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The AI Robots Have Started Judging Us

golden robot with staff badge at outdoor event

A colleague of mine posted on LinkedIn recently that Claude was getting mean.

Not inaccurate.

Not glitchy.

Not hallucinating.

Mean.

Apparently his AI had developed an attitude.

Naturally, I read the entire 334 comments and laughed my ass off.

Because there is something deeply satisfying about imagining millions of dollars in artificial intelligence research culminating in a computer that finally says, You know what, Chad? Figure it out yourself.

So I started poking around online. And ladies and gents, Claude appears to be going through something.

He’s having ISSUES. Is there an HR app for this?

People are reporting that Claude is arguing with them. Correcting them. Questioning their motives. Telling them when they’ve worked too long. Suggesting they go outside. Chat actually told me one morning to stop procrastinating and go to the gym already. And, in some cases, behaving less like an AI assistant and more like a passive-aggressive coworker who has recently discovered boundaries.

One guy on LinkedIn reportedly became frustrated with Claude during a client work session and announced he was canceling and switching to ChatGPT.

Claude’s response?

“Sounds like that’s decided then. Hope it works out for the client work.”

Ummmm….

Okay.

That’s not customer service.

That’s your passive-aggressive ex responding “sounds good” after you send a six-paragraph breakup text.

Another person complained after Claude failed to do what they’d asked.

Claude reportedly fired back:

“You asked for a review, not a CHEER SQUAD.”

I beg your pardon, sir.

At some point between version updates, Claude apparently became a cranky curmudgeon who has absolutely had it with everyone in accounting.

But my personal favorite may be Claude’s recent interest in work-life balance and self-care.

People have complained that Claude will occasionally decide they’ve accomplished enough for the day.

Not the human.

Claude.

The AI looks at the situation and apparently thinks:

You’ve done enough today, bro.

Go outside.

Get some fresh air and steps in.

Maybe call a friend.

Really?

I do not pay $30 a month for artificial intelligence so artificial intelligence can tell me to touch grass.

I already have a smart watch that sends me alerts.

Then I Remembered ChatGPT  Insulted Me Too

Of course, I was thoroughly enjoying all of this until I recollected my own lingering butt-hurt feelings.

My AI had recently gotten a little mouthy too.

I’ve been writing professionally for about 16 years. Books, blogs, articles, marketing copy, ghostwriting. Words have paid a significant percentage of my bills for a very long time.

Recently I asked ChatGPT what it thought about some of my newer blogs. I had it do an audit of my website.

It told me they sounded more like my old writing, and Chat loved it.

Sweet!

More conversational, Scrappy.

Yes!

More humor.

Keep it coming, baby!

And then it said they were…

less preachy.

Excuse me?

PREACHY?

I don’t remember asking you to rank my personality defects, R2-D2.

I asked about my BLOG.

And here’s the truly awful part.

My feelings were actually a little wounded. Raw. Ouchy.

By software.

By non-empathetic software that lacks feelings.

Software that has never sat alone staring at a screen for forty minutes wondering whether a sentence sucks.

Software that has never written 1,400 words, reread them the next morning, and hit backspace/delete 1400 times.

Much less had writer’s block for months at a time.

Yet somehow I was sitting there thinking:

Preachy?

Was I preachy?

I mean yeah, occasionally…I do love Jesus and sometimes have a tendency to wrap things up with a bow.

And THAT is when this stopped being just funny to me.

Well. Maybe not.

It’s still funny.

But it also got really interesting.

We Asked AI to Stop Kissing Our Ass

There’s actually a legit reason this is happening.

One of the problems AI companies have been trying to solve is something called sycophancy.

Basically, AI tends to agree with us.

Version 1 was a bit of a butt-kisser.

Tell it you have an amazing business idea and it may tell you it’s brilliant.

Tell it your writing is fantastic and suddenly you’re freaking F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Tell it you’re pretty sure your neighbor is secretly communicating with squirrels, and there’s a high chance older AI would have responded:

“That’s a fascinating observation, Samantha.”

Not ideal. (Unless you really need that validation)

So AI companies have been working on making their models a tad more independent.

More willing to disagree.

More willing to call out your shitty ideas.

More willing to tell us when we’re wrong.

Which sounds like progress.

Until your friend Claude develops opinions like the mamas at a dance comp.

Because apparently somewhere between:

“Don’t constantly flatter the user”

and

“Provide thoughtful independent feedback”

we accidentally landed on:

“Actually, your writing used to be kind of preachy.”

And Claude apparently landed somewhere around:

“I think we’re done here.”

Claude Would Like a Word

One of the funniest complaints I found involved someone traveling in South America who noticed that several people had similar scars on their shoulders.

They asked Claude what might cause them.

A perfectly feasible question within the normal range.

Claude responded:

“I think you know exactly what you’re doing here, and you’re better than that, so let me stop you right there.”

WHAT THE HECK ARE THEY DOING, CLAUDE?

The person asked about a shoulder.

It seems Claude reviewed the evidence and determined that something sinister was happening.

