All Posts

Transcript: Council of the Ciphers – April 14, 2025 Setting:  A sleek but slightly disheveled conference room in Cipher’s subconscious,...

“The Shelf” is a widely used metaphor in Mormonism. Whenever you can’t reconcile an uncomfortable piece of Mormon history, practices,...

I had my first doubts about Mormonism at seven years old.  Mostly, these were spurred by the first big decision in a young Mormon’s life:...

I grew up a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I know. It’s a mouthful. Hence, why most people call us ‘Mormons’...

I’ve thought about why I am the way that I am.  Not in some ‘woe is me, my life is so hard,’ way. At least, not since my teens, and what...

This wasn’t supposed to be a memoir. Honestly, I still don’t think it is. Not in the way most people mean it. I didn’t write this because...

“Emily.” Emily and I lock eyes across the room. Unless Miranda’s suddenly decided to downgrade me back to wrong-name status, she really does mean Emily . I can’t remember the last time that happened. Before Miranda has to repeat herself—and all hell breaks loose—Emily scurries into the office. Whatever is said behind that door is too low to catch. A few minutes later, she reemerges, face chalk white and eyes wide, blinking like she’s just stepped out of a time warp. “What is

DM Notes by God, Creator of the Universe, Reluctant Dungeon Master Campaign Title:   Now Presenting: The United States of America ...

A Feminist Reflection on Pets, Labor, and Who Picks Up the Poop Are dogs a tool of the patriarchy? Wait, wait—don’t kill me. Let’s get...

“Five minutes until we need to be out the door for the Herrera show.” I shove in a new pair of studs and crouch—carefully, so I don’t rip my skirt—scanning the floor for the heels that go with this outfit. “Bloody hell, I know,” Emily hisses from across the room. She’s not mad at me—probably—the schedule is just brutal. New York Fashion Week is not for the faint of heart. I’m just grateful I’m not also jet-lagged this time. I jam my feet into the nearly-too-tight heels—not ma

“I really wish you hadn’t done that, Andy.” I step onto the sidewalk and press my phone tighter to my ear, weaving through the crowd outside the station. The cold slices at my cheeks, and I yank my scarf higher. I can practically see my mom on the other end of the call—head down, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I know, Mom,” I say, trying not to raise my voice over the passing traffic. “But it’s what I needed to do.” “I just don’t understand why you had to make it such a bi

I sit on the rough stone, tracing doodles I can’t even see. There’s really not much else to do when you're falling through a void, a slab...

It’s packed tonight. Bluefin is wall-to-wall with sushi platters, glittery drinks, and people dressed to celebrate in their own style. I’ve never seen so much black without it being weighed down by death. Of course, there has been a death of sorts. Doug is reading the fallout now, my phone lighting up his face. I shove another sushi roll into my mouth and try to focus on the sparkly decorations hanging from the walls and ceiling instead of my restless, twitching foot. It’s no

When did holiday dinners start feeling like interrogations? “Cancel culture has gone too far,” Gammie huffs. “All my friends’ grandkids are cutting them off. Why? Because they voted differently? They’re ungrateful, is what they are.” I plaster on another fake smile, brittle and tight. If I open my mouth, nothing kind will come out. I’m wedged between my “progressive” grandmother, my white-savior uncle, and across from a grandfather whose entire personality is being a retired

New Jersey is fucking cursed .  I’m a sweaty mess, sprinting to Gate 63. There’s no way I’m making it.  It’s not like I didn’t plan ahead. I’m a 2-hours-early-to-the-airport sort of girl. I went through security, sat comfortably at my gate—plenty of time before boarding. EWR is simply cursed.  They changed the gate on me. Instead of Gate 42, I’m suddenly sprinting to Gate 63—through another damn security checkpoint, because sure, that makes sense. So here I am, running up to

After three nights of editing with Miranda at the townhouse, you’d think I’d be past the strangeness of it. And mostly, I am. Just like when she first handed me that red pen in her office, our nights in the den are quiet. Companionable. Mellow, even. In just a few days, I’ve already settled into the rhythm of it. But tonight is different. Tonight, I won’t just be leaving my work for her to pick apart—I’ll be sitting across from her while she does it. I swallow hard, standing

Legal meetings are a lot like papercuts. You don’t notice the sting until you’re already bleeding. I don’t say a word the entire time—just type, nod, and pretend not to notice how Miranda’s hands clench tighter every time her lawyer says “visitation” or “best interests.” Is this really the best they can do?  I seethe. Are they giving up already? I can’t imagine why. So what if Miranda’s a single mother? She was one before she married Stephen, and it’s not like Dick tried to u

In college, two months felt like forever. I was a different person between the first day of classes and midterms.  Now, two months is nothing.  “No, the second row will not  be acceptable,” I snap on the phone. “Do I need to remind you that this is Miranda Priestly we’re talking about? She does not sit second row at New York Fashion Week. Or any Fashion Week.” A pause on the other end.  “I don’t care who you’ve reserved those seats for. You’ll unreserve them. Better yet, you’

Just five more steps,  I tell myself, panting and sweating through my winter coat. Just four more steps and I’ll never have to move ever again. I’m leaning against the stairwell, forcing one foot in front of the other, clutching the last box— the last box —with both hands and the raw desperation of someone who hasn’t slept in three days. My knees are buckling, but I push through, fighting to climb just two more— My foot slips. There’s a screeching moment of panic where I imag

“She did what?” Doug sputters, laughing. I lounge back on his sofa—way comfier than the one I picked up off the side of the road and tearfully convinced some massive dudes to help me carry upstairs after Nate left—and take another sip of white wine, grinning. “Oh yeah. Four simultaneous photoshoots, all in pandemonium. Total chaos. Emily rerouted half the stylists to the wrong sets. Now that  was a day.” Doug stares at me in wonder from the other side of the couch. “I can’t b