Jillosophy

When I was a kid, the nightmare I had over and over again always began the same way: I’m eating a bowl of Cheerios at the Formica-topped table in my mother’s kitchen. Her pretty, white ruffled curtains, encouraged by a gentle breeze, float in and out of open windows. A loud bang, like an unexpected gunshot, jolts the spoon out of my hand, the milk sloshing from my bowl and spilling across the table. The noise is coming from the closed door leading to our basement, and it grows louder with each rhythmic thud, the thumping in my chest doing

I was fresh out of college when I first read the book, The Handmaid’s Tale, which is now also a TV series. It depicts the US as a police state ruled by Christian fundamentalists who oppress women while surveilling and regulating the lives of its citizens. When I read it, I was struggling to reconcile my Catholic upbringing with my staunch feminist beliefs. My Catholic feminist mom was struggling with the same. Given that the church we both attended back then was widely regarded as the most liberal in Milwaukee, we were in good company among plenty of Catholics who

Just about every woman I know has told me the same thing: “I’m so tired.” Women who are young mothers. Women who are retired. And women in between each of those stages of life, all saying and feeling the same thing: “I am so, so tired.” I feel the same. And this sentiment is not going unnoticed. Books, articles and podcasts offer similar antidotes to wake us from our communal slumber: Take more bubble baths and naps. Schedule more massages. Demand that your husband/partner/co-worker/boss do more, and/or expect less. In one article offering 50 Ways to Better Self-Care, I found