It’s the last day of Mental Health Awareness Month before Pride Month kicks off tomorrow.

Something about the transition between the two feels like there should be a certain significance for me.

Sometimes it’s funny to think about how major themes like mental health and pride get dedicated months to be honored as they do. Not that they don’t deserve them – it’s just that my chronic mental illness and my queerness deserve the same amount of love and attention the other eleven months of the year, too.

As I think about the transition from today to tomorrow, though, I think there’s some beauty to it. I do believe my mental health bleeds into the way I’m able to exist as a queer person. And most times, being queer has given me the serotonin boost I need to feel steady, stable, seen, and ultimately, stay smiley.

That said, it’s impossible to ignore that it works in reverse too. Navigating grief, loss, trauma, heartbreak – for me, the worst of it comes when hardship hits my queer loved ones. Though the ruptured relationships in my own life due to my queerness are a close runner-up.

So as we soak up the last hours of Mental Health Awareness Month and enter the warm embrace of Pride for the next 30 days, let’s stay loud as fuck this month. And nurture the softness that shows up too.

Seriously though. Remind your straight friends that they should be buying you flowers. Sending you Spotify songs at least once a week to prove their allyship (be critical when judging their song selections). Pay attention to whether they show up for you just a little extra to match the way you pour into them year-round.

Take extra PTO. Play hooky because the right employers will actually understand that. Wear only your gayest fits. Splurge a little extra. Support queer-owned businesses. Attend all the Pride events that bring you joy. Go for walks to Hollywood Beach. Kiss more girls. Love on your partner if you have one – everywhere, anywhere, all the time.

And once those 30 days inevitably pass way faster than we wish they would, let’s sustain that energy and continue taking up space for the other 335 days too. We all deserve that.

Happy Pride, my queerios! 🌈

Rise is my uniquely hand-crafted butterfly by Callen Schaub, who started the Butterfly Project after a 7-year-old girl reached out to ask if he’d create a butterfly for her father’s grave. Her dad, a collector in Germany, had previously discovered one of Callen’s roadside-created paintings – a piece that found its way to him before he passed.

The Butterfly Project is Callen’s gift to the world: anyone can claim a butterfly – no cost, even free shipping – under one condition: you have to give your butterfly a name and share a little backstory. Feel free to check it out, and find one of your own too:

https://butterflyprojectphasethree.com/

When my brother told me about the Butterfly Project, I immediately claimed one of the available butterflies and named it Rise (naturally while I was in the crux of my obsession with the Artemis II moon mission, so partially inspired by the astronauts’ space plushie).

When the butterfly made it into my mailbox, I was immediately met with a smile. Something about it also indirectly makes me feel closer to my brother, who’s 4,000 miles away most days.

While I’m still figuring out the perfect placement for Rise around my apartment, getting Rise mirrored and permanently stamped on me felt right. It took nearly two hours to find the perfect placement on my arm, but we got there (my go-to tattoo artist Clover is the best).

So everyone, meet Rise, and read about what Rise means to me:

The butterfly makes me think about rising, but not in a big, dramatic way. More in the quiet, ongoing way we keep coming back to ourselves.

I’ve been stuck on this idea of “moon joy” from the Artemis II, how something so complex and historic was carried with so much lightness and curiosity. It reminded me that even when things are hard, they don’t always have to feel heavy all the time.

I think about that in my own life: navigating a bipolar diagnosis, figuring out how to exist more fully in my queerness, moving through heartbreak. None of that is unique, and I actually find comfort in that. We’re all kind of in it, in different ways.

So this butterfly isn’t just about transformation to me; it’s about staying in motion. Even when things feel small or messy or not that serious, you’re still becoming something.

And maybe the point isn’t to force meaning onto it all, but to meet it with a little more curiosity… and a little more lightness when we can.

I have nothing but respect for the CTA Red Line. And to those who decide to diss it: respectfully, f*ck your ridicule. Because those are also likely the same people who don’t actually take the Red Line every day like many of us do, and instead are doom-scrolling headlines from the comfort of their feeds.

The Chicago Transit Authority more broadly is a big reason I can now open up room in my budget for things I love (read: social events), because my $75/month pass can get me anywhere, including to work every morning and back from the clubs late at night.

