Posts Under: DIARY


No Words (Or, Rather, All Of Them)

Here I am cradling a citronella candle like a beloved child.

I have no idea where to start telling you about the camping trip we just got back from. Three families went: ourselves, my friend Alisa and her family, and my friend Erin and her family, with six kids under the age of six between us. We should have known that it was going to be "challenging" once Alisa, the first to arrive at the campground, drove up to the Visitor's Center and spoke with the park ranger.

Here is an abridged version of what he told her:


Just There

This morning, on the walk home from school, my daughter suddenly pointed towards the grass and said "Stop! The orange thing!" I spun around, trying to figure out what she was talking about, and finally saw it: a little orange circle that's part of our backgammon set. She had been playing with it on Friday morning, and I guess she carried it while we walked Indy to school and then dropped it somewhere along the way. It sat there all weekend long, and was still sitting there this morning, waiting to be seen. And my daughter did see it, right away. Not because she was looking "for" anything, or even really "at" anything...she was just looking.

I remember what that felt like, to just look. I miss it so much.

I barely remember anything I learned in the ice-skating classes I took for years and years, but I do remember the precise sound of my blade against the ice, how satisfying it was to hear the scrape build and build and then suddenly go silent when I made a quick stop. When I flip back through my memories like a scrapbook, what pops out at me are moments so small and quiet they almost seem silly: sitting on a dock late at night, watching dots of light on the black water. Laying on the carpet in my grandmother's apartment - a brown one that smelled like dogs - and spinning a big plastic globe around and around on its axis. Standing in a white shower, inhaling the scent of cucumbers and arugula and wishing everything in my life smelled just like that soap.


72 Life Lessons For My 36th Birthday

I had this idea that today, on the day I turn 36, I'd do some reflecting, with the goal of coming up with 36 bits of wisdom I've accumulated over the years. I thought it'd be a good exercise, you know? And then I came up with an idea for how to make it even better.

So I reached out to my best girlfriends - my closest, most incredible circle of humans, who just so happen to also be some of the wisest people I know - and asked them to tell me what they've learned now that they're in their 30s, so I can spend the next 36 years learning from them.

Here are 72 life lessons - the first 36 from me, and the rest from the brilliant, extraordinary women in my life, who make me smarter and stronger and better every single day.


I Lied

On set in St. Louis, Spring 2016

My life, when I was an actor, was not a happy place to be. I'm sure (or I think) there are plenty of happy, well-adjusted actors out there...but for me? My acting career and my unhappiness were tied up together in a big, aching knot.

Because life as an actor is a neverending emotional rollercoaster: you go way, way, way up, putting in enormous amounts of time and energy and hope and faith, grabbing at whatever tiny sparks of positive reinforcement enter your orbit...and then all of a sudden - in an instant - it ends with “no" (no, you’re not good enough; no, you’re not pretty enough; no, you're not connected enough; you’re just not enough). So you come down fast, and hard.