Writing {unfiltered} by Lynn J. Broderick

On my sixth birthday, Mom surprised me with a paper birthday crown—the number six scrawled across the front in pink crayon—calling me “Queen for the Day” as she slipped it onto my head.

At nine, I had gotten lost after a solo train ride to the town we moved away from. When I returned the next day (once again, alone on the train), she ran toward me and wrapped her arms around me. She had been frantic with worry.

Did she hug me goodbye at the dorm room when she dropped me off at college? Or when I came home that first time?

I honestly don’t remember.

What I do remember is that Mom seemed more naturally affectionate with our dogs. She even dressed them better.

“I love you” didn’t really exist between us until I said it first as an adult.

Dad expressed his love frequently when I was growing up, which felt oddly uncomfortable. Likely because those three words never tumbled from my own mother’s lips.

Out in the world, I learned that hugs were what people did when saying hello and goodbye to someone they cared about. Physical touch was also a way to provide comfort. To say, I see you.

I found out saying “I love you” was also apparently a thing.

So I initiated the hugs and love you’s with Mom (and Dad).

Over time, she learned the drill.

Eventually, she even said “I love you” first, if only once in a while.

Her hugs stayed loose, though. With a light pat on the back for impersonal emphasis.

Except the day I learned my own body couldn’t carry a baby.

That day, she cradled me while I wept.

I’m assuming she hugged me each of the six times IVF didn’t work. And again when I announced my divorce. I don’t recall.

Recently, I stood in the kitchen looking out at the empty dining table on our deck. A faded movie of everyone sitting around it the weekend of my aunt’s celebration of life started playing my head. My other aunt was in town. My parents and younger brother were there. My Navy son.

Mom came inside for something and I broke down. “I don’t what I’m going to do if something happens to you or Dad.”

She laughed her laugh and opened her arms. I fell into them.

Feeling loved and being loved aren’t always the same experience.

Mom was there for all the messy arcs of my life.

Her being there mattered. It was more than a lot of people can say about their moms.

Maybe I got lost in the shuffle, the only girl between two boys.

My older brother was the golden child.

My younger brother was all smiles and dimples. She smothered him with kisses through his toddler years, maybe beyond. She always said he reminded her of her beloved father, who took his own life less than ten years earlier. The father she described as warm, loving, and openly affectionate.

Mom always said I was the most difficult to raise.

I absorbed that instead of asking why.

I was always vying for attention. For approval. For something.

She also said she never had to worry about me.

I was getting decent grades, as if that was the only indicator of not needing much.

Hell, I don’t think I even realized what I needed or what I might be missing.

(In all honesty, while I absolutely love hugs, I still have to resist the urge to be the first to pull away if they linger too long. Unless it’s my son or husband.)

In her last year, boundaries began falling away.

Time was closing in.

She expressed gratitude that I was the one handling everything.

Dad’s last breath. His ashes.

Piecing together their finances, accounts she’d forgotten about.

Sitting beside her while she chose no treatment. The hospice calls.

The only daughter.

The difficult one.

When she got so sick from RSV that I thought she might die, she cried out when I walked into her assisted living room.

“My baby girl! My baby girl is here!”

As if she’d always called me that. As if she’d always been that excited when I walked into a room.

Maybe vulnerability cracked something open. Maybe it was the drugs.

She grabbed my hand and gently caressed it.

Not like her at all.

No other memories of affection come easily.

I was the one who dropped everything when she fell that last time.

Our last hug was loose as always. A light kiss on the cheek.

“I love you.”

Our last words to each other.

At least until she starts haunting me.

Thanks so much for reading. It really does mean a lot.

If this piece resonated with you, I’d love if you tapped the heart button or shared my work.

Of course, I always love your comments, too.

Most of my essays and Notes are free for everyone. But if you’d like to support my work in a bigger way—and it’s in your budget—consider becoming a paid subscriber. You’ll help fund my ridiculous chocolate habit and improve the odds of my husband retiring before seventy.

But honestly, just having you here matters most.

A few reader favorites…

More about me…

I live in the Chicago suburbs with my husband, chasing my lifelong dream of writing a novel. When I’m not sharing memoir-ish stories and unfiltered thoughts, I’m blending smoothies, walking backwards, or staring at my phone waiting for a text from my Navy son. Read more about why I write here.

Confessions of a Small-Town Marathon Girl

Wed, 13 May 2026 19:53:07 GMT

This story is true, though some names and identifying details have been changed for privacy.

I worked at a Marathon mini-mart my senior year of high school.

It was far from glamorous, but it was a job. And it got me out in front of people in a way I’d never been before.

Groc-O-Line was located on Route 14, a highway stretching from Chicago into Wisconsin and beyond.

If you were driving from the city and came upon Harmilda—the life-sized cow statue planted in the middle of the Main Street and Route 14 intersection—you’d gone just a little too far.

(Harmilda was a mashup of Harvard Milk Day, a celebration of the town’s historic claim to fame as The Milk Capital of the World.)

We all wore navy jumpsuits.

Mine hugged me in all the right places and was probably the sexiest, most fashion- forward outfit I’d owned up to that point, not counting bikinis.

The place was owned by Bill, a red-haired, thick-mustachioed man close to my parents’ age, as far as I could tell. He was rarely on the premises. Rhonda, the manager, wasn’t around much either unless she had a shift or some bookkeeping to tend to in the back office.

Otherwise, if I had a shift, I was the only one there.

At night, it felt like being in a harshly lit fishbowl.

An easy target for anyone driving through town at twenty-five miles an hour. Locals, strangers on their way to more interesting places… ax murderers.

It was an innocent time. There was no emergency button or protocol of any kind. If there was a stickup, I guess I was on my own.

On any given night, there could be hundreds of dollars in the drawer.

And lots of cigarettes, food, and drinks.

Beyond ringing people up at the register, I had to keep shelves stocked. If I had the closing shift, which was often, I had to sweep, clean the outdoor bathroom, count out the drawer, and take the locked leather envelope of cash to the bank drop box.

At midnight.

I loved working there.

I was confident in my role. I was fast on the cash register, and the drawer was rarely off by more than a few cents.

People, namely attractive guys from school, seemed to see me differently.

I mean, that uniform turned heads.

I could feel their eyes scanning my body. My heart raced. It was… thrilling.

If the customer was old and/or creepy, however, it was not thrilling at all.

(I wish I’d hung onto the jumpsuit. Believe me, it looked better than what the AI-generated photo could create.)

I didn’t freeze up like I normally did around attractive guys. I suddenly knew exactly what to say.

Would you like anything else?

Here’s your change…

Have a great day!

I was the mini-mart goddess.

Every day held something new and potentially exciting.

The added bonus was that I was able to feed my sugar addiction with an array of candy: Hershey’s bars (mostly), ice cream treats, cookies, and pastries. I would’ve easily outgrown the uniform had my metabolism not been so fast.

Rhonda occasionally left with a bag of groceries she may or may not have paid for. It seemed like the unspoken rule was that you could eat whatever you wanted while working there. Maybe even take a few things home.

One night, a cute guy from school stopped in wanting pizzas. For free. Of course I wasn’t going to just start handing things out. Unless, of course, he swept and mopped the floors.

This arrangement may have happened more than once. With other cute guys. Word must’ve gotten out.

One day, like any other, Mom informed me we had to go see Bill.

Turns out, Rhonda had been watching me from the corner one of the nights I gave out frozen pizza in exchange for sweeping. With a police officer.

I was fired.

My parents must have been so proud.

Looking back, it’s wild they left a seventeen-year-old girl there alone at night handling bank deposits and cigarette inventory.

Those were different times. Oh, so different.

The uniform remained hung up in my farmhouse closet for years, until Mom must’ve cleared things out. She was good at throwing stuff away without asking.

But once a Marathon Girl, always a Marathon Girl.

Sadly, I didn’t have a photo of myself as a Marathon Girl. So here’s a present-day reimagining, thanks to AI.

Thanks so much for reading. It really does mean a lot.

If this piece resonated with you, I’d love if you tapped the heart button or shared my work.

Of course, I always love your comments, too.

But honestly, just having you here matters most.

A few reader favorites…

More about me…

My Disastrous, Mortifying Stint as a Sex Ed Teacher

Lynn J. Broderick — Tue, 05 May 2026 22:21:44 GMT

I was in sixth grade.

My friend Robbie and I were hanging out at my house, trying to come up with something to do.

Winter out in the country offered… very little.

So we hatched a prank phone call scheme. Not the Is your refrigerator running? variety. Oh no. We were much more creative than that.

Honestly, it was my very own warped creativity that sparked the idea.

We took turns calling a few of the “nerdier” girls (as if I wasn’t nerdy myself) to inform them about the new class that would be starting.

Here was the script:

Hello. I’m Ms. Francoise and I will be teaching the new sex education class. I’m reaching out to a few students to see if you have any questions you’d like me to address.

We attempted a sophisticated woman’s voice. Very Ms. Francoise.

It was the late ‘70s. Outside of the one-day, girls-only, fifth-grade slideshow on the menstrual cycle, I don’t think sex ed existed.

What inspired me to come up with such a scheme? I may have been ever-so-slightly influenced by The Happy Hooker, a book my fifth grade friend Fran lent me. While it was over fifty years ago, I remember the story being on the pornographic side. I was reading it one day on the floor in the small area between my bed and the windows. Mom found me. She confiscated the book with a heavy sigh and never spoke of it.

No wonder Ms. Francoise felt necessary.

None of them had questions. We were mildly disappointed, but still had fun.

After Robbie went home, I made one more call. A boy answered. Maggie wasn’t home.

I asked him to tell her Ms. Francoise called, then recited my number.

Mistake number one.

She called back that afternoon and I went through the spiel.

Mistake number two.

A day or two later, Mom said we had to go to the police station. I was under suspicion for making prank phone calls.

My gut felt like it was being trampled by a herd of angry dinosaurs.

The wind rushed past the station wagon, impossibly loud in the silence between Mom and me.

At the station, Police Officer Tom—who was also the high school truant officer—led us into a small, shadowy office. I took a seat across from him, while Mom remained standing.

The parents of the girl who called me back reported the prank to the authorities. Of course they did.

I admitted it was me, choking on tears.

The officer asked if anyone else was involved. I looked up at Mom. Her face was stone. I told him no.

It was time for a mug shot.

Yes. A mug shot.

I signed a form or two and he slid them into a manila envelope. He opened a drawer in the metal file cabinet behind him and dropped it inside.

“You now have a record,” he said.

Everything slowed.

A record. At twelve.

I stopped breathing. I was sure I would die in that chair.

I don’t remember leaving.

Years later, Mom told me it had all been a ruse she set up with Police Officer Tom. The mug shot was faked. I never had a record.

She laughed the first time she told me. I did, too.

Needless to say, I never made another prank phone call.

Not without hitting *67, of course.

Thanks so much for reading. It really does mean a lot.

If you want to support me even more:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Tap the heart (it tells me were here).
Leave a comment (building this community is my favorite part).
Restack (this helps other readers find me) or share my work with friends and family. 
Or subscribe so you don’t miss a thing.

Paid subscriptions are always welcome—Keith would love to retire before seventy.

Of course, you just being here matters most.

More about me.

More of my work you might enjoy…

The Long Goodbye: One Tender Fragment at a Time (Part Two)

Lynn J. Broderick — Mon, 27 Apr 2026 20:14:14 GMT

This is the part where everything speeds up.

If you missed Part One, it’s here.

April 5th, 2026
Easter scenic drive

We took Mom out for a scenic drive.

It was the first time she’d left her assisted living building since January—first because of RSV, then because I hadn’t felt comfortable taking her out on my own. She’d become more wobbly. More frail. She was eighty pounds dripping wet, according to the nurse.

There’d been a notable change just days prior—she wasn’t just forgetful, she was confused.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Looking for Dad so he could eat (he died last year). 
Trying to find her car keys. 
Asking where her car was (it had been gone for over a year).
Searching for the basement parking garage (there wasn't one).

She’d fallen the day before. Again.

But that morning, when I called, she sounded more like herself.

The sun was shining. It felt like a good day to try. Plus, I had backup—my husband Keith and my younger brother Matt.

I sat in the backseat beside her, working with Samsung to delete the relentless spam pop-ups and almost three hundred apps from her phone.

No wonder she hadn’t been answering my calls the last couple of days.

Keith was behind the wheel. Matt narrated the sprawling wooded estates along the lake.

Mom didn’t really look out the window much.

The left side of her face and skull was shades of purple and blue from the fall. Her head dipped occasionally into brief dozes.

Later, back at her place, she demanded to go home.

“Don’t I live with you?” she asked me, then turned to Matt, as if he could help her figure this out.

