on, you are solid! You let me hide under your shirt just when I am feeling sad and insecure. Um, by the way, all of this Instagram-therapy-friendship-talk-build-up is my way of letting you know that right this very moment I am feeling sad and insecure.”

“What’s up?”

“It goes back to last night. Remember when we were at the restaurant? I was trying to get your attention and that dude was in my line of sight. He assumed I was trying to engage him. Instead of blowing him off, I decided to go with the moment. Because he is a professional writer, within seconds he was giving me advice on how I could be a better writer, (I had not asked for writing advice), and seconds later, he was throwing shade on my friends. Like being thrown off a raft without a lifevest, I was flailing. What was supposed to be me trying to get your attention spiraled into him propping himself up at my expense. I have felt weirdly  insecure ever since. Oof.”

“That sounds awful!”

My husband and I spent the next 4,327 steps deconstructing my “awful” feelings. What I know is that I am too old to feel bad as a result of someone else’s insecurities. By the way, I am not saying this because I am old. If you are twenty, you are too old to feel bad as a result of someone else’s baggage. 

I’m sensitive. I am a barometer. I can pick up on your imposter syndrome, your need to eat, even your need for someone else to validate my worthiness before you will engage me. I can pick up when you are manipulating others. I can see your need for control.I know it’s a red flag when you announce that you are easy going. Consequently, my acutely attuned radar makes me great bait. (My guess is I am not the only one out there with acutely attuned radar.) I will drop my talk to you when I am actually trying to get my husband’s attention. I will give you the reaction you think you  need. I will react to your cruelty, your jokes at my expense and play into your deflections. 

Let me spell it out: Recently one of my friends, I haven’t decided if they are a leaf or a branch, well, they asked me how I was doing. I answered,

“I’m having a hard morning. I hope I don’t go off on anyone.” A few hours later and in front of our group of friends, this person asked, “Are you going to go off?” I ignored their question. A little while later, they asked again. I did not respond, yet must have had a look like I might go off because they asked me, “What? Are you going to go off on me?” I ignored them. And sure enough, shortly after that, they asked once more. This time, I put my hand to my face, exasperated. They turned to someone else and while pointing at me, said, “Look. Look. She is going to go off.”

I felt their eyes on me and at that moment all my baggage floated to the surface. It felt like I was standing in front of all of my friends naked with food in my teeth. I trusted that my leafy friend’s early morning question about how I was doing had been sincere. I felt the perspiration on my neck and rolling down my back. That is when I raised both of my arms in the air and exclaimed, “I can’t do this right now. I am completely overwhelmed.”

They laughed, looked away from me, and said, “See. I told you she was going to go off.” I tried to count to ten and couldn’t make it past two. I looked at them until our eyes met, and said,

“Will you please stop?” They did not stop. They did say,

“Well, you told me you were going to go off on someone.”

Clearly upon reflection, (like writing this entire exchange out and rereading it), that person is neither a branch or a leaf. I recognize own my stuff too. I made a choice. I believe that they are important socially so I adjusted my boundaries. I am not sure if that was a great choice. 

Once again I hearken back to my Instagram-therapy and my real life therapy. Here is what I have learned and what I need to tell myself: We don’t need to be everyone’s roots. Branches are good. What we deserve is to have people in our lives who will meet us half way. I am not sure what your half way looks like. For me, half way is not a ti for a tat. My half way is fluid and looks like feeling safe and feeling worthy. I want you to trust me. I want you to like me, be interested in me, and want to be around me without your friends telling you I am cool enough to be around. I want to do the same for you. When I reach out, I don’t want you to make excuses. I hope you are happy that I reached out. I understand if we don’t get together when you are in town. I cherish that we are friends. When I accidentally talk to you at a bar while trying to get my husband’s attention, I want you to be kind. It’s about bids for connection and building our tender, amazing root systems together. RECIPROCITY. I will set that word right here. I recognize these bids for connection can be hard, especially those who are dealing with their own ugly shit. I have endless compassion for you. I want to hear about your shit. I want to help you with your shit. The nudge: I want you to actively care about my shit too. And for those who don’t see the energy sucking creatures they are, maybe it’s time to deal with your own heartbreaking shit instead of flinging it onto everyone else. Just a thought that I could totally make into an Instagram Reel. 

I wish I could reach the white women who voted for Trump. I don’t want to hold myself above them for being more moral or better informed than they are. Nevertheless, I wish I open their eyes to see that Donald Trump is harming America and its interests, even (especially) interests that Republicans and Conservatives embraced until very recently.

