Dear Jason,

I’ve been worrying about you for years.

We’ve never met, so you might find this startling. Truth be told, until just a few minutes ago, I didn’t know what you looked like or even how to spell your last name. Google answered those questions. But you might be curious: Why was I wondering—and why have I been so worried?

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Summer is the season when it’s officially kind-of-okay to take things down a notch. If you turn off your computer an hour earlier than usual to have friends over for a backyard BBQ on a weeknight, I say, good for you. If you skip the gym and take an evening stroll with your sweetie because you can’t be inside for one more minute, I say, excellent choice. And if you decide to ditch your infernal to-do list and replace it with a much more realistic not-to-do list, I say, welcome to the club.

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I recently articulated something that felt profound: I will say no to projects that do not serve me. I was pleased that my resolution was both practical and pithy.

Naturally, a few days after I made this shiny new commitment, the Universe laughed hysterically and proceeded to kick my butt.

Let me explain. I’ve worked for myself for most of my career. Thanks to both my professional drive and my desire to be able to afford food, I’ve said yes to almost every wordsmithing opportunity that’s come my way. After more than two decades in the biz, I think I’ve earned the right to say no if an opportunity isn’t a fit for me.

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Eight years ago, my husband and I had dinner with eight total strangers. That’s a slight exaggeration: One of the eight (whom I’ll call Sarah) was an acquaintance from our elementary school, a mom I enjoyed chatting with while our kids finished class in 4^th grade. Sarah’s daughter was friendly with my son, but since the kids didn’t cross paths with play dates or sports teams, Sarah and I never saw each other beyond the boundaries of the blacktop.

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My heart is bursting with everything I anticipate feeling a year from now, when my first-born heads to college.

Has someone in your family just graduated or is about to graduate from high school? If so, you’re probably experiencing an intense mix of emotions – pride, sadness, relief, excitement, and, perhaps most of all, a deep sense of nostalgia about how quickly your baby has turned into a young adult.

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I’ve jumped on and fallen off the meditation wagon for years. Sometimes, a New Year’s resolution got me to put my butt on a cushion and focus on my breathing. Other times, inspiration struck after I attended a talk or a workshop about mindfulness. Still other times, I simply craved the extra layer of emotional “padding” that regular meditation gives me.

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Consider this:

Summer is heading our way, which makes this the official season for making family travel plans. Last summer, I spent some time traveling with teens. (You, too, may have participated in such an anthropological experiment. Perhaps we should compare notes.) In my case, the teens in question were my two lads, ages 14 and 16. Because I love them both deeply and did not wish to make them cry, our road trip around the East Coast included plenty of teen-approved activities such as leaping off high rocks into deep pools of cold, clear water and eating at least one maple creemee every day.

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Consider this:

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that our nation seems to have expanded its definition of “hero.” It’s no longer reserved for firefighters, police officers, teachers, and all the folks who regularly put themselves on the frontlines of saving, helping, educating, and inspiring. Now, the word “hero” includes this chilling definition: “Kids who fight back before being shot to death at school.”

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Consider this:

Just about 18 months ago, I wrote in this column a letter of heartfelt thanks to an anonymous donor whose marrow now resides inside the bones of a dear, local teenage lad. In the time since our friend Jack (then 14) was rushed, on the eve of starting his freshman year at Tam High, to the emergency room with dangerously low blood counts, a lot has happened. Jack was diagnosed with a rare blood disease called Severe Aplastic Anemia, which, if left untreated, is fatal.

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Consider this:

In Las Vegas and Beyond, Counting On Lady Luck Is Insane

Less than 16 months ago, I wrote about crying at the gym as I watched televised coverage of the carnage in an Orlando nightclub. I lamented our nation’s rote response to gun violence, a checklist that includes “tears, outrage, shock” and “thoughts and prayers” from national leaders. I wrote about what seems to be our collective misunderstanding of the word “reeling” – a term I imagine we’ll hear again and again in coming days to describe our response to the horror in Las Vegas. I noted how “reeling” implies shock and disbelief so intense it’s physically staggering. Read more