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you can find love for yourselfLove Is All You Need (But It’s Not Easy) “Love is all you need.” —The Beatles I resisted this idea for a long time, not because I disagreed with love, but because I misunderstood it. I confused love with the feeling of love—the rush, the desire, the warmth that can arrive easily and leave just as quickly. The truth isn’t that love is insufficient. The truth is that love is demanding. Love is all you need—but it takes work. Love Is a Daily Practice Love is not difficult because people are hard to love for a season. Love is difficult because it requires a way of living. To live from love means: choosing grace when it would be easier to withdraw, practicing gratitude when it would be easier to complain, making hard but good decisions—advocating for what is right but unpopular, honoring commitments that are good but not fun, setting boundaries with people we love, for their growth or our protection. Love asks something of us every day. The Limits of Familiar Love We often associate love with two relationships: romantic love and parent-to-child love—if we are fortunate. Romantic love includes passion, desire, and longing. These are beautiful parts of love, but they are not its strongest foundations. They fluctuate. They fade. They must mature. Parent-to-child love is often described as unconditional love at its best. And yet, when people are wounded, their capacity to love may not match the depth of love a child is able to receive. Love may exist—but it may be limited by unhealed places. Love is not absent. Capacity is. Love Beyond Relationship Love extends beyond intimacy and family. Love is how we move through the world. Holding a door for a stranger is love. Not being thanked is unreturned love. Why hold that against them? Perhaps their capacity is small. Perhaps your kindness expands it. Love given freely is never wasted—even when it is not acknowledged. Regret, Emotional Debt, and Peace Regret is emotional debt—things left unsaid or undone. When we avoid expressing truth, care, or compassion, we accrue debt that eventually turns into resentment—toward others or toward ourselves. Honest, assertive communication reduces that debt. Sometimes it cancels it completely. This does not mean the receiver is ready or able to receive what we offer. Love, thoughts, emotions—these are ours to give. The giving is the only part we control. Peace comes from knowing: I acted with love. A Question for the End of the Day Did I do all I could today? Did I act within my capacity, with love and kindness? If the answer is yes, peace is possible. Some days our capacity will be small. On those days, love looks like receiving. Gratitude allows us to be filled by others when we are empty. Love Is an Action Word Love is not grand gestures. Love is small and daily. A smile Eye contact A greeting A pause These moments ripple outward. A brief interruption in someone’s spiraling thoughts may ground them. That small kindness may remind them of goodness, of light, of being seen. You may never know the impact—but it matters. The Emotional Climate We Create People can feel tension, anger, sadness, or grief when they enter a room. The same is true of gratitude, joy, and compassion. Positive emotions require intention. They are harder to sustain, perhaps because they require choice. Still, they can be passed on—quietly, steadily—to those open enough to receive them. Why Hate Is Easier Hate is easier because it feeds on fear, shame, guilt, and sadness. Like love, hate is also an action word. When we struggle to offer ourselves compassion—when we fear our own imperfection—we often turn pain outward. Self-compassion is difficult because it requires honesty, humility, and responsibility. When our sense of self feels threatened, we often choose defense over growth. Outward discontent becomes protection from inward reflection. Hate replaces curiosity. Judgment replaces understanding. God Is Love God is love. Perhaps that is why love is difficult—because it is complex, divine, and fundamentally selfless. Love is the only emotion that does not exist to serve itself. Love costs something. And yet, it gives everything. The Good Beet Practice Love is a loop. The more selfless love we give, the more capable we become of recognizing love when it returns—sometimes quietly, sometimes unexpectedly. 🌱 Good Beet Practice: Choose one small act of love without expectation. Notice resistance. Do it anyway. Let peace—not outcome—be the measure. Love is all you need. But it will ask everything you have..

