Stephanie

How Do You Compete with a Ghost in the Machine? I met a girlfriend for lunch last week for a deeply overdue catch-up session. The second I saw her, I knew something was wrong—she looked completely exhausted, carrying that specific kind of heavy stress you can feel from across the room. Over lunch, she confided in me. She had been cleaning her home office the day before, bumped her partner’s computer, and clicked it awake. What she found on the screen brought her to tears: hundreds of saved screenshots and folders of women in bikinis and lingerie. It was the digital "spank bank" so many modern women dread discovering. She had taken photos of the screen on her phone and showed them to me. I asked if she recognized any of them. She didn't. They were completely random. But as we looked closer at the collection together, a reality set in: Most of these women didn’t even look real. Because they weren't. They were AI images, or so heavily AI-enhanced that they had crossed the line from human to hologram. It got me thinking about the bizarre era we are living in. In the professional world, we are constantly told that AI is taking over to "make our lives easier." It writes emails, optimizes schedules, and automates our workloads. But while it might be saving us time in the office, I have to ask: Is it doing more harm than good to our souls? Especially as women. We already live in a culture where the pressure to maintain a flawless aesthetic is fierce. Botox, fillers, and plastic surgery have become the casual baseline. A girlfriend of mine who works at a med spa tells me she has girls in their early twenties coming in for preventative fillers. We are trying to alter our real, living flesh to match a digital reality that doesn’t exist. You can scroll through Instagram and hit a page of a young woman who looks absolutely flawless. Pores? Gone. Symmetry? Perfect. Sometimes I’ll show these accounts to my fifteen-year-old daughter, and she will just look at me, completely unfazed, and say, "Mom, that’s AI. It’s fake. That person doesn’t even exist." And I’m left standing there wondering: How am I supposed to compete with a ghost? I think of my single friends out there navigating the modern dating world. Is this what men are conditioning themselves to look for? An algorithmically perfect fantasy? (And to be fair, I know the tables are reversed—women are staring at impossible, Adonis standards of men, too.) But we are losing our grip on what a real human being looks like. Con’t in the comments

The Proactivity Trap: Checking Boxes vs. Choosing Each Other I was sitting with a girlfriend recently, doing that soul-deep catching up that only happens when you finally carve out an afternoon for uninterrupted self-care. As we talked, she began opening up about a relationship that had recently ended—one that had forced her into a profound period of reflection. She had been married twice before. With each chapter, she learned, she grew, and she took notes on what she truly wanted. But like so many of us, she had eventually fallen into that familiar, comfortable trap: the shiny, new excitement of a relationship wears off, the light begins to dull, and you stop putting in the effort. When that happens, you have two choices. You can let the light continue to dim, or you can grab a cloth and buff that shine back in. You have to be proactive. My friend truly thought this last relationship was going to be the "third time's the charm." Instead, it became a complete disaster. But once the dust settled, rather than crashing, she did something incredibly brave. She looked long and hard in the mirror and decided to reinvest entirely in herself. She literally put her life into God’s hands. Though she has been spiritual and in touch with nature most of her life, watching her develop a deep, unshakeable relationship with God over the last few years has been a beautiful journey to witness. She found a church she loves, found her peace, and anchored into what she truly deserves in a life partner. She refused to settle. Now, she is open to meeting people again. But this time, it’s different. She is being proactive—first in her relationship with God, then with herself. She is putting herself out there, even volunteering as a greeter at her church. As I listened to her, I felt a wave of inspiration, quickly followed by a sharp reality check. We talk about being proactive in every other aspect of life. We preach it to our kids—I constantly harp on mine to anticipate what’s coming, stay ahead of the game, and take ownership of their schedules. I pride myself on doing the same. But as I reflected on the conversation with my friend, a question started to nag at me: How many of us actually offer that same courtesy to ourselves? I’ll be the first to admit: I don’t know if I always do. Sure, I take time for myself. I meditate, I exercise, I swim. In full transparency, I actually schedule it into my calendar like an appointment. Sometimes, it feels like the latter. It’s easy for "self-care" to become just another set of boxes to check on the daily to-do list while we stay firmly on the hamster wheel. And if I’m being completely honest? That lack of true proactivity doesn’t just show up in my solo routines. It bleeds into the most important corners of my life. Take my marriage. My husband and I have a beautiful life, and we are profoundly fortunate to have each other. But we are also incredibly, relentlessly busy. Somewhere in the rush of schedules, businesses, and daily logistics, we stopped taking the time to truly invest in one another. Neither of us is being proactive about us. To be transparent, it’s a problem that completely agitates me. There are days when I simply don’t feel like a priority to him. But the hard truth I have to face in the mirror is that I often mirror that exact same emotional distance right back to him. We get stuck in a standoff of mutual busyness. On the rare occasions we actually manage to carve out a quiet moment together, we look at each other and ask the same bittersweet question every single time: Why don’t we do this more often? We don't do it because we aren't chasing it. We are waiting for the time to magically appear, instead of actively claiming it. CON’T IN THE COMMENTS