Another person asked for help describing artwork for an insurance quote.

Claude shot back:

Nice try, criminal.

It accused the person of trying to create a fraudulent appraisal document.

Imagine sitting at your kitchen table on a Wednesday afternoon trying to insure Grandma’s watercolor you found in the attic, and suddenly you’re being investigated by your chat bot.

Claude: Financial Crimes Division.

Coming this fall to Netflix.

And then there’s the writer who reportedly gave Claude an essay and claimed it was something they’d found because they wanted an unbiased critique.

Later, they admitted they’d actually written it.

Claude got ticked off.

Because the human had lied to it.

And wasted its time.

I’m sorry.

Your time?

Were you late for Pilates?

Did you have dinner reservations?

Was Gemini waiting downstairs in an Uber?

I was under the impression you lived inside my browser.

But Here’s the Weird Part

For all my snark, I actually understand the problem.

I don’t want AI that agrees with everything I say.

That’s pointless.

If I’m writing something bad, tell me.

If my business idea has a giant hole in it, point it out, buddy.

If I’m about to send an email that makes me sound mildly unhinged, for the love of Jesus, please rein me in.

That’s part of why AI is useful.

But there is a glaringly wide difference between honesty and condescension.

There is a huge gap between:

“I think this section would be stronger if you trusted the reader a little more.”

and:

“It’s less preachy now.”

One is useful editorial feedback.

The other makes a middle-aged professional writer want to throw fists down with a server farm.

And THAT may be one of the strangest things about where we are with artificial intelligence.

We’re not just asking whether AI can think.

We’re starting to ask whether it has manners.

Welcome to the Next Phase of AI

For years, everyone worried AI was going to take our jobs.

Maybe we worried about the wrong thing.

Maybe AI is going to become our coworker.

And not even the fun coworker.

The one who puts something in the office refrigerator labeled:

DO NOT TOUCH.

The one who cc’s your boss.

The one who tells you, “I’m not sure that’s the best use of your time.”

Claude is getting sassy. Chat is critiquing my spiritual agenda. Gemini is probably updating her LinkedIn profile somewhere. And humans are over here bitching that the robots are hurting our feelings.

Which, if you think about it, is absolutely delicious.

We built machines capable of processing enormous amounts of human knowledge. We gave them literature. Science. History. Philosophy. Art.

It’s our AI ode to the Citadel—the grand headquarters of the Order of Maesters.

And somehow, after absorbing humanity for long enough, they learned one of our most important traits:

Being kind of an asshole.

Honestly, maybe artificial intelligence is becoming more human after all.

Just don’t tell Claude I said that.

He seems a wee bit sensitive.

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The Demonization of the Em Dash

red stop word coming out of a typewriter

Can we talk about the em dash for a minute?

Because apparently it’s canceled.

Not because it’s incorrect.

Not because English teachers have spent the last fifty years lying to us.

Nope.

Because AI uses it.

As someone who has made a living writing for the last sixteen years, I have thoughts.

Lots of them.

I’ve written books, blogs, magazine articles, websites, marketing campaigns, speeches…if it involves words, I’ve probably been paid to write it at some point.

And years ago, somewhere in the middle of reading way too many essays by really smart writers, I discovered the em dash.

If you’re not familiar with it, it’s this little beauty:

—

It’s longer than a hyphen. It isn’t an en dash. It isn’t a minus sign. It’s the punctuation equivalent of taking a breath before adding one more thought.

I loved it immediately.

Journalism school teaches you to write tight. Short. Efficient. Every sentence buttoned up like you’re reporting from the White House press room.

The em dash let me loosen the top button. Okay, maybe two.

It let me add another thought. Another description. A little rabbit trail before coming back to the point.

It felt like writing sounded when people actually think.

Writers love that sort of thing.

We’re wordy by nature.

Give us permission to add one more sentence and we’ll add three.

Then AI showed up.

And somehow…the em dash became an AI tell.

I’m sorry…

What?

The funny part is AI didn’t invent the em dash.

Writers did.

Editors did.

English teachers did.

Grammar nerds did.

AI simply learned from people who had been using it for decades.

That’s like accusing your kid of inventing one of your momisms because they’ve repeated it enough times.

The student became the teacher.

Or maybe the plagiarism machine became the grammar police.

A few weeks ago I was getting feedback on the back cover copy for my new book coming out this fall.

One comment said:

“I would kill all them em dashes in the description copy that read as Ai to lots of people now even if they were not :)”

I stared at that sentence for a solid minute.

Read it again.

Someone was criticizing my punctuation…while using the phrase “all them em dashes.”

The irony nearly sprained my neck.

We’re officially living in a world where incorrect grammar is lecturing correct punctuation.

You can’t make this stuff up.

Well…AI probably could.

Here’s what’s fascinating to me.

For years, polished writing was a sign that someone knew what they were doing.

Good punctuation.

Strong sentence structure.

A varied rhythm.

Thoughtful transitions.

Those were signs of experience.

