Ari and I were enjoying a slow breakfast this morning because of the delayed opening caused by the arctic chill. He knew that today was publication day for my book, Make the School System Work for Your Child with Disabilities: Empowering Kids for the Future.
“Are we having cake to celebrate tonight?” Ari asked.
“Did Daddy order a cake?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“Probably not,” I said.
“You could go to Giant and get yourself a cake,” Ari offered.
“#1, I’m not ordering my own cake. #2, if I were ordering my own cake, I’d have to get it from a place that makes gluten-free cakes,” I replied.
“Then Daddy should order the cake,” Ari said.
“Go ahead and call him,” I suggested. “After all, our lives got messy the day after I started working on the book.”
“What do you mean?” Ari asked.
“Well, the day after I had my first editorial meeting, Papa fell and went to the hospital, I began feeling sick and later tested positive for Covid, and Daddy found out his triceps tendon was torn and he needed to have surgery within the week.”
“Oh yeah! I remember that,” Ari replied. “When was that again?”
“September 7, 2023. A lot happened in the almost two and a half years since that day.”
Since 2008, I’ve chosen a single word each year to focus on. Here are some of the words I’ve picked in the past: balance, gratitude, laughter, joy, onward, present, promise, reset, restore, rhythm, vitality, wellness, wonder, yet.
In 2025, my word was l’chaim, which means to life. Every medical choice I made was about living more fully and being there for my family. At the end of the year, Marc and I finally took the kids on a vacation we’d planned for a long time. As I rode a snow tube down a steep hill, I truly felt alive again.
2025 was a challenging year. Being a cancer patient can feel like going through life without skin. Every feeling and sensation is raw and painful. The months after chemo, when I started survivorship, were just as hard as treatment, but in different ways. During chemo, the fight was physical and obvious, with a clear enemy. As a survivor, the struggles became quieter and more personal: regaining strength, dealing with side effects, facing the fear of cancer coming back, and figuring out how to move forward when others expect you to be “better.” It’s a different kind of hard. Now, it’s less about getting through treatment and more about rebuilding a life changed by it.
I created this keychain during a positive affirmation keychain-making session our family attended on New Year’s Day.
On page 75, Dr. Nerurkar writes, “To cure our stress for the long term, we have to learn how to work with our biology. That’s when a new and different kind of happiness comes in. It’s called eudaimonic happiness, and it’s the gateway for curing our unhealthy stress for good.” On the following page, she posits, “Eudaimonic happiness isn’t centered on pleasure and joy, like hedonic happiness is—it’s centered on meaning and purpose.” On page 78, Dr. Nerurkar states, “Hedonic experiences have a legitimate and valuable role as temporary circuit breakers for your stress. Distraction is a viable coping strategy for stress after a hard day’s work, and hedonic experiences are wonderful distractions when needed. You just can’t rely only on them for sustainable happiness over time.”
[Eudaimonia] has nothing to do with chance and fortune and everything to do with thought and design. Compared to happiness, it is a much deeper, fuller, and richer concept, sometimes articulated in terms of flourishing or living a life that is worthwhile, fulfilling, and elevating.
I hadn’t heard of eudaimonic happiness before reading The 5 Resets. As I learned more, I found it is a form of well-being rooted in meaning, purpose, and personal growth, not just feeling good in the moment. It is about feeling fulfilled when your life aligns with your core values and strengths, and when you contribute to something bigger than yourself. Unlike hedonic happiness, which focuses on comfort and enjoyment, eudaimonic happiness emphasizes human flourishing, living with virtue, being purpose-driven, and working toward meaningful goals. Eudaimonic happiness tends to last longer and feels more stable over time.
Survivorship isn’t the end of the story, but the beginning of a new chapter. I carry both the pain and the lessons forward. As I navigate this year, I will let eudaimonic be my compass, reminding me that true healing is about flourishing and finding purpose, not just surviving.
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I felt the blood drain from my face when I learned there was an active shooter at Brown University on Saturday night. I lived in Providence for two years while Marc was doing his fellowship and an MPH at Brown. All mass shootings are tragic, but when you know the place where it happened, it breaks your heart in a new way.
I awoke on Sunday morning to many breaking news alerts telling me about the mass shooting at Bondi Beach in Australia. Then I learned that it was at a Chanukah celebration on the beach. My heart seized as I thought of the people who were dead, injured, and traumatized when they just wanted to usher in this beautiful holiday of resilience in a gorgeous place. All mass shootings are tragic, but when yet another Jewish holiday is marred by antisemitic violence, it is a pain shared by Jews everywhere.