We convinced her she needed to stay so these nice people could take care of her. We encouraged her to use the help button on her wrist if she wanted to get up from her chair.

“What call button?” She’d already forgotten.

We reminded her where it was.

“I’m not a baby!”

Mom was still fighting for independence.

Never wanting to be a burden.

Same day
The evening shift

Mom called that night, panicked. She didn’t know where she was. Or why she was there.

I put her on speaker. Keith and I were at the kitchen island, finishing dinner, mid-backgammon game. I encouraged her to press the call button.

“What call button? I don’t have it anymore.”

The nurse got on the phone. She told us Mom had been walking the halls with her walker and cell phone, the cord dragging behind her—convinced it was charging.

She was looking for her suitcase. Asking for Lenny, Dad’s nickname she probably hadn’t used since I was a child.

She told the nurse she didn’t live there and needed to reach Matt so he could pick her up. Then she slipped into third person, saying she was Dad and “looking for my wife.”

The nurse put Mom back on, hoping we could talk her down.

I tried to reassure her, my voice tight.

“I just want to go home,” Mom said. “I will not stay here. I’ll walk away.”

My approach was not working. At all.

Keith offered to help out. I nodded, my silent tears pooling on the counter.

“Hey Karen,” he said. “How are you?”

“Not good.”

“I know it’s hard to remember, but you wanted to move there. It was a great choice and it’s the safest place you can be right now. They care about you.”

“Okay.”

Simple as that. Keith’s voice.

“You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. Do you remember us being there with you earlier today?”

“No. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, he said. “You’re just experiencing some memory issues. We all drove around by the beautiful homes along the lake, then visited with you for a while. You can trust them there.”

“I trust you,” she said.

“We’re all here for you, Mom,” I said.

We told her we loved her. She said she loved us back.

We didn’t hang up. She thought we did.

We could hear her whimpering.

“I’m sorry,” she told the nurse.

“It’s okay,” the nurse said.

“It’s so scary,” Mom said, the fear in her voice almost childlike.

“I know.”

“I’m a good mom,” she said.

“You are,” the nurse said. “And they love their mom.”

“I love them. I love them so much.”

What’s not to love?

“I’m finding this very difficult,” Mom said. “Isn’t it awful that I can’t remember? What’s wrong with me? I know… I’m getting old. My memory’s going away. Maybe I should have somebody like you memorize things for me. Oh God, help me.”

I dropped my forehead into my hands, tears slipping through my fingers

“Where do I live?”

“You’re in room twenty-two,” the nurse said.

“Too-toot. Too-toot,” Mom sang.

We heard another woman’s voice. “Hi, Karen.”

“Hi Beth,” Mom said. “I’m overwhelmed. It all came out of the woodwork.”

“I understand,” Beth said. “There’s a lot of people who love you. Anytime you want to talk, just stop by… I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

“Your husband is one of my good friends,” Mom said.

“He’s everybody’s good friend.”

“My husband’s gone,” Mom said.

“I know,” Beth said. “I’m so grateful I still have Don.”

“Maybe I can share him with you,” Mom said.

Laughter. As if it was any night.

A few moments later, the nurse said, “Okay, here we are.”

“Too-toot.” Mom said. “Oh dear, bread and beer.”

Dad used to say that.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published
Oh dear, bread and beer. 
The cat ran off with the mouse’s ear… 

The nurse settled her into the lift chair with a blanket and turned on the TV, promising to return soon to help her into bed.

“Let my daughter know I’m okay.”

April 6th
Checking in

It was one of our many phone calls—since I left home, we’d talked at least once every week. Almost daily these past few years.

How many more would there be?

Mom was aware that things were changing. Fast. Her memory slipping further out of reach. Her sense of reality unstable.

“All of a sudden, I’ve just become a burden,” she said.

“No, you’re not a burden, Mom.”

“I belong in a quiet, peaceful place, which would be my own home. In my own bed. All cozy. Not that I would be on top of things there… Guess we’ll just have to take it one day at a time.”

At one point she asked about Dad. And their dog Otis.

“Are they gone?”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I said.

“Oh, okay. That’s what I thought.”

I told her I didn’t like how things disappear. She laughed.

I couldn’t help but ask if she knew who I was.

“No. Are you Fred?”

More laughter from Mom.

“Of course,” she said. “Of course I know who you are. You’re Lynn.”

We laughed together.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Her humor was still intact.
A thread throughout our lives.
Now a lifeline.

April 7th
Last quarter

Andy called to let me know they planned to move Mom to the front of the building, where they could keep a closer eye on her. Exact same layout, better view.

“She’s in the last quarter here,” he said.

Leave it to a sports analogy to sum it up.

Twenty minutes later, he called again.

She’d taken another tumble.

They’d only left her alone for a minute. When they returned, Mom was in the bathroom doorway, lying on top of the full-length mirror she must have grabbed for support.

She raised her hand and said, “I’m Karen Johnson and I have a DNR.”

The same side of her head took the blow. There was enough blood to warrant compression and an ambulance ride to the ER for stitches and evaluation.

Keith and I had rushed to the same ER a year and a half earlier. Dad had fallen, and Mom couldn’t get him up. He looked so small in the hospital bed. His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to form words, but only gibberish came out. Then he let out a musical “Bah, bah, bah,” with a chuckle. Somehow, one large, out-of-context word slipped through.
He’d had another stroke—the one that landed him in a nursing home—and after that, his speech was almost non-existent.

I drove straight to the hospital, an hour away.

I was led into an empty room. Mom was getting a scan.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

I waited, pacing. 
Eventually, a nurse wheeled her in.

“The doctor will be in when the results are ready.”

The bruising had spread. Darker now. Her left eye was swollen shut, an open gash above her eyebrow. A bandage wrapped her head, securing a blood-soaked pad of gauze above the gash. Her jowls pooled in the bottom of the neck brace beneath her chin.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice lower, compressed—almost like she’d smoked for years. (She hadn’t.) Her one good eye glanced up at me.

“I had to come see you,” I said, taking her hand. “They said you had a little fall.”

“I sure did.”

“You don’t look so good,” I said.

“I don’t feel so good.”

I leaned in, trying to get a better look at the damage.

“I love you,” I said, caressing her shoulder.

“Oh,” she said, laughing her little laugh. “I love you, too. Don’t worry, don’t worry.

You didn’t have to drive all the way here.”

“Of course I did, Mom. You took care of me all those years. Now I’m here for you.”

Nurses came and went—checking vitals, cleaning up the gash. Even that was too painful, so they decided against stitching and glued her up instead.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” one of the nurses said.

I recorded some my conversation with Mom while we waited for the doctor.

“I just want to be treated like an old lady… and not fight.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You need to let them take care of you.”

“That’s right.” She let out a heavy sigh.

“You can just rest,” I said. “You don’t have to talk.”

“I just wish we lived closer to each other.”

She was the one who insisted on staying at Andy’s place, dammit.

“Right now, I’ll give up my independence as long as it’s agreed upon,” she said. “I just want to live quietly. Peacefully.”

“That makes sense,” I said.

“If I didn’t have your father… oh, he’s not your father…”

“You mean Dad?”

“Yes. If I didn’t have him, I could just do whatever you say. But I have two people to consider: me and him. And I don’t know what his feelings would be about me doing nothing.”

“I think he’d be fine,” I said.

“I could just eat, drink, laugh, be happy,” she said. “I’m willing to do whatever they say I should do.”

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

“You mean like pushing the call button?” 
Of course I had to mention the damn call button.

“Yes.”

“Sometimes you don’t remember,” I said. “And that’s not your fault.”

“That’s why wearing a diaper isn’t a bad idea,” she said.

Another heavy sigh.

“So is it just your neck that hurts?”

“Yep. Just my neck.” She tugged at the brace. “But I’m good if I don’t move it.”

“Well this is a fine mess,” I said.

“Yeah, it is. This is called old age.”

“Darn it,” I said.

Mom chuckled.

“Well, you’ve been pretty resilient,” I said. “Just like Dad. I mean, You came back from RSV…”

“Just have to take it one step at a time,” she said. “Whether you like it or not.”

As if I was the one in the neck brace.

“I’m glad it’s not as bad as it looks,” I said. “At least not on the outside.”

At one point Mom said, “When it’s over it’s over. Let it get done. You know? It doesn’t have to be a big scene.”

The door swung open.

“Hi. I’m Doctor Dave. Dave Matthews.”

The man’s kind, smiling face lit up the room, making the fluorescent lights seem dull by comparison. The two nurses who’d been in and out stood on either side of him.

Mom lit up. “My son’s name is Matthew.”

The irony. (My other brother’s name is Dave, in case you’ve forgotten, dear reader.)

The scan results revealed new gifts: swelling in her brain from the cancer, an unstable neck fracture. The slightest shift could be catastrophic.

Doctor Dave said they could do surgery to fuse things together.

I was Mom’s Power of Attorney, but I let her make the choice I would’ve made for her.

She tried to shake her head.

Instead, she’d get a take-home neck brace.

I locked eyes with Doctor Dave, mouthing, “Can we talk?” with a nod toward the door.

I needed to understand the situation more clearly. Or just hear him say it again, because it all felt surreal.

“She’ll need full-time care,” he said.

Nursing home.

My face crumpled.

I found myself in Doctor Dave’s arms, shoulders heaving.

We returned to the room, and Doctor Dave held Mom’s head securely while the nurses delicately replaced the neck brace with the take-home version. Held together by two strips of Velcro. If she removed it, she could die.

As we waited for her discharge, Mom asked, “Why’s your Dad being so quiet today?”

“Oh you know how he is,” I said.

She motioned to the space behind her bed, whispering, “Is that man still here?” as if she didn’t want him to hear, in case he was.

“No, he’s gone,” I said, unsure whether she meant the doctor or a ghost.

She kept asking where her purse was, and I kept reassuring her that it wasn’t there.

She started to sit up.

Uh-oh.

She wanted to leave. And didn’t want my help.

Here we go.

I pushed the call button.

They decided to medicate her, to calm her.

Time had us trapped inside the hospital, until finally, Mom was discharged.

On the ride back, she kept trying to remove the neck brace.

“You’ve got to keep that on, Mom. If you don’t, that could be the end. I’d rather that not happen in my car.”

My tone was gentle, tinged with humor.

“I’ve never known your dad to be so quiet,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s a quiet one.”

Dead quiet since last April.

Waiting to be released. Not very patiently.

Culver’s

I grabbed Culver’s carryout for Mom on our way back to her assisted living place.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published
Cheddar cheeseburger with ketchup. 
And a single scoop vanilla custard.

They were going to keep her there. No nursing home necessary.

Back in her room, the nurses hovered, making her comfortable.

I’d never seen Mom eat that fast.

“Now we know what to get her when she’s not eating,” one of the nurses laughed.

Cancer was the weight-loss program no one wanted.

I wiped off the custard that had dribbled onto the neck brace. A built-in food catcher.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Before any of us could stop her, Mom had the brace off. 
That thing was not staying on.
The nurses got it back in place.

Had I only known.

The nurses left us alone in her stuffy room.

She sat in the lift chair she’d originally gotten for Dad, shifting to ease the discomfort from the sore on her bottom that came from sitting so much more in recent weeks.

I asked if there was anything she needed to tell me. Any dark secrets?

“I think we’ve been open with you and your brothers.”

I thought I’d recorded this conversation. I hadn’t.

Had I only known.

At one point she tried getting up.

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” I said, rushing to her side. “Let’s call the nurse.”

“Get away from me.”

I pushed the call button.

I was not ready for the Help with Bathroom program. And I have bicep tendonitis.

I tried to steady her before the nurse got there. She wasn’t having it.

“Get her away from me,” Mom said when the nurses showed up.

They helped her to the bathroom.

Her thighs were as thin as my bicep.

The woman who’d hovered around one-forty most of her adult life now had spindles for legs.

It was getting close to dinner time for me. Lorazepam time for her.

I kissed her goodbye, once on the forehead, once on the cheek. Her pursed lips touched my cheek lightly.

“I love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too.

Had I only known.

April 8th
The quiet

I tried calling Mom a little after ten, knowing breakfast was over.

She didn’t answer.

They had started morphine every four hours the night before for neck pain. Anti-anxiety meds to calm her and reduce the risk of her removing the neck brace.

She was “sleeping.”

I asked them to reach out when she woke up, so I could talk to her.

Matt and his kids went to visit, taking turns holding her hand.

I decided to take a breather that day. Went for a six-mile walk in nature. Exactly what I needed.

Why didn’t I go see Mom?

I assumed she would somehow come to.

Still, I felt that strange suspension of waiting.

