Atoosa Unedited

At the end of summer, I was so gung-ho on this idea:

I’m giving up boys for 3 months!

Renunciation, like my beloved Buddha! (Or my Catholic friends from college who would give up soda or chocolate for lent!)

You know this feeling, right? Maybe you’ve given up carbs, sugar, coffee…

It seems so right! You are so sure!

And then…

Well…

Inevitably you realize why the fuck you’ve got an issue with the substance at hand.

Joseph Goldstein, my favorite Buddhism teacher, calls renunciation, “The End of Addiction.”

This reframe is crucial for me because what I’ve realized in the past month and change is that I’ve been, in fact, nursing a low-level addiction. I say low-level because it’s not ruining my life, but that tall, bald glass of water is my equivalent of another person’s morning coffee. I want it. I need it. And I get verrrry cranky without it. But honestly? I don’t like anything having a hold over me like that.

The man-fast started off strong, my sister. I’d really had my fill of guys. I was cycling from one smart, cute guy to another. But no one was scratching my itch.

I needed a break. I wanted to recalibrate.

But it’s like those mornings after a crazy night out in college. You honestly believe you will literally never have another drink again…until the following Thursday night, of course. The strictest phase of my man fast lasted about that long: a week.

But wait. Let me tell you about the most recent man I’ve been struggling to renounce.

So, in June when my last boyfriend and I were on a 3-week break, I went on Bumble for the first time. I was kind of annoyed and wanted to revenge-date someone new. (I know – what your girl lacks in maturity she makes up for in honesty! Plus, I do like to lean into my freedom. After being shacked up for 26 years, it’s pretty fun to be single.)

Anywayzzzzzzz…

My first night on Bumble, a guy, who went to my college, exact same age, swiped on me.

Hmmmm….

He was super tall, shaved head and athletic: My specialty in college.

I swiped back. “Did we know each other at Columbia?” 🧐

No. He went to Columbia for grad, not undergrad. But we went to high school together!

I was super excited to reconnect with him. In high school, he was “that guy” with the convertible red Jeep Wrangler with a ton of friends. Homecoming King. I’m sure you had a version at your school. Our version was also sweet and lovely, which I know is not always the case.

So…we went on a (great) date. At the very end he says, “You haven’t brought it up, but you remember what happened with us senior year, right?”

Ummm….

Uh oh.

No…..? 😬

And then he tells me about how one day after school we found ourselves backstage at the school auditorium (I was Maria in West Side Story that year, so I was probably at rehearsal) and another boy wrapped us up in the theatre curtains as a joke…and starring in our own version of 7 Minutes in Heaven, apparently, we made out. 😇

We never talked about it again. Well, not until 32 years later, on our Bumble date.

Truthfully? I have zero recollection of this, which kind of speaks to my legend status. But I do believe him because he is infinitely more reliable than I.

So, you see, there’s this “meant to be” quality to our reunion. But when I decided to give my ex-boyfriend another chance after his own failed attempt at renouncing me, I encouraged High School Guy to move on and do his own thing. But then when ex-boyfriend and I broke up for the last time on August 19, it was High School Guy I called that night and High School Guy I went out with…on August 20!

I wasn’t alone for a day. 🙃

BTW, I’m very conscious through all my shenanigans. It’s not like I’m saying I’m finally in love and my beloved and I were “meant to be” since high school. I know my impulses are off base right now.  But I also need some manwich in my diet because otherwise I’m not learning and growing. I want to understand my wiring better so I’ve slowed the whole process down and I’ve taking notes on my natural impulses.

I landed somewhere surprising.

My divorce has been punishing.

You may never get to hear about how truly punishing it’s been. I’m proud of how I’ve handled it, but there are moments when it’s deeply…unnerving, to put it mildly. I notice that’s when I miss my ex-boyfriends. That’s when I may flirt with someone I’m not really interested in. I’m reaching for men as a shield, because I feel emotionally unsafe.

Energetically, it reminds me of the first time I felt deeply afraid of someone in my own family. Incest is just a different version of your family member turning against you, isn’t it? My cousin’s internal rage was transformed into a heat seeking missile aimed at me every day after school, and my parents simply didn’t have the bandwidth to protect me. I’ve done years of therapy and work on this topic and tbh, I rarely even think about the sexual abuse on the day to day. But capital T trauma leaves a long trail energetically and I believe, as adults, we replicate milder versions of those traumas so we can finally get a different outcome and settle our nervous systems. So here I am on the other side of yet another man’s rage. And like little Atoosa, I keep reaching for external protection…for a stronger man to make me feel safe. But today, I’m big Atoosa and there’s only one (wo)man who can protect me and that (wo)man is me. It’s an inside job, so to speak.