And please don’t @ me about the safety of late-night transit. I support anyone taking whatever mode of transportation gives them the most comfort and ease after a night of raging. I’ll still call Ubers when I see fit, but for the most part, if I’m an easy 22 bus or Red Line away, I’d rather reallocate my money elsewhere (while also getting my steps in). But I love riding the train for more than just its budget-friendliness.

For example, this morning I sat next to a girl wearing a Spider-Man backpack, kneeling on the seat and staring out the window, enamored by every building in the distance. Another time, I watched a kid have a major meltdown, and the mom handled it so gracefully that a stranger eventually walked up to her just to say: “I have to tell you, you’re doing a really great job.” You can also reference back to my wholesome interaction with a 5-year old named Phoebe.

The people-watching is prime. And honestly, sometimes it’s nice to just throw your noise-canceling headphones on and read a book without the responsibility of keeping your eyes on the road… especially considering plenty of people don’t seem to do that while driving anyway.

And I find it interesting watching how the crowd changes depending on what part of the city I’m in. I’m (subjectively) convinced the Red Line gets straighter the farther south I go. Starting near me in Edgewater, my gays and theys join me. Through Lakeview, we still have a pretty solid 🏳️‍🌈squad. But once we hit Lincoln Park and Old Town onwards, that’s when the finance bros and girliepops in matching SoulCycle yoga sets start pouring in – somehow already post-workout, fully dolled up, vanilla lattes in hand.

Have I seen fights break out on the train or platform? Yes. Have I watched folks roll joints and hotbox the car I’m in? Absolutely. Have I smelled things far less pleasant than the Black Ice air freshener of a car? Without question.

But none of that negates the better parts: the moments of humanity, weirdness, routine, and coexistence that ultimately outweigh the occasional chaos.

Not all heroes wear capes, they say. But to the Red Line, I can absolutely picture a red cape waving in the Chicago wind as it pulls away from each stop, getting me safely to wherever I need to be that day. So yeah. Respectfully, Red Line: thank you for your service.

__ 

Updated 5:28pm: Ironically wrote my last sentence as a too-jam-packed 22 bus pulled up, preventing me from cuddling up next to Kyra in the claustrophobic crowd. So all I got in was a wave.

I still love you, CTA. 🚊

I wish for everyone to find, embrace, and love the beauty of late-in-life friends, if it feels like that’s something you have, or if it’s something you’re looking for. Not to be confused with a late-in-life lesbian.. but perhaps that label finds you too. Or, if luck swings heavily in your favor, your late-in-life friends will be made up of a lot of lesbians.

It’s admirable when I hear people say they’ve had friends since diapers. And while that’s beautiful, it’s not often the case for most. In my case, I can’t say the Catholic conservative crowds from when I was a kiddo were gonna grow with me as I grew into my confident queerness. And I can’t say the former friends who I later learned voted for Trump were gonna be people I wanted on my life team either.

Looking around at my people – who’s around then versus now – I’m reminded that your favorite people might be ones who joined your life recently, later than you wish they could’ve. Or maybe your favorite friends haven’t even found you yet.

I found myself listening to The Right People Will Love You by Marielle Kraft on loop for exactly that reason. Because you’ll know when you have the right ones around: the people who will run to your rescue even when it’s inconvenient. And inconvenience in friendship is never really a nuisance when the care is genuine. The best friendships aren’t receipt-backed or rooted in some sort of invisible tally system; you just show up for each other because you love each other, and because you want to.

Friendship is at the core of my full-time job, so I think about it constantly, even outside the scope of my own experiences. I’m also realizing I’ve shown some sprinkles of real growth shifting away from my people-pleasing era.

Admittedly, I’m not a perfect friend. But while I hold a lot of research-backed knowledge in my brain about friendship, there are also a few things I really value, and habits I’ve implemented into my own friendships, in case any of it resonates with someone else:

1. Normalize friendship feedback.

For real. We get so comfortable dissecting romantic relationships while forgetting that honest feedback in friendship is meant to teach you, not criticize you. I promise the right friends won’t run from thoughtful feedback; they’ll listen, learn, and become a better friend from it.

2. Start friendship rituals.

I have a group chat where I started Friendship Fridays: each week, wishing everyone a happy Friendship Friday and dropping a random prompt. No, never will I ever use ChatGPT for it. This is your opportunity to ask something you’re genuinely curious about and learn more about the people you love.

And friendship rituals don’t have to be elaborate or even that frequent. Sometimes it’s as simple as my friends and I taking the Monday after Pride weekend off, collectively playing hooky, and going to the beach just to hang.