I heard from the nurse later in the day. Mom had woken briefly for a bathroom break and announced:

“I’m Karen Johnson and I have a DNR!”

Then drifted back to sleep.

Humor, somehow, still intact.

She hadn’t eaten all day.

The nurse said both of her hands were resting on the neck brace.

April 9th
One-way call

I’ve been numb and… oddly calm.

Tears on the brink, waiting for a signal, as Mom stumbles closer to death’s door.

I called first thing in the morning.

Mom was non-responsive.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Her temperature was high. 
Oxygen low.

Another step in the process.

I had the nurse put the phone to Mom’s ear.

Hey, Mom.
I love you very much.
It’s okay to let go if you’re ready.
We’ll be okay.

I didn’t tell her I was on my way. Just in case she needed to leave without me.

Same day
Waiting

Mom was snoring in the hospital bed, one hand crossed over the other, her blotchy arms flattened like soft clay left in the sun.

Her mouth was open, each in-breath a short snore. I’d never seen the roof of her mouth like that before, the narrow curve of her upper teeth.

Her hands were warm and sweaty. Limp. Way too limp.

I brushed my fingers through her white hair, splotches of dried blood still scattered throughout.

I told Keith he didn’t have to come. She was only snoring with the occasional gurgle. This could go on for days.

After we hung up, the breathing changed. More gurgles than snores.

He was on his way. So were my brothers—Dave coming from four hours away.

Just in case this was The Day.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Thankfully, Matt had moved back to the area a month or so before.
He’d help me carry this.

I took an hour-long walk by the lake only minutes away, to give each of my brothers some space to say what they wanted to say.

When I got back, Mom was in the same position. There were more gaps between her gurgly breaths.

Keith arrived.

Eventually, my Navy son FaceTimed. I held the phone to her ear. “Hey Grandma…”

He told her he loved her.

Dave left with the “Johnson” stained glass his wife had made for my parents years ago—we’d never gotten around to hanging it in front of her window.

We thought about taking things off the wall, but decided to leave everything in its place.

She was still here. This was still her home.

Matt said another goodbye, pressing his fingers to his eyes.

Keith and I stuck around for the night shift hospice nurse.

I don’t really remember our conversation. Just that she couldn’t get a clear read on Mom’s oxygen levels.

And that if Mom died during the night, she’d take care of contacting the funeral home.

Hey, Mom. We’re taking off now. Thanks so much for being my mom. And for giving me a sense of humor. If you need to let go, it’s okay. I love you.

April 10th
1:11 AM

I woke at 1:15 AM.

I lifted my phone from the bathroom counter. I had planned not to look at it, so I could get some rest.

How could I not look?

Missed call at 1:11.

Mom was gone.

I climbed into bed and wailed into Keith’s arms.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

It was primal. From the depths of my soul.
It sounded like an underwater siren.

April 12th
Clearing her apartment

We sorted through Mom’s things. Bags for donations. Bags for garbage. Boxes and bags for things we’d keep.

The zip-up lined sweatshirt she always wore.

The owl figurines I’d given her during her owl-collecting phase.

The pencil and ink I’d done of my great-grandma Porsche (yes, a cousin of the Porsche and we don’t pronounce the “e” because she didn’t).

Lotions. Shoes. Nail polish.

We actually had fun. Is that wrong?

Leaving behind Mom’s empty room after all the moves over the last ten years felt… fucking empty.

She was really gone.

Although, in that moment, her body was probably still lying at the funeral home.

Today
Hey Mom...

I keep thinking about how I didn’t know that day would be the last time we’d talk. The last time I’d feel your arms around me.

Always so light. With a little pat.

(You were never really a hugger.)

Your pursed lips against my cheek. The last time I’d hear you say, “I love you.”

If only I’d known.

Remember when you said you’d let me know what happens when it’s all over?

I’ll be waiting.

But… please don’t scare me.

Me with Mom and Dad, 2021.

Mom with all the grandchildren at the combo celebration of life.

I’d love to hear from you!

If you’ve had your own version of this… I’m listening.

Every bit of support means a lot.

Tap the heart—it lets me know you were here.

Leave a comment—my favorite part, hearing your thoughts and stories.

Restack—sharing this means the world to me.

Subscribe so you don’t miss a thing (or consider a paid subscription to help my husband retire sooner).

Just being here matters most. Thank you for reading.

More of my work you might enjoy…

More about me.

Tired of email overload?

Desktop: Click the three horizontal lines in the lower left corner → Settings → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push.”
App: Tap Home → Profile Picture (upper right) → Settings (lower right) → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push” in any or all categories.

You can still read everything—just sign in on desktop or in the Substack app.

Less clutter. Same connection. 💛

The Long Goodbye: One Tender Fragment at a Time (Part One)

Lynn J. Broderick — Tue, 21 Apr 2026 21:44:27 GMT

Mom and me. My niece’s melt-your-face hot wedding day.

Present Day
Reflex

Reflex to call Mom.

Then I remember.

She died.

February, 2025
The race begins

The unraveling started with an abnormal X-ray after a bout of bronchitis that landed Mom in the ER during the 2024 holiday season.

I became chauffeur to scans and biopsies. A responsibility I wished wasn’t necessary.

Turns out she had Stage 4 lung cancer. It had already spread to her brain and lymph nodes. There was a blood clot in her chest, another in her neck.

A walking time bomb.

She had shortness of breath for over a year. When I voiced concern, she’d say, “It’s just old age.” Or, “I had whooping cough as a child. It’s probably just scar tissue.”

The oncologist gave her months. Maybe weeks.

Treatment might give her another year, maybe two. She chose none. She was eighty-five. Quality of life right now was more important.

All this time, we’d been focused on Dad. His strokes. His decline.

Turns out, her forgetfulness and difficulty processing the choices for Dad’s care weren’t just age related.

“We’re in a race for the finish line,” she joked.

Who would win?

Hospice started immediately. At our first meeting with the nurse, Mom was surprised to hear she had cancer.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me? I would have remembered that,” she said to me afterward.

I told her the cancer was likely affecting her memory. That she might forget again. And that was okay.

“I wish I never knew about it,” she said.

After that, she sometimes told people she had cancer “in her belly.” I never corrected her.

May
Celebration of life—while she was still here

Dad died last April. We decided to hold a combo celebration of life. Why wait until Mom was dead?

Photos from their lives played on a slideshow.

All the grandkids were there. Mom’s nieces and nephews.

She was mostly herself then. Pretty stable. Still living mostly independently. Going to Bingo. Taking the shuttle to get groceries after reluctantly giving up her car keys.

Still moving forward, one small step at a time.

Now with a walker, which she purchased and used lightly as if it was nothing more than a fashion statement.

August
The wedding

Mom’s goal was to make it to her granddaughter Kayla’s wedding.

And she did.

The walker left behind.

My younger brother accompanied her down the aisle.

She looked great, vibrant even.

I visited Mom most weeks. Sometimes sitting with her in her stuffy apartment. Other times, taking her out to what had become her favorite diner around the corner.
She’d nibble on a bacon, lettuce, fried egg and tomato sandwich. I would encourage her to eat at least half, the rest wrapped up for dinner.
“It might be a good idea to call me every day,” she’d say. “To make sure I didn’t die.”
I’d already been calling her every morning. Hoping she would answer.

September
Birthday

Mom often mentioned wanting to be like her Grandpa. He lived to one hundred.

It came up in practically every phone call.

Her aunt lived to ninety-five and her two older sisters also lived into their nineties, so longevity was definitely in the genes.

After her diagnosis, she only brought up her Grandpa once. “I guess I probably won’t live quite that long.”

We celebrated her eighty-fifth by taking her out to her favorite diner.

November
Family gathering

We were all gathered in the dining room before dinner.

My mom wasn’t engaging as much as usual.

“How’s it going, Mom?” I asked.

She shrugged.

Then the guitar came out. My nephew started singing to her.

She was moved to tears.

My niece lip-synced nearby. My Navy son, home for the weekend, grinned that grin I’ve missed for months.

It was one of those moments you know to pay attention to.

And I did.

Now it’s a memory I can pull out of my back pocket any time I want.

@CarterMatthewMusic

December
Thanksmas

Ten months after her diagnosis, she was still here.

Enjoying our late-Thanksgiving/early-Christmas mashup.

Still living independently in her senior living apartment.
Not in pain. The walker becoming part of her.
Laughing (and crying) with us.

When it was her turn to share what she was grateful for, she said she was grateful to still be on this earth, able to enjoy the day with us.

“I’m ready to go,” she added. “But not tonight.”

Her dry sense of humor intact. We laughed. That kind of laugh that catches slightly on the way out.

Later December
The shift

One afternoon, she admitted that her morning shuttle to the grocery store wiped her out more than usual. It took most of the day for her to feel back to normal.

She said she felt vulnerable. Then admitted to a recent fall in the shower and trouble with balance in the mornings.

“It might be time to think about assisted living,” she said. “Not now, but… maybe soon.”

I began researching places closer to me.

She didn’t want to leave the senior living community she and Dad had chosen together. She loved Andy, the owner.

“He always remembers my name,” she said.

I had met him once or twice. He seemed kind. Still, I knew that remembering names was part of his job.

Mom was about fifty minutes from me. With two brothers more than four hours away, I was the closest one. The one most likely to be there as things progressed.

If she lived closer, I could see her more. Get there faster if needed.

In the end, it made sense for her to stay put. Her place and her people were familiar.

These were her final months. She should get to live wherever the hell she wanted to live.

I was a little hurt she chose Andy over being closer to me.

But I also understood.

January
Downsizing for the fourth time

From the drafty 100-year-old farmhouse in northern Illinois, with outbuildings spread across twelve acres….

Dad rarely threw anything away. If he misplaced a tool, he’d buy another. If I tried to discard scrap of wood at my own home, he’d take it, convinced he could find a use for it. Mom would shake her head.
Forty years of accumulation filled the house and outbuildings.
Dad would’ve kept collecting things and living there forever. At eighty, he agreed to find a smaller, more manageable home. Mom had been ready to leave for years.

… to a one-story ranch not too far over the border in Wisconsin.

Then, seven or eight years later after Dad’s first stroke, to a two-bedroom senior living apartment in Lake Geneva.

A couple years later, Dad landed in a nearby nursing home after a debilitating stroke and Mom downsized to a one-bedroom.

The twelve-acre hobby farm eventually downsized to Mom’s one bedroom.

Less than six months later, she’d be moving into a small assisted living room.

More than a year after her diagnosis.

One night, as the move approached, her voice cracked on the phone. She was feeling scared and overwhelmed. And so alone.
We reassured her that we were here for her and everything was being handled. That she didn’t need to worry about logistics.

Now there would be shared meals around a table. Familiar faces. People to notice if she didn’t show up for breakfast. A laugh over coffee. Bingo.

Or, as she put it, “Stupid old people stuff.”

After the move, the things I carried home from her apartment filled our dining table:

photos—some faded, some anonymous (who the heck are these people? Mom didn’t remember anymore.)
my grandfather’s (Dad’s dad) patents
copies of ancient bills
Remnants of their lives.
Things they couldn’t let go of.

Is it my turn to save them now?

These haunted-looking strangers lived on our wall for years. Mom didn’t remember who they were. If only I’d asked sooner.

February
RSV and falls

Mom got RSV.

Her lungs already fragile, her shortness of breath worsened.

She kept removing the oxygen, not remembering why it was there.

Then another fall.

The nurse heard a crash echoing down the hall.

“Why am I so stupid?” she kept saying.

I walked into her room.

“Oh, oh!” she cried. “My baby girl’s here.”

I don’t recall her ever calling me that.

She took my hand in hers and gently stroked it.

Far from her typical MO.

I sat with her a while. Asked what she believed happens when she dies.

“When it’s over, it’s over,” she said with a little laugh.

“I don’t know… I’ll let you know when I get there.”

She recovered from RSV. Resilient, like Dad.

March
Humor intact

Our daily phone calls continued.

“One day, I’ll be all gone.”

A giggle spilled out of her.

It was contagious.

Soon we were laughing together, almost hysterically.

It felt wildly inappropriate.

Another time, I asked what she wanted us to do with her ashes.

“Just flush them down the toilet.”

I don’t think she was joking.

March 23
Dream

Dad drove off with Mom in my dream.

I wrote about it here:

Soon after, everything sped up.

Damn. Life doesn’t pause for the hard things.

Here’s Part Two:

More of my work you might enjoy..

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

Tired of email overload?

Desktop: Click the three horizontal lines in the lower left corner → Settings → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push.”
App: Tap Home → Profile Picture (upper right) → Settings (lower right) → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push” in any or all categories.