I’ve always dated big, strong athletes prior to and after my marriage. I understand the little girl in me was seeking their safety. Ironically after years of dating college athletes, I married a man who fit a very different prototype. I know now this has been my invitation to provide safety for myself. Message received. (But hopefully I can still date big dudes because they’re my favorite! 🤩)

So here’s what I need to say out loud.

It’s true that I’ve never been more centered, joyful or peaceful in my life.

Simultaneously…

I’m terrified.

Both/And.

Admitting this feels important. Historically, I’ve always been very strong publicly and privately. Think about it, my editor’s letters were a study of courage, perseverance and empowerment. But for the past few years I’ve been avoiding some truths. Despite my deepest desire for the most peaceful conscious uncoupling, two years later, my reality is far from that. I am so uncomfortable… I suspect this is a universal feeling when going through a divorce. I just want to name it. In this era of glossing over anything that isn’t Insta-perfect, here is one area of my life that is anything but.

I’ve been trying so hard to be equanimous for my children, that I haven’t made enough space for the truth of my own discomfort. Any legal process is stressful enough on its own without being on the opposite side of the case from the person you’ve spent the bulk of your life on the same team with. Challenging times are easier with a partner and yet divorce renders one partnerless. So many people latch onto the first person they meet when they leave such a long-term partnership, but we all know those relationships never work and I just can’t bear to make another long-term…ummm…learning experience.

Make no mistake. I am no victim. I have always been, and continue to be, a survivor.

But I can’t unsee what I now see.

I will not be ready to seriously date until I’m officially divorced. Yes, High School Guy is wonderful. He is hot, 6’4” and strong like I like ‘em.  He’s also super steady and reliable…the guy who wants me to text him when I get home…who checks the weather for the city I’m traveling to…he sends the 6am Good Morning ☀️text…the one who remembers everything about my calendar and asks how it all went. Yes, he is someone’s dream come true. But right now, I couldn’t tell you if he’s mine. Right now, every man is just a potential bodyguard.

And…

I need to my own protector. Once and for all. I got this. 🙌🏼

xo, atoosa

Atoosa Unedited is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

I’ve been really crunching on something over the past few days.

On a short break from my last boyfriend, I started dating another guy from high school (I know - I know…but it’s me and you love me just the way I am, right???) and I was really struck by the response I got from several women I knew from childhood.

Are you ready?

“Congratulations!”

Is that fucking weird to you, too?

Congratulations??

Did I just win a stuffed animal at a carnival?

Congratulations.

This guy (a wonderful guy, to be clear) was our Homecoming King…but I don’t think that’s why they were congratulating me. Can you imagine? Congratulations! You finally snagged the Homecoming King…at age 50! 🤪

So I considered the women saying congratulations…and generally my friends from high school: They are all married to their high school or college era boyfriends…at this point for over 25 years. They seem very happy, nice families, connected to their communities, very stable. Going to tailgates, ladies’ and date nights are living the dream in their circles.

I was starting to understand. Getting divorced and starting over relationally in your 40s and now 50 is considered a failure. Being coupled up equals success.

Huh.

I’m not sure which is more mindblowing. This concept of being single as a shortcoming or that it literally never occurred to me that it could be considered a failure.

Is it a failure?

Is it a failure because being coupled is actually the true pathway to happiness? Or is it a failure because there’s an unwritten rule that it is?

Genuine question.

I recognize my own life and family appeared picture perfect to the outer world until I blew it up. And honestly, it was that way. We did have a happy family. We were not ripping each other apart behind the scenes. We were very connected to our community. I was the head of the most fancy PTA in Manhattan. The parent that organized the Mom’s Night Outs and planned the most interesting date nights. My husband called me The Concierge.

But…well…for me, it just wasn’t enough. I wish it were. Truly.

When one of my high school acquaintances heard about my current man sabbatical (3 months off from dating to better understand my patterns), she said with genuine compassion to another friend, “I feel so badly for her.”