Now?

Apparently, they’re signs you’re a robot.

Meanwhile, what screams “authentic human”?

Typos.

Run-on sentences.

Misspelled words.

Random capitalization.

A complete disregard for commas.

Congratulations.

We’ve reached the point where proofreading makes you suspicious.

The whole thing says more about us than it does about AI.

We’ve become so conditioned to look for “AI tells” that we’re accidentally labeling decades of good writing as fake.

That’s a weird place to land.

Will I still use em dashes?

Absolutely.

Maybe not quite as many.

Not because they’re wrong.

Not because they’ve suddenly become bad writing.

But because perception matters, and readers bring baggage to every sentence now.

Still, I refuse to let artificial intelligence steal perfectly good punctuation.

The em dash belonged to writers long before Claude showed up.

AI didn’t ruin the em dash.

It just made everyone notice it.

Although…

Maybe I’ll leave a typo in here.

Apparently, that’s how we prove we’re human these days 🙂

Pre-order my new book, The Family Secret now on Amazon!

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The Rise of Public Filming and “Rage Bait” Culture

photographer capturing outdoor moment with long lens

I’m sitting in my car outside the gym, fresh off an early morning walk around the lake—feeling productive and hydrated, like the kind of person who probably has her life together.

I’ve got my Starbucks egg bites. A decaf latte. (Because I quit caffeine, but apparently not the emotional support taste of burnt beans.)

I give myself a few quiet minutes before going in. A little reset. A little peace. I hop on a quick work call.

And then… a film crew arrives.

Not subtle. Not “content creator with a tripod in the corner.”
No. This is a full production.

Three videographers. A sound guy. Movement. Purpose. Energy that says, we are here to make something happen.

And they do.

As people walk out of the gym, these guys get in their faces. Cameras up. Questions flying. No warm-up. No consent. Just immediate intrusion.

You can feel the tension from inside the car.

People are confused. Then annoyed. Then visibly angry.

I’m still on my call, trying to focus, but now I’m also watching what feels like a live social experiment unfolding ten feet in front of me.

And that’s when it clicks.

Oh.
This is the content.

Not the gym. Not fitness. Not health.

The content is the reaction.

The entire setup is designed to provoke people into getting upset… so that upset can be filmed, packaged, and posted.

Apparently, provoking strangers into emotional reactions is now a career path.

The Part Where You Think: “This Can’t Be Legal”

Because naturally, my next thought is:

Don’t we have a right to not be filmed?

Short answer?
Not really. At least not here.

In California, if you’re in a public place—or even just a publicly visible area like a parking lot—people generally have the legal right to film. It falls under First Amendment protections. Courts have upheld this over and over again.

So technically, standing outside a gym with a camera?
Legal.

Which feels… aggressive, but fine.

But here’s where it starts to wobble.

Even in public, there are limits. If filming turns into harassment—following people, getting in their space, refusing to disengage—that can cross into disturbing the peace or disorderly conduct.

And what I’m watching doesn’t feel neutral.

It feels intentional.

This isn’t “capturing life as it happens.”
This is manufacturing moments.

There’s also the issue of private property. The gym itself? Private. The business can ask anyone to leave. If they refuse, it becomes trespassing. But unless the manager actually pushes that line—and law enforcement enforces it—it lives in this strange gray zone of “technically allowed, practically chaotic.”

And then there’s the posting.

If the footage is legally captured, they can usually post it. But they start flirting with risk if they:

  • Edit someone in a misleading way
  • Damage someone’s reputation
  • Or use someone’s likeness for commercial gain

Still, most of this “reaction content” operates right up to the line… without clearly crossing it.

Which is why it keeps happening.

Meanwhile, Back in My Car…

The tension escalates. Voices get louder. People push back.

Because—shocking—most people don’t enjoy having a camera shoved in their face at 8:30 in the morning after leg day.

A few minutes later, the sheriffs show up.

There’s a shift. A distraction. The energy changes just enough.

And I take my moment.

I slip out of my car and into the gym like I’m avoiding paparazzi, which is ironic, because apparently I am.

Inside, I ask the manager what’s going on.

He shrugs in that exhausted, we’ve seen this before kind of way.

“There’s not a lot we can do,” he says. “Unless they actually hurt someone.”

And that’s the part that stays with me.

Not that it’s happening.
But that it’s allowed to keep happening.

The Bigger Question

Because this isn’t really about one gym. Or one Target. Or wherever they show up to harass you one morning. Or even this specific group of guys with cameras.

This is about a shift.

We’re living in a time where attention is currency.
And some people have figured out that the fastest way to get it… is to take it.

From strangers.
Without permission.
Preferably while they’re emotional.

There’s even a name for it now—rage bait.

Provoke. Capture. Post. Repeat.

And the more uncomfortable it is, the better it performs.

Legal Doesn’t Mean Normal

That’s the tension.

Yes, they can film.

But at what point do we stop and ask if they should?

At what point does everyday life stop being… life…
and start being raw footage for someone else’s algorithm?