You can still read everything—just sign in on desktop or in the Substack app.

Less clutter. Same connection. 💛

I'm Not a Grief Writer. It's Temporary. Promise.

Lynn J. Broderick — Thu, 16 Apr 2026 19:45:13 GMT

Photo by Sandy Millar on Unsplash

If you’ve been following my Substack Notes, you’ve noticed I’ve been writing a lot about dying and anticipatory grief lately.

I debated myself:

Me: So what if grief finds its way in? That’s part of life. And that’s my life right now.
Also Me: But I don’t want to be part of the grief algorithm. Or known as “The Grief Writer.”

It wasn’t my plan to write about dying and grief, but it’s been hard to avoid. Mom was speeding closer to her exit. And then, boom, she was gone. Last Friday.

Her last meal was Culver’s.

Her last words were:

“I’m Karen Johnson and I have a DNR!”

To add insult to injury, Dad’s one year death-a-versary hit six days later (the day I wrote this post).

And guess what? Writing his obituary and sorting through old photos for his celebration of life inspired my very first Substack post, He Was Not His Final Days, last July.

A month later, I wrote How to Write a Novel While Your Parents Are Dying.

Around the holidays, I collaborated on a post and joined a Live on surviving grief’s firsts.

I’d even planned to write about the day Dad died for his death-a-versary. Instead, because Mom disrupted my editorial calendar, I decided to just update that first post. I’d even plugged the poem I wrote into AI, and it generated an actual song.

You can check it out here.

Dammit, grief. You’ve snuck into my writing more than I intended. So rude.

If you’ve been a subscriber for a while, you know that most of my work is memoir-driven, often laced with humor. And I’ll be getting back to that soon. Promise.

But shit happens, someone dies and then… apparently I feel compelled to write about it.

In fact, since Mom died, I’ve been working on a post about her. It’s a compilation of Notes I wrote over the last year, sprinkled with humor because… it’s Mom, for God’s sake. That’s who I got my sense of humor from.

I’d hoped to publish it this week, but there’s a lot of moving parts—notes to edit, recordings to transcribe, photos to sort—and it’s taking longer than expected.

The thing is: I didn’t want to be a grief writer.

But here I am. Because that’s fucking life. Grief is apparently part of who I am now.

If I kept my current grieving truth to myself, anything else might feel less authentic—to you, and to me.

So be on the lookout for the Mom piece next week. After that, it’ll be smooth sailing. Back to essays about my life. Stories about Mom and Dad. Hints of humor? Count on it.

In the meantime, thanks for being here through the darker moments. This community—all the kind words about Mom, the messages offering to talk if I need it, your encouragement to lean into grief and write about it whenever I damn well feel like it—is truly a gift.

I’d love to hear from you.

Has life ever temporarily changed what you thought you’d be focusing on?

More about me.

More of my work you might enjoy…

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

Tired of email overload?

Desktop: Click the three horizontal lines in the lower left corner → Settings → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push.”
App: Tap Home → Profile Picture (upper right) → Settings (lower right) → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push” in any or all categories.

You can still read everything—just sign in on desktop or in the Substack app.

Less clutter. Same connection. 💛

My Accidental, Unshakable Smoothie Obsession (plus recipes)

Lynn J. Broderick — Tue, 31 Mar 2026 22:47:05 GMT

Photo by Denis on Unsplash

A bit of a departure from my usual writing, but this daily ritual has stuck with me for decades. If you’re just here for the recipes, no judgment — scroll down.

My son once said they’d have to bury me with my Vitamix.

He wasn’t entirely joking.

I worked with a sports nutrition company that gave us free protein powder and bars so we could experience the product firsthand and market it more effectively. As an aspiring health nut, I considered that a perk and was all over it.

I began mixing mid-morning smoothies almost daily—protein powder, milk, and a bit of ice—in our lunchroom.

The company’s founder, a New York Times bestselling author on diet and exercise, emphasized eating five or six small meals or snacks throughout the day—balancing carbohydrates and protein—or snacks to help stabilize energy.

So I replaced the ice with frozen fruit. And yes, I also started eating more frequently. Despite the fact I was working sixty or seventy hour weeks, I noticed a steady lift in energy.

When I left the marketing agency a year or so later to focus on starting a family, my smoothie habit waned.

A few years later, one of my dental implants failed. (My weird dental history is a harrowing story I’ll save for another time.)

Fast forward: I had elective surgery to align my bite and prepare my jaw for more implants. This meant my jaw would be wired shut for six to eight weeks.

Liquid foods only.

I bought a Vitamix. Not cheap, but worth it. More than twenty years later, it’s a little beat up but still going strong.

Photo by amirali mirhashemian on Unsplash

I pulverized some of my favorite meals—pizza, spicy Thai chicken and rice, a veggie-and-cheese omelette with roasted potatoes (never sushi). I even went to the trouble of melting the cheese under the broiler and inhaling the aroma before plopping the whole thing into the blender. I did attempt ham with scalloped potatoes once, but the pink liquid was where I drew the line.

If you think that experience would mean I’d never want to even look at another smoothie again after the wires came off, you’d be wrong.

I’ve had one almost every morning. Not the pulverized-pizza kind. The protein- and-fruit kind, expanded over time to include other healthy ingredients.

My Vitamix is my emotional-support appliance.

I even lug that thing on vacation if we stay somewhere with a kitchen. No other blender—not even a Ninja—comes close to producing the smooth texture I like. Believe me, I’ve tried. And no, I am in no way associated with the company.

Over the years, I’ve refined my recipes, rotating fruits, proteins, and vegetables because it’s healthier to mix things up (no pun intended… but I’ll take it).

Bottom line: They’re an easy way to pack in a lot of nutrition with one caveat— many smoothies sold in grocery stores and cafés contain surprisingly high amounts of added sugar, which is one reason I prefer making my own.

Note: I use organic whenever possible to reduce pesticide exposure and be a little kinder to the planet.

P.S. My son, who used to turn his nose up at smoothies, recently bought a Ninja (mistake) and is now making them himself.

Smoothie over San Diego

My Go-To Smoothie Recipes

Scroll down for more veggie and fruit options by flavor profile.

Mango & Kale Smoothie

¼ cup water
Generous handful frozen mango (rotate with frozen peaches)
¼–⅓ avocado
2 Tbsp hemp seeds
½ serving tofu (I use Trader Joe’s sprouted tofu)
1 large carrot
Generous handful frozen kale (start there, add more if tolerated)
1–2 handfuls frozen peas
A few florets frozen cauliflower
1 capful vanilla
Pinch non-irradiated cayenne (optional)
Pinch sea salt (optional)

Add more water as needed for desired consistency.

Variation: add half a kiwi or a few orange slices and reduce mango.

Berry or Cherry & Romaine Smoothie

¼ cup water
1 serving unsweetened protein powder (I use Garden of Life)
1 cup frozen blueberries (rotate with other frozen berries or cherries)
¼–⅓ avocado
1 small to medium red beet, peeled (start small, add more if tolerated)
Generous handful romaine (I clean and store in the freezer)
A few florets frozen broccoli
1 capful vanilla
Sprinkle cinnamon (optional)
Pinch sea salt (optional)

Add more water as needed for desired consistency.

Banana Peanut Butter Yum Yum

1/2 cup milk (I use oat milk)
1/2 serving unsweetened protein powder (I use Garden of Life)
1 frozen banana
¼–⅓ avocado
2 T peanut butter
Generous handful kale or romaine
A few florets frozen broccoli or cauliflower
1 capful vanilla

Add a handful or more of ice, plus more milk or water as needed.

This one’s almost like eating ice cream, which is my favorite food group.

Did you notice there’s zero added sugar?

That’s because there’s no need! Fruit contains plenty of natural sugar, and carrots and beets contribute sweetness as well.

Plus, it’s not healthy. Excess added sugar is associated with inflammation, weight gain, cavities, and increased risk of heart disease.

Men should consume no more than 9 teaspoons (36 grams) of added sugar per day.
Women should consume no more than 6 teaspoons (25 grams) per day.

For perspective: Just one 12-ounce can of soda contains about 9 teaspoons of sugar. One Starbucks Venti Chai Latte contains over 39 grams of sugar. I was once a sugar addict and used to drink one or two a day!

If additional sweetness is needed, consider a small amount of honey. It’s still added sugar, but if that’s what you need to start drinking smoothies, do it. You can eventually wean yourself off. Or not.

I look forward to my smoothie every morning.

Not just because of my unusual Vitamix love affair, but because it almost feels like eating ice cream for breakfast. It makes me feel good. It also doubles as a pretty solid elixir when I’ve had one glass of wine or margarita too many the night before.

Small daily habits can shape how we feel. Sometimes more than we expect. And starting the day with something nourishing tends to set the tone for everything that follows.

As a former sugar addict, I can honestly say this smoothie habit has been a life changer.

I’d love to hear from you!

Where would you draw the line in pulverizing foods?

Do you have a healthy (or not-so-healthy) habit you just can’t seem to stop?

If you’re trying to build a healthy habit, what tends to get in your way?

If you’d like help refining your smoothie or healthy-living habits, feel free to drop a comment. I also offer Zoom sessions—thirty minutes to paid subscribers and one hour to Founding Members.

Support my chocolate habit

Vegetable Nutrition & More Options

In case you’d like to mix things up even more. Sorted by flavor profile.

Mild / Neutral (blend easily)

Bok choy: Vitamins A, C, K, folate, calcium
Cucumber: Vitamin K, small amounts vitamin C, potassium
Microgreens (varies): Vitamins C, E, K, beta carotene (varies by type)
Spinach*: Vitamins A, C, K, folate, magnesium, iron
Zucchini: Vitamin C, vitamin B6, potassium

Slightly Earthy

Beets (root): Folate, manganese, potassium, vitamin C
Carrots: Vitamin A (beta carotene), vitamin K, potassium
Cauliflower: Vitamin C, vitamin K, folate
Romaine lettuce: Vitamins A, K, folate

Green / Slightly Bitter

Arugula: Vitamins A, K, folate
Brussels sprouts: Vitamins C, K, folate, manganese
Kale: Vitamins A, C, K, calcium
Swiss chard*: Vitamins A, C, K, magnesium, potassium

*Some leafy greens (including spinach, beet greens, and Swiss chard) contain higher levels of naturally occurring oxalates, which can reduce calcium absorption from the food itself. Pairing with a calcium-containing food or consuming a calcium supplement an hour or two before or after can help balance intake.

Fruit Nutrition & More Options

Mild / Creamy (adds texture)

Avocado: Folate, potassium, vitamin K, vitamin E
Banana: Vitamin B6, vitamin C, potassium
Butternut squash: Vitamins A (beta carotene), C, potassium, fiber
Mango: Vitamins A, C, folate
Pumpkin: Vitamin A (beta carotene), fiber, potassium

Bright / Tart

Cherries: Vitamin C, potassium, antioxidants
Cranberries: Vitamin C, antioxidants
Kiwi: Vitamins C, K, folate
Pineapple: Vitamin C, manganese
Raspberries: Vitamin C, manganese, fiber

Classic Smoothie Staples

Apple: Vitamin C, potassium, fiber
Blueberries: Vitamin C, vitamin K, manganese, antioxidants
Peaches: Vitamins A, C
Strawberries: Vitamin C, manganese, folate

Naturally Sweeter (use to adjust flavor)

Dates: Potassium, magnesium, vitamin B6, fiber
Grapes: Vitamin K, vitamin C, antioxidants
Orange: Vitamin C, folate, potassium

Optional (mild, creamy, slightly nutty)

Acorn squash: Vitamin A (beta carotene), vitamin C, potassium, fiber

More of my work you might enjoy…

Tired of email overload?

Desktop: Click the three horizontal lines in the lower left corner → Settings → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push.”
App: Tap Home → Profile Picture (upper right) → Settings (lower right) → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push” in any or all categories.

You can still read everything—just sign in on desktop or in the Substack app.

Less clutter. Same connection. 💛

More about me.

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

VIDEO: Motherhood Series Recap (unedited)

Lynn J. Broderick — Thu, 26 Mar 2026 14:53:47 GMT

It was an honor to be part of this special series with Traci, and .

Thank you , , , , , and many others for tuning into my live video.

Here’s the story that inspired this series:

And my original Live with Traci to talk about it:

I’d love to hear from you:

How would you answer the questions we explored?

More of my work you might enjoy:

Tired of email overload?

Desktop: Click the three horizontal lines in the lower left corner → Settings → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push.”
App: Tap Home → Profile Picture (upper right) → Settings (lower right) → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push” in any or all categories.

You can still read everything—just sign in on desktop or in the Substack app.

Less clutter. Same connection. 💛

More about me.

