Familial betrayal is the deepest cut — When he first came into my life, I was suspicious. Who was this man with the Irish brogue and gameshow smile fixing me boxed macaroni and cheese? …

Create a brand people love from someone who does it for a living. — I will say this until undertakers shovel gravel and dirt over my face — data is directional, but definitive. Data is your tour guide, your backstage pass, and the operator’s manual you instantly bin when you unpack IKEA furniture or complex appliances. …

Hey there! Welcome to my virtual home. — Vitals Born & raised in New York. I’ve lived in Los Angeles for the past six years. Started career at an investment bank: A time I’d like to forget. Ditched the suit to build a profitable dot.com in 1999. Built a boutique digital agency from $1MM to $20MM in 4 years. …

How do you mourn when you’re still cataloging all you’ve lost? You hold the days you have left, grateful for even having them. — Remember when home was a place you returned to? An unfinished canvas that housed our pots and pans, books and dead plants, dirty sheets and clean clothes? We told ourselves we’d finally get a frame for that picture, and this would be the year we’d no longer be a cactus…

After four years, I’m tip-toeing back into social media. — Four years ago, I posted a series of stories on my Instagram. I had just recovered from an anxiety attack, returned from urgent care, and was heavily medicated. …

Every article of clothing, every tchotchke, conjures a memory, a story. — I feel the scratch of worsted wool in my hands. The sweater smells of mothballs and wooden chests in attics. I’m back in the basement of a cafeteria in the Bronx, where the mailroom holds compact discs from Columbia House for a penny, glossy catalogs of preened college students in…

Because it ignores REALITY — They surprise you with a birthday cake. Confetti sprinkles, candles, and a card signed by thirty people. Playful memes in your inbox. Pats on the back are jocular, familiar. They ask after your family, know the names and ages of your children. Maybe they even know about the fertility treatments…

Revenge writing doesn’t age well. Perspective does. — There is writing that alters, puts a reader’s heart on pause. Makes them feel as if they’re standing alongside you. And then there’s writing that erects walls. A kind of writing that spits when it speaks. It’s work meant for you and you alone, yet many people attempt to pass…

And it was horrible. — I can’t breathe, my mother says. Her body is volcanic. She gasps mouthfuls of air. Here we go again. Instructions: Pull on your coat and pad to the kitchen. Call the car service. We know where you live, kid. Bear the weight of her body down six flights of stairs…