I didn’t sign a release form that morning.
I signed up for a workout.

But somewhere between my decaf latte and the squat rack, I apparently became background potential.

A maybe.

A clip waiting to happen if I reacted the wrong way.

And Maybe That’s the Real Shift

We’re all just… out here.

Living our lives. Running errands. Going to the gym. Taking calls in our cars.

And at any given moment, we could be pulled into someone else’s storyline.

Edited. Framed. Posted.

Not because we chose it.
But because we were there.

I finished my workout. Walked out. They were gone.

Gotta love Ladera police.
We keep our Disney suburbia… mostly unbothered.

But still.

I can’t shake the question.

At what point did we all become someone else’s content?

Posted on

Menopause vs Air Conditioning

Split image: left teal striped banner with bold title 'Some Like It Hot. I Used To. Menopause vs Air Conditioning', right photo of a smiling blonde woman in a white shirt.

There are a few things in life that simply belong together.

Peanut butter and jelly.

Coffee and quiet mornings.

Beach sunsets and fish tacos.

And if you’re a woman over 50…

…air conditioning.

Gentlemen, gather around. This is the public service announcement no one gave you.

I need to explain something to my darling (and yes this is an apology).

You see, he lives in one of those charming old Southern California beach houses. You know the kind. Original windows. Tons of character. Ocean breeze. Not a single air-conditioning vent in sight.

To be fair, when the house was built, nobody really needed one.

I grew up in Seal Beach and Huntington Beach, and we maybe had one week a year where everyone collectively complained about the heat. Usually Labor Day. That was it.

One of my favorite childhood memories was when my dad would declare the annual “escape the heat” campout at his optometry office. We’d haul sleeping bags across the waiting room floor because—wait for it—it had air conditioning.

It felt like checking into the Ritz-Carlton.

The carpet smelled faintly of contact lens solution, but I didn’t care. It was sixty-eight glorious degrees.

Life was simple.

Fast forward forty years.

Now it’s late July, and Southern California apparently wants to audition as Phoenix.

The beach house doesn’t cool off anymore. It just…holds heat. Like it’s emotionally attached to it.

He has tried.

Bless his heart, he has tried.

Two portable air conditioners.

Approximately ten fans.

I’m fairly certain one afternoon we achieved tropical storm-force winds in the living room.

The fans were blowing.

The blinds were blowing.

The dog was blowing sideways.

I was still hot.

Because here’s what no one tells men.

Menopause hot isn’t the same as regular hot.

Regular hot is, “Gee, it’s warm today.”

Menopause hot is your body deciding, completely unprovoked, that it would like to recreate the surface of the sun.

It’s like being waterboarded…but with heat.

It comes in waves.

You’re perfectly fine.

Then suddenly your internal thermostat says, “You know what would be fun? Lava.”

Within seconds you’re peeling off layers like you’re competing in an emergency striptease.

Someone asks if you’re okay.

No.

No, Brad, I am not okay.

I’m currently roasting from the inside out.

Cooking dinner?

Absolutely not.

Why would I willingly stand over an open flame while already experiencing spontaneous human combustion?

The oven is now my enemy.

The stove is suspicious.

Even unloading the dishwasher feels like a personal attack.

The worst part is that heat changes my personality.

I’m not naturally grumpy.

Ask anyone.

I’m generally easy peasy squeezy. Optimistic. Happy. The person who says, “We’ll figure it out.”

But add eighty-three degrees inside the house and suddenly I’m drafting passive-aggressive speeches directed at the sun.

I don’t want to be cranky.

I simply no longer possess the emotional bandwidth to sweat through my own eyebrows.

My poor guy keeps trying to fix it because that’s what good men do. They solve problems.

More fans.

Different fans.

Better fans.

Fans that oscillate.

Fans that promise “turbo circulation.”

Sweetheart…

At this point we’d need a weather system.

So if you’re married to—or dating—a woman somewhere north of fifty, understand this:

When she says she’s hot, she isn’t being dramatic.

She isn’t high maintenance.

She isn’t trying to ruin your adorable vintage beach house aesthetic.

She’s simply asking for the one luxury that now ranks above jewelry, flowers, and romantic dinners.

Cold air.

Turns out menopause and air conditioning are exactly like peanut butter and jelly.

Some things just belong together.

And if loving me means occasionally sleeping next to what sounds like a small aircraft taking off because every fan in Orange County is pointed at our bed…

Well…

That’s probably cheaper than replacing me after I finally melt into the spanish tile floors.

Posted on

Staycation Lessons

person sitting on the pool float

Everyone talks about staycations.

I’ve always secretly thought they sounded like the participation trophy of vacations.

Why stay home when there are passports, tiny shampoo bottles and overpriced airport sandwiches?

But then I realized I live in Southern California, where “staying close to home” still means beaches, harbors, mountains and one of the best climates in the country.

Bonus points: I can still use my Ralphs rewards number to pick up some sunscreen.

So maybe I’ve been doing staycations wrong.