I doomscrolled between making desserts for our first night of Chanukah celebration with some family friends. I saw a man, Ahmed al Ahmed, charged at and disarmed one of the shooters. Ahmed ran towards the trouble rather than away from it, and for that, he is a hero. He has multiple bullet wounds, is in pain, and might lose his arm. All mass shootings are tragic, but when a person’s instinct is to protect others rather than preserve themselves, it leaves you humbled.
In times like these, when there’s so much pain in the world, I’m reminded of a quote from Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, who served as Chief Rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations of the Commonwealth for over two decades.
There always were two ways to live in a world that is often dark and full of tears. We can curse the darkness or we can light a light, and as the Chassidim say, a little light drives out much darkness. May we all help light up the world.
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I didn’t grow up in a home that decorated for Chanukah. In fact, until two years ago, we never decorated our house for Chanukah. But then, October 7th happened, and we wanted to bring more light into our home, so we bought Chanukah decorations.
We bought plush versions of sufganiyot (jelly doughnuts) and latkes (potato pancakes) with sour cream and apple sauce.
We bought paper decorations to hang in doorways.
We also bought lights with menorahs and dreidels on them.
Ari asked to decorate when he got home from school. I agreed to do it since Chanukah begins this Sunday night. His best friend’s family is coming over to celebrate with us on the first night, so I guess he wanted to ensure everything was ready.
Unfortunately, the lights were badly tangled! It was too big a job for him to handle alone, so I helped.
Tangled Lights
We put on the Maccabeats Chanukah album and wondered if I’d get it untangled before it was over. Luckily, I got it untangled by the third song!
Then, we spent a lot of time setting up the lights between the spindles on our staircase. It took longer to get it right than to untangle the lights.
Once everything was set up, I turned the switch to the ON position. NOTHING happened!
“I thought I saw you put on the lights before we started,” I said to Ari.
“No, I didn’t put them on,” he replied.
“Are you sure? I thought I saw light,” I insisted.
“No, I never tested it,” Ari said.
We changed batteries THREE times. Sadly, the lights didn’t miraculously turn on. In fact, there wasn’t even a flicker.
It’s kind of ridiculous to leave this up since it doesn’t light up, right?
So now I’m in a quandary. Do I buy blue-and-white lights, or just let it go? I feel like it isn’t worth it, but Ari will be joining me after he brushes his teeth to see if we can get new lights.
Stay tuned…
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Today was bonkers: both kids were home sick, and one needed a trip to the ER. But this isn’t about that—because when I got out of the shower, I found something interesting on my night table.
Ari clearly took my advice: “If you want a Chanukah present, write it down on a list.” Here’s what I found on my night table.
Practical? Sure!
But look closely at the second item. He wants an air fryer! He’s eyed them with me at Williams Sonoma, Crate & Barrel, and Sur la Table. I’ve always said, “I don’t have room for another kitchen appliance,” and he seemed satisfied—until he put it in writing.
My third grader wants an air fryer for Chanukah!
Bwahahahahaha!
So… is this a gift for both of us?
Please share the brand and model if you love your air fryer. Bonus points if you leave me recipes because I think I’m really going to buy my third grader an air fryer for Chanukah!
When I was a kid, I pretended to read a lot of Beverly Cleary books, but I don’t think I ever finished one. Looking back, I realize that was a real shame. My mother-in-law, who worked as a literacy coach and taught first and third grade, introduced Isabelle to Cleary’s books by giving her Muggie Maggie. Isabelle loved it and soon enjoyed the Henry and Ramona series. After she read The Mouse and the Motorcycle aloud to me, she was able to read the rest on her own, so I missed out on hearing the Henry and Ramona books.
During the summer, Ari wanted to find some books to read on his own, so he let Isabelle help him pick some out. She suggested Henry Huggins, but said it was probably too easy for him because I had told her about Ari’s reading levels. Ari was interested in the book, but he managed to talk me into reading it aloud to him instead.
Ari loves dogs, cities, and anything to do with buses or trains, so he was hooked right away when Henry tried to sneak Ribsy onto the city bus in the first chapter of Henry Huggins. After we finished that book, I suggested Ari read Henry and Beezus aloud to me, but he refused. He said he wanted me to read all the Henry books to him.
That started in October. Now it’s late November, and we’re reading Henry and the Clubhouse, which is the fifth out of six Henry books.
On Friday night, Ari left the book on my nightstand and said, “I’ll call you from Papa’s house so you can read it to me.”
“Are you sure you’ll want me to read to you while you’re at Papa’s?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll call you on the phone.”