A Good Shunning My family has long practiced the art of shunning—naturally, practically, and with a kind of stubborn elegance. In a cultural diversity class years ago, I explored my Scandinavian roots and found a theory that felt uncomfortably familiar: when winters are long, cold, and dark, families stay inside together for months at a time. In that environment, open conflict may be less adaptive than silence. If you can’t escape each other, you learn to withdraw within the room. You survive by not speaking. I was very good at shunning. I was raised in it. My grandmother once did not speak to her own mother for over a year. When my granny died, my grandmother asked why she hadn’t been told—though she had been. The shunning was simply too complete to be interrupted, even by death. When I was around ten, I watched a year-long shunning unfold between my mother and my grandmother. My grandfather was elderly and ill, in and out of the hospital. My grandmother believed her children were not caring for him adequately. This criticism did not truly apply to my mother—who had given deeply, consistently—but at a family meeting she was still nearly spanked out the door. I was shamed too. My crime was asking my grandfather to help me with a school project. I didn’t know that his help meant my mother would “owe.” I didn’t know love could incur debt. For that, I am still sorry. My mother and I were excellent shunners. She learned it from her mother, and her mother before her. I suspect I may be even better than my mother—though we’ll never know for sure, because my father wouldn’t allow in-home shunning to last longer than a week. When he’d had enough, he’d call us together, make me apologize, and restore peace to the house. Order, returned by force. Silence, broken. I have shunned my husband. It’s effective—though in healthier terms we now call it taking space. I’ve shunned my daughter, who is impressively immune to most consequences. Shunning at least cues her that I am deeply upset; she either reflects or enters her own parallel silence. I’ve shunned my son too—but he is a master shunner. The rule of a good shun is that it must be used rarely. We both know this. We cannot shun each other. It’s too painful. I committed the cardinal sin of shunning: I named it. I told my children that shunning is a skill I possess and use when necessary. Now they recognize a good shun immediately—and it doesn’t last long. A day, maybe. The spell breaks quickly once it’s exposed. If I weren’t such a fan of clear, assertive communication, I might be more upset. So, apologies to the long lineage of shunners before me. You served a purpose, I’m sure. You kept peace when words felt dangerous. You offered protection when repair felt impossible. But I choose something else now. Dialogue. Humility. Responsibility. Forgiveness. So far, it has nourished us better. 🌱Good Beet Reflection: What would it look like to feed this relationship with words instead of withholding them?

I Didn’t Plan a Wedding—So I Planned a Marriage The wedding formalities were never really for me. I didn’t pick the bridesmaids’ dresses or the color palette, and honestly, I would’ve been perfectly happy with an Elvis situation. I’ve said that before and I mean it. But at fifteen years, I decided my husband deserved romance—all the romance. He’s the romantic one, not me. I’m just really good at the gesture. …Shit. Maybe I am the romantic. So I planned a surprise backyard wedding. I invited our family over for a potluck via text message—the same way we invited people the first time, because apparently I’m sentimental like that. Everyone knew what was happening except my husband. Even after I planted trees in the corner of the yard shaped like an altar, he had no idea. Family arrived. Everyone said nothing. They ate, drank, laughed, and kept the secret beautifully. Then I herded everyone into the backyard, climbed onto the firepit, thanked them for coming—and proposed to my husband. I told him if he accepted, he had fifteen minutes to put on his kilt, grab the poem I’d asked him to write for our anniversary, and remarry me. He said yes. My Renewed Vows Point One: Logistics. When we first got married, I was anti–cold medicine. That has changed. I promise to give you cold medicine when you ask. I promise to take care of you when you’re sick—including throwing up—even though you whine, moan, and it makes me a little sick too. I will do my best to nurture your aches and pains. I also promise to try not to laugh at your minor injuries. At least in front of you. I make no such promise for the kids. Point Two: Chores. We once agreed you’d do trash and car stuff, and I’d do laundry. Since then, I’ve taken out plenty of trash and given birth to two beautiful children who quadrupled both trash and laundry. So I propose this: you do laundry too. We do it together forever. If you