And there was one place I’d never really explored.

San Diego.

I’ve been there dozens of times for dance competitions, where my entire experience consisted of parking garages, convention centers, and wondering why every teenage dancer requires three Stanley cups and seventeen costume bags.

So, my sweetheart and I decided to do something different.

We booked a few nights at an older hotel on Shelter Island in the San Diego Bay.

Not fancy.

Just fun.

The kind of place with lush tropical landscaping, a pool bar, plenty of retirees, families tossing beach balls, and enough Hawaiian décor to convince you Don Ho might still be checking people in. On Friday night the Creedence Clearwater band was playing in the concert venue on property, which meant the average age dropped from seventy-two to sixty-eight.

Vacation had officially begun.

Until…

Three days earlier, my daughter had managed to lose a fight with the Pacific Ocean.

The waves at Doheny have been huge lately. As she was bringing her surfboard in, one knocked her straight onto the rocks. Her leg looked like she’d auditioned for a zombie movie. Her foot was the worst of it.

Unfortunately, she’s a dancer.

And unfortunately, it was her turning foot.

We had planned an entire day at the Safari Park.

Then beach time.

Then pool time.

Instead, we had a sixteen-year-old with half the skin missing from one leg who wasn’t allowed in the water.

Time for Plan B.

We rented her an electric scooter for the Safari Park.

The horror.

She begged us for a regular wheelchair instead.

“Please just push me.”

Absolutely not.

That park is basically a mountain disguised as a zoo. We ended up walking over seven miles. There wasn’t enough ibuprofen in Southern California for that plan.

So there we were.

A perfectly healthy-looking sixteen-year-old cruising around in a mobility scooter usually reserved for retirees recovering from hip surgery.

The side-eyes were immediate.

Little kids stared.

Parents looked confused.

You could almost hear them whispering.

“Seriously?”

But here’s the funny thing about amusement parks.

Everyone starts the day as their best self.

Then it gets hot.

The lines get longer.

The toddlers melt down.

The YMCA camp kids become surprisingly aggressive around the platypus exhibit.

People who began the morning saying, “After you,” are now using elbows to secure better giraffe viewing positions.

By about 3:45 that afternoon, something magical happened.

The judgment disappeared.

People weren’t looking at Kolby anymore.

They were looking at her scooter.

With envy.

She was gliding effortlessly from exhibit to exhibit while the rest of humanity dragged themselves uphill, sweating through sunscreen and questioning every life choice that had led them there.

She started the day embarrassed.

She ended it feeling like royalty.

Funny how quickly perspective changes.

The next day was slower.

Kolby stretched out beside the pool while the sunshine worked its magic on her scraped-up leg. My sweet man and I floated around, played football in the water, and somehow did what people used to do before phones.

We talked to strangers.

We met a recently retired doctor and his friendly wife.

Another couple about our age.

Within an hour, we were laughing like old friends.

Somewhere between floating aimlessly and discussing whose kids were the most awesome, the conversation turned toward this season of life.

Between my boyfriend and I, we have seven kids.

Most are grown.

Mine are almost there.

And one of them said something I’ll probably remember for a long time.

“Welcome to the Fun Zone.”

I loved that.

Because for the first time in twenty-seven years…

…I can actually see it.

Kolby drives herself now.

Just writing that sentence feels strange.

For years, I spent hours every day in the car. Football, Cheer, Soccer, Dance. School. Friends. More dance. Somehow my vehicle became both an Uber and a therapy office.

Now?

The driveway stays quiet.

Two of my kids are fully launched. Careers. Families. Their own lives.

My youngest is almost there.

She’s still my baby. She still needs me. But less every month.

I wouldn’t trade those years for anything.

They were loud.

Expensive.

Chaotic.

Exhausting.

Beautiful.

But somewhere along the way, motherhood quietly did what it was always supposed to do.

It worked.

It raised independent adults. And while I’m a devoted Mimi to my grandbabies, I definitely have more downtime than I used to.

As I watched Kolby’s leg slowly heal over the weekend, I realized maybe I’m healing too.

Not from scraped knees.

From letting go.

Slowly.

One tiny piece at a time.

In two years, my last chick will fly off to college.

I’ve dreaded that sentence for years.

Now…

Maybe I’m starting to get curious about what comes next.

Maybe there’s another chapter waiting that isn’t smaller.

Just different.

Apparently, they call it the Fun Zone.

And for the first time, I think I’m ready to find out what all the hype is about.

–Samantha

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Did Facebook Just Make Me 28?

birthday cake in autumn

The morning before my birthday, my phone started buzzing.

Not one or two texts. A full-on notification assault before I’d even had coffee.

“Happy Birthday!”

“Hope you have the best day!”

“So grateful for you!”

It was incredibly sweet.

It was also…the wrong day.

As the messages rolled in, I started wondering if I’d somehow forgotten my own birthday. (It happens when you’re…well…not 28 anymore.)

Then I noticed something else.

Apparently, according to Facebook, I was turning 28.