I didn’t think he would actually call, but at 9:35 PM last night, my phone rang. As soon as we started talking, Ari asked, “Can you FaceTime with me?”
He probably wanted to see the pictures. I said, “Let me find something to prop up the phone.”
I set up a quick arrangement in bed and let him start the FaceTime call. I told him, “Just don’t play with any of the talking bitmojis, okay?”
As soon as I turned myself into a giraffe, Ari morphed into a chicken.
“Okay,” he promised.
While I was reading, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a robot was staring back at me. Then it was a shark, then an octopus. I mostly ignored it until, at the end of the chapter, I secretly turned myself into a giraffe.
Ari has visited my father-in-law out of town before, but he’s never asked me to read to him while he’s away. That night, with the book propped up between us and our laughter echoing through the screen, I realized how these stories create a thread between generations—one that distance can’t break. Beverly Cleary’s books aren’t just stories; they’re a way to stay connected, no matter where we are.
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Breast stroke, freestyle laps against the afternoon, I catch the sun slipping down, westward, through glass.
Clouds cradle its descent, painting the sky. Purple, pink, blue, and peach all swirl in gentle collision.
I pause my laps when the sun bursts free at last, a fleeting blaze before dusk.
Only three laps left, and I push, racing sunbeams, turning my head for stolen glances.
Finished, I leave my lane and begin walking sideways, face turned to the westward windows, colors glorious, and me alone.
I scan for others, with eyes hungry for shared wonder:
Kids in lessons, their small splashes oblivious. Teen boys locked in a pull-up rivalry, grunting for strength. Three swimmers submerged in their own rhythm. A man FaceTiming with a friend in the deep end. And newcomers leaving the cold plunge pool, shivering.
But no one sees the sky on fire, no one looks up. The sunset unfurls in secret, known only to me.
Was I expecting an audience? Perhaps sunsets are for the few who notice. A slice of life. Beauty. Missed by many, found by one, slipping quietly into memory.
NOTE: This is not what I planned to write about today. However, I started composing lines in my head while swimming laps. Original plans be gone. I couldn’t bear to keep the vision of that sunset to myself.
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The aroma of cooked quinoa and earthy beans fills the kitchen, drifting toward my skeptical family at the dinner table. I’ve tried to bring everyone on board with the Mediterranean diet, but so far, it’s been a solo mission. Lunch is easy for me: plant-based protein, fiber-rich carbs, no complaints. But dinner? My family doesn’t want quinoa and beans. That changes this week.
Last week, I saw a wellness doctor, who is someone who bridges cancer care and wellness recovery. After discussing the six wellness pillars, I began to contemplate a guiding question: Can one week shift our family’s habits? To test this, I chose to focus on nutrition and sleep in the next month. Since a Mediterranean diet has anti-inflammatory properties, which can help with joint pain, it felt like something to try THIS WEEK. While I’ve got breakfast, lunch, and my snacks under control, I know dinner would be a minefield. I contend with a couple of picky palettes regularly, one of whom does not like fish (unless it’s canned tuna fish with mayonnaise).
I told my doctor, “I refuse to make two dinners.”
She acknowledged that that wasn’t feasible and suggested some alternatives. She said, “Involve both of your kids in meal planning.”
“My son likes to cook, but my daughter won’t do more than make her lunch for school,” I replied.
“She doesn’t have to cook with you; she just needs to prepare the week’s menu with you.”
Meal planning with Isabelle never stuck, but this time I got serious. I gathered the family for a casual Saturday dinner and spread out my cooking binders in our booth.
“My doctor wants me to try the Mediterranean diet this week, but I need your help. We’ll do two nights of fish, two plant-based, and three with turkey or chicken. Pick the recipes,” I said.
“Cod cakes!” Ari shouted.
“Too much mayo, Ari, but we can have cod.”
Isabelle, seeing pasta was off the table, sulked. She found nothing in the vegetarian binder. When I handed her the fish binder, she groaned, “I hate fish!”
“Just for a week,” I said. “You can do anything for a week, right?”
She smirked but agreed.
By the end of dinner, we had a plan through Friday.
Tonight’s dinner was the Nourish Bowl! While I prepped 95% of it myself, Ari was an enthusiastic participant and determined to transform our standard dinner setup. “It shouldn’t look like a salad bar,” he insisted, watching me line up the ingredients. “It should be a buffet.” He took charge, rearranging the bowls and platters until each ingredient was artfully displayed, making sure there was enough space for everyone to circle around and help themselves. I wrote out the categories for the nourish bowls as steps, and Ari set them up, adding his own touches as a proud host. The vibrant colors of sweet potato, spinach, and citrus fruits in the bowls made his presentation feel like a celebration. Just a moment after shooting this video, he beamed and declared, “Dinner! Come to the buffet!”