accept, say “I do,” and we’ll proceed. Now that logistics are out of the way, I’ll say the mooshy stuff in front of these good people. I love you for your humor, resilience, loyalty, and strength. You overcome obstacles and grow from them. I love your directness, your open-mindedness, and that we can speak honestly—even when it’s uncomfortable—and collaborate toward something better. I love you for loving our children, for working hard to provide, and for grilling (especially cheeseburgers). They adore you. We make a great team. I love being the good cop—thank you. I also love being the bad cop—also thank you. It’s fun to switch it up. I love that you accept the parts of me that even I barely understand. I love that we still make out like we did in Hillcrest. Tawny asked me not to say that—apparently it traumatized her. High five. I love your intelligence. I love arguing with you. I love that it’s never boring. I love our shared love of literature, symbolism, and John Steinbeck. I love agreeing with you. I love talking a mess about other people with you. I love sleeping in the car while you drive—unless there’s traffic, because you’re too jerky. I love going out to eat and holding hands across the table when the kids aren’t there. I love it even more when the kids are there because they think it’s gross—and that’s hilarious. I love sitting in silence with you because I can read your mind, and most of the time, I agree. You ground me. You give me strength. I once told you I could live without you—and that’s true—but I don’t want to. I want to sleep next to you while you snore like a bear and fart like one, keeping me warm all winter. You are the Dustin Brown, Kopitar, and Doughty of my LA Kings. I am the Laura to your Petrarch. You are the Patrick to my David. You are the Godzilla to my Mothra. You are the secret ingredient in my spicy ketchup. I want to kiss your face—even when there’s food in your beard. I want to be your heart and your home. I want to support every hope and dream you have. I would happily join you on any adventure. Every day with you already is one. I give you this pinky ring because you can live without a pinky—but you should never want to. The pinky helps you hold on. I hold onto you. You are my grip on this world. It’s a skull because… you know why. Our love is everlasting. We’ve lived here before, and we will again. Death does not part us. I will always find you. I promise to love and care for you on the best days, the worst days, and everything in between. I promise to call you out on your shit and hold you accountable. I promise humility—if I’m wrong, I will stand on a chair, announce it, and apologize. You should clap to positively reinforce this behavior. I promise to keep finding joy in the little things. I promise I’ll still do most of the laundry. I promise you—in this life and the next—that I see you and celebrate all that you are. My plan is that we grow old together, surrounded by the family we have now and the family still to come. You are my best good friend. Namaste. 🌱Good Beet Reflection: Take a breath. Let the story settle. Then, if you’re willing, sit with one or two of these questions—no need to answer them all. 1. Marking the Ordinary What moments in your life have quietly matured without being formally acknowledged? What might it look like to ritualize something you’ve already lived into? Where has growth happened slowly, without applause? 2. The Logistics of Love Love is sustained not only by feeling, but by care, labor, and shared responsibility. What practical agreements hold your closest relationships together right now? Are any of them due for gentle renegotiation? What unromantic acts of love keep your life running? 3. Truth-Telling as Intimacy Where in your relationships do honesty and tenderness coexist? Where might more truth be needed—not to wound, but to deepen connection? What conversations would feel like relief if spoken aloud? 4. Being Known Consider the parts of yourself that are hardest to explain or protect. Who knows those parts of you? Where are you learning to be accepted without being edited? What does it feel like to be fully seen—and still chosen? 5. Joy in the Small Things Notice the ordinary joys you share with others: silence, shared humor, routine gestures. Which of these moments anchor you? Which ones deserve more attention? What small joy are you already standing inside of? 6. Commitment as Practice Rather than a single promise, commitment is something we rehearse daily. What promises are you living out—imperfectly, honestly—right now? Where might you recommit with intention? What does showing up look like today? 7. Finding Each Other Again Love is not static. It asks to be rediscovered. Where in your life are you being invited to find someone again—a partner, a friend, yourself? If love is a return, what are you returning to?