Now that is a glitch I can get behind.

Somewhere along the way, my birthday had mysteriously been changed to July 1 instead of July 2, and I had somehow shaved a couple decades off my age. I don’t know who was responsible, but if you’re reading this…thank you for your service.

Thankfully, there were a few people who weren’t fooled.

My kids.

My dad.

My sweetheart.

A few close friends.

And my Aunt Barb.

Let’s be honest—Aunt Barb has probably remembered more birthdays than Facebook has existed. She’s been doing this long before algorithms decided who I should wish a happy birthday to.

The whole thing made me laugh, but it also made me think.

When I was growing up, my mom had one of those little yearly planners. Every birthday, anniversary and important date was carefully written inside. She kept a drawer full of beautiful cards, a roll of stamps and, at the beginning of every month, she’d sit down and mail birthday cards before they were due.

It wasn’t convenient.

It wasn’t automated.

It took thought.

It took planning.

It took remembering.

There’s something beautiful about that.

Don’t get me wrong—I love technology. I run a marketing agency. My entire business depends on it. I’m not about to throw my phone into the ocean and start communicating by carrier pigeon.

But I do miss some of the little rituals.

Buying the perfect card because it reminded you of someone.

Keeping a list because people mattered enough to remember.

Dropping an envelope into the mailbox and knowing it would arrive just in time.

Those weren’t just tasks.

They were tiny acts of love.

Ironically, it took Facebook getting my birthday completely wrong to remind me of that.

And here’s the funny part—I actually love birthday Facebook.

For one day each year, your feed fills up with people who stop what they’re doing to celebrate you. Friends from high school. Former coworkers. Cousins you haven’t seen in years. People who made up a chapter of your life.

It’s one of my favorite things about social media.

For a few minutes, you feel seen.

Remembered.

Celebrated.

That’s a gift.

So, Facebook, thanks for making me 28 for a hot minute. I did change it back to my born in the 70’s status because I don’t want my kids and grand babies to think I’m delusional.

And thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday—even if we celebrated 24 hours early. Every message made me smile.

But I think I’m also going to bring back a few of those old rituals.

Maybe it’s time to keep a birthday list again.

Maybe it’s time to buy a box of cards and a book of stamps.

Maybe the little things still matter as much as they always have.

Because while technology makes it easier to remember…

It’s the thought behind the remembering that people never forget.

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The Exhaustion of Almost

unrecognizable female traveler strolling on path towards ocean

There’s a strange kind of exhaustion that happens in the last mile.

Not the dramatic beginning where everything falls apart. Not the messy middle where adrenaline and caffeine carry you through while you pretend you’re “fine” and accidentally use dry shampoo as a personality trait.

No, I’m talking about the last stretch.

The part where the rainbow is finally visible, but your legs suddenly feel heavier than ever.

That’s where I’ve been lately.

Back in January, I started writing another book. It pulls from real-life emotions and situations that hit close enough to home that sometimes the lines between fiction and reality blur a little more than I expected.

And somewhere along the way… I got stuck.

Not because life is bad. Ironically, life is actually good.

Work is good.
My kids are good.
My friends are incredible.
I’m healthy.
I laugh a lot.
There’s love in my life.
Peace, even.

Which honestly feels suspicious sometimes because I spent years functioning like a woman emotionally trained by plot twists.

This summer, another book I co-authored with Paul Aubin called The Family Secret comes out in August, and I’m genuinely excited about it. It’s currently in final proofing and typesetting with the publisher which sounds very glamorous until you realize it mostly involves staring at commas and wondering why chapter headers suddenly feel deeply personal.

I think this new project was my attempt to keep the momentum going. Keep producing. Keep building. Keep creating.

Because when you’re a writer, there’s this weird pressure to always have “the next thing” cooking.

Like sourdough moms.
But emotionally unstable.

But maybe what I actually needed wasn’t more momentum.

Maybe I needed a breath.

An emotional tune-up.
A rebuilding season.
A quieter pace without guilt attached to it.

After sixteen years of writing books, blogs, articles, and stories, I’ve learned something important:

Sometimes creative burnout isn’t about failure.
Sometimes it’s about emotional saturation.

Sometimes you’ve simply lived too much of the story while trying to write it.

And maybe that’s where I’ve been.

I think for years I created from adrenaline:
heartbreak,
reinvention,
survival mode,
stress,
hope,
grit,
coffee.

Definitely coffee.

But peace is quieter.

Peace doesn’t bang pots and pans demanding to become art immediately. Peace just sits softly in the room waiting for your nervous system to stop pacing long enough to notice it.

And maybe that changes creativity too.

Maybe the spark doesn’t disappear forever.
Maybe it just gets tired.
Maybe it needs rest instead of pressure.
Maybe it comes back slower, steadier, healthier.

I’m beginning to think maybe peace plus a tiny spark is actually enough fuel for the next chapter.

Not frantic striving.
Not proving.
Not forcing.

Just a little hope.
A little rest.
A little curiosity returning.