But do we feel badly for me?

Should we feel badly for me?

Being 50 and loving deeply, being loved deeply, making love…deeply 😉, losing love, also deeply - all of these different angles and shades of freedom. It has never occurred to me that settling down with one person would be better. To me, it kinda seems boring. To me, it kinda was boring. Yes, sure. I recognize you can go deeper in a relationship with one person over many years, but I guess I’m getting a lot out of how deep I’m going now because in the marathon of a super long-term relationship are we really doing the work? Are we really learning about ourselves? Or are we just anchored to a buoy we know? A buoy that is familiar to the buoy we were anchored to in our childhood. I want to explore a new fucking ocean. I am an explorer! My relationships may have each only lasted less than a year, but we covered ground and depth I didn’t touch in the entirety of my marriage so…🤷🏻‍♀️

I mean…there are moments I miss having someone hanging around. Like the other night, I was heading home after a school function. I looked kind of amazing (we can admit when we look good, right?), it was a beautiful night and I was hungry. Remember how easy it was in college to find a friend who was game for whatever you wanted to do? I definitely had one of those post-college-where-are-my buddies moments. But I walked alone to my favorite local restaurant, had a deep and important call with one of my besties and enjoyed a nice meal at Red Farm. Would I have rather been holding someone’s hand on the walk? Sure. I actually fucking love being held. Do I prefer the complexity of what’s going on in my world to having to hold the same person’s hand day in and day out? I do. No pun intended.

Maybe I will feel differently when I am officially divorced. That entanglement currently feels like a noose around my neck. So for now, I’m loving the complete freedom after 25 years of sameness. I love the highs and lows…the discovery and even the uncertainty. When I fall in love, it’s so beautiful. So new. So very…very. What a fantastic reverse stretch to making breakfast, lunch and dinner for my children (as wonderful as they are)…to 3 school pickups and drop offs…to wondering what my place is in the world in my next chapter, to…you get the picture. As a parent I have a lot of sameness that I appreciate and actually want. Having the same dude in the kitchen day in and day out, too? 😬 For now? Hard pass. But again, maybe I just haven’t met the right dude for my kitchen. I have certainly enjoyed the process of figuring it all out. 🤩

Oh and my self-imposed man sabbatical has hit a speedbump 😎. More on that next week because I need another week of mileage under my belt. But a month in, I’ve had sex…and I don’t regret it. I’ve been flirting and yet I’ve been mindful. And well….I’m deeply aware of how significant men are in my life. What an interesting laboratory. I hope your job is as interesting.

xo, atoosa

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Most of you know I gave a TEDx talk on April 30. I hope you’ll watch it (above)!

What you may not know is what the talk meant to me.

I left my career to work on my marriage (and in turn, myself) and saw that partnership through to it’s natural end after almost 26 years. In some ways, it’s been almost like a fairy tale: Waking up from a long, long slumber, Sleeping Beauty has arisen to find her old Kingdom (the magazine industry) has essentially vanished.

I totally get it.

A favorite story of mine to tell is of one of my last corporate meetings in 2006. In prepping for our annual budget meeting with the President, I came to the men who work directly with her with a big idea. (Whenever an Editor wanted to pitch something big at a budget meeting, we needed to get the President’s Men, so to speak, to sign off on it before we pitched it.) My idea: Let’s take me and my entire team and put us on seventeen.com. We’d learned from our magazine partners in the UK that you can create a perfectly good magazine with just 5 or 6 junior to mid-level people. Let’s reverse the paradigm! We can be so much bigger than a US based teen magazine if the top talent were on the digital platform. The corporate folks looked at me like I had lost my mind. Today, of course, most magazines have resorted to content farming and innovation is happening Somewhere Else. Where? Little pips and pops all over the place online but the ruling days of those big, glossy monthly magazines, are over.

So where does that leave me? A Queen with no kingdom.

On one hand, I’m not bending over backward trying to figure it out because I’m going through a divorce and I’m focused on being present for my children…and also processing all my own stuff that’s coming up. “Old” Atoosa would have plowed through such an intense and painful personal untangling fueled by burning ambition. My newer self moves much slower. I’m not taking myself out of the experience, but rather sinking in, knowing that these last moments of my marriage as difficult as they are, are cooking me in some ways, changing me in preparation for what lies ahead.