Some years in, two children later—around 2012—our marriage was, at best, neutral. Not broken. Not particularly warm. Just existing, like a field left fallow—not dead, but not producing much either. I am grateful that I was able to stay home with our children, even though it was not truly financially feasible. By the end of each day, I was tired in the deep way that comes from constant presence: waking with them, feeding them, entertaining them, moving their bodies, feeding them again, negotiating the idea of a nap, all the peeing and pooping, more feeding, more presence. The work repeated itself without punctuation. And still, I knew—intellectually, spiritually—that I was doing sacred work. I was shaping minds and nervous systems. We spent our days in art and books, in music and movement, in humor and creativity. I modeled patience when I felt anything but. I practiced calm when I was fraying. I offered them safety through my face, my voice, my steadiness. I wanted them to grow up believing the world was reliable, even if my inner world did not always feel that way. He was tired too. Tired from work, from responsibility, from the long commute he carried like a badge and a burden. I could not see into his day any more than he could see into mine. We lived side by side, each doing necessary work, neither fully able to enter the other’s hours. I sometimes wished we could trade places—just long enough to understand. And still, I would not trade my years with our children for anything. Like many couples, we eventually reached the quiet crisis: the accounting of labor. Who does what. Who does more. Who is more tired. No one ever wins this conversation. He worked long hours. I hoped he might join bath time—both a task and a daily opening for connection. Over time, his days seemed to stretch. He left earlier. He came home later. One evening, tired and restrained, I asked him, “Can I get you anything?” I decided to keep asking. Night after night. Not as submission, exactly—more as an experiment in generosity. Two weeks passed. His underwear still rested beside the laundry basket, close enough to suggest intention, far enough to deny it. He still did not particularly want to bathe the children. But something small had shifted. When he came home, he began to ask me, “Can I get you anything?” And I realized then that I did not need anything at all. I had only wanted to be asked. That question—simple, open—was enough. It was attention. Recognition. A small act of care that said, I see you here. Love, I learned, is often less about grand gestures and more about what we are willing to model before it is returned. Sometimes it must be spoken plainly. Now I can say, “I want attention,” when I do. And I continue, as a practice, to remain in service to love by asking, “Can I get you anything?” I chose a good man. A complicated man, yes—but a good one. And I have chosen, again and again, to do what is good. To offer love through loyalty, compassion, and grace. “Can I get you anything?” Perhaps the only response better would be, “As you wish.” But most days, the asking itself is enough. Note: This is not a sentimental telling of motherhood. That is intentional. Many things can be true at once. In the context of my marriage and my years outside paid work, this account is honest. Motherhood deserves its own reflection—and I will return to it another time. 🌱Good Beet Reflection: When was the last time you felt truly seen—not fixed, not helped, just noticed? What is one small question you wish someone would ask you more often? How might you model the kind of care you are quietly hoping to receive? Optional practice: For one week, ask one person in your life—partner, child, friend, or yourself: “Can I get you anything?” Notice what shifts.

I Married Young I used to say, “That story is for a different time.” But that time is now. When people ask me the secret to being married for so long—nineteen years—I usually hesitate. There isn’t a tidy answer. The truth is, I have renewed, repaired, and saved my marriage more than once. But my saving grace has always been service, distilled into a single phrase: “Can I get you anything?” I was twenty-one years old. So was my soon-to-be husband. I had a positive pregnancy test, confirmed by the doctor’s office. I told him. We were scared. We told my mother. Then his mother. I was terrified to tell my father. Before that moment, I had turned myself inside out trying to figure out how I would finish college, how we would support a baby financially, whether I should get an abortion. I remember hoping someone else would make the choice for me. Do you want this? Should I do this? In the end, I could not abort my baby. I think I knew that from the beginning. What I was really searching for was reassurance—that I could keep this unplanned life without being condemned for it. My future husband told