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

Available for iOS and Android

Dad's Love of Being The Driver

Lynn J. Broderick — Tue, 24 Mar 2026 23:23:21 GMT

The driver’s seat was always Dad’s natural habitat.

In my dream the other night, he drove off with Mom.

Wherever they went, Dad was The Driver, with the passenger (usually Mom) acting as lookout when he turned left across busy traffic. He’d back into driveways for an easy exit. If someone drove too slowly, he’d tailgate. If someone cut him off, he’d chase them down yelling, “That eight ball!” Even when we were children.

He volunteered for Meals on Wheels, delivering food to people in need.

In their later years, Dad chauffeured Mom from northern Illinois to Gulf Shores, Alabama—nearly 1,000 miles each way—where they spent several winters.

His driving grew more uncertain as he moved deeper into his eighties. The Gulf Shores trips came to an end, and Dad’s excursions became mostly local—church and my home being the exceptions, about twenty miles each way.

After more than a few hair-raising rides as Dad’s passengers (one time, he actually beeped at a driver behind us), my brother and I ~~gently~~ suggested it might be time for him to give up the keys. Mom agreed. Dad insisted he was fine.

Being behind the wheel was part of his identity. He kept driving. He kept delivering food.

Letting go would have meant giving up his independence. Maybe a piece of himself.

One summer day, at eighty-eight, he drove off to run an errand. Hours passed. Mom had no way to reach him. Not only did he resist using his cell phone, he never brought it with him. When he finally returned, he calmly explained he’d been in an accident. Fortunately, and somewhat miraculously, it wasn’t his fault.

That winter, he collapsed in the kitchen while making his oatmeal. A stroke. Thankfully, it didn’t happen while he was behind the wheel.

Even after that, he didn’t want to give up driving.

They had always sworn they’d never be like those other older drivers who refused to give up their keys. They’d say, Promise you’ll tell us if we ever get like that.

We let Dad know. Later, Mom too.

Turns out, they didn’t want to listen.

But this time, Dad had no choice. The stroke left him diminished. There could be another stroke. Eventually, there was.

In my dream, he was younger. Capable and steady. He said he’d take Mom and I wouldn’t have to worry anymore.

Dad died last spring.

Some part of me still wants him in charge of the hard parts. To be behind the wheel.

Mom’s dying. I mean, she’s not on her deathbed at this moment. But Stage 4 cancer is taking its toll. Anything could happen at any time, and we’ve already had a couple of trial runs.

In the dream, I wailed. A silent wail. Yet I was comforted that Dad would take care of things when the time comes.

I half expected a missed call from the hospice nurse the morning after my dream.

But no. There was no call. I called Mom and she actually sounded more energetic than usual. Her day was off to a good start.

I don’t know when Dad will pick her up.

But I’ll trust his driving.

Update: Mom’s been picked up.

A week and a half after writing this, her confusion and dementia talk escalated.

Then she fell. My husband, younger brother and I took her for a scenic drive the following day. One side of her face and skull were covered in various shades of black, blue and reddish purple.

She didn’t really look out the window much, her neck bent down, dozing off once or twice. If we hit a bump, she complained of neck pain. But hey, we were together.

Later, she had no intention of staying at in her assisted living apartment. She thought she lived with me.

Walking her back to her room, I suggested she push the Call button on her wrist if she needed to get up from her chair for any reason. “I”m not a baby,” she demanded.

We said our goodbyes, worried about what would happen next.

Wish he’d come just a little sooner to take her away. Instead, she had to suffer a sudden elevation of confusion wish he’d come just a little sooner.

I’d love to hear from you.

What’s something a parent did that felt like part of who they were?

Or if this resonated in any way, I’d love to hear your thoughts. And feel free to share it with someone who might relate.

More of my work you might enjoy…

Tired of email overload?

Desktop: Click the three horizontal lines in the lower left corner → Settings → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push.”
App: Tap Home → Profile Picture (upper right) → Settings (lower right) → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push” in any or all categories.

You can still read everything—just sign in on desktop or in the Substack app.

Less clutter. Same connection. 💛

More about me.

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

That Time I Got Lost and Kept Walking Anyway

Lynn J. Broderick — Tue, 17 Mar 2026 20:39:11 GMT

“What’s the matter, little girl?” a teenage boy yelled, leaning out of the open passenger window as I stepped up onto the curb. “Are you running away from home?” another called. Their car rounded the corner, laughter trailing behind them.

Cars whooshed by, their passing wind tugging at my hair, the smell of exhaust mixing with something sweet from the spring air. No one slowing down. No one asking why I was alone.

I kept walking, tightening my grip on the handle of my light blue hard-shell suitcase, which wasn’t much bigger than a bread box. A nine-year-old doesn’t need much.

I’d been walking since stepping off the train earlier that morning. I was supposed to spend the school day with my old classmates, then a sleepover with my friend Carol. That was the plan.

Mom would later claim that I wore her and Dad down, begging and finally convincing them I’d be okay taking the hour-long train ride and then walking to my old school alone. It was only a block or two from the train station, visible from the platform. That’s how it appeared in my fourth-grade memory, anyway.

We’d moved away from my friends and beloved suburban home in May, before the school year had even ended, to a farm town that felt forever away. It was only an hour’s drive without traffic, but still. To a young child who was used to living within walking distance of all her friends, it might as well have been a different planet.

Somehow, after hopping off the train, I got turned around almost immediately. And what should have been a seven-minute walk turned into an odyssey. I knew something was wrong when I hadn’t arrived as quickly as I’d imagined I would. I just didn’t know how wrong. I took turns in what felt like the direction of the train station, only to end up farther away, more deeply lost. But then… wasn’t that the church where my brothers and I used to go to Sunday School? I walked past it, picking up my pace, assuming I must be getting closer.

I walked and walked… and walked.

My sneakers slapped the pavement as I searched for anything recognizable. I had no concept of time because I wasn’t wearing a watch. And cell phones didn’t exist. I kept thinking if I just kept moving, I’d eventually get there. I had to: the class and teacher I left behind all expected me! I’d get to eat lunch with everyone. Play on the playground. I had to get there. Jack would be there. I couldn’t miss it.

I don’t recall feeling scared. Just fucking frustrated. I didn’t want to miss a minute of the school day. Soon after the boys yelled at me, I finally walked into a small clock store and stopped. The faint ticking of clocks filled the room, almost musical but not quite. I used the payphone. I had Carol’s number memorized. It hardly rang before her mom answered. She came to get me.

I arrived at the school in time for recess. When I saw Jack, he said he heard everyone at my new school had a boyfriend. Apparently, my friend Susie had shared the letters I’d written to her. Every last one. He asked if I had one, then ran off. I think it was an early day, because I don’t remember spending any time in the classroom. I don’t recall what Carol and I did the next day.

But I do remember Mom picking me up at the train station and putting her arms around me with an urgency I didn’t recognize. She wasn’t usually much of a hugger.

Years later, Mom often told the story and talked about how worried sick everyone was.

I’m just glad I wasn’t abducted. The writing material wouldn’t have been worth it.

My actual school photo.

I’d love to hear from you.

Did you ever think you knew exactly where you were going… and didn’t?

What’s something you did as a kid that makes you think… how did that happen?

Enjoy my writing? Share it with your friends, your family… or anyone who could use a good story.

Tired of email overload?

Desktop: Click the three horizontal lines in the lower left corner → Settings → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push.”
App: Tap Home → Profile Picture (upper right) → Settings (lower right) → Notifications → Preferences → Select “Prefer Push” in any or all categories.

You can still read everything—just sign in on desktop or in the Substack app.

Less clutter. Same connection. 💛

More about me.

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

A Love Story Built On a Fortress—and Thinning Patience.

Lynn J. Broderick — Tue, 10 Mar 2026 19:27:33 GMT

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we just fell in love so we could be done with all this?”

He said that as he opened the restaurant door on December 16, 2018. By “all this” he meant online dating.

I’d meant to cancel my Match subscription before the auto-renewal. The same faces kept popping up, so I moved to another app. Then the renewal came and went. Days later I checked Match again. There it was. A beautifully written profile that checked all the boxes, with a handsome face to match.

I reached out. After a few chat messages back and forth, he asked to talk by phone. An hour later we made a dinner date for that weekend.

Before the date, I texted, “What will you be wearing?” I wanted to make it easier to spot him.

He texted back a photo of the Burger King Hamburglar.

At one point he mentioned his annual March ski vacation. “If we’re still together, you’re welcome to join me.”

If we’re still together? We hadn’t even talked about date number two.

“If we’re still together” became his thing—for a comedy show the next month, for a long weekend in Napa, for anything that required looking too far ahead.

That night we closed down the restaurant. For date number three, he invited me to dinner at his house with his daughter and her girlfriend on Christmas Eve. I’d already celebrated with my son, who was spending that night with his dad. I hesitated. It felt a little… soon.

He texted the menu: seared ahi tuna with demi glaze, mashed potatoes, grilled asparagus, paired with a decadent smack-you-in-the-face Cabernet.

How could I say no?

Turns out his home was only seven minutes from where I’d lived pre-divorce. I used to drive past it almost daily on the way to the Y, where his daughter taught swimming and my son took lessons. All those years breathing the same air beneath the same sky, unaware our lives were running almost parallel and that one day they’d collide.

And his cooking was as good if not better than most fine restaurants.

I broke my own rule about staying overnight too soon. He came up with a lineup of dates for New Year’s weekend and suggested it might make sense to stay. I showed up with my overnight bag and what could’ve been mistaken for a small coffin on wheels.

His eyebrows bounced like a caterpillar on crack.

I Didn’t Always Have the Confidence

In my younger years I didn’t have much self-confidence when it came to men I was actually attracted to. Unless alcohol was involved.

I found this poem recently, written in my early teens:

Love is something I’ve never known
I think about it, that’s all
Many nights I hang by the phone
But never do they call.

What did you say?
A man for me?
The chance, it seems quite slim.
I don’t seem to have the key
To catch myself a him.

He’ll come someday, I sure do hope
A prince? I really doubt it.
Alone, I can just sit and pray
One day true love will hit.

Update, written on our anniversary this year:

I finally met my special him
just seven years ago.
It took over fifty years to find him.
Worth the wait?
Fo sho.

In my mid-twenties I met husband number one. He was the first man I could speak to in coherent sentences without a social lubricant. The first man I truly trusted. When he broke that trust (a second time), I asked for a divorce.

Dating again in 2016, at fifty-one, I was determined to do things differently. More mindfully. Not as an exercise to ease loneliness or meet some urgent physical need, but to find someone steady and kind. Someone grounded in reality who didn’t dress up like Captain Kirk as a hobby. And ideally someone who could make me laugh.

It took several years and plenty of missteps before it finally felt right.

Saturdays Were It.

After the holidays our dates were limited to Saturdays only. His demanding job meant he rarely saw me during the week. Fridays were sacred. He needed that alone time to wind down.

Saturdays were it. That was the deal.

The ski trip happened to overlap with my son’s spring break and his eighteenth birthday. I couldn’t just bail on that. So of course, Keith being Keith, he offered to fly my son out as well and taught him to ski.

I accompanied him on a business trip to Arizona a month later, savoring those concentrated doses of time together before we were back to Saturdays only. When summer arrived I developed a surprising enthusiasm for weeding just to spend time with him on yard-work Sundays. Then he’d feel compelled to make me dinner, which meant I’d get another night out of him.

It took a while to break down the barriers he’d built around his heart after a difficult divorce years earlier. Eventually I got past the drawbridge, the alligator-infested moat, the heavy gate and the overly protective security guard.

From the beginning he’d said he would never get married again.

Keith danced and lip-synced in grocery stores. He called me in various accents pretending to be “Keith’s assistant” looking for Lynn. Somewhere along the way I realized I’d fallen in love with him.

A year in, in December 2019, I told him. I was prepared to pack it in if he didn’t feel something close to the same.

Turns out he was falling in love too.

Summer 2019. I posted this photo on Facebook. A friend told me it was obvious I was falling for him.

COVID arrived in 2020.

“Maybe you should just hunker down here,” he suggested.

So I did. What started as a few days turned into three months. My son had recently left for the Navy and it was nice not to be alone during a pandemic.

When my townhouse lease ended in June, I quietly hoped he might ask me to just stay. He didn’t. Instead, he helped me find a new place. We went condo hunting together, and I bought a place that summer.

At some after the fact, I found the courage to ask if he’d ever consider moving in together with someone.

The answer was no. Period.

I may have even asked if there was any world where marriage could make sense. My memory’s a bit fuzzy on that part.

The Conversation… and the Hypotheticals.