It’s like I’m in a hallway that takes me from one room of my life to another. But I have to live in the hallway. I have to sit in the hallway. I have to sleep in the hallway. I have to eat in the hallway. I’m not just passing through this hallway.

But…I can’t lie.

The less meditative side of me just wants to get to the other fucking room already, right? Who wouldn’t? Being in a hallway is so unnerving. What’s next, I keep wondering. What’s next??

When the nice people from TEDx Asbury Park called me in the spring, I thought THIS is what’s next! This talk will usher me out of the hallway. Help me reenter this world where my platform, the one I knew so well…that I was so good at, had disappeared. Where do I find my place in a world with no magazines? I mean, sure, technically there are magazines. But there aren’t any magazines as they used to exist. It’s like a lion without a roar. I’m all about the roar. I thought THIS would be the place for my roar.

But then…have you heard the TEDx talk?

Well, you can’t hear my roar. Literally. You can’t hear my roar because of of a fucking microphone malfunction. 🤪

Have you ever had that experience? Big expectation…that ends in a bit of a pfffft? 💨

And so, I sit back on my meditation cushion in the hallway. I hope and pray that the message of the talk reaches the people who need to hear it….and one of those people is me.

Note to Atoosa:

1-The Pursuit of Being Special is Toxic

2-Belonging is Our Birthright

I will keep meditating on those ideas knowing that my yearning to get into the next room of my life likely relates to my desire to be special again. And that, I have value even if my words are not heard by another soul.

Gosh, I love how life teaches us and stretches us. It’s never as we expect and always what we need. And sometimes…it just kinda sucks. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Thanks for watching my talk and sharing it if you feel called. I’ll be here in my hallway, continuing to cook.

xo, atoosa

Soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️:

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Most people enter a relationship hoping it’ll last forever.

And then…there’s me.

It’s not that I’m hoping for a breakup. It’s just that…well…my work (and my passion, honestly) is to learn about life, and you don’t learn too much about life when you’re just holding hands and going out for brunch. So, it’s not that I’m looking to make problems. I just act like myself with zero filter…and I’m ready with a notepad when things go awry.

Bestie David said this one thing this past Spring that has truly been vexing me: “Why do you keep choosing guys that are such projects?” Do your friends ever drop one-liners like that and your face is twitching because you know they’re right, but you have absolutely nothing smart to say in your own defense?

Yeah.

I admit it, I’m a fixer.

Obviously, I know intellectually it’s not right to try to fix someone. That’s Co-dependence 101. But Pro-bono Life Coach is a natural modus operandi for me. I see someone with eczema, I have a diet for them. My friend drinks too much coffee, may I suggest Ceremonial Cacao? Anxiety? Meditation! Frustrated at work? Here’s what you’re doing wrong and how we can get you on track. Works great when you’re a magazine editor. But my husband used it call it my lectures. “Let me know when your lecture is over.” And the last guy would say, “Can you be my girlfriend, not my life coach today?” So even though I knew it wasn’t helpful, the pull was deeply embedded in my psyche. So, I sat and sat (and sat!) with this “project” quality of my last two relationships until I dug deep enough within my own layers to grab the root of my toxic impulse to fix.

And wait for it…the roots lie in my childhood. Big surprise. 😜

Like let’s say you grew up with parents that were totally into….I don’t know…King Arthur’s Court. And so, you had a replica of Excalibur in the stone as the centerpiece of your dining table. Like a big honkin’ rock with a sword that your dad would pull out dramatically before dinner every night after exclaiming, “Whoso pulleth out this sword from this stone, is right wise King born of all England.” In his best King Arthur voice, obv.

Let’s say this is how dinner went every night for your whole life. You wouldn’t know any different, right? Plenty of families never really have their foundational architecture examined by another until the kids are partnered up and bring those partners home. And in many cases, we’re so influenced by our families (and their distinct forms of trauma) that the people we bring home usually reflect our foundations anyway so it’s kind of unlikely that you would bring home someone that would be like What. In. Holy. Hell. Is. Your. Father. Doing. More likely he would be like, Omg, Your dad is so fun!

This is a long way of saying, I finally realized something that has never been reflected back to me as unusual because I was partnered with someone for 26 years who also accepted this as normal.