Rather than making themed nourish bowls for everyone, there were abundant choices. Here’s what each of us made.
My bowl from my one & only trip to the “buffet.”Marc’s first trip to the “buffet.” Second trip isn’t pictured.Ari was very brown-rice forward on his first trip.I think I see some avocado, cucumbers, and beans in there. (This is from Ari’s second trip to “the buffet.”)Isabelle’s first trip included what I think of as rabbit food.When pushed, Isabelle’s second buffet trip included some hummus and black beans.
Marc and Ari were both full thanks to multiple trips to the buffet. Marc was stunned, since he isn’t a big plant-based dinner kind of guy. Isabelle managed to find her favorites, though we had to push her to eat more protein. In the end, Ari asked to do this again, and Marc said, “Maybe again in two or three weeks.”
This journey taught me that taking small steps in the kitchen can ignite larger changes in our lives. Perhaps a single week of openness and flexibility might lead to moments of understanding and a willingness to step out of the comfort zone.
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On a busy Thursday afternoon, Ari and I made a quick pit stop at the Masonic Village Farm Market, a detour that promised fresh finds but delivered a small surprise. I eagerly grabbed a half-bushel of Cosmic Crisp apples, a favorite of Marc’s and mine, while Ari requested a peck of his beloved Golden Delicious. In our rush, I scooped them up without a glance; a decision I’d soon regret. That evening, when Marc went to core an apple for Ari, he spotted bruises on more than a few of them. “I guess I’ll just turn these into applesauce,” I said, embracing a minor setback that would open the door to something delicious.
Over the weekend, I bought plums because I wanted to make roasted plum applesauce, which was a recipe from Tyler Florence’s Start Fresh cookbook, which was like my bible when Isabelle was a baby. Ever since, that recipe has been a hit with our entire family (even grandparents).
Yesterday and today were busy, so I forgot about the applesauce. But then, when I poked my head into the fridge to grab something this afternoon, I saw the plums.
“Ari, do you want to make the roasted plum applesauce with me?”
True to form, he immediately said yes. Fortunately, he was willing to tackle the thankless task of using a melon baller to scoop out the plum pits and apple seeds after I sliced each fruit in half. He did an excellent job, which freed me up to remove every trace of the apple cores carefully.
He disappeared upstairs to take a shower while the apples roasted. He didn’t return until after I put everything into the food processor. I didn’t mind flying solo. Even though I was doubling the recipe, I could almost make it in my sleep, as I had done it so often when my children were babies.
After dinner, the whole family gathered around for a sweet ending—a bowl of the roasted plum applesauce. Although my kids are no longer babies, their enthusiasm for this simple treat remains unchanged; a delicious reminder that some childhood favorites stay with us through every stage of life.
Ari did a great job preparing the apples and the plums.I added 4 T of maple syrup, 1/2 t of cinnamon, and a dash of nutmeg after the apples came out of the oven.Post-roast!Ready to be pureed.The finished productHead over to Two Writing Teachers for more slice of life stories.
Five college students materialized out of the quiet morning, ensconced in banana suits. I blinked. Apparently, Halloween starts early in State College.
After a late breakfast, we began noticing more of them: clusters of bananas strolling down College Avenue, laughing, using their phones to text and to take selfies. Dozens. More like hundreds.
There was no way they were all celebrating Halloween a week early. I scanned for race bibs. Nothing. No numbers, no finish line.
A few blocks later, the mystery solved itself. A crowd of bananas was queuing outside a bar. Marc said what I was thinking: “It must be a pub crawl.”
“Before noon?!” I blurted. (Nowadays, I’m in bed by 8 PM, so my fun barometer’s off.)
Naturally, I suggested we take a family selfie with some of the costumed crawlers in the background.
Ari, ever curious, asked, “What’s a pub crawl?”
Before I could answer, Isabelle cut in with the fundamental question: “Why are they all dressed like bananas?”
I could’ve spent a while speculating on that while I decided how to explain bar crawls to a kid. Eventually, we did both—why they do it and how they work. (I did an online search to get the full scoop.)
All day, wherever we went, bananas appeared. On sidewalks, in stores, crossing intersections in small herds. Even that night at the Penn State men’s hockey game, six bananas stood cheering at the top of the student section.
My first thought: they’d sobered up and come for the game.
My second: they were die-hard fans.
My final thought: maybe both. Commitment takes many forms.
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Raising Literate Humans 