3. Save the small details.

Addresses. Birthdays. Emails. Pet names. Little details. I personally use a platform Postable for it.

Just because you collect addresses doesn’t mean you’re sending Christmas cards or wedding save-the-dates. Send snail mail anyway, even if they live down the block. I started my Snail Mail Sundays (SMS) meetup way back when, because I’ll always be a firm believer that no SMS notification can warm your heart quite like a handwritten letter can.

4. Check in intentionally.

Replace one doom scroll a week with reaching out to the friend you haven’t checked in on in a while. Personally, I’m partial to a simple “u up?” text. But you do you, with whatever messaging style feels natural to you.

5. Show up.

It sounds so simple typed out. But I want to reinforce that friendship won’t always feel convenient. It’s not meant to. There will be times you want to stay in, don’t want to take the hour commute to the birthday party, or feel too tired for the random picnic hang someone slapped onto your calendar three days ago.

Go anyway. Simply showing up means more to people than they’ll probably ever tell you.

In conclusion:

Your best friendships will inevitably take effort. But when you find the right ones, you’ll know effortlessly, because every ounce of any exhaustion will always feel worth it.

🙂

It’s super sucky to age and have doctors tell you that you should be weaning off the sport that literally kept you alive. And while I’m still unwilling to part with basketball, I’m slowly trying to pay attention to the skills I’ve sharpened over the many years of playing, and how they might show up in my life indefinitely, regardless.

I had a moment hit me today as I was walking to my friend’s place, on my phone doing the standard mindless scrolling as I walked. I hate how sometimes my fingers go on a doom-hop of their own.. like a bar crawl, but from one app to another. And instead of shots at each stop, it’s a new thing you see that you’ll forget in five minutes but still somehow regret later.

As I was walking, I paused and thought about how f*cked up it was that I wasn’t even taking in the beautiful weather or my surroundings. After all, I’ve spent so many years sharpening my peripheral vision on the court — learning how to see the whole floor, set my teammates up with the right pass so they can make their shot.

But what if I miss my shot at locking eyes with the right person because I chose a screen instead of what was already in my peripheral? 👀

Maybe I should start moving through the world like every step is still on the court. I trained my whole life for this, after all.

Admittedly, when my coworker Hunter told me about it, I fully thought the Artemis II – which tipped off on April Fools – was just blending in with the rest of the fake news that day. Little did I know, my next ten days (and counting) would take my entire social media algorithm to a galaxy I didn’t even know I wanted it to go to.

What struck me about all this space stuff – aside from literally everything – is that these astronauts weren’t just testing the limits of the unthinkable, doing something that’s never been done; they were doing it with lightheartedness, humility, and humor.

At one point during the mission, pilot Victor Glover said:

“…It’s not because we want you to see what we tried to show you; it’s because we want you to take this, and build a vocabulary to explain the world to us.”

That one really hit. Not just because it sounded nice, but because of how deeply selfless it is. Like, even in doing something completely historic, they weren’t centering themselves; they were inviting the rest of us along, letting us all find our own meaning in it.

Some highlights I enjoyed from the endless clips I watched:

• Nutella’s rise to fame
• Rise’s rise to fame (the little character designed by a two-year-old that basically became their emotional support stuffy)
• Taking a call from the president… but clearly wishing they didn’t have to
• Listening to songs like Under Pressure (while casually visiting the moon… no pressure) and Pink Pony Club
• Hiding confetti eggs around the spaceship on Easter
• Naming a crater Carroll after astronaut Reid Wiseman’s wife, who passed from cancer (shoutout to Marielle Kraft who made a song out of it so we can all properly, collectively cry)

These humans are heroes, truly… they pulled us away from the divisiveness our doom scrolls usually drag us into, and instead, made us feel like they were a real-life friend to everyone on Earth.

When they got back, Christina Koch talked about the difference between a crew and a team:

“A crew isn’t just a group of people.
It’s people who are in it – fully, constantly – stroking together with the same purpose.
Willing to sacrifice silently for each other.
Giving grace. Holding each other accountable. A crew shares the same care, the same needs. And a crew is, inescapably, beautifully, dutifully, linked.”

This became their Moon Joy. And it got me thinking about mine.

Moon Joy, to me, is anything that pulls you out of a funk. It can come in a lot of forms, and recently for me, it’s been returning to my roots: basketball.