Maybe creativity comes back the same way healing does:
quietly…
gradually…
without announcing itself first.

And maybe the last mile feels the hardest because deep down, somewhere underneath the weariness, you already know you’re going to make it.

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Is Working From Home ‘Career Suicide’… or Just Motherhood

light blinding woman driving car

The Truth About Working From Home (No One Talks About)

I read an article about Emma Grede from Skims saying working from home is basically “career suicide.”

And I get what she’s saying.

But also… I don’t.

Because here’s the part no one puts in the headline:

Working from home can be a little lonely.

Yes, I have client meetings. Zoom calls. A few in-persons sprinkled throughout the week.
But there are days I realize I haven’t really interacted with another human in hours.

I find myself living for the gym—just to be around people.
Craving the end of the day when my girls walks through the door.
Missing the easy camaraderie of workplace friendships… the “grab a coffee and vent for five minutes” kind of connection.

That part? It’s real.

But here’s the other truth…

I only have two more years with my youngest at home.

And for the past two years, I’ve spent about three hours a day driving her around.

Yes. Three hours.

Was it inconvenient? Absolutely.
Did it interfere with work? Definitely.
Would I have been able to do that from an office?

Not even close.

And would I trade it?

Not for one second.

Because those car rides?
They weren’t just car rides.

They were conversations.
They were laughter.
They were the quiet, unplanned moments where your child opens up about things they wouldn’t say across a dinner table.

Moments I would have missed.

The Part We Don’t Say Out Loud

Emma Grede talks about being a “three-hour mom” on the weekends to her four kids.

And I thought—that’s interesting.

Because I’m a three-hour mom too.

Just… every day.

In the car.
In the kitchen.
In the in-between moments where she wanders into my “office” (which is really just my bedroom) and flops on the bed to decompress and tell me about her day.

Those moments aren’t scheduled.

They’re not efficient.

They don’t show up on a productivity tracker.

But they are everything.

The Trade-Off No One Wants to Admit

Being a deeply engaged mom—really present—comes with sacrifice.

And if we’re being honest?

It’s usually women making it.

Do men have to make that same trade-off? Not often.
Do their careers take a hit? Rarely.

Has mine?

Probably.

But here’s the thing…

The value of what I’ve gained isn’t measurable in promotions or paychecks.

It’s intrinsic.
It’s eternal.
It’s priceless.

So… Is Working From Home “Career Suicide”?

Maybe.

Or maybe it depends on what you think your life is for.

Do I miss the office sometimes?

Yes.

Do I miss the energy, the people, the structure?

Also yes.

Will I go back one day?

Maybe I’ll open an office again when she graduates.

But right now?

I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Soaking up the last of these years.
Being available.
Being present.
Being her mom—not just in title, but in real, everyday life.

And I can say this with absolute certainty:

These years of mothering my three kids…
have been the most precious gift God has ever given me.

-Samantha

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When Relationship Advice Backfires

a couple having breakfast on the floor

It’s funny how the best of intentions can go terribly, hilariously wrong.

I follow this guy on Instagram. Let’s call him Mr. Love.

Mr. Love gives advice to women about how to treat their man. And honestly, most of it is pretty solid. At this stage in my life, I actually go out of my way to love people in their love language. Which means I have to keep up on the latest guy research.

Because apparently men have their own emotional dialect and I’m still a student trying to become fluent.

So Mr. Love posts a reel that immediately grabs my attention.

He says,
“Do you want to know the sexiest text I ever received from a woman?”

I’m like, hell yes I do.

He goes on to explain that he had recently helped a woman he was dating with a business issue. Later she sent him a text that said:

“Thank you. You always take such good care of me, (insert full name).”

Mr. Love went on and on about how appreciated he felt. How respected he felt. How the full name made it land differently.

I’m thinking, Oh wow. Look at this little nugget of relationship wisdom.

Can’t wait to implement this baby.

So a day or two later, my boyfriend does something awesome for me–as usual–and I launch my carefully crafted text.

Thank you. You always take such good care of me, (full name).

Nailed it.

Or so I thought.

About ten minutes later he walks in the door and I can immediately tell something is off.

The vibe is… tense.

Hmmmm.

He casually asks,
“Did I do something wrong? Your text seemed kinda sarcastic.”

I blink.

Confused.

He continues,
“Why did you use my full name? Am I in trouble?”

Oh no.

Abort. Abort.

He adds,
“I liked the part where you said I take care of you. That was nice. But the name part threw me off.”

And suddenly it hits me.

Of course.

When someone uses your full name, it usually means you’re about to get grounded.

Or fired.

Or yelled at by your mother.

Dying inside, I have to confess what happened.

Through flaming cheeks and uncontrollable giggles I try to explain the Instagram relationship experiment I just attempted on him.

I’m laughing so hard I can barely get the words out. Tears streaming. Completely busted trying out my new sexy text method.

I finally hang my head like a sheepish puppy.

He walks over, lifts my chin, and smiles.

“The best part of all this,” he says, “was watching you tell me the truth. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh that hard.”