Our relationship carried on. Mostly just Saturdays.

That fall I lost my job. I was about to turn fifty-eight. Who wants to hire someone who’s practically a senior citizen?

Maybe it was all the hours I used to spend working now staring at a computer screen, searching for something I could do so I wouldn’t run out of money. Maybe it was seeing couples holding hands on walks, doing ordinary things together in my neighborhood.

But I wanted more time with Keith. Where was this relationship going?

I told him we needed to have “the conversation.”

We decided to have it on a nature walk. Seven miles and a few tears later he wasn’t sure he could commit to more. He walked me to my condo door.

That walk almost ended things, which I didn’t learn until much later. Instead he kept walking alongside me, opening the gate little by little.

That spring, with my severance in the rearview, my finances were starting to look a little… fragile.

I got up the nerve to ask about moving in. I was staying over more often and… what if I couldn’t find another job and my funds ran dry? I could rent out my place until I had things figured out.

I was surprised when he agreed. Finding a job in my fifties that didn’t involve lifting more than twenty-five pounds (something my lower back would never agree to) seemed impossible.

The following summer, 2021, we were still living together. He began asking hypothetical questions. If we got married, would you be okay with X? What about Y?

I said yes to X, Y, and even Z.

He insisted it was all hypothetical, of course. Yet the questions kept coming. What kind of wedding would you want? What would we wear?

We agreed on small and casual. No white dress.

He even showed me screenshots of outfits he liked for me to wear at our hypothetical celebration party.

Then the talks went cold and I figured marriage was off the table.

Of course part of me would have loved the commitment, but I wasn’t about to bring it up. I didn’t want to negotiate love. I had him and I was happy being his girlfriend.

Bar Harbor, Maine.

The Sixteenth

In October 2021 we took a hiking vacation to Bar Harbor, Maine.

One night as I was about to take a shower he told me to bring my dinner outfit into the bathroom and not come out until I was completely ready. He’d prep the appetizers and open the wine.

I was suspicious. Was he going to propose? No. Impossible.

When I came out he had me close my eyes. The front desk had loaned him a cutting board and knife for the cheese and a vase for flowers he’d picked outside the hotel.

“Oh, and there’s one more thing they did for me,” he said. “Close your eyes.”

My suspicions now had suspicions.

“Okay, you can open them.”

There was a jewelry box on the table. Inside, a diamond ring.

“What the fuck?!” I asked more than once through tears and laughter.

He got down on one knee. He had planned to propose on a mountain, but it was raining. Still, he was determined to do it that day—the 16th. He wanted to keep the 16th theme going, since we met on December 16.

We got married the following February to beat my health insurance expiration. The 16th, of course.

It was just us and the pastor. My parents, son and one of my good friends were witnesses by Zoom. Dad had suffered a stroke a couple months earlier and I was grateful he could be there.

Screenshot from our special day. Don’t know where we got that runner. LOL.

Sixteen had quietly become our number.

First date: 12/16/18
Engagement: 10/16/21
Wedding: 2/16/22

Our in home not-so-small-after-all celebration ended up being July 23, 2022. The 16th wouldn’t work that year. For some reason, I decided to add up all the numbers and here’s what happened:

7 + 2 + 3 + 2 + 2 = 16.

Apparently our love involves a lot of math.

The Man Who Said Never.

I never found that job. I floundered quite a bit trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life. Keith told me not to worry and encouraged me to pursue my writing again and spend more time with my parents while they were still here. That’s the kind of partner he is.

The man who said he would never marry again asked me to be his wife.
The woman who almost ran out of patience said yes.

Love didn’t arrive the way I imagined when I wrote that teenage poem. I found my “him” after all.

He’s still busy, but he’s here when it matters most.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we just fell in love so we could be done with all this?”

It turns out, it would.

Okay… so I wore a white dress for our party.

Bonus moment from our wedding day.

Before we changed, I adjusted the camera for our Zoom witnesses while Keith did Keith.

I’d love to hear from you!

Have you ever had a relationship start with a line you never forgot? And bonus: what’s the worst first-date line you’ve ever heard?

And of course, feel free to ignore the questions and just share your thoughts.

Thank you for reading. If you enjoy the way I throw words together, please consider sharing my work. Your support fuels my writing habit and does wonders for my soul.

More of my writing you might enjoy…

More about me…

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

📝 Follow my Notes—snippets from my daily life, thoughts in progress, and the occasional rabbit hole. Click here.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

When the Thing Turns Out Not to Be the Thing

Lynn J. Broderick — Wed, 04 Mar 2026 20:27:04 GMT

Photo by Brandon Cormier on Unsplash

Laying on my side.
Two men in the room.

Decision paralysis gripping my soul.

Which one should I choose?

The pros and cons
swirl endlessly in my mind.

One watches quietly,
sleepy-eyed.

The other stands behind me.
Patient. Not pushing.
Just waiting for me to relax into it.

I move between them.
Again.
And again.
Trying to feel what’s right.

They’re so similar.
Yet completely different.

Finally, I sit up.

“I need more time,” I tell them.

I’ll decide tomorrow.

Mattress shopping is the worst.
(Why does it feel like dating in my 50s?)

Last weekend I laid on five different mattresses

I gave each ten to fifteen solid minutes of my life, as if that were enough to predict the next decade of sleep.

By late afternoon, I was 99.997% sold on the Tempur-Pedic, the one that supposedly sleeps five percent cooler—an important detail for my post-menopausal self. It felt dreamy in the store. I could picture myself finally sleeping more soundly.

The only problem was that my phone was charging in the car, so I wasn’t able to perform my usual Research Queen duties in real time. We pulled the trigger on it anyway.

By the time we got home, dinner needed to happen. I prepped chicken thighs for the grill, asparagus for the oven, and set the quinoa out on the counter. And then I opened my laptop for “just a minute.”

You know how that goes.

Reddit threads, review sites, people warning me in all caps not to buy the very mattress I had just mentally (and almost financially) married.

The chicken finished cooking before I’d even turned on the oven or started the quinoa. Keith sighed. I sighed back. We were both hungry, and now I wasn’t certain about anything.

I had left the store feeling almost clear.

Now I had absolutely no fucking idea.

Yes, we could exchange it if we needed to. But they throw the first one away. That bothered me. And what if I made a second wrong choice? What if this was a four-thousand-dollar mistake?

The anxiety crept in slowly, then all at once.

This isn’t new for me. It took me three years to find the right boot—supportive enough, wide enough for my aging, bunion-riddled feet. I still haven’t found the perfect pair of jeans that don’t make me feel like a walking potato sack. Just setting foot in a clothing store can spike my blood pressure before I’ve even touched a hanger.

The next morning, dread had settled deep in my ribs.

Why is this so hard? What is wrong with me?

I went to a Sleep Number store and started over. I liked that one too. Then I wondered about the adjustable base. Then I compared bases. Then Keith suggested I use AI, so I plugged in all my sleeping and physical issues—from sleep apnea to neuropathy—and within minutes I had charts and comparisons and more information than any human really needs about mattress bases.

By dinner time, I was no closer to peace.

So I decided to sleep on it.

Again.

The mattress wasn’t really the mattress.

Here’s what I’ve come to understand:

The mattress wasn’t really the mattress.

Mom had RSV last week. Her voice sounded weak and slurred and for a moment I thought we were at the end. The thin bandage I’d placed over the grief for Dad who died last spring, came loose again.

She recovered. It was just another scare.

But she has stage 4 cancer. We’ve known for over a year. She wasn’t supposed to live more than a few months.

And then there were the headlines Saturday morning.

We’re at war.

My son is in the Navy. He’s safe right now, but soon it could be deployed six months at a time—rotations that make my stomach somersault just thinking about the possibility. Six months of not knowing exactly where he is. Six months of limited or no contact. Six months of imagining worst-case scenarios at three in the morning.

Fear had already been living in my body. The news just gave it a megaphone.

I’m so proud of the man he’s become. And at the same time, I still see this little boy, and every cell in me wants to keep him safe.

Wearing his dad’s Navy shirt. Totally random.

I made the mistake of watching Colbert’s take on the war last night and fought off a panic attack while trying to sleep. Breathing helped a little.

I’ve been waking up with dread churning in my gut.

I wish I were someone who believed that prayer could guarantee his safety. I wish I could bargain with the universe. I wish control were an option.

But it isn’t.

And, as someone wired for anxiety, lack of control has always been hard for me. It feels like turbulence on a plane when you can’t see out the window—you don’t know how bad it is, and your imagination fills in the rest.

All of that seeped into the mattress decision.

It seeped into my writing too. Yesterday’s writing about love and unicorns felt strained, like I was contorting myself through a keyhole just to publish something—anything—on my usual day, trying to paint light over something darker underneath.

My inner critic was quick to notice so I didn’t publish it. She might have actually been right this time.

This morning, I listened to Tara Brach’s podcast about the “fear body,” about how fear embeds itself in our tissues and thought patterns, how when we’re triggered we slip into a kind of trance that cuts us off from creativity and openness. Our bodies prepare to run or fight. Imagination shrinks.

It made uncomfortable sense.

I journaled for a while, letting the fear spill out in messy sentences. And somehow, I found myself writing about mattress shopping.

Because sometimes the decision we obsess over is simply the place we can channel our anxiety when the real sources feel too big to solve.

After journaling, I walked at the park in my old neighborhood and stretched near the playground where I used to chase my son around. For a moment, I could almost hear that scratchy belly laugh.

The air felt different after that.

I can’t control war. I can’t control cancer. I can’t control where my son will be stationed six months from now.

But I can choose a mattress. It might take a while, but still.

I can ask myself: What, at the end of the day, will make me feel better about my day? If that doesn’t include publishing a post, so be it.

I can move my body. I can breathe. I can notice when my thoughts start spiraling and gently pull them back. I can ~~yell at~~ tell my inner critic to lower her voice.

And I can keep showing up, even with fear sitting beside me.

Feet on the floor.
Breath in. Breath out.

Maybe that’s enough for today.

I’d love to hear from you!

Has something small ever turned out to be about something much bigger for you?

Thank you for reading. If you enjoy the way I throw words together, please consider sharing my work. Your support fuels my writing habit and does wonders for my soul.

More of my writing you might enjoy…

More about me…

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

📝 Follow my Notes—snippets from my daily life, thoughts in progress, and the occasional rabbit hole. Click here.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

I Forgot I Wrote This. Turns Out Its a Poem.

Lynn J. Broderick — Tue, 24 Feb 2026 10:47:09 GMT

Clouds stretch like chalk lines across the dusky blue sky,

some crisscrossing,
others layered in the distance like quiet ocean waves.

Mountain tops pierce the horizon’s lower edge,

a textured palette of dirty whites and scrubby browns—

evidence of spring.

I just stumbled upon this little piece, inspired by my stepdaughter’s writing prompt last March while we were in Utah.

We were supposed to write about something we could see.

I wasn’t trying to write a poem at the time—but reading it now, I realized that’s exactly what it is.

We ended up doing a few prompts together, and something about it nudged a months-long stretch of stuckness. Just a little. But a little matters.

I didn’t capture this exact view with a camera. I’ve included another shot from that trip and I’m hoping the words help you see what I saw anyway.

Want to play along?

Set a five-minute timer and write about what’s in front of you.

No polishing. Just noticing. And drop it in the comments (or publish it as a post and tag me). I’d love to see what you come up with.

Here’s what I wrote when I finally emerged from that months-long stretch of stuckness.

And other stuck-related posts.

More about me…

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

📝 Follow my Notes—snippets from my daily life, thoughts in progress, and the occasional rabbit hole. Click here.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

My Chocolate Habit Now Officially A "Problem"

Lynn J. Broderick — Tue, 17 Feb 2026 10:23:12 GMT

If you’re here strictly for the poem and song, scroll down.

I’m a bit of a health nut.

Dark chocolate is part of my daily ritual. Not just because I love chocolate, but because it has actual health benefits. In moderation, of course.

But lately, the global news has been getting under my skin. And my chocolate intake has quietly escalated.

Two squares became three.
Three became four.

And instead of savoring them—letting them melt slowly on my tongue—I’m chewing. Another casualty of the headlines.

I realize it’s not like I’m downing a large fry and chocolate shake every day (like I did in high school when I couldn’t tip the scale over a hundred pounds).

The real problem is math.
And, potentially, heavy metals.

My favorite dark chocolate costs five dollars a bar. Each has eight squares. At four squares (half a bar) a day, that’s three and a half bars a week. Roughly twenty bucks with tax. About a thousand dollars a year.

On chocolate. I’ve spent less on a long weekend getaway.

And then there’s the media hype about cacao containing unsavory levels of lead, cadmium and arsenic—and I already have microplastics coursing through my veins. Why take my chances on heavy metals?