During another interview, Christina Koch talked about how we don’t really get to experience that depth of teamwork in adulthood anymore. And the more I sat with that, the more I realized she’s right. And honestly… it’s kinda sad.

I wish the world was less centered around competition and more around camaraderie, like this crew proved it can be.

If I could wave a magic wand and bring something new into the world, it’d be a washed-up version of adult AAU basketball. Weekly rec league is cute. We did name our team Carroll – in honor of my recent (very healthy) obsession here – and it still brings me joy. But it doesn’t hit the same as real time with teammates, the kind where you spend enough time together that it naturally becomes quality time.

I know our bodies can’t handle it like they did back when we felt indefinitely inexhaustible, but there are ways around it. These days, I care less about playing time and more about people time.

We don’t need to play 3–7 games a day like we did in AAU, but we can build bigger rosters, play a couple games, ride the bench when needed, and squeeze in a beer in between (then a few more after), and tap back into that team bonding we used to have.

—

I wasn’t such a space slut before this mission, and I’m over the moon (pun so intended) that I suddenly am.

I really hope Artemis II found its way into your algo like it did into mine, and that it’s inspiring you to think a little differently, a little more curiously, and a little beyond what feels insurmountable.

Let’s get after making this world a lighter place. Hug a friend – or, in the words of Rocky, “fist my bump.” 🤜🤛

What if holidays and birthdays just weren’t a thing we did?

This is absolutely me projecting my own experience, yes.

Hear me out though.

I don’t know if I can think of a single person I know who genuinely loves and looks forward to every holiday and celebration. Sure, sometimes we all love a day where we get pampered a little extra. And of course, there’s something about the christmakkuh season that brings moments of joy, even if that joy is sometimes just more time off work and space for self-reflection.

I think this past go-around of each put a lot into perspective for me. Somehow, the dates I used to look forward to the most became the ones I was dreading most.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take any chance I get for a moment of spotlight. Especially if it means being surrounded by a swarm of my favorite people. At the same time, we can’t ignore the fact that holidays, birthdays, and staple celebrations rarely feel like smooth sailing.

Personally, most holidays for me are tied to a lot of old trauma and family drama that doesn’t actually feel good. Birthdays and certain anniversaries, in the grand scheme of things, are lovely. And while often – most times even – the love and happiness outweigh the stings, we as humans are wired in a pretty wonky way. We take one shitty thing and let it cast a shadow over the better stuff. I know I’m not alone in feeling like birthdays don’t always feel cute; we hold people to expectations that can leave us disappointed.

But imagine a world… no birthdays. We just get to be.

We celebrate a best friend on a random Tuesday at 3:33pm. We take a couple hours off work for no explainable reason other than this felt important five minutes ago. No candles. No countdown. No “did you get my text?” or “damn, really thought they’d at least call..” anxiety spiral.

What if we didn’t panic-buy gifts on the one day a year we’ve known was coming for twelve months? What if instead we just gifted them a toy car that looks like the one they loved when they were four but can’t justify buying now, plus a gift card to somewhere with go-karts. Or what if you found a slightly pricey piece of jewelry that made you think of someone and you bought it just because, and gave it to them the next time you saw them, instead of waiting for their birthday because you’re “supposed to.”

I don’t know. There’s something about the expectations baked into birthdays that, at least this year, don’t feel worth the pressure. I wish there were a norm where every day felt created equal, and we just found days to celebrate without needing permission from the calendar.

Because ultimately, if you really love someone, you’ll find a reason to celebrate them every time you’re with them. Or at the very least, being with them will feel like a celebration every time.

Thirty-three is going to be a good year. I know it. I’m nearly confident, knowing what I have coming and what I have to look forward to. But truthfully, I wish I could just be 33. I wish there were a skip card.

Not as a way of ignoring change. Not as a way of avoiding being celebrated. But because the love I feel year-round is enough, and I don’t need an annual date to prove it.

yours truly,

Marty Party – 33, F, my bed

How the fucketh is one supposed to summarize or reflect on a year where my most frequently used phrase was: “I don’t know how to describe the feeling” – [.. then immediately proceeding to list off every feeling, including polar opposite adjectives, to describe the same thing]. I’ve been trying to land on something, anything, to sum it all up. And the best I’ve got is a little analogy:

2025 was kinda like the tortilla slap challenge for adults. Or, similarly, like the Kraft cheese singles for kids – where you whack ’em and brace for the response that hopefully warrants TikTok virality.

