My Updates

Brain-Picking Becky #15: The Best, the Worst, Here.

Do You Ever Think.jpg

I’ve always held myself to impossibly high standards, standards that I don’t expect from other people. In fact, if someone else makes a mistake, I’m often the first to empathize and offer my support. But when it comes to me, well, I’m supposed to be perfect. Don’t my family, my friends, my students, the world, deserve the best from me?

In the first few months after my mom left her body, when I was so consumed by grief that everything else ceased to matter, I had a major revelation that “the best” doesn’t exist, that it’s just a construct we’ve created that keeps us disconnected from our present reality. During this period of intense grief, I would sometimes think the best choice was to go out with my friends, but then the moment I arrived at the bar, it felt all wrong. Other times it seemed best to stay at home and read, but then I’d cry and feel lonely and wish I’d gone out. Then there were times when whatever I’d chosen, whether it had felt right or wrong in the moment of choosing it, was exactly what I’d needed.

Because “the best” had become so nebulous and easily changeable in my mind, it started to seem not only unreal but also silly. Besides, the grief I was constantly grappling with overpowered everything else and made the process of analyzing if I should have gone out or stayed home feel unimportant, a waste of time.

Humans, or Americans at least, seem to despise discomfort. Even a little bit of it. We’re constantly complaining about how cold or hot the air is, how hungry or full our bellies are. We can’t seem to find that perfect situation. But instead of seeing that it doesn’t exist, we get lost in searching for it and then feel angry or sad that we continually can’t find it.

Now, four and a half years after my mother’s passing, I feel stronger, tougher, and wiser, but I’ve also fallen back into old habits of expecting “the best” then feeling guilty when I don’t achieve it. In a weird way, I miss those few months right after she died. I don’t miss the pain, but I miss the clarity it gave me, how it temporarily freed me from these constructs that I – we – have created.

But I don’t need all-encompassing grief in order to free myself again from these thought patterns. All I have to do is breathe.


Amazing comic by Gemma Correll.

Living / Screaming / Trying

Love wins, we say, and I believe it. But hate is powerful, too.

When my anger over the sexism I’ve simply swallowed in the past week, past month, past year, past lifetime, bubbles up and makes me want to scream, I look at pictures of my dogs until it passes. Often, animals exhibit more humanity than we humans do.

But now I’m thinking I should be screaming more often.


I am raising a son. My God, I have a son. There are so many things he must know and do. There is so much work ahead of us.

I wish it were a better world.

Is it enough that I am trying?

This Fine Life

“She started shakin’ to that fine fine music,” I sing along to the record as Lew and I dance hand-in-hand around our living room. He’s smiling brilliantly, hopping back and forth on his tiny toddler feet, throwing our arms up and down in an arrhythmic expression of joy. I’ve always loved to dance but never before motherhood did I just burst forth like this.

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His ecstasy is contagious and in spite of all the freedom motherhood took away, being a mother has also freed me. We lose ourselves and I feel so full of love, love for this song and this kid and this life, and I don’t understand how my breastbone and thin skin manage to hold
the hugeness of my heart.

Spreading Love

May we all live in this world happily, peacefully, joyfully, and with ease. This is what I dream for, and this is why I resist. Happy birthday and thank you, Martin Luther King Jr!

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Our Proud Flesh


To my fellow social justice warriors,

Yes, this tax scam sucks. Yes, this entire past year has felt terrible. And yes, I am tired. But let us not get lost in our anger, sorrow, and exhaustion. Instead, let us be proud of our work. Let us be impressed by how quickly We the Resistance came together. Let us be motivated by how much we have accomplished. And let us be ready for what’s next. This particular bill will go to the House and we will make more calls, send more emails, march down more streets. New bills, transgressions, and violations will arise, and we will come together and fight those, too. Times are dark and will likely grow darker, but we have our voices, our bodies, and our allies across the world. We, you and me, regular people who may have never even thought of ourselves as activists just one year ago, WE are ushering in a cultural and political change in which equality, respect, and love are at the forefront. This is bigger than us, it’s bigger than Trump, the Republicans, the Democrats, even bigger than the rampant corporate greed currently ruling our country.

Let them attack us. Through actions like passing this tax bill, they’re revealing their true motives and intentions which will only send more people to our cause. And together we will heal, we will organize, we will be stronger than before, and we will prevail.

I leave you with a poem that reminds me of two things we resisters must hold onto as we move forward: our toughness and our love. Be proud, comrades, and resist.

In solidarity,
Becky Fine-Firesheets

For What Binds Us

By Jane Hirshfield

There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they’ve been set down—
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There’s a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

as all flesh,
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest—

And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.

Photo Credits (Creative Commons): 1. Resistance by Baysal and 2. Resistance by Ivan Tasic

The Well Project

Stop scrolling through Instagram or Twitter or whatever else it is you’re doing right now and look up The Well Project instead. This amazing organization works tirelessly on a very important mission: “to change the course of the HIV/AIDS pandemic through a unique and comprehensive focus on women and girls.” They’ve helped a tremendous amount of people to seek treatment, connect with a supportive community, and become activists to end the stigma and educate others about the realities and possibilities of living with HIV/AIDS. They do this in many ways, through conferences, grassroots activism, and even story-telling via their Girl Like Me blog (we can all get behind the power of story-telling, am I right?). In a time where women and health in general are under attack, The Well Project is spreading positivity and hope, something we all need a little more of, and they currently need our financial support so that they can continue changing lives. I can personally vet for this organization, and I urge you to please donate, even if it’s just $5 or $10; everything helps.

Thank you, and for more information, please see the below email from Executive Director Krista Martel.


Dear friends and family,

It is that time of year, and I’m writing to let you know that we have recently launched The Well Project’s annual fundraising drive, #Give4Hope! During these tumultuous times, we’ve continued to focus on the power of hope, and the change that it can often lead to. Data show that 76 percent of women living with HIV who participated in a recent survey felt more hopeful about their future after using The Well Project’s resources. That is a remarkable and important statistic, as hope can mean a healthier outlook on living with HIV and better engagement in care and self care. Because we’re witnessing such positive changes in many of the women who use our resources, we are even more determined than ever to reach more women who could use them. 

Just in the past six months alone, we’ve added several new bloggers including a skater/surfer mom of 3 in California who was diagnosed last year, a woman from Kenya who was diagnosed while pregnant, and a school teacher from North Carolina–none of whom ever thought HIV could affect them. I invite you to read some of their stories here: The positive side is that by sharing their stories, they help others know that they are not alone, as well as ensure that people realize that HIV does not discriminate, and can happen to anyone.

If you are able, please consider making a tax-deductible donation today to ensure The Well Project can continue to provide hope to our wide-reaching community, as well as to extend our reach to even more people who may need it. Please click here:

Thank you in advance!

Much love,

Human Waves

On this fourth anniversary of my mother’s death, I am struck by how often I find her in my day-to-day, by how alive she still is in so many ways. Yet I am also struck by how badly I wish she could have met my son. He has met her, through photographs, recipes, lullabies, records, but she never got to see his face, much less hold his precious little body, and this is the one big thing I still grieve.

But when we lose someone we love, there will always be that one big thing. As I meditate by this glorious ocean, two waves crash into one another directly in front of me, their waters flowing through each other until it’s impossible to tell where either one begins or ends. Seconds later they reverse direction and glide away, disappearing into the vastness of the great water behind them. I think of how my mom and my son are like two waves splashing together inside of me, their waters flowing through each other through me, how really all of us are like waves in the same great glorious human ocean, crashing and gliding and flowing through one another.