The Old Stephanie Can't Come to the Phone Right Now. . .

Why? Oh, you guys know the rest.

Yes, yes, it’s true: I am still living and breathing Taylor Swift music, specifically the new album, The Tortured Poets Department, but I promise this column is not going to be another gushing TTPD review or lyric analysis fest. It’s like 18% Taylor, 44% IFS therapy, and the rest is just rage, pure and simple. Don’t make me finish that math problem, guys. I won’t do it.

On Tuesday I had a semi-public meltdown. Or rather, a day-long series of smaller meltdowns that were witnessed by my parents, a few preschool teachers, my therapist, the lovely man who was painting my house, my best friend, and any poor soul who happened to be in the graduation/Mother’s Day card aisle at Target.

It was the perfect storm. Finishing Listen To Your Mother Boulder, knocking out a comedy show the next night, putting out work-related fires, finishing a home renovation project that finally allowed my entire nervous system to exhale, and ultimately, realizing I was furious about everything and at everyone.

Here’s a show pic: pre-rage, low-key channeling badass vibes.

As we approach Mother’s Day (tomorrow, upon writing this; it will be in the rear view when this is published), I’m keenly aware that we are approaching the “last first” that many families experience during the first year of divorce. “The first year is the hardest,” people say knowingly. I nod, knowing full well that very few people have ever had a “first year” like I have, knowing that I cannot speak about it or write about it. All I can do is carry it. And that makes me furious.

My daughter is graduating. High school was hell. Watching her endure it was a surreal nightmare that I am also not able to speak about or write about. I couldn’t fix it and I can’t heal it for her. That makes me furious.

I need to divide myself into eight people—one for each arm (tentacle?) of the Octopus part I created during IFS (parts work) therapy.

One version of me cleans up messes and puts things away after the painting ends;
two goes to teach music class and returns for voice lessons;
three comforts and nurtures my children, feeding them and listening to them and spending time with them and comforting them;
four returns the endless emails and text messages and fumes with impotent rage when tackling a mystifying tech problem that derailed the week;
five runs errands and schedules appointments and pays bills;
six pours herself into writing workshops and podcasting projects;
seven diligently keeps working on the book proposal and agent querying project.

The last one weeps in the bathroom.

I cannot do it all. And that makes me furious, too.

So a different “part” altogether took over on Tuesday: I call her the Backyard Bitch, and she is not fucking around. She is the part that snarls at every expectation put upon me, eviscerates any hapless entity who dares to contact me when I’m in the middle of something (Don’t you know I’m busy right now? Come to think of it, doesn’t my workplace know that I’m too busy to even be here right now??) The whole thing reeks of “Don’t you know who I am?” energy. The Backyard Bitch has one mantra: How dare you.

How dare you heap anything else on me right now? Don’t you know I’m maxed out? The BB does not listen to reason. She does NOT roll her eyes and tell you to calm down. She is out for blood. She doesn’t gently put her hand on your arm and say, “Darling, you don’t have to reply to these messages right now. It can wait.” She screams. And when I hit my limit on Tuesday, she pushed me out of the driver’s seat and turned the goddamn bus around, tires squealing.

Does this all sound very “Sybil” to you? Don’t worry. Doing IFS therapy involves finding and working with different “parts” of your system (I always toss out the Inner Critic and Good Girl, because they are pretty accessible examples), but it’s not like being “taken over” by a personality you are not aware of, ie Dissociative Identity Disorder. The lovely thing is, all the different parts of our system work together to protect us: different ones appear in different circumstances, and the “firefighter” parts take their jobs very seriously.

After I had therapy Tuesday, I was able to really tap into this ragey part and understand exactly what she was here to do: protect me. A fierce, angry Bitch with a pitchfork, torch, and “How Dare You?” hoodie is a fantastic ally when you are on the verge of being crushed by grief and overwhelm. The Backyard Bitch part protects the frantic, stressed out Octopus who balances a pot of water on her head that is about to boil over.

I was on the verge of tears while I taught preschool music; I lost my shit altogether when I returned home to a broken mug and half-eaten book thanks to my goldendoodle who apparently also found the house painting situation to be quite dysregulating.

I cried and raged through therapy, wandered the Hallmark aisles of Target while openly weeping, weighing the magnitude of graduation and Mother’s Day, and then burst into absolute ugly crying when my best friend fortuitously (for me, perhaps not for her, HA!) walked into my house unannounced as I was fuming at my computer while the painting wrapped up. I continued to cry while thanking my incredible contractor for his kindness and generosity and efficiency. It was a lot. A release valve had been opened, and it was stuck there. There was no off switch for this shit storm.