I’ve told you about a mother who used tranquilizers to stabilize herself in my childhood. A mother who would literally stop talking to me for days on end at the slightest infraction. A mother who, when told by an adult me that I had been sexually abused for years as a child, literally couldn’t accept this information as truth. Even when my perpetrator told her it was true. She still doubted it’s veracity.

That all frustrated me, of course. But I didn’t see it as odd. I just saw it as a long pattern of annoying behavior from my mother. I mean, whose mother isn’t annoying at times?

But then something happened recently that made me shift my perspective.

You know I’m going through a divorce. You also know (and maybe you don’t) but I’m a fairly namaste person. Outside of my children, the number one focus in my life is mindfulness and learning about Buddhism. If you see me walking down the street in Manhattan with Air pods in my ears there is a 20 percent chance I’m listening to this playlist and an 80 percent chance I’m listening to a Joseph Goldstein Buddhism talk. Ugh – Joseph Goldstein. My number one man. The teacher at whose feet I could sit for the rest of my life. Truly. He is my Grateful Dead.

Anywayzzzz…

My point is, I try to be super chill during the various stages of the divorce but recently there was a situation where I felt very upset and did what many people do when they feel powerless: I went to my mother. Now, I admit, this is not usually my first impulse because of our history which also speaks to how badly I was feeling. But I guess I’m an optimist. I tried to make it really clear what I needed from her. I broke shit down in small bite-sized pieces: You weren’t able to protect me as a child and we can move on from that because it was a long time ago. But you have an opportunity to protect me today. He listens to you. Tell him to stop this. She was like, “Yes! Absolutely! You are one hundred percent right. I will take care of this IMMEDIATELY.”

I emboldened the word “immediately” because I want you to understand that she really met me in my moment of need and distress. This gave me immense comfort. The way one’s mother should, right? She asked him to come over so they can have the conversation in person.

I am very heartened.

He comes immediately even though he is out of town.

Yes. This is excellent. Just excellent.

A week later, when I suggest to him that even my mother agrees that his actions are unkind, he says that is not at all the message he got from her when he met with her.

Tire screech.

Huh?

I call my mom and tell her what he said. Her hysterical response?  “But I didn’t even mention your name!!!!”

Ummmm….what?

WTF did you even talk to him about then, for goodness sakes????

I will spare you the rest of the details because she went deep into all her own unresolved traumas from childhood and adulthood which have absolutely nothing to do with what we were talking about that day. And yet…they had everything to do with it, right? Her response made zero sense.

In that moment, I realized this woman despite her best and highest intention, will literally never be able to protect me. She will never be able to show up for me. She is consumed by her own emotional baggage that has yet to be unpacked and processed.

And in that moment, almost every man I’ve ever been in a relationship with flashed into my head.

Every.

Single.

One.

Suffered from some level of untreated mental or emotional instability.

And I’ve spent the lion share of my energy trying to fix them, make them happy, more highly functional in every part of their lives.

The little Atoosa within me has been trying to save my mother by projecting her onto my lovers so I could fix them and finally get my mother to protect me…to show up for me. Only to keep being betrayed and banished over and over again, by proxy. It’s like Groundhog Day with different avatars of my in-most-ways-lovely but also mentally unwell mother.

I hit a much deeper layer of understanding after this most recent incident. I gave her a paint by numbers plan for how she can protect me. She failed. To understand she CAN’T show up for me is very different than she WON’T show up for me. And to realize that as a 50-year-old woman, I’m still looking for my mommy or a man in my life to keep me safe speaks to my own level of emotional immaturity that I need to recognize and remediate. My immaturity is attracting immaturity.

Note to self: Focus on my own journey instead of trying to curate someone else’s. And when I’m in fix-it mode, it’s a sign that I don’t feel safe. That’ll be my cue to focus on helping myself feel safe instead of trying to turn my partner into a bastion of strength and security. And by the way, I may want to pick more stable and mature guys. I only needed to experience like 5 train wrecks to finally understand those tracks are faulty.

And here’s what else your pal Atoosa brought to the table that was utterly unhelpful.

Because of my unmet need to have my mother show up for me, I would create false fires: These fake breakups that I wasn’t conscious at the time were fake, but I realize now were totally cooked up drama intended to get my beloved to show up for me in the way my mother never did. I remember in the aftermath of one of these fake break ups, the Bear said with the most stricken face I’d seen, “I never would have thought you would leave me like that.” Our relationship never recovered from that very episode. I was creating instability for men who were already self-medicating with weed or workaholism to create a sense of stability and calm for themselves. I need to forgive myself for that. Forgive myself for being so unconscious. For making vulnerable men feel even more tender and ungrounded because of my own vulnerability and ungroundedness that long predated our relationships.