Plus I could live without the extra caffeine jitters.

I keep telling myself: Tomorrow—two squares. That’s it.

But the cycle continues.

My wellness ritual has officially crossed a line.

So naturally, I wrote a poem about it.*

*By “naturally,” I mean this is only my third published poem. Ever.

And turned the poem into a song. Listen here or read it below.

Two squares of dark chocolate
is my daily wellness ritual
(I read somewhere it’s good for me
so I treat it like a supplement).

The rules are simple:
seventy-percent or more cacao.
One to two ounces.
No more—or else
possible heavy-metal exposure.

I love to let it melt on my tongue
(that’s how civilized people do it),
but lately the world is so loud,
I bite down hard instead
and it vanishes
like it never existed.

So I break off a third,
then a fourth,
committed (again) to savoring.

Too bad health benefits
are now out the window.

I get jittery
and mildly ashamed.

Tomorrow I’ll stick to two
and let them linger
like they’re supposed to.

Which is what I said
yesterday.

I’d love to hear from you!

Has this wonky world driven you into any new habits lately—good or bad?

Thank you for reading. If you enjoy the way I throw words together, please consider sharing my work. Your support fuels my writing habit and does wonders for my soul.

Leave a Tip

My other poems:

My most popular posts, in case you missed them…

More about me…

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

📝 Follow my Notes—snippets from my daily life, thoughts in progress, and the occasional rabbit hole. Click here.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

🎙️ VIDEO: An Unfiltered Conversation About Motherhood & Love

Lynn J. Broderick — Mon, 09 Feb 2026 10:07:19 GMT

I had an unexpected blast talking with ’s Traci Edwards about my tumultuous journey to motherhood, as part of her 4-part motherhood series.

From infertility and colliding emotions to the moment a baby was handed to me… not knowing if he would be mine to keep. We covered it all. Through laughter and tears.

It’s one of the most intimate conversations I’ve had about motherhood in a long time, and I’m sharing it with you here. Completely unedited, unfiltered.

My motherhood story & more…

I’d love to hear from you!

If motherhood has touched your life in any way, what part of that journey stays with you most?

Tag us with your motherhood story!

Thank you for tuning in. If you enjoy the way I throw words together, please consider sharing my work. Your support fuels my writing habit and does wonders for my soul.

Leave a Tip

More of my work…

More about me…

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

📝 Follow my Notes—snippets from my daily life, thoughts in progress, and the occasional rabbit hole. Click here.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

Available for iOS and Android

Raised in a Weird Religion. Thanks, Mom & Dad—Part Three

Lynn J. Broderick — Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:20:00 GMT

Thanks for sticking with me for this unexpected series—this is the third and final part.

In case you need a refresher or missed the first two parts, where I talked about the Christian Science belief system and how it led me to question everything, you can find them here:

When belief and health collide.

I blame Christian Science for my grandmothers dying younger than they would have, had they only gone to doctors.

Ganny had a sudden heart attack or stroke ( who knows?) when she was seventy-one. Dead. No discussion. No funeral. No nothing. Years later, Dad said, “She should never have carried that heavy typewriter down the block.”

Nana’s decline started in her early seventies. Near the end, she puffed up like a blowfish. She’d been seeing a Christian Science practitioner who tried to pray it away. When fluid started oozing from her pores, she insisted it was a sign of healing. It was urine (according to my aunt). Her kidneys were likely shutting down. She ended up checking herself into Christian Science’s version of a nursing home. She died there soon after. Alone with the practitioners. Almost certainly in pain.

Of course, they had a right to their beliefs. That doesn’t mean I have to be okay with the consequences.

What would my Christian Scientist dad do if he got sick?

One Thanksgiving, over twenty-five years ago, Dad nearly severed his thumb using a post-hole digger for the annual snow fence installation. Instead of getting help, he walked upstairs to his reading room—work gloves still on, blood dripping down his arm—to pray it away.

“What’s going to happen if he has a heart attack?” I cried to Mom in the kitchen.

Eventually, he came back downstairs, wobbly, asking to be taken to the hospital.

Dad carried the belief system into old age—a loyal churchgoer until it became physically impossible.

When he developed an oozy leg wound (weeping edema) in his mid-eighties, he tried first to heal it himself. When that didn’t work, he put a Christian Science practitioner to the task—she attempted to heal it over the phone. For a fee. That part has always been hard for me to reconcile.

Eventually, a required Medicare wellness check led to a prescription. He used the ointment reluctantly. The wound cleared up fast. An enthusiastic modern-medicine believer was born. He couldn’t get enough ointment.

When his legs collapsed beneath him while making breakfast at eighty-eight and he couldn’t get up, my mom didn’t hesitate—she called 9-1-1. They rushed him into surgery to drain the blood on his brain. It was a stroke.

Afterward, he took blood thinners and blood pressure medications without protest. Three years and another stroke later, hospice took over to keep him comfortable. I’m grateful for that—and for every extra year we got.

Growing up around that belief system left residue.

I’m still unwinding a religion that claimed the body was an illusion.

When I didn’t feel well as a kid—or even when I was sad—I was dismissed by both parents.. Dad told me to buck up. To see myself as God’s perfect child. Sickness was a belief.

(The vomit cleanup, however, was undeniably real.)

I still don’t like doctors. I still put off appointments. Not because I think sickness is “a belief.” Not because I imagine I can pray myself well.

But because part of me was raised to pretend the body isn’t reality. And there’s still a voice that whispers: You’re fine. You’ll get better. Don’t make a fuss.

I know better. Truly, I do.

Could my decades-long, evolving health-nut tendencies be a kind of overcorrection? Or an over-overcorrection? Hard to say.

And then there’s this twist: my husband grew up Catholic and believes wholeheartedly in God, Heaven, Hell—the entire spiritual package. Organized religion isn’t his thing anymore, and neither of us goes to church. My spiritual thought process remains fluid—open, yet somewhat skeptical. Neither of us is trying to convert the other, although we’ve had a few ~~colorful~~ friendly debates.

If I could conjure Dad’s spirit and ask him for a briefing on the spiritual world, I would. Until then… I just don’t know. And I’m okay with that.

I’d love to hear from you!

Is there something you’re still unwinding from childhood?

Have your early beliefs shaped how you relate to your body or health as an adult?

Thank you for reading. If you enjoy the way I throw words together, please consider sharing my work. Your support fuels my writing habit and does wonders for my soul.

More of my writing you might enjoy:

More about me…

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

📝 Follow my Notes—snippets from my daily life, thoughts in progress, and the occasional rabbit hole. Click here.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

Raised in a Weird Religion. Thanks, Mom & Dad—Part Two

Lynn J. Broderick — Wed, 28 Jan 2026 20:42:33 GMT

If you missed Part One—“You’re a Scientist?” No. Not Even Close—you can read it here. It’s about the religion I grew up in and why it wired my brain for questioning everything.

As a child, I believed in God.

Who was I to question Sunday School teachers or the Bible, when my parents reinforced it all?

It was only because I was raised in the less-than-conventional core beliefs of Christian Science—my “weird” religion—that questioning ever entered the picture.

I obediently recited the Lord’s Prayer at bedtime. Some nights when I couldn’t fall asleep and wasn’t fantasizing about Donny Osmond (rare), I actually spoke to God more directly. I can’t recall my words, but remember staring into the darkened room until little floaters started dancing before my eyes.

Judy Blume’s Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret, which I devoured more than once, added a fun layer of credibility.

The older I got, the more the logic unraveled.

I craved answers—something coherent, something that felt true in both my gut and my heart.

So by college I was taking theology classes and visiting churches (mostly Catholic) with friends.

Turns out “because my parents (and the Bible) said so” wasn’t cutting it anymore.

My brief moment in Catholicism.

My first husband was Catholic. I never converted, but we went to church occasionally. When I announced we were getting married in the Catholic church, my dad said he wouldn’t go. Christian Scientists and Catholics weren’t exactly simpatico. But he’d attended other Catholic weddings, so his stance didn’t quite track. Ultimately, he relented.

It ended up being a Catholic-lite ceremony: candle lighting to “Ave Maria,” no full mass, and a lot of relieved guests.

Our son was baptized early 2001.
The next—and last—time voluntarily attending church was September 12, 2001.

Eventually, my first husband announced he didn’t believe in God. As a history buff, he saw religion less as faith and more as crowd control. That made a certain sense to me. He drifted toward cynicism. I drifted toward more questioning.

Spiritual, not religious.

I found my way to yoga and Buddhist-adjacent thinking. “Spiritual, not religious” became my landing place. I didn’t miss church.* Prayer talk made me squirm—residual childhood shame, most likely. Being Catholic by osmosis once gave me a sense of belonging; yoga gave me a sense of self.

* I have to admit, when I step into a beautiful, quiet church, I often get choked up. I can’t quite explain it.

Having been born into a religion that made zero sense to me, I eventually rejected organized religion entirely. Learning that most religions were founded by men—and there are thousands of them, each certain of their own correctness—only reinforced my doubts.

A high school friend once insisted I was going to Hell because I wasn’t part of her church. My response was basically, what the hell? By that logic, most of humanity was doomed.

Christian Science, for the record, teaches that Hell is not a fiery pit but a negative mental state or “self-imposed agony.” No eternal inferno—just a mindset you can reject. They also don’t believe Satan is a literal being, just a symbol for evil, sickness, and sin. Heaven, meanwhile, is a state of mind—goodness and unity with God—not a cloud-based reunion party.

By default, I question the existence of God.

And that’s an important distinction: I’m not here to say God doesn’t exist. I’m here to distill the way Christian Science led me to question it—and to share some of the mental gymnastics it took to make sense of it all.

Yes, he’s mentioned thousands of times in the Bible (though again, for the record: no female authors—and why is God always “he?”). Nearly every religion has some form of God—sometimes multiple. Some have no gods at all.

It makes sense that men created structures to calm people down and rules to keep chaos in check. (“Behave or burn forever” is a powerful motivator.) And of course there will always be people who test the system—like the Husky that keeps challenging the electric fence, no matter how many times it shocks him.

And given humans’ innate drive to explain the why of everything—including our purpose on this earth—the idea of a higher being creating us isn’t a bad one.

Bottom line: I don’t reject God outright—I just reject having absolute conviction about what it all means. I need evidence, the same way I need proof before believing an infomercial doctor selling hydrogen tablets for anti-aging and optimal gut health. Show me the independent clinical studies and then we’ll talk.

People say the universe—even humanity itself—is all the proof we need.

Not for me. Just because the world—and all this perfect yet broken life and the infinite galaxies swirling around us—exists, or because the Bible says so, doesn’t necessarily mean this one God manufactured it. For all we know, it was created by something we don’t even have the words to describe.

But honestly… I have no better explanation. And I wish I had a firm belief in God and angels and that one day I’ll see my loved ones again. What a comfort that would be—I would’ve finished grieving months ago.

Photo by Marek Studzinski on Unsplash

Speaking of angels: Ganny, my dad’s mom, was full of life. I still remember sitting on her lap while she sang to me. She was my favorite grandmother. Scott became my favorite cousin because he seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say during my awkward years—I felt seen. I still like to imagine them as my guardian angels. And lately, I’ve been quietly asking my dad to please, oh please, keep my Navy son safe.

It’s confusing, I know.

My believes (and questions) may seem quirky to some.

I practice love and kindness. And yoga twice a week.

And I don’t need threats to be good. I just am (mostly). Wh

When I find a spider in the house, I flag down my my husband, who relocates it outdoors or to a plant, if its winter. I try not to step on ants.

I find awe in nature and the universe.

I wonder how the Big Bang could be a thing… how something could something explode from nothing?

But if God created everything, what created God? And what created that? Into infinity….

No matter how you slice it, nothing fully makes sense.

My dad believed he was doing the right thing.

My mom, when I asked her as an adult, couldn’t quite explain why she went along with us going to Sunday School when she’d already rejected it. I suspect she just liked having the house to herself.

Continue with Part Three…

Missed Part One? Read it here:

I’d love to hear from you!

What shaped the way you make sense of the world now—belief, experience, or both?

Have you ever questioned something you were once told was absolute truth?

More of my writing you might enjoy:

More about me.

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

Raised in a Weird Religion. Thanks, Mom & Dad—Part One

Lynn J. Broderick — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 14:21:47 GMT

Christian Science, to be specific.

And I always felt weird telling people that was my religion. Still do, even though I stopped going to the church as soon as I left for college. On my first break home, my dad said I had to go. “I’m eighteen,” I said.