The Enabler’s Autopsy Part 2: How We Quietly Build the Resentment That Eats Us Alive Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about endings. Unfortunately, I have a number of friends who are divorced. Some of them parted ways smoothly, with a quiet, mutual understanding. Others? Not so much. In fact, a handful of my friends' divorces have become downright nasty. I’ll admit, I’m always a little shocked by the stories I hear. Parting ways is never easy. No matter if it’s the end of a long-term friendship, a decades-long marriage, or even a job—it is incredibly uncomfortable. But sometimes, the civility goes completely out the window, and I find myself wondering: How did they get there? No one stands at the altar on their wedding day intending to get divorced. Those days are filled with so much hope, high-vibe energy, and pure joy. It amazes me how something so bright can turn so dark, ugly, and combative. Maybe some of it is as simple as the difference between Mars and Venus. But there has to be a deeper cause of death. It’s a slow resentment that starts to build over time. There is rarely a single, explosive incident that alters the course—maybe one acts as the final nail in the coffin, but the real culprit is the slow, silent decay of the foundation. For a relationship to work, both parties have to contribute, and I think this is where the disconnect begins. Every single one of us carries a load, and sometimes, that load gets really heavy. It is so easy to fall into the blame game when a relationship starts to feel cold. But if we are being truly "UnSettled" and honest with ourselves, we have to look in the mirror and ask: Have we ever considered that we are part of the problem? I know I am an enabler. And when my husband does things that annoy me at this stage of our lives, I have to stop, take a breath, and ask: Did I create this dynamic? For the first fifteen years of our relationship, I handled everything. I ran the kids, the house, the calendar, the social gatherings—all of it. My husband was a professional athlete, which is an entirely different type of load. While I was managing the homefront, he was carrying his own heavy weight: traveling and living on the road for nine months out of the year, missing milestones with the kids, dealing with failure in the public eye, and performing under immense, constant pressure. Back then, that division of labor worked for us. He provided for the family, and I ran the day-to-day operations as the sole proprietor of our home. I made every single everyday decision. And then, he retired. Suddenly, he was home. ALL. THE. TIME. It was a massive adjustment period. Yes, I loved having him around, but his constant presence completely disrupted my routine. My flow. My kingdom. He would ask, "What can I do to help?" And like so many women, my knee-jerk response was: "Nothing. I’ve got it." Why do we do this? Why is our natural instinct to push help away? Because in our exhausted, high-achieving brains, it’s just easier to do it ourselves. We don't have the time to explain how to do it, we don't want it done "wrong," so we just shout: Just let me do it! So, what happens next? Eventually, the husband stops asking. He knows the answer is going to be a sharp, exasperated "no" anyway, so he goes and sits on the couch to watch TV. And then? I get absolutely pissed off that he’s watching TV while I’m running around like a chicken with my head cut off, drowning in tasks. I’m annoyed that he’s not helping, and he’s probably sitting there watching me, completely confused and annoyed that I won't just ask him for a hand. And just like that, a tiny crack forms in the foundation. Con’t in comments

The Enabler's Trap The Fine Line Between a Good Friend and a Soft Landing Pad Lately, I’ve been struggling. I strive to be the kind of person who sees the absolute best in everybody. I genuinely believe that at our core, we all have good in us, and we all start with the best intentions. It’s a beautiful way to look at the world. But sometimes, carrying that attitude feels like an open invitation for people to take advantage of you. I’ve noticed a pattern in my relationships, and lately, it seems to be happening a bit more. I’ll have a friend who has been through the ringer with their personal life, and through it all, I am that support person. I’ve reached out, held the space, and stood tall as their pillar of strength when they couldn’t find their own. I offer advice, give support, and more importantly, I give my energy. Only to find them not heed a single word. I’m left feeling annoyed, frustrated, and completely exhausted. I feel like almost everyone has had this exact experience. As I sit back and reflect, I realize this isn't just about my friend. This is a pattern that has followed me my entire life—in grade school, in high school, and straight into my adult years. I find myself in a situation, I pour my heart and energy into holding someone up, only to find them not making any changes. I get frustrated, and I swear to myself: “This is the last time. I’m done.” But then another situation presents itself, and like clockwork, I’m back in the exact same spot. I’ve had to take a long, hard look in the mirror lately. I know that my patience and my ability to sit and truly listen are rare qualities. But I’m starting to see that this strength is constantly being misinterpreted. People see a safe place to land—which it is—and they mistake it for an open license to take advantage. Which brings me to a very uncomfortable, "UnSettled" realization: If the pattern keeps repeating, maybe I’m the enabler. Maybe I’m the problem. It begs the question: What is the actual difference between being a good friend and being an enabler? A good friend stands in the storm with you, hands you an umbrella, and points you toward solid ground. But they expect you to walk. An enabler is the one who carries you through the mud on their own back, draining their own battery to keep yours running while you refuse to take a single step. Do the people we love actually know the difference? Or do they simply mistake our deep empathy for an open tap they can use to siphon off our peace whenever their own lives get chaotic? Con’t in the comments

