Ponderings

• October 26, 2025
• 2 weeks

Banana Bread at Work Today, Dude?

If you’re single as an adult and live far from your parents, certain asks can be tricky.

When you’re a kid or you’re dating someone, there’s no real doubt who’s going to drive you to the airport: your parent or your significant other. The same goes for the finish line of your race, your big performances, your presentations; you are guaranteed the support and presence of these people. Not to mention all the day-to-day favors that your parents or partner will do without a second thought: picking you up at your car appointment, letting out your dog.

As a single adult, all of these asks are directed to your friends. And yes, they’re your friends—it shouldn’t be a big ask. But there’s a level of vulnerability to it, because unlike a parent or partner, they’re not “required” to do it. It’s highly unlikely for a parent or partner to say no, but your friends have no obligation to say yes. To an extent, there’s a fear of rejection when asking your friends for help, but also there’s a feeling of imposition. How can I ask this person to take time out of their busy life to help me? But we don’t give it a second thought when we ask a parent or a partner—it’s what they’re supposed to do.

I have, out of fear of rejection, imposition, and vulnerability, avoided asking for help dozens of times over my adult years. I constantly pay for airport parking so that I don’t have to ask anyone to get me. I bring my bike to the auto shop so that I can cycle home once I’ve dropped my car. Last year, I signed up for a 50K race in Gunnison, naively assuming I’d have support. I made some very half-hearted attempts to get someone to come, saying to my friends, “if you’re free…”—only to feel guilty that I was implying that I wanted them to drive 3 hours to Gunnison just to watch me cross the start/finish line.

Well, that race I got 3rd overall, second woman. And it felt pretty lousy to have no one there to see it. I ate the remains of the chili they had at the finish line, mostly already devoured by all the 25K and 10K runners. I got my photo taken, then proceeded to drive myself home the 3 hours, covered in sweat and salt, my body aching from the effort I just put in. I can’t do that again, I thought.

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Though I’ve improved at accepting help the last few years, I still struggle asking. I remember the first time I felt caught in one of these situations. It was the fall after I graduated from college, and I just knew I couldn’t afford to fly home to New York for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. I would stay in Colorado for Thanksgiving. But where would I go?

My dad suggested I ask my career counselor, John Mann, if I could join his family. I didn’t think it was a bad idea, but I didn’t know how to make the ask. My dad came up with a short and sweet email I could tailor to my liking. It was pretty good. “Wow, I’m impressed,” I told him. My dad replied, “I’ve spent a lot of time kissing ass on this earth.”

Of course, John was happy to have me and encouraged me to bring any roommates in the same situation. Warm receptions like that are so valuable, because it makes the next ask easier. I’ve ended up spending 4 of the last 6 Thanksgivings with John and his family, to the point that I am just another family member.

My most recent successful ask was for a race I just did, the Bridge Burner Ultra 35K. After Gunnison, I vowed to no longer attend a race without support. This one felt easier to ask, since it wasn’t as far away— just an hour. I told my friends Chelsea and Mira about it, and they were on board. And thank goodness they were.

I was worried about this race, mainly because I was coming off a marathon a month before. Though the marathon had gone well, my body hadn’t recovered like it usually did. My heart rate was constantly soaring, even during easy efforts, and my sleep was off balance. The start time for the race had also been pushed back from 8:00 to 8:45 am due to a permitting issue, and the forecast was looking hot. I got heat stroke in a race last February, and since then, I’ve been afraid of racing in high temperatures. Needless to say, I was genuinely concerned something bad would happen at this 35K, and I just wanted the reassurance that someone would be there for me if it did.

Mira and Chelsea saved the day in that respect. Not only was it such a relief to see them at the aid stations and finish line (with banana bread, Monster, chocolate milk, and beers!), but it calmed me a lot knowing that they were tracking me throughout. The sun did in fact come out in full force, and the course was so exposed. Though the final 6 miles of the race were almost all downhill, my heart rate raged. At one point, I found myself panicking, which happens if I feel like I can’t breathe. It honestly felt like my throat was closing, and I was out in the middle of the trail, no runners around me. The only way I was able to calm myself was remembering that Chelsea and Mira were there—that they’d make it OK. I basically walked-ran the end of the race, and somehow still managed 3rd woman and 7th overall. But it was a journey.

The race was a lesson for me about how valuable it is to be vulnerable and make the ask. I don’t know why I always think it’s such an imposition, when I know I would do the same for anyone else. My friend needs a ride to the airport? I’m there. Another friend is running a race? I’ll be at the finish line. It’s not even a question for me, so why do I assume it’s a huge hassle for someone else? Real friends show up for you when you need it.