Quick disclaimer: this was weird to me and my brain. Plenty of people find meaning in Christian Science and other religions. I’m just sharing how it landed for me and scrambled (or shaped) my spirituality.

Nobody knew what Christian Science was. Kids would tilt their heads with that did she really just say that? expression.

Some asked, “Christian Science? You mean you’re… a scientist?”

I silently wished I could say something normal—Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist—anything people had actually heard of.

I attached shame to it early on. “God talk” still makes me uneasy.

And the whole experience shaped how I view organized religion—and what spirituality looks like for me.

The core belief is that the material world is an illusion.

Founded by Mary Baker Eddy in the late 1800s (when medicine was still fairly archaic), Christian Science teaches that the material world—including the human body—is an illusion. Sickness, sin, and death are “errors” of mortal belief. Jesus proved healing was possible, so we could heal too. Because: Science. Christian Science. Voilà!

As Christian Scientists, my brothers and I were exempt from school vaccinations and didn’t go to the doctor. Except… we did go to the eye doctor and dentist. I questioned these shaky hypocrisies constantly at the dinner table.

Why can’t we heal our cavities? Why wear glasses if our eyes are an illusion? If sickness isn’t real, why pray to fix it?

My dad said I should become a lawyer.

Once, just to make a point, I asked my Sunday school teacher, “If the body is a belief, do we actually need to eat?”

He didn’t hesitate. “No.”

My parents were livid—and immediately began backpedaling to kingdom come.

As a suburban kid, Sunday School felt normal enough:

Full classes, occasional friendships, and twice going home early from Christine’s with a somersaulting stomach (bacon may have been involved).

Around that same time, I spiked a temperature so high I hallucinated a spinning receipt roll spewing endless paper with a frantic ticking soundtrack. My parents hovered, debating whether to take me to the hospital. They didn’t. The memory is still unnervingly vivid at sixty-one, and I sometimes wonder if that fever fried a few neurons.

There was no third play date with Christine.

We were mostly healthy (not counting my sugar addiction), despite being unvaccinated. My brothers and I caught the usual childhood whatevers: measles, mumps, chicken pox. No polio or smallpox. Had anything more serious shown up, I might not be here to write this.

Christian Science parents have even faced criminal charges after children died from illnesses modern medicine could have treated. 1

When we moved to the country, everything shrank.

Most Sundays, the only “students” were my younger brother and me. I played the hymns; he stood by the door as usher. His job was simple—it was rare for anyone else to come in. Awkward, all of it.

As if the sudden shift to rural life wasn’t enough of a social experiment.

A silver-haired woman with oversized tinted glasses led the hymns and readings before class. My dad stepped in as teacher if other students showed up, which almost never happened.

We hid every Sunday morning, always found, always marched to the car for the thirty-minute drive to the next town. I don’t remember my older brother going, which still feels deeply unfair.

In summer, my dad occasionally bought Dairy Queen afterward, which was the least he could do after ritualized torture. My go-to was the vanilla cone with sprinkles. My mom always scolded him for ruining our lunch appetite.

At twelve, I got a bad chest cold or possibly something worse. I remember standing in my bedroom doorway, trying to breathe, stunned that I could only pull in the smallest sip of oxygen. My mom finally cracked and took me to my first doctor’s visit. He lifted my shirt without preamble to listen to my heart and I froze—bare-chested, exposed to a man. My eyes swung to my mom. She acted casual.

No wonder medical exams—especially gynecological ones—still spike my anxiety. IVF felt like a violation.

Both sides of my family were tangled up in Christian Science.

My dad’s mom was Catholic before converting—likely seeking escape or meaning amid an abusive marriage to my alcoholic grandfather.

My mom’s mom practiced it too; my grandfather went along to appease her. He’d had untreated gangrene and Bell’s palsy. He also suffered a nervous breakdown, bedridden for days, unable to face mounting financial ruin. He eventually died by suicide. My mom and her four siblings were not allowed to speak about it.

They were allowed to see the dentist, but dental work was done without Novocaine. Just writing that makes my teeth hurt.

She and her siblings rejected the religion. Despite that, my mom went to a Christian Science Youth Group meeting at nineteen—her dad had killed himself and she just wanted out of the house. “It was something to do,” she told me recently. That’s where she met my dad.

Despite her rejection—which I didn’t learn about until adulthood—she agreed to raise us in the religion, which she occasionally referred to as a fad or cult. She still went to the gynecologist and gave birth in the hospital (medical oversight in childbirth has long been considered acceptable in Christian Science, even in its early days after maternal and infant deaths).

Christian Science led me to question everything.

Read Parts Two & Three…

Not ready to subscribe? No worries. If you’d like to leave a tip instead, I’m grateful.

Leave a Tip

I’d love to hear from you!

Did your family’s religion give you comfort, confusion… or a complex?

What prime belief from your childhood now makes you go: “Wait… what?” … and one you carried into adulthood?

More about me.

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

Harvard Divinity School

On Being Stuck & Getting Unstuck... With Audacity

Lynn J. Broderick — Thu, 15 Jan 2026 21:15:07 GMT

Photo by mana5280 on Unsplash

If there’s one thing our modern world is obsessed with besides gut health, cat videos and the Epstein files, it’s getting unstuck.

There are approximately nine million articles, podcasts, TED Talks, and inspirational reels about it.

If You Feel Stuck, Watch This (Mel Robbins).
5 Hacks to Get Unstuck (Oprah Daily).
What to Do When You Feel Stuck in Life (Tony Robbins).

At this point, the titles alone could circle the equator one thousand, three hundred and twenty-seven point five times. Possibly more.

I know this because I’ve been feeling stuck. Again. And I’ve been Googling how to get unstuck.

This stuck hit differently.

My last stuck wasn’t as dramatic—no violins, no storm clouds—just… flat. My creativity was out of reach, but I still believed in it.

This stuck, which hit me just before the holidays, feels like someone swapped my battery for three cold, wet sandbags and laid them on my chest. I’m convinced I was abducted by aliens. How else would you explain the missing cross-sections of my funny bone?

If you’ve read my work, you know I’ve had a few years of parental decline (and can still be funny!)—the sort of emotional weather that can gum up anyone’s creative gears. I’ve already written about that, so I’ll leave it there for context only. Just know the ground keeps shifting and being buried under sandbags is not ideal terrain for creativity.

At first I tried to fix my stuckness through effort—white-knuckling myself out of inertia. Sharing Note after Note about being stuck. Hoping someone would swoop in and save me with a secret code or kick in the ass.

I told myself to write anyway (I didn’t). Or go for walks. Or journal in cursive under moonlight. This doesn’t always work. And it sure as hell didn’t this time.

Then, in a bout of iCloud escapism (don’t judge), I stumbled across this video.

Me sitting by a Yosemite river a couple falls ago, facing the water as it rushed like it had somewhere to be.

It was a beautiful moment in nature. I’m sure I was breathing. Relaxed. Letting it all flow past.

Seeing it again hit differently. That version of me wasn’t stuck—she was quiet. On vacation. Flowing without naming it. I wasn’t trying to have a moment. I was just there, letting the river be a river.

It reminded me what it feels like to unclench. To simply be.

Fighting The Stuck had exhausted me.

It was time to surrender. Not in a defeatist way—more in a fine, be here then way. And sure, a few fuck you’s loose. Resistance is a full-time job with no future and zero benefits. Acceptance, weirdly, feels like unbuttoning your jeans after filling up on ice cream.

With my defenses down, I fell apart. With Keith out of town, I had the house to myself, with more space to just let go. Pretty sure the walls shook.

This didn’t make me immediately productive or inspired. But it did make me less at war with myself. That alone was new.

I nudged myself out of isolation, which turned out to be half, if not ninety-nine percent of my issue. Too much indoor time makes my thoughts congeal and my spark go dim. Being alone with my brain for days is like marinating in spicy mayo until it curdles. Not recommended as a long-term strategy.

My logistics team of one (myself) made a plan to leave the house in tiny movements:
• Nature walk• Dinner with friends
• Volunteering at the resale shop that donates profits to local food pantries
• Conversations with voices that weren’t in my head

Substack helped too, strangely. Reading other writers, discussions in comments—micro-interactions that reminded me the world is bigger than my thoughts.

This morning, my writing coach, Laura, did a clearing. (A clearing on me? For me? Whatever it was, it worked). I felt lighter. She also reminded me that getting stuck and falling apart isn’t a detour—it’s part of the process, creatively and in life.

And then, unexpectedly, I started writing again. If you’re curious about her, I’m happy to share her info.

We get stuck. We get unstuck. We repeat.

If you’ve somehow hacked life and never get stuck, I’d love to subscribe to your newsletter.

But for the rest of us: I don’t think the goal is to avoid the stuck holes. It’s to accept the fall, close our eyes, feel the surrounding walls with curiosity instead of shame. Look up and remember there’s light up there. Accept that maybe it’s just time to be there—patiently, not frantically—so your soul can absorb what it needs, and crawl out nourished, stronger than before.

There’s a quiet audacity in getting up again. And there’s audacity in the stuck part too—sitting with it instead of sprinting away. Both take guts.

Either way, creativity rarely returns with fanfare. Sometimes it comes back quietly—through grocery store conversations, rivers you forgot you filmed, and the sudden ability to laugh again at life being ridiculous and beautiful and completely inconvenient.

I’m not fully unstuck. There’s no “comeback era.” Just motion. Admittedly, more like a plodding zombie, but it’s something. I’m also hopeful, a little wry, and surprisingly okay with it all.

What helped me get unstuck this time:

Moving from isolation to tiny movements
Reading other writers who make me feel less alone
Letting myself fall apart without treating it as failure
Talking to humans (who aren’t in my head)
Accepting the seasons instead of fighting them
Remembering that flow isn’t loud
Laughing at the absurdity of being a person
Words of encouragement from fellow Substackers including Traci from , , , , , and more. Thank you!

I’d love to hear from you!

What’s in your anti-stuck toolkit? Serious or unhinged answers both welcome.

More about me.

Every bit of support means a lot.

❤️ Press the heart: Also lets me know you read this.

💬 Leave a comment: My favorite part of Substack: hearing your thoughts, stories, and reactions.

♻️ Restack: Share with the world—this makes me extra grateful.

📩 Subscribe: Get new posts by email or right in the Substack app.

Just being here matters the most. Thanks for reading.

—Lynn

A Long Drop Roll Into The New Year...with Gratitude

Lynn J. Broderick — Thu, 01 Jan 2026 15:26:59 GMT

Happy New Year, readers and friends.

I hope you’ve arrived safely—happy and healthy—into 2026. I feel like I did a long drop roll just to get here. If you’ve read all my work, you’ll understand why.

But happy to report 2025 was an amazing year for me here on Substack. I hit publish for the first time in July, with just one Founding Member—my husband, Keith (of course). Now, almost 550 of you are here. Five of you (not including my husband) have a paid subscription.

I’m struck by the improbability of it all—the roughly 1 in 400 trillion odds of any one of us even being born (not an exact science, with my own odds even slimmer), and the smaller odds that we’d find ourselves here together.

I never expected any of it.

Scroll down for my five most-read posts of the year—a small snapshot of what resonated most in this space. I’d love to know if any of them were meaningful for you.

Thank you for taking a chance on my writing!

Of course, it’s not the numbers that matter. It’s that you decided to take a chance on my writing and click that subscribe button. If you haven’t yet subscribed, I hope you’ll consider it.

I realize your time is valuable and there’s already an overabundance of content in the world—my hope is that my words continue to land with you in some meaningful (and sometimes entertaining) way… more times than not.

I’m beyond grateful to each and every one of you who reads, responds to and shares my work. It matters more than I can express. Not only does it fuel my writing, it touches my heart (and yes, it also feeds Substack’s algorithms and helps new readers find my work). If you’re reading quietly, of course I appreciate that as well.

Finding this community—and so many generous, talented writers along the way, some of whom I’ve collaborated with here—was something I never expected, and I don’t take lightly.

How was your 2025? Any surprising moments here or in your life outside of Substack?

What surprised me in life was how hard grief can hit, even when losing an elderly parent. I mean, it’s the natural order of things—if we’re lucky, we have our parents around a long time. My dad lived to ninety-one (I got him for sixty-one years of my life!), and my mom is eighty-five. Yet… turns out, grief knows no bounds. And it’s shown up in many of my posts. I hope it’s felt more human than heavy.

Grief has become my teacher and, while I’m not big on resolutions anymore (do they ever really work?), I’d like to set an intention to turn my losses into joy for all that remains. With humor and as much positivity as is humanly possible (don’t worry—I’m not into toxic positivity).

How about you? Do you have any resolutions for the new year?

Would you like to see more or less of something in my writing this year?

I’d love to hear from you.