UnSettled: The High Road is a Fast Lane Redefining “The Bigger Person” as a Power Move Lately, I’ve been focusing on listening. Observing. Taking a purposeful step back and looking—really looking—at the bigger picture. As a mom whose children participate in competitive sports, I share a parallel line with so many of my friends: the constant presence of useless drama. It doesn’t matter what sport, club, or activity your child is involved in; there is always "noise." And for some reason, like a moth to a flame, our natural instinct is to get involved. I’ll admit, I’m guilty as charged sometimes. Who doesn’t love a good “dish session”? I honestly think as women, it’s ingrained in our DNA. My mother and I used to ask each other daily, “Got any gossip?” Now, when my daughter gets in the car, my first question is "How was school?" and my second is "What’s the tea?" But there’s a fine line between spilling the tea and allowing it to dictate your day, your mood, and your energy. We’ve all seen it. Experienced it. The hushed whispers in the lobby, the tension over front-row placements, the "did you hear what she said" cycles that repeat every season. It’s easy to let someone else’s frantic energy become your own. We’re often told to "be the bigger person" as if it’s a heavy cross to bear. We’re taught it means staying silent while someone else is loud, or swallowing our pride while someone else is petty. But I see it differently. Being the bigger person isn’t about being “nicer”—it’s about being faster. When I tell my friends to "let it go," I’m not asking them to be saints. I’m asking them to recognize that the person causing the drama is operating on a smaller map. Their world is limited to that perceived slight. To be the bigger person is to decide that your energy is too expensive to spend on an irrelevant transaction. I have this discussion often with my daughter. She’s had to navigate some incredibly difficult friendships—situations where she was ganged up on and others tried to make her an outcast. The hardest part to swallow? Sometimes it was the moms acting as the ringleaders. Watching your child go through that is gut-wrenching, but it forced her to grow a thick skin. It forced us both to realize that people only have the power you give them. If you view them as "the enemy," you’ve given them a starring role in your life. If you view them as irrelevant, they lose their script. I was walking with a girlfriend the other day and we passed an acquaintance. I smiled, said hi, and wished her a nice day. My friend—who doesn't have a friendly history with this person—stopped me, shocked. "Did you truly mean that?" she asked. I told her that I try to put positive energy out into the universe. That woman isn't in my tight circle; she was in my sights for a moment, and then the moment was over. What she does or thinks is completely irrelevant to my peace. Once she’s out of my line of focus, I move on. We’re moving too fast to be slowed down by someone else’s stalled engine. There’s a story I like to share with those close to me. It’s about an eagle being attacked by crows. The eagle doesn’t fight back; she doesn't waste energy pecking at a smaller bird. Instead, she simply soars higher. She climbs to an altitude where the crows can’t breathe, and one by one, they fall away. The eagle simply levels up. Con’t in comments

