I woke up this morning, sleep-deprived and under siege by a 10-pound cat who insists breakfast is whenever she decrees—usually before 6 a.m. My version of hitting the snooze button? Tossing a pillow at her. That bought me five minutes of peace before she started yowling again.
I rolled out of bed, but my dog—traitor that she is—stayed put, claiming my warm spot, curling into a ball, and pulling the covers over her nose. I grabbed my phone and started scrolling. I know, terrible habit. Blue light and social media before I’m even fully awake. Halfway through, I dropped the phone, remembering I got up to feed the cats. While I was at it, I fed the dogs too. I used to have two big dogs, but now I’m catering to two pint-sized pups under 10 pounds. Go figure.
Sipping my pre-workout, I set up my yoga mat and weights. I’m a goal girlie with commitment issues, but one thing I know: lifting weights keeps me sane enough to tolerate society. I’m always sleep-deprived and grumpy about it, but I feel better after. That’s what keeps me going.
Let’s be real—I’d love to sleep until 8 a.m., then lounge in my gym clothes for two hours. Ideal morning, right? But lately, I’ve been taking stock of my life, asking what truly makes me happy—not my partner, my daughter, or my family, but me. As a firstborn daughter and granddaughter, that’s tough. The people-pleaser in me runs deep. For a decade, I’ve made promises to “get my life together” and chase my goals.
Spoiler: that hasn’t worked.
So, I decided to be a menace instead. I’m done with behaving, chasing traditional goals, or squeezing into some box I built for myself. I’m a freaking delight, and I know it.
As my friend Lisa’s husband put it one summer day, we’re “Judgmental Life Coaches.” He’s onto something. I’ve got opinions, born from experience, and I’m here to say: maybe listen for a minute so you don’t have to burn everything down to become the you-est you.
This isn’t your typical goal-getter blog with tidy lessons. It’s more like torching your Pinterest board and embracing chaos at its core.
Because here’s the truth: nobody’s getting out alive, and we’re all faking it. Did you know not everyone will make it to your funeral, even if they loved you? Weather might hold them up. So, get a little selfish, a little reckless with your life.
For me, that meant finally sharing my short, chaotic stories with the world. I’ve got six or more in progress, sparked by a muse who hands me a sentence and says, “Do something with this.” AI has been a game-changer, helping me outline stories when I get stuck obsessing over perfection. That’s how I started on Substack, turning my wildest adventures into short stories with just enough chaos. It’s freeing—most of my ideas are under 10,000 words, perfect for the characters and muse driving them. My young adult storyline, led by Mary Francis (the muse names them), came to me in a dream a year ago and wouldn’t let go until I wrote it down. It may turn into something a little longer and I may just hit publish on it for public consumption. It’s not the book I thought I would write first out the gate; but something in this character won’t let go. For now my stories are on my Substack—my Best Fiends story, a wild ride born from my brain’s urge to unleash pure chaos, wraps up soon on Substack. Next up is Roped In, where two women, fresh off breakups, stumble into love with cowboys during rodeo season. I’ve also got a wild tale on Wattpad, Soft Launch, sparked by a prompt about meeting a celebrity and thriving in the spotlight. All my stories are free right now, so dive in and let me know what you think!
My brain’s got a few tabs open, and I’m done fighting it. I just let the chaos in. I lay out my yoga mat, set up my weights, and let my workout quiet the noise. I don’t beat myself up for missing a session anymore—I’m chugging water and popping supplements; something’s gotta give.
If you’ve got a dream in your heart, here’s what I’ve learned: just start.
Put it out there, imperfect and raw.
Some of us were meant to thrive in the chaos.
Let that be you.
Tessa 