Then I took a sleeping pill and woke up Wednesday as my more peaceful self. The Backyard Bitch was still there, but sleeping in the back of the bus rather than driving it. I had an entire day with my glorious teenager, kept my rage appropriately compartmentalized for occasions that called for it, like when we found this utterly asinine cake topper at a party store while shopping for grad party supplies.

I wonder why the divorce rate is so high? 🤦‍♀️😂🤯

On Thursday and Friday, as I spoke with ADHD women in the inaugural virtual ADHD Moms Club party and then midlife women in our Writing Our Eras workshop, similar themes kept creeping up: So many of us spent the majority of our lives masking, people-pleasing, and perfecting ourselves, weighed down by generational and cultural burdens we did not sign up for and we didn’t subscribe to, but carried nonetheless.

And we don’t want to do that anymore. Some of us—myself included—simply quit. Quit playing along, quit playing small, quit playing games with rules we do not value. And while that feels, quite simply, fucking incredible, it is also really hard. It is swimming against the current while judgmental sharks try to eat you, to clumsily mix water metaphors.

As I spent last week hand in hand with the Backyard Bitch, observing rage, I carefully noticed when it was warranted, when it was deep and systemic, when it was overreactive and irrational, when it was protective, when it covered up fear and grief. At the end of the day, I have to say, I dig that part. She really is a badass. And so am I. I dug myself out of the rut, with this song from the TTPD as my soundtrack.

Despite the title, “But Daddy, I Love Him,” this song is not a “boyfriend song.” It’s about the weight of public opinion on your decisions, relationships, and values. It’s a rage anthem if ever I heard one.

“I'll tell you something right now
I'd rather burn my whole life down
Than listen to one more second of all this bitching and moaning.

I'll tell you something about my good name
It's mine alone to disgrace
I don't cater to all these vipers dressed in empath's clothing.

God save the most judgmental creeps
Who say they want what's best for me
Sanctimoniously performing soliloquies I'll never see
Thinking it can change the beat
Of my heart when he touches me
And counteract the chemistry
And undo the destiny

You ain't gotta pray for me
Me and my wild boy
And all this wild joy
If all you want is gray for me
Then it's just white noise
And it's just my choice.”

On Thursday I blew off some of my productivity time to watch the live stream Eras performance in Paris. Taylor performed a handful of songs on the album, including that one, and during another gorgeous rage anthem, “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?” (one of my top 3 TTPD favorites), Kevin Mazur captured this astonishing shot. My co-editor at

Midstory Magazine

posted it on our Threads page with this caption:

I shared it on my FB page with my own commentary and the above lyrics, where it quickly went viral (like, super viral for me. It’s been viewed almost two million times as of this writing), and The Backyard Bitch emerged to witness several dozen ridiculous comments popping up as weeds amongst the seeds of female solidarity (feminism is a cancer was my personal favorite). The Rule Follower nudged her out of the way and promptly deleted all the stupid comments instead of engaging in a War of the Words with internet morons. Rage isn’t always the answer. 😉

We all have different parts of us. The Angry ones can be scary, but they are helpful, and powerful, and important. Even when they are driving the bus, they aren’t really us. Rage can help transform us; it can help us set boundaries; it can help us evolve into the next incarnation of ourselves. But even with the transformation, The Old Stephanie isn’t really dead. We carry all the parts and layers and former selves as nesting dolls; there is room for all our multitudes. But, for real, The Old Stephanie can NOT come to the phone right now. She is putting out a million fires or crying at Target. So, kindly fuck off.

(Oh my god, j/k—sincerely, The Good Girl)

XOXO,
Steph (all versions)

• For the first time ever, we live-streamed Listen To Your Mother Boulder! You can watch the replay for this week only! Download the replay for $15 here. LTYM Boulder is an incredible, two-hour storytelling show at the Boulder Theater featuring 14 local writers sharing original pieces about motherhood. Don’t miss this opportunity to catch the stream!

• ADHD Moms Club is open! This FREE community is a safe space for moms with ADHD to vent, brainstorm, find their people, trade hacks and tips, and find resources. We had a truly dynamic first virtual meetup last week. Join us here.

Photo Credit: Natasha Riggs of Heirloom Films and Photography