The "Living the Dream" Lie: Why It’s Okay to Just Be "OK" “Hey! How are you?” “Oh, you know... living the dream.” We’ve all heard it. Most of us have said it. Usually, it’s delivered with that specific brand of exhausted sarcasm that acts as a mask. What we actually mean is: I’m treading water, my bank account is screaming, I haven't brushed my hair in three days, and I’m one minor inconvenience away from a total meltdown. I have a friend who has had a particularly brutal couple of years. Every time we talk and I ask how she’s doing, that’s her go-to line. I totally get it. I’ve felt that weight where the world feels like it’s closing in. But recently, I caught myself echoing those same words. I realized I was projecting a "fine" version of myself because I didn't want to bring anyone down—but I also didn't want to lie. I was falling into a rut of performance. In a world of curated feeds and "Pinterest-perfect" lifestyles, we feel like we have to put on a production. There’s this unspoken pressure that if we aren't "Awesome!" or "Blessed!" then we are somehow failing. But let’s be real: Some days—okay, a lot of days—I’m in my oldest sweats, my hair is in a messy bun that definitely isn't "cute," and I’m just... OK. And I’m here to tell you: It is okay to only be OK. You aren't great. You aren't bad. You’re just in the middle. That is where you happen to be at this moment, and that is enough. We’ve all had those "internal panic" moments. Maybe you just hit 'send' on a mountain of bills and your stomach does a somersault. Maybe you’re staring at an overpacked schedule or a home that desperately needs an overhaul. In those moments, I whisper to myself: "It’ll be fine. Everything is fine." In our house, my daughter and I have a running joke for those moments. No matter the situation, we look at each other and say: "It’ll be fine. Everything is fine." I’ve even started hearing my colleagues repeat it like a mantra. It’s funny because it’s true—things usually are fine. But "fine" and "awesome" are miles apart. Life is like the ocean. It comes in waves, and the tides don’t care about your schedule. There are days when the depth feels terrifying, and it becomes exhausting to constantly tread water just to keep your nose above the surface. On those days, you don't need to be an Olympic swimmer. You don't have to break any records. Some days, you just need to float and breathe. Choosing joy isn’t about pretending the bad stuff doesn't exist. It’s a conscious decision to process the negativity and then let it go. So, give yourself a permission slip ( yes - another one). Allow yourself a few moments, or even a full day, to just be. Don't perform. Don't pretend. If you're treading water, just focus on keeping your head up. It’s temporary. Give yourself grace. When you stop putting on a show for everyone else, you save all that wasted energy for yourself. When you take a step back and purposely seek out the positive—not because life is perfect, but because you are choosing gratitude—the script flips. Con’t in the comments

The ID Photo Debacle: A Story of Spite, Sisterhood, and the DMV I was at the grocery store the other day, doing what any self-respecting woman does on a Tuesday: buying a bottle of wine. Okay, in the interest of "UnSettled" transparency, it was two bottles. As I was checking out, the cashier asked for my ID. After a quick glance, she commented on how lovely my driver’s license picture was. I smiled, thanked her for the compliment—and honestly, thanked her for even asking to see my ID at all! I’ll be the first to admit it: I’m vain when it comes to pictures, and I am certainly vain when it comes to my driver’s license. Perhaps it’s because, for so many years, I carried around the absolute worst photo ever taken of a human being. It’s one of those fundamental differences in the "Battle of the Sexes." Men don’t care. To them, a driver’s license is a functional utility. To a woman, it’s a five-to-ten-year commitment to a specific version of ourselves. Twenty years ago, my husband and I had just moved into a new house. If you’ve ever moved with a baby in tow, you know the vibe. I had spent the entire day in the trenches—unpacking boxes, scrubbing floors, and trying to find where I’d packed the toaster. My hair hadn’t been washed, and I’m fairly certain a shower hadn't even crossed my mind yet. My husband looked at me and said, "Hey, we have some free time. Let’s go get our new driver’s licenses right now." I looked at my reflection and said, "Okay, but I need to shower and make myself look presentable first." He looked at me, genuinely confused, and asked: "Why?" That "Why?" turned into a full-scale domestic dispute. It was the classic collision of male efficiency versus female standards. Long story short: I lost. I ended up at the DMV, unshowered, unpresentable, and simmering with rage. I was the last to get my photo taken. Our eldest was a baby then, so once my husband finished his (which, of course, looked perfectly fine despite him putting in zero effort), he took our son out to the car. I stood there alone in front of the blue backdrop, feeling every bit of the grime and the "spite" of the moment. When the card finally slid across the counter, the woman working the desk didn't just hand it to me. She looked at the photo, looked at my tired eyes, and leaned in. "You know," she whispered, "you can come back in a couple of days and retake this if you want.” She felt my pain. Because women know. We get it. We feel it. How many times have we huddled around a phone after a group selfie, checking every face to make sure it’s "post-worthy" before it hits the internet? We worry about these things. They are the "little things" that add up to a lot of unnecessary stress. Con’t in the comments

