Kale Is in Season, but I Am Not

Notes on rest, gratitude, and starting over at 33, written from a porch in North Carolina, where for the first time I don’t know what comes next.

May 26, 2026

It’s hot in North Carolina, which means it’s hot in the kitchen. My playlist is blasting, rotating between MGMT, Hall & Oates, Donna Summer—so much Donna Summer—Michael Jackson, a sprinkle of Beyonce, a bit of Bee Gees, and anything else electric and funky. I’m wiping sweat off my brow with the back of my hand before I dump the chicken into a bowl of cool water and vinegar. I pat it dry after getting the gunk off, then put it bottom-up in a lightly oiled, well-seasoned cast iron pan that belonged to my friend’s late grandmother. Once I wash my hands of the hazmat shit (salmonella), I season it up with salt, pepper, and red pepper, on both sides, before pouring over a freshly mixed honey mustard garlic sauce. Fatty side down, I pop the pan into the oven—400 for 25 minutes. I spray the sink with Lysol and have a seat at a small wooden table to prep the sides.

Kale is in season right now, and its herbaceous, spicy, green scent persisted through a washing, a chopping, a massaging with salt to soften it up, the addition of fresh carrots and cucumber, a homemade lemon vinaigrette, and a crack of pepper. When it got close to our noses during dinner, the faint hint of earth drifted in and left behind a gentle burn. The potatoes were much easier to deal with—a simple chop, olive oil, garlic, onion, salt, pepper, on a sheet pan at 425 for 20 minutes left a nice crust on the bottom and a soft, creamy middle.

This is what my life in North Carolina has consisted of since I got here 10 days ago. Between sleeping in, long naps, and walks to grab coffee or a soda, I’ve done nothing of substance. I sit on the porch and have my morning coffee. I talk to my friends, and I spend most of my time sitting in silence, doing nothing. I feel a deep sense of peace and, because I am here with people who love me, I feel safe. I can adjust. I can regroup. That fills me with a sense of gratitude I can’t even begin to articulate.

That level of peace is why I’m surprised I can even write this. My brain turned off once I got settled in, which is odd for me, an ambitious high achiever, but it all feels necessary, as if this is the mental, physical, and emotional reboot before I head out on my next adventure. Who knows where that will take me? For the first time in my life, I have no idea what I want to do, where I want to go, or how I want my life to look. And I’m not exaggerating. The life I’ve lived since 2010 is, for the most part, the one I planned out when I was a teenager. Perhaps that’s why I get antsy when people talk about optimizing to attain their dream life. I did optimize. I did obtain my dream life. It didn’t make me happy. My experiences, of course, don’t speak for everyone’s, but there’s a lesson to be learned from people who did the thing, made the sacrifices to do the thing, and one day noticed they were standing on a foundation made of sticks instead of concrete. Looking back on it, I appreciate that girl’s big dreams. They took me to some amazing places to do some really cool stuff. I also realize now that that kid didn’t know shit about burnout. She was a kid!

As a grown woman with tons of experience, I get to rebuild my life at 33 with my current perspective. I’m circling back to a question I asked a few months ago. What does a healthy future look like for me? What does a Tuesday feel like when you’re not in survival mode? What do you want out of life when the wanting isn’t shaped by fear or instability?

I don’t know the answer yet, but I’m sure I will once my brain turns back on. Until then, I’ll be sitting on the porch, taking a nap, rereading Faulkner and Morrison and Cade Bambara and Hurston, or enjoying the delicious scent of fresh, North Carolina kale.

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