An attempt to explain the analogy:

In short, this past year ultimately felt like a slap in the face. But the kind of slap where I don’t know if I should laugh or cry in that moment. Or laugh so hard I cry. Or cry so hard I laugh. I think there’s something cute about the intersection of laughing and crying. They can exist as mutually exclusive, or they can become an intertwined web of an indescribable emotion. If you get a fastball thrown at you via tortilla or a Kraft cheese slice, ultimately you’ll forgive, survive… though not forget that moment (especially because it’s now flooded all over TikTok and settled in your camera roll).

2025 taught me to embrace impermanence. And kinda tempted me to get a TBD permanent tattoo that resembles just that. I’m really trying to avoid the clichés we all already hear and know too well: change is scary and change can be a good thing. This year changed the trajectory of my future in the most terrifying way I never imagined I could handle. Honestly, there are moments I still question if I can. But then I remember the personal growth that changed me too.

Idk, there’s something about the term growing pains that maybe we don’t read the way we should. We read it as a phrase, as a noun. But what if we split it into a noun + verb? Growing pains. Growing fucking hurts sometimes. Growth can be good. It can also feel like a fckn struggle to get there.

My best friend doesn’t ruminate on New Year’s resolutions, and I really respect that. Instead, they choose one word for the year… so I’m replicating their ways here.

My word for 2026: iterative.

Try. Fail. Iterate. Learn. Fail again. Rinse, reuse, repeat.

You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll laugh so hard you cry. You’ll cry so hard you’ll laugh.

… and somehow, you’ll still survive the slap.

2026 here we go, my friend!

I’ve gleaned a great appreciation for so many subtleties just by slowing down and actually soaking in my surroundings. When the macro world is feeling particularly sucky, it’s sometimes worth maximizing the beauty in the micro stuff.

For example:

• walking past a sidewalk and catching a whiff of fresh laundry blowing in the wind, courtesy of those gut-wrenching, budget-friendly Chicago garden units
• walking by and catching a whiff of weed, sans the actual puff puff pass
• learning that you are capable of overcoming your intense hatred of putting on a duvet cover, without letting it ruin the rest of your day
• realizing a $75 monthly Ventra pass exists and now you can commute anywhere and everywhere “for free”
• watching a kid fall and then immediately laugh it off
• the inauspicious, staggered arrival times of snail mail that was dropped off all at once and sent to nearby places
• starting a cookbook collection, just ‘cuz
• shifting from non-fiction memoirs to sapphic smut
• swiping for love and realizing your self-love lives in your self-proclaimed funny flirt lines
• a clean, cozy apartment with a bidet, guest slippers, and all the doggy god-daddy essentials when duty calls
• working at a place where the entire premise is literally your favorite thing in the world… friends
• actually falling for the TikTok search-bar “2025 exit song” trap/scam, learning yours is A Lot More Free by Max McNown, and being shooketh by the accuracy
• having a tissue holder where the tissues are sh*tting out of a cat’s butt for when you get emotional (or sick, or both)

The holidays can suck. And it hits different when you suddenly find yourself living the exact scenario social media parades around every year. For some, this season is painfully hard; for others, it’s a nonstop waterfall of gifts, love, joy, and abyss-level abundance.

I stopped believing in Santa when my Aunt Gosia dressed up as him when I was about four and I recognized her immediately. But I’ll never stop believing that you can find small subtleties that add a little shine back into your life… even, especially, when a quieter holiday season than you’re used to tries to dim it.

So I stole Izzy Bobbie for a couple of days to make the never-ending days feel more like Christmas. Because I’m convinced that if my golden-retriever-like boifriend energy can cut through the fog.. the kind where dogs live in a carefree Christmas mindset because they’re not assigning meaning to a calendar… then maybe, just maybe, every day could feel a little like Christmas. 🎄

I’m sorry if my hat that says “Dead Inside” misled what I intended to be a warm, lively approach. I didn’t tell you that I initially overshot you by half a block, as if asking “can I help you with that?” required some form of bravery.

I’m glad I turned around to help you carry the “bunch of rubbish” you bought from Target; should’ve picked up on your British upbringing with that word choice alone. You referenced River North as home for 25 years, and I shared about it being my work home for two. Our conversation and walk were so brief, but I hope you know that by letting me take that load off your hands, you actually lightened mine… which is ironic coming from someone in a Dead Inside hat, who had no business feeling that alive afterward.