me he would support whatever decision I made. My mother shared her own abortion story. The decision to keep my baby was the loneliest—and the best—decision I’ve ever made. After all the telling, I remember a quiet day riding in my father’s truck. We were driving to Turner’s Outdoorsman in Riverside, California. He asked me one question: “Will he be a good father?” I said, “Yes, I think he will.” I knew that the man I loved loved me completely. And despite growing up without much stability himself, I believed he would love me—and our children—unconditionally. Around that time, he applied for a job with the police department where he worked while attending university. He became a parking officer, a role that eventually opened the door to leadership positions later on. We went to Old Navy and opened a credit card to buy maternity clothes. I didn’t need them yet, but I was already excited—ready or not—to bring new life into the world. That credit card was later used fraudulently by someone across the country. Whoever you are, I forgive you. My parents were adamant that we should marry. Earlier that same year, after a significant breakup, I remember saying, “I don’t know if I ever want to get married,” and “Having a kid doesn’t mean I have to get married.” But when my father learned about the pregnancy, his first concern was when we would wed. I couldn’t bear the weight of his disappointment. Then, sometime in May, I started spotting. I went to the ER and stayed all night. They could tell something was wrong but wouldn’t say what. I dropped a class because I had a midterm the next day. Two days later, at my regular appointment, the nurse said the words I will never forget: “It’s not viable.” There was no heartbeat. My baby—nine weeks old, the size of a grape—was dead inside my body. I remember a cold, decisive moment where I thought, I need to get it out. I felt responsible. As if my fear, uncertainty, and shame had killed him. A D&C was scheduled. There were already plans to go wedding dress shopping. After the procedure, my fiancé drove me two hours to my parents’ home. When I arrived, my sisters were sitting around the dinner table. They hadn’t been told about the pregnancy but had suspected—and were excited about becoming aunties. I couldn’t look at them. Eyes fixated on the computer in front of me, I simply stated, “There was a baby. It was not viable.” I remember silence. Sadness. No words. The next day, I got up and went wedding dress shopping. Days earlier, when my parents knew the pregnancy wasn’t viable, they told me, “You don’t have to get married.” But after making the loneliest decision of my life, I chose to honor my commitment—to the man who was willing to devote his life to me. He had set aside the final years of his college education, applied for a full-time job without hesitation, and committed himself to being a husband, protector, and provider. He loved me without reservation. The hospital had given me pain medication. I took it while dress shopping—not because my body hurt, but because my heart did. I was high when I picked my wedding dress. Still, it was a good dress. We were married at a chapel in Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas on June 16, 2006. It wasn’t a stereotypical Vegas wedding—no Elvis. Though I would have looked great in an Elvis wedding. My husband, however, is not a big Elvis fan. Now, nineteen years later, we have two teenage children, five dogs, and an ever-changing number of chickens and ducks. We are still growing, still changing, still choosing each other. We’ve known despair. We’ve come close to breaking. But we are still here. If there was ever an arranged marriage, this one was made by God. He knew our hearts—our loves, our struggles, our future joys, and the ways we would challenge one another to grow. He knew the children we would bring into the world and the work it would take to stay together. And maybe that’s the story for next time. But the way I’ve saved this union—when we reached points of no return—has always been the same. I asked, “Can I get you anything?” 🌱 Good Beet Reflections: 1. On Choice What decision in your life felt deeply lonely and deeply right? Where were you looking for permission instead of listening inward? What did that choice teach you about your values? 2. On Grief What loss in your life passed quietly, without ceremony or language? How does your body remember that season? What would it sound like to name that grief gently now? 3. On Commitment Who has shown up for you without guarantees? What commitments have you kept—even when circumstances changed? What did staying cost you? What did it give you? 4. On Service When have you been most loved through small, practical care? What does “service” look like in your closest relationships right now? Where might service soften something that argument or explanation has not?