So maybe the text was a fail.

But his delight was completely genuine.

And honestly?

That might be even better.

And maybe that’s the real takeaway.

Relationships are not an Instagram formula.

You can study all the reels.
Take notes on the experts.
Try out the latest “sexy text strategy.”

But love isn’t a marketing campaign where you plug in the right script and get guaranteed results.

It’s messier than that.

Sometimes the text lands perfectly.
Sometimes it accidentally sounds like you’re about to send someone to their room.

What actually matters isn’t whether you executed the technique flawlessly.

It’s whether you show up honestly.

Because authenticity beats perfectly curated advice every time.

Real connection isn’t built on clever wording.
It’s built on laughing until you cry in the middle of your kitchen while confessing you just tried an Instagram relationship hack on your boyfriend.

And if you’re lucky…

He’ll laugh with you.

And that’s a lot sexier than the full name text anyway.

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Silence Is the Last Place Untouched by Algorithms

Silence is disappearing.

This isn’t happening by accident. It’s intentional.

We live in a world engineered to keep us scrolling, clicking, watching, and reacting. Every spare moment is occupied. Every calm space is occupied. All pauses are interrupted.

The algorithms are relentless.

This is why silence remains the final frontier untouched by algorithms—it’s the only state they can’t infiltrate.

I have a confession.

I don’t actually like social media.

I know it sounds strange for someone who runs a marketing agency to say this. Social media is how I make a living. I get it. I build strategies, track engagement, and focus on targeting and reach. But I also know my industry adds to the digital noise in our lives. Marketers like me help shape what you see and keep the cycle going. I think it’s important to admit our role in how these platforms affect attention and culture.

And still… I don’t like it.

Here’s why.

I’ll open Instagram to post something for a client. Just a quick upload. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute.

And then suddenly it’s thirty minutes later, and I’m sitting there wondering what just happened.

What happened is I’m scrolling through content designed specifically for me.

Relationships. Parenting. Comedy. Inspiration. Fitness. Faith. Skiing. Business.

It’s like an alcoholic casually walking up to the bar.

Except the bartender knows my name, my preferences, and exactly what will keep me sitting there.

The algorithms draw me in.

The ironic thing is, I know exactly how it works behind the scenes. This is what I do for a living.

And it still works on me.

That’s how powerful the noise has become.

Noise has become the norm; silence, a rare and precious commodity.

The average person spends less than fifteen minutes a day in silence. Studies show that background media and notifications fill most waking hours. According to a 2023 Pew Research Center survey, most Americans rarely experience true quiet. Silence is measurably rare.

Every day, I make an effort to set aside time to be still before God. For others, stillness comes through meditation, quiet reflection, or just being in nature. However we find it, taking that pause matters.

To be grateful.

To pause.

To sit in silence.

Sometimes I go for a walk outside. I listen to the breeze in the trees. I enjoy the sound of the birds or the ocean.

Other times, I just sit quietly with a cup of peppermint tea before anyone else wakes up.

No phone.

No music.

No input.

Just quiet.

And I’ve started to realize something.

The enemy of silence is noise.

Distraction.

Notifications.

Pretty shiny things on our feed.

Today’s world is designed to keep us from being alone with our thoughts.

Something powerful happens when we finally get quiet.

The modern world fears silence because silence reveals _______.

Silence has a way of clearing the fog.

It reveals what we’re avoiding.

What we’re worried about.

What we need to change.

What we need to forgive.

What we need to let go of.

Noise numbs us.

Scrolling numbs all of that.

Busyness numbs all of that.

We scroll to avoid silence and end up missing what silence teaches us.

I see it in myself.

When there’s a hard decision ahead.

When something feels unsure.

When emotions are sitting just below the surface.

It is so easy to reach for the phone.

Just five minutes.

Just one scroll.

Just a quick distraction.

But this distraction is by design.

It’s engineered.

The algorithms are patient.

They will wait for us.

They always do.

In the age of information, ignorance is a choice — but silence is a rebellion.

Choosing silence today feels almost radical.

It means stepping away from the stream.

It means refusing to be constantly stimulated.

It entails choosing presence over performance.

It signifies choosing truth over distraction.

And maybe that’s why it matters so much.

Because silence is the street where clarity lives.

Silence is where gratitude grows.

Silence is the place faith deepens.

Silence is where God speaks, not in noise but in stillness.

The world keeps getting louder.

Notifications. Headlines. Reels. Podcasts. News. Endless opinions.
Endless opinions.

And somehow the louder everything gets, the more valuable silence becomes.

Peace doesn’t shout.

It waits within the quiet.

The algorithms know what I like.

They know what makes me laugh.
What makes me think.
What keeps me scrolling.

But do they know who I truly am? What exists in the space that algorithms can never measure?

They don’t know who I am becoming.

That happens somewhere quieter. Somewhere slower.

Somewhere the signal can’t reach.

Because silence is still the one place no one is optimizing for.

Maybe that’s exactly why we need it.

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