I imagined what it would have been like yesterday if I had no Chelsea or Mira. Maybe I would have fainted out on that trail. Maybe I wouldn’t have fainted, but I’d have not spent the proper time at the aid stations and not gotten the fuel I needed. I definitely wouldn’t have downed a chocolate milk, waded in the Arkansas River, and gotten burgers and onion rings after the fact without them. I probably would’ve crossed the finish, given myself a pat on the back, got in my car, sweaty/salty and all, and driven myself home. And that would’ve been a real bummer.

Though making the ask isn’t always easy for me, it’s becoming easier. And I just hope that as it gets easier for me, it gets easier for others to ask for my help, too.

Ponderings

• June 20, 2025
• 5 months

Buy A Home, They Said

It’s been two years today since I moved into home sweet tiny home. A year ago, I put a post on Instagram admitting that despite setting down roots, I had left my house for the majority of the year and had learned that I don’t like living alone.

A year later, I still don’t love living by myself. However, I’ve made peace with it. Part of it is due to the amazing help I’ve received from my parents to make the place feel truly mine. There are now plants growing in the front and backyard; we built a deck, which now has actual furniture on it; we remodeled the garage for a big project I have ahead. My house has never felt uncomfortable or lacking homey-ness, but the silence in it was constantly making me feel lonesome. As if: what good was such a wonderful space without someone to share it with?

My life — at least from an employment perspective — has changed a lot in the last year. While a year ago I was working a remote job, usually desperate for human interaction by the end of the day, I now work two in-person jobs. I once relished talking to strangers, but now it sometimes feels like all my life is. And yes, talking with strangers at my jobs can feel like it used to: amusing, funny, engaging, fulfilling. But it can equally feel draining, patronizing, and insulting. At the end of a long or exhausting work day, I find myself in one of two states. It’s either, “Oh my god, I just talked to so many strangers that all I want to do is call someone I love because they actually know me and unconditionally accept me for who I am.” Or, it’s: “Oh my god, I just talked to so many strangers that all I want to do is get in my car, drive home in silence, cook dinner in silence, and go to bed. IN SILENCE.” My social battery, once practically limitless for everyone, now only has a finite reserve for new people; it only feels charged or stable around my closest friends and family. And sometimes, the only thing that can recharge it is my little abode, left to my own thoughts.

I still feel lonely in the place at times, but there’s a real difference between feeling lonely and being alone. I have so many people who care about me just a call, text, bike ride, or short drive away, that my house could never make me feel actually isolated.

I don’t regret buying this house in the slightest. Home ownership can be a terrifying thing at times, but it’s stretched me in innumerable ways and will keep adding value to my life. And maybe one day I’ll share it with someone, too.

Ponderings

• May 20, 2025
• 6 months

Emotional Content

I was in a dissociative state the last three days at work, completely numb to the utter chaos around me.

It’s REI’s biggest sale of the year — “A Sale,” or “Anniversary Sale” — and I can say, without a doubt, it brings out the most heathenish side of people I have ever witnessed. There were 2-3 dozen people outside the store doors on Friday morning, Day 1. The store traffic is insane; the phone line is constantly occupied. Footwear, call on line 3. Action Sports, line 4. Service Advisor, line 6. People are shoving shoes in my coworker’s faces, asking for attention when each of said coworkers is already working with 5 other customers. I folded more pants this weekend than anyone should have to do in a lifetime and re-racked hundreds of items of clothes. I am exhausted.

The only way to get through it all is to literally dissociate. There is truly no possible way to maintain a level of caring, optimism, and upbeat energy when you are being emotionally pummeled by customers. All you can do is tackle the problem in front of you as best you can for your 8 hours, then clock out. Think too hard about it, and you’ll break.

Well, after 4 days straight of dissociation, I thought a little too hard about it. I got in the car, called my parents, and cried over the fact that I had spent literally 32 hours of my life cleaning up after grown adults, putting things back in place. When a year ago I had a full-time job — with benefits. With paid time off. With open weekends. With reasonable pay. I reminded myself that it’s all temporary and that I’m doing my best. I took myself for an hour-long sunset bike ride and felt better. But I wish I had stayed dissociated.

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Since it’s A Sale, management has been trying to boost our morale by providing free food and creating themed days. I don’t know how much our morale has been boosted, but none of us were complaining about making one or two (or three) hefty sandwiches each day of this last weekend with sides of chips. Friday was Hawaiian shirt day, Saturday was crazy sock day. Crazy sock day was sort of a conundrum for me, since I own — one could say — TOO MANY crazy socks. In fact, I own 5 pairs of donut socks alone. And I didn’t purchase a single one of them. I was able to narrow the socks to four options: beer steins, yellow submarines, donuts, or foxes. Not long after posting a poll of these socks on my Instagram, I had this revelation that my entire personality could be boiled down to my sock collection. Like, you could literally come to my house, and without looking at anything but my sock drawer, determine the person I am. I wonder how many people this also applies to…

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Part of my dissociation at REI was a tactic to hone in on my “emotional content,” a term from my favorite yoga instructor at the rock gym, LeAnne. She explained in one class how our emotional content is the energy we’re unknowingly putting out. She explained, “You know, sometimes you’re having a great day, and you get your coffee and you thank your barista in a sunshiney way. But other days, you come into the coffee shop and you’ve already spilled yogurt on yourself and pulled a button off your shirt — and so you thank your barista, but in a snappy, harsh way. And that barista absorbs that emotional content, even though they had nothing to do with the things that happened.”