Leaving the Room Growing up, I knew I had quirks. Numbers mattered—on my alarm clock, on the stereo volume. I ate two of the same snack at a time so they wouldn’t be lonely in my stomach. I told the truth compulsively so I wouldn’t go to hell. I performed small religious rituals at night to keep myself from dying in my sleep—and to keep my family safe. Before karate tournaments, I had a very specific routine: a hearty breakfast of Coca-Cola and beef jerky, thong underwear (because it was going up my butt anyway when I kicked you in the head), and absolute certainty that everything was just right. I packed for every possible weather event, despite living in California. I lifted my feet over railroad tracks, even when it nearly cost me my driving test. I forced myself into phone-heavy jobs as a teenager, pure exposure therapy before I knew the term. I drew matching patterns on each finger and across my palms—over and over—so they would feel congruent. As a child, I remember worrying my hands might get bored. Those are just the ones I remember clearly. Later came more: handwashing rituals that had to be redone if I thought about dirtiness. Increased symmetry. Watching my children walk fully through the school gate before driving away—ensuring their safety (what I want to write is so they wouldn’t die, but typing that feels like an exposure in itself, and I hate that I typed it… but undoing it would undermine where I am today). To this day, I say “drive safe” to my husband when he leaves. I say “I love you” when leaving a room—something I created and now do without thinking. I check the door, lock it, and make a special memory of locking it. I shrug away intrusive thoughts. I touch the blade of a knife to be sure I won’t cut off my fingers. I tap my forehead near cabinet corners so I won’t bash my head. I write, read, reread, and reread emails and texts—sometimes for forty minutes or more—to ensure every word is exact. I plan exits everywhere I go. And eventually, I could no longer drive over bridges. That was my last straw. In 2018, I lost the ability to drive over bridges. I had always hated them, but I could do it—white-knuckled, rigid grip, breath held. Until suddenly, I couldn’t. My grandmother couldn’t drive on highways. She could barely ride as a passenger. When I was about eight, my sister was six, and my grandfather was driving us up a mountain highway to visit his sisters. My grandmother sat in the passenger seat wailing—crying, yelling, pulling at his shirt—as if pleading with him not to send us tumbling to our deaths off the mountain road. I remember sheer terror. The edge felt close. The drop felt real. But my little sister was sitting beside me, looking at me. I don’t know what she remembers from that moment. We’ve never talked about it. But I remember calm coming over me as I reassured her that we were fine. She buried her head into my side, and suddenly, she was all that mattered. She became my focal point. I loved my grandmother deeply. She taught me to write by making dotted letters for me to trace. The first word I learned—before my own name—was poop. P-O-O-P. I wrote it everywhere. On mail. On newspapers. I followed her into the bathroom just so I could keep writing it, because I thought it was hilarious. She listened to me for hours. Truly listened. I don’t even know what I talked about—but she responded as if I were the most important person in the room. When we traveled to Sweden when I was eight, she spoiled me endlessly. She championed me. Encouraged my questions. Made space for my voice. I loved her with my whole heart. I learned to say “Mormor bajs gås”—which translates to Grandmother Poop Goose. This made perfect sense to me, and it delighted us both. In her later years, my grandmother’s world grew very small. She mostly stayed in her kitchen when I was young. Then only upstairs. Then only her bedroom. I married in June 2006, and aside from Christmas that year, it was the last event she attended—with my encouragement. She lived with undiagnosed PTSD, agoraphobia, and likely OCD. She died in September 2008. Her last words to me came through instant message. I sent her my ultrasound—my daughter—and she replied, “That’s our girl.” I was diagnosed with OCD in 2018. Fear still lives in my mind most days. Some compulsions remain—ones I can live with. And strangely, I am fortunate to say that many of my obsessive thoughts and behaviors have served me, perhaps because I was constantly doing my own exposures long before I had language for them. But when I think of my grandmother—of my love for her, and the hope I carried that she would come out of that room—I know one thing with certainty: I can never stay in the room. I live my life with the intention of leaving it. If I am afraid of something, that is the thing I will move toward. Not recklessly. Not without compassion. But deliberately. At the end of my life, I hope I can look back and see a life well lived—not because I was fearless, but because I was courageous. Even when the courage was small. Bravery is not the absence of fear. It is the presence of fear—and the decision to keep going anyway. Sometimes bravery looks like waking up and facing the day. And on those days, I say: It’s enough. Mormor bajs gås, I love you. I miss you every day. Thank you for loving me, believing in me, and teaching me—without ever saying it—that the room is not where life happens. Let it be simple. Let it be kind. Let it leave the room. 🌱 Good Beet Reflection: Leaving the Room Take a breath before you begin. This is not a problem to solve—only a truth to notice. Where in your life does “the room” exist right now? (A habit, a fear, a pattern, a story, a silence.) What has the room protected you from—real or imagined? What has it quietly taken from you? Notice one fear you have learned to live around instead of through. What would it look like to move toward it by one small, human step? What is something you already do—daily, instinctively—that is actually courage in disguise? If bravery today were allowed to be enough (not impressive, not heroic), what would it look like in your body, your schedule, or your choices?