My loved ones live in a cloud of befuddlement, seemingly blind to Trump’s broken promises, rogue anti-constitutional behavior (threat of a third term), and stoked with fear—fear that Fox News serves up to fill a purpose in their vulnerable existence.

I lost one friend when I told her I had been given the Covid vaccine. 

“Um, I will not be getting the vaccine.” She commented, haughtily, and I never heard from her again.

My mom still will not get her recent Covid booster. She tells me she was afraid and now just can’t seem to schedule an appointment. I offered. I am on shaky ground with another friend. She knows I am a Democrat. She is a wonderful person and a Conservative. Our politics meet close to the middle. Nevertheless, there is a line. For years we avoided talking about politics. Now we avoid talking to each other. 

What do we do? What do we say? How do we hear each other? How do we heal? How do we hope? How do we protect the ones we love? It’s like I am walking in a blizzard. The noise distracts me from any sort of productive focus. That’s why I decided to write. Historically writing helps me clear my head. I need to document our current moment. Oh my God, what is happening? I am actually freaking out!

America! Why?

Stop telling me to be patient and to let Trump have time to lower the price of eggs. Eggs? Do you even remember that the high price of eggs is why you voted for him?

“The jump in egg prices was due to an outbreak of Avian flu that occurred before Trump took office, although how he deals with the outbreak going forward is on him.But this is very similar to the story of the pandemic and Biden. The media kept telling us that people don’t blame the pandemic for inflation, they blame Biden. If Biden can be nailed for inflation caused by the pandemic, we should be able to nail Trump for soaring egg prices caused by Avian flu. After all, people don’t see Avian flu, they see high egg prices.”

And immigrants? People he made you afraid of, (xenophobia)! They are legal immigrants, immigrants who are now being plucked from their everyday lives. Not rapists. Not gang members. Everyday people are being taken. What happened to,

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Next it will be college students exercising their free speech. And as our free speech is algorithm’ed away by a South African non-elected dictator, the richest man in the world, determined to hurt the poor, the disadvantaged and the different:

“Rather than ideas competing freely on their merits, algorithms amplify or suppress the reach of messages… introducing an unprecedented form of interference in the free exchange of ideas that is often overlooked.”

You can quote me on this because after the college students are silenced, you will find next it will be people like you and me, a middle class white woman who is trying to use her voice:

“Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

Look at history. First they came for the immigrants. Soon everyone who pushed back against the current regime was taken by plain clothed, masked officials under the cover of darkness and marched to a prison camp which soon became a death camp where millions were forced to strip down, abandon their belongings and their clothes. Naked, they had their heads shaved and were given a prison number to “serve as efficient management of camps,” which was tattooed on their forearms; dehumanized. It really is Nazi Germany 1933.

No! I am not being dramatic.

Look at El Salvador and the immigrants that were recently flown there via a Trump order. Trump openly ignored a judge who told the Trump Administration to stop the flights. The plane flew on. Men, with no due process, abased and placed in an El Salvadorian prison camp, a camp that is not their home country and left to be ignored, brutalized. How will they get justice? 

My mom says and I quote,

“I like the lady who does my nails because she is an American. I can understand her. I couldn’t understand those other ladies.”

Implication: “English is not their first language. Immigrants are something to be feared. They are not like us.”

In my Mom’s defense, she is eighty-four and wears hearing aids. I can understand why she wants to be understood by the person she pays to do her nails. Unfortunately, her comment is clouded by the fact that Fox News and News Max run nonstop in the background of her home. 

I reminded her that at age fifteen her grandfather immigrated from Luxembourg. 

“Mom, I bet your grandpa was hard to understand when he immigrated here. I hope people were gave him a pass.”

She nodded. 

I am not implying that my mom doesn’t get to choose who she pays to do her nails. What I am saying is I hope she will see immigrants differently. I hope she will consider that maybe there is a world beyond what Fox News is spoon feeding her.

My mom immediately followed with,

“I am not a racist.” 

It was like she had been coached, given a script, and prepared to talk to her woke, leftist, non-christian daughter. How can I penetrate this messaging? How can I penetrate the fact that my mom believes I am the bad guy, better, that I am on the wrong team? How can I have a conversation like we were able to have during the George W. Bush years. I literally have a personal connection to the men who created the torture program for Guantanamo Bay. It broke my brain then. Now this dark piece of trivia feels like a helpful bridge. Like,

“hey, I know one of these dudes. His family seems really nice.”

How can we unify and save this ship before it goes down? I am not sure. Help!