What to Do When We Find Ourselves Crying in Our Minivans, so to speak

My not-doctor-approved plan for simmering down.

My only goal today was to sit down and write this letter to you, my sturdy pot-stirrers, my favorite choir to whom I hope to never preach, but with whom I very much would like to keep singing.

That’s what you do to me. You make me type things like, “to whom I hope to never preach.” Proper things. Things that would stun my longsuffering book editor, Jessi…