Right now I’m sitting with healthy shame, to be honest. But part of my work, I suppose, is to sit in these hard feelings so, I hope, I will do better in the future. This is the “knowing better” part Maya Angelou talked about with the “doing better” to follow, I hope.

Oh…and I’m just realizing something that happened recently that speaks to how deep this goes in my psyche. As Kanye was having his most recent public breakdown, I was texting an acquaintance in the music industry daily: How can you make this stop? Can you contact him and help him? I was being totally serious. It was so difficult for me to sit on the sidelines of Kanye’s emotional instability. My friend said something I didn’t fully hear then because I was so deeply triggered. But now it’s kind of blowing my mind. He said, “Tell me who you saved from themselves.”

Fuck.

Well.

I can answer that now.

Nobody.

I have tried to save every single man I’ve been in a relationship with.

But I have saved all of no one.

But now, I can try….once and for all, to save myself.

And then, maybe then, holding hands and going to brunch with my beloved will be enough.

TBD…TBD.

xo, atoosa

Atoosa Unedited is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️:

Next week I’ll update you on how my Man-fast has been going. Have I cheated? Have I abstained? You’ll read it here first. Spoiler alert: I miss having sex. 😵‍💫

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Giiiirrrrrlllll,

Let’s dissect my latest breakup like a frog in 7th grade, shall we?

I know I might sound as cold as the aforementioned frog, but believe me, a few days ago, I was gutted. Absolutely gutted. But not gutted in a why-me kind of way. You know, that’s not my style. But rather in an I’ve-tapped-into-something-very-primal-and-now-I-need-a-nap kind of way. So…I spent two hours in bed on Thursday totally lost and sobbing, letting my grief flow through me like a river leading me down into my deepest depths.

At 50, I’ve learned that tough moments are almost always attached to treasure if I allow myself to sink deep enough to claim it. For so much of my life, like many people, I veered and shape shifted to avoid the depths of discomfort…I mean, most people do, right? And by the way, I almost did it this time: The breakup happened August 19. I was literally out with another man on August 20. And not just a random date to get my mind off things. It was someone very special with whom I had a par-baked relationship ready to go. But I caught myself within two weeks and ended it to avoid this man becoming collateral damage because as Charlie Puth so correctly sang, “Don’t give your heart to a girl whose still got a broken one.” He may have wanted to give his heart to me, but I know better and did better.

Anywayzzzzzzzz…

Let’s breakdown this break up, shall we?

A Prologue:

This guy was absolutely gob smacked by me on our first date. “You’re the first girl who looks even better than her pictures!”  Now on that same first date, this man (who I still consider wonderful btw – you know you’ll never get an angry breakup story from me) also told me that he regularly blocks his mother’s phone calls. Like literally blocks her on his phone. I had never blocked anyone in my life at that point and I remember thinking, Okay…I can help him with that. See how I swiftly I whitewash red flags? My psychological Clorox comes out the moment a man puts me on a pedestal. And so high was the pedestal he put me on that you could see it from the outer boroughs of New York City: Atoosa, the beautiful, stylish, brilliant career woman who left it all to do brave introspective work and raise this army of powerful and spirited children. Through his eyes, anyone would be deeply impressed with me. Just days before it ended, he used words like “partner,” “forever,” “I want to be the father to your children.” (Oh, and just to be clear, my children don’t even think of me and dating in a one sentence. I’m merely their full-time chef and sherpa. They have never been introduced to a significant other and I suspect I won’t do that until I’m officially divorced. I’m kinda just playing the field and learning – and sharing with YOU - until those papers are signed!)

Anyway…spoiler alert:

After the breakup, the dude fucking BLOCKED ME. I’ve never been blocked in my entire life! I didn’t do any of the things people do to get blocked. (I block dick pic senders and name callers) But alas, the man who wanted to spend the rest of his life with me has vanished from Instagram and I suspect he has only vanished to me…and perhaps, his mother.

A theory: Was I too controlling? He said I edited him like a magazine.

If I didn’t demand he quit smoking weed, would we have made it?