I realized a few ways that my emotional content showed up like that in the weeks following. For instance, a dad at the gym came up to me and introduced himself. He exclaimed, “I recognize you from 503W and REI! You work at the two best spots in town!” I gave a hollow laugh and replied, “Yeah, well, they’d be better if they paid me more.” He got a little quiet and awkward after that, and I realized that my words were so unfair and unsuspecting.

I’ve also found that when I’m at 503W and it’s really busy, I don’t always do a great job of remaining calm and kind when more customers enter the restaurant. I think my face and tone betray my stress, and I can tell the customers then feel bad for simply coming out to eat. So I’ve now tried to greet everyone who enters with the same enthusiasm, whether the restaurant is empty or packed.

At REI this weekend, in my dissociated state, I had a pretty much neutral face the entire time. I stayed unphased by the piles of clothes in the dressing rooms and answered customer questions with a smile on my face. The emotional content was level, consistent. But it’s so much easier said than done.

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You know how Friends names all of its episodes starting with “The One Where …” something happens? Last weekend, it occurred to me that some of my best memories — best days — can be boiled down to a descriptor like that. I specifically had told Ryan how I remembered him scoring the winning soccer goal at his game on Cinco de Mayo last year.

“Remember that day? How we went to the climbing gym and then I went to your soccer game and you scored the goal? And then we went to Costco with your parents and then downtown to get a Mexican lager? And how we made Mexican food when we got home?” See, that was a memorable, fun day. An episode.

The sad thing about life is there are a lot of non-episode days. No one wants to watch the episodes titled, “The One Where Sarah Woke Up, Worked All Day, and Went to Bed.” But many days — for some people, most days — are like that. They’re like the “building” episodes in a TV show; they’re necessary but decidedly boring. We’d all much rather watch the fun college episodes, like, “The One Where Sarah and Marta Borrowed A Friend’s Dolly to Steal a Clawfoot Bathtub in an Alleyway Because Marta Wanted to Create Her Own Hot Tub.” Those are the episodes you want to watch over and over again, with the friends involved. (As a side note: Adults tell you not to stress too much in college about exams and grades, because you’ll forget about them. And they’re right! The studying and the classes are totally NON-EPISODES. The college debauchery with your friends? Undoubtedly episodes.)

I think I get unsatisfied with my life when too many days are “non-episode” days. I also have a lot of arguably episode-worthy days, but they feel repetitive. For instance, last Monday: “The One Where Sarah Was Supposed to Climb with Casey in Golden but Casey Had a Work Snafu So Sarah Did Errands and Had Lunch with Ryan and Climbed at the Gym with Casey and Ran at Run Club with Mira.” Kinda interesting, but also, I have so many Mondays like that — errands, climbing, run club. I feel like those days also don’t count as episodes, since you don’t watch shows where episodes across a season are virtually the same.

I want episodes all the time in a world where society keeps us boxed into non-episode routines and rituals. We’re told to get up and do the same job for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. We try to spice it up in the evenings with a happy hour or physical activity or social group, and we pray that the weekend will come soon to have free time. But then we’re so behind on the mundane tasks — cleaning, fixing things, organizing — that our weekends turn into non-episode days too. We’re not afforded episodes easily. I think that’s why I’m always scrambling, packing too many things into too few hours — I’m trying to make an episode out of each day. Otherwise, why bother watching the show?

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The last time I talked to my brother, Fletcher, we talked for an hour. He is one of the most wholesome people I have the fortune to know. He had had a stressful situation go down at his work (he’s a teacher at an all-girls’ middle school), and he was facing backlash from frustrated parents despite feeling very secure in the decisions he and the school had made surrounding it. He told me, “The kind of silly metaphor I’ve been using this school year has been that teaching is kind of like curling. And each student is one of those stones. And we teachers are the curlers, and we are furiously scraping at the ice, trying to direct each student as best we can. Sometimes, though, the stone comes out too fast, and we can’t direct it the way we want. We can only try.”

I found the metaphor quite the opposite of silly. It was profound. Because you could really make it a metaphor for life. How each stone is an event, and you, as the curler, react to it by scraping the ice. A stone could be the unexpected loss of a loved one, a stone you can’t slow down. Or a stone could be like the business I’m starting to create: a slow roll that I am meticulously guiding as best as I can. This metaphor comes from the same guy who regularly secretly leaves home in search of a coffee shop for a good cookie he can eat.