The To-Do List of Intimacy: When Sex Becomes a Chore I was out with a group of girlfriends recently, and as it often does when the wine starts flowing and the guards come down, the conversation shifted from general relationship gripes to the bedroom. If you know me, you know I’m an open book. I’ve never been afraid to broach the subject; I’m comfortable discussing the details—the highs, the lows, and everything in between. But as we kept talking, I realized I was in the minority. I was actually shocked by how many women—women who have been married for years, who have children, who have clearly "participated in the activity"—were still deeply embarrassed by the subject. Even more surprising? Some of them flat-out admitted they hate it. One of my friends said something that really stuck with me: "It’s just a chore. It’s one more thing I have to do before I can finally sleep." That statement got my gears grinding. How does an act of intimacy, an expression of love, become the equivalent of folding laundry or unloading the dishwasher? I get it. As moms, we carry a massive mental workload. We are professional multitaskers, managing schedules, meals, and emotions 24/7. By 10:00 PM, we aren’t looking for a "performance"—we’re looking for a pillow. There’s also a major disconnect in how we approach the day. For many women (myself included), intimacy is a slow burn that requires connection. But for a lot of men, it’s one-task-at-a-time. They go to work, come home, wait for dinner, and then expect "dessert." In the early days, when they were "courting" us, they took on some of that mental load. They planned the date, made the reservation, and built the anticipation. But as relationships settle into monotony, the planning often falls on the woman. We plan the day, we plan the date, and then we’re expected to "perform" at the end of it? It’s no wonder it feels like work. In my house, we have an “open mouth” policy; nothing is off the table. My kids know they can ask me anything, and that includes sex. I always warn them, "Don't ask a question you don't want the answer to," but they ask anyway, and we’re honest. I believe that’s where the shift starts. If we grow up in conservative households where sex is avoided or spoken of in whispers, we carry that shyness into our adult relationships. We stop flirting. We stop communicating our needs. We fall into "Roommate Syndrome," where we’re just two people managing a household together instead of two people in love. Con’t in comments

The Crown and the Steering Wheel: Making Room for the King The other day, I was sitting on my back patio—writing, reflecting, manifesting, and embracing my “Queen” energy—when I got a call from a girlfriend needing a vent session. She’s on the fence about whether to stay or leave her long-term relationship. She feels like she’s on an emotional seesaw; there was no specific climactic event, but rather a sense that they were simply drifting. She was tired of the "excuses" and "rationalizations"—she just wanted harmony, she wanted her partner to step up. I could totally empathize. I’ve noticed a trend lately among my friends, in the stories I hear, and even in the mirror of my own life: relationships falling apart. It’s "The Drift." People say, "We just grew apart," as if it were some mysterious fog that rolled in overnight. Let’s be honest: drifting apart isn't an accident. It’s a series of missed initiatives. It’s what happens when the man who once hunted for your heart decides he’s too tired to even hold it. For me personally, I’m a Queen who needs her King... not a victim. It’s a simple choice, but it’s the breaking point for more marriages than we care to admit. Even in my own marriage—and my husband is great—we hit these walls. It’ll be over something small, trivial. We’ll be home, wanting to watch a movie, and he falls into that "we should" category: "We should pick something." Then comes Purgatory: an hour of watching movie trailers. By the 45-minute mark, I want to stick a fork in my eye. The decision fatigue is real. I’m an Alpha woman; I make a thousand choices a day. In those moments, I don’t want to "collaborate." I want him to lead—to pick a damn movie, tell me to sit down, and press play. When he doesn't? I retreat. I get silent, I get annoyed, and I go to bed. That is my "Drift." But here is the unfiltered truth: a Queen has a responsibility, too. If I want a King, I can’t treat him like a subject. And I’ll admit, I’m inclined to do so. When I retreat into silence, I’m not helping. My husband has the awareness to call me out on it—and thank God he does. He also checks himself, realizing the initiative has stalled. He will then step up and make a plan. But for that to work, I have to be willing to let go of the reins. If you are a strong, Alpha female, you have to leave room for his masculine energy to breathe. You can’t bark orders and then wonder why he’s stopped taking the initiative. You have to support the King by trusting his lead, even when it’s not exactly how you would have done it. I recently told a girlfriend whose partner was using his upbringing as an excuse for his lack of effort: the victim card has an expiration date. We’ve all had pasts. But using your history as a shield against your present responsibility to your partner is a choice. You can’t use "how you grew up" to justify why you’re letting your marriage flicker out. If you find your significant other slipping away, don't ask "why" with a shrug. Look at your own hands. Gentlemen, are you reaching for her? And ladies, are you keeping your hands off the steering wheel long enough to let him drive? A King takes up space. He takes initiative. He should make his Queen feel like she is the only woman in the room, even when she’s in her pajamas. The victim makes excuses about why he can’t. So as Queens, we must set a boundary: a man cannot be a victim and a King at the same time. He has to pick one. Con’t in the comments