Listen, no judgment if you smoke weed but I don’t use substances recreationally and I no longer date people who do, either. I get that it’s legal, but as a psychological explorer, I love growing by walking through the emotional fires that relationships and life can present us with. Anesthetizing with weed to keep uncomfortable feelings at bay (and a relationship status quo), for me, is like sitting in a boat that’s up on blocks in the boatyard and pretending to go on a journey. I want to go to on the actual journey. I want to see the horizon. I want to experience the storm. I want to wonder if we will make it. I want to barf over the side if I must. I want to feel the sun on my skin when it comes back out. I want the full experience. I don’t just want a nice picture of me on a boat.

So, I’m going to answer my own question. No, we wouldn’t have made it if I didn’t make my weed boundary clear because then I wouldn’t have been authentic. And I’m committed to being authentic before I’m committed to any particular relationship. But it was a sign, wasn’t it? A sign that he was not comfortable being uncomfortable. And the fact that I moved forward with someone I had to convince to quit weed is further proof I’m an expert at bleaching red flags. That damn pedestal is so seductive to me.

A Brief Synopsis:

I was reluctant to get involved with him from the get-go. Not necessarily because of the mom blocking or the weed. I mean…perhaps it should have been for those reasons. But I was reluctant because I had just had another breakup days earlier (🐻) and I was still technically married. I simply wasn’t ready to be in a relationship. And I was upfront right off the bat. He maintained I was being short-sighted, but was respectful of my boundaries and we ultimately built a beautiful friendship. I enjoyed and respected him immensely as a person. Although we didn’t have a physical relationship, we enjoyed a lot of emotional intimacy. Honestly? He became one of my closest friends. And after several months of this closeness, we had one of those moments. You know what I’m talking about, too. It was very Ross and Rachel. Where I realize the man I’ve been waiting for is the same guy I’ve been confiding in about other guys and after months of a platonic relationship, we pivoted into something more.

It.

Was.

Magnificent.

And sometimes it was challenging. But what was magnificent, defies description. I will leave it at that. I may never touch this level of magnificence again and that’s okay. I touched it. It’s kind of like seeing a double rainbow over the Grand Canyon after the most perfect day of your life. You can have and cherish that moment without needing to experience it every day thereafter. Buddhists say the root of suffering is attachment. I can release what was wonderful, so I can be grateful for its splendor and not bemoan its loss forever.

But this isn’t about what was wonderful, is it?

This is about what wasn’t.

So our relationship was marked by a certain amount of Atoosa worship. The pedestal I mentioned earlier. Sounds great, right? To be honest, every relationship I’ve had has had this quality to it. Have you ever read the New York Times Vows column about my wedding, for goodness sakes? People have often talked about how lucky I was to have such a cute and great guy just adore me the way my husband did. But the pattern doesn’t stop at Atoosa worship. Each relationship also ends with Atoosa hatred and banishment. Bestie David and I have talked ad nauseum about WTF I may be doing or missing that leads these guys who are obsessed with me to then abandon me. David has had his theories. And I listen, I really do listen. (I suspect David is mouthing, “No she does not!” to you as he is reading this.) But none of his theories were landing perfectly. And yet, I knew I wasn’t destined to follow this pattern for the rest of my life. I knew because I’m committed to growth.

This optimism served me well because I had a break in the case!

I was looking at the wrong part of the pattern. I kept trying to find the moment things went sideways.

But

And oh my gosh, this is huge.

Things went sideways before they even started!

I had a faulty green light!

In other words, my “go” sign? What gave me the feeling that told me YES this is the guy for me was fucking flawed!!!! My “go” light was the pedestal. Listen, we all meet lots of romantic prospects. But I would move forward with the guy that worshipped me the most. This is how I was taught love.

A Little Atoosa History:

My mom totally worshipped me. I was an “ooops!” baby. My siblings were 9, 15, and 17 years old when I was born. I was physically an exact replica of my mother. She showered me with tons of love and attention – almost the way a grandmother does her beloved first grandchild. She doted on me beyond measure. So of course, this was my blueprint for love. But there was a dark side to her pedestal, and I’ve written about it before. When I showed my humanness…by being a normal kid who maybe misbehaves or makes a mistake – she would banish me. She wouldn’t speak to or look at me for days. I was like a piece of trash. From treasure to trash in the blink of an eye. (I’m not going to psychoanalyze her because ultimately it doesn’t matter. For the most part, she was a great and super loving mother and did the absolute best she could.)

But me? I’ve been following this pattern in all my relationships. Like the child who wondered what she did wrong to make Mommy not love her, I’ve always despairingly wondered what I had done to incur this type of banishment in my breakups. Do you remember how broken I was about The Bear? And even those few hours I spent in bed just gutted about this latest break up. It has the distinct quality of a little girl just devastated that her Mommy has abandoned her. I mean this guy who I shared so much intimacy with BLOCKED ME for fuck’s sake. But he didn’t block me because I was harassing him. He blocked me because that’s what he does when he is uncomfortable. He blocks his own mother! You see where I am going, right? This is the modern-day equivalent of what my own mother would do when I made her uncomfortable. And this also taps into the reason I bleach every red flag white before I even see a glimpse of red. Growing up, my appropriately self-protective psyche wouldn’t allow me to see any signs of my mother’s flaws. She was my champion. She was my protector. She was my everything. I grew up with a lovely but very infirm father who died when I was a teenager. My mother was The One. I wasn’t going to ruminate on her red flags. The pills she took for her anxiety. Her inability to cope with difficult feelings instead just focusing on what was beautiful about life. No way! I just shape shifted myself over the years into the kind of person that would keep her happy and create a more consistently beautiful life for her to enjoy. Enter Atoosa the Media Wonder Kid who would be glamorously smiling back at my mother from her newspapers and television set. I know how to work a pedestal, friend. I know how to work a pedestal.

And that’s what I’ve done in my relationships. I become the man’s dream woman and climb right up on that pedestal. But then what happens when my humanity comes out? When I make a mistake or am having a hard time or act in any way different than this dream woman we collaboratively concocted “should” act? Banishment. I’m out.

And then of course, I can feel, like new, the abandonment of my mother and the little girl inside me can grieve this primal loss. They’re right when they say children are resilient. They are. But that doesn’t mean they’re immune. There will be a day of reckoning…it’s just going to be many years down the line when the child is grown and feels safe enough to reexperience the feeling and then said child (me, in this case) will manifest the buried feeling over and over again until we figure it out. It’s gut-wrenching and yet amazing at the same time. Both things are true. But I am my mother’s daughter after all, so I focus on the positive. It is amazing.

I think this is the missing puzzle piece to help me understand my life-long pattern.

The breakups weren’t my fault.

I was picking the wrong guys from the get-go. I was picking my mother. When someone immediately falls in love with me and puts me on a pedestal? That doesn’t mean I met my perfect love match! It means I’ve met someone with an Atoosa-sized hole inside them. They’re unconsciously using me to feel better about themselves and if I don’t consistently make good on that promise, I’m not of use to them. For my purposes going forward, the abandonment doesn’t really matter. I just need to look out for the pedestal cue. But considering it’s the only mating call I’ve ever known, I don’t expect for it to be easy.

To that end, I’m taking a 3-month sabbatical away from romance. No dates, no dating apps, no flirting, no connection with men I’ve dated from my past (that’s my signature move – I always have at least one person on ice waiting in the wings to put me on that pedestal I crave so much). I don’t feel upset. I actually feel tremendous peace and ease with this decision. I need to reprogram this pattern, and this is just what feels right. Tbd, sister, tbd. This weekly letter is about to get really boring or really interesting. Let’s see…

xo atoosa

Next week’s Unedited: Why I think sex with this particular man was so fucking next-level-magnificent. (And, yes, I believe you can use this advice.)

Atoosa Unedited is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

The Soundtrack of My Heart 🤍🖤❤️:

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Hey,

Ferris Bueller said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” We all know what he meant…and perhaps it’s never been more true, right? Everyone I talk lately has been lamenting, “Where did summer go??”

Raise your hand if you know someone who responds to texts in two seconds flat. Perhaps you ARE that person. Worse are the colleagues who are that fast. Worse? Better? I guess it depends on where you fall related to the transaction in question. Do they need something from you? Do you need something from them? Because what feels better than an instant text response to an urgent work question? I just had an endorphin rush simply imagining it. 😅

From the moment we met AOL Instant Messenger (remember cutie AIM?), life started moving faster. Maybe even before AIM. Maybe it was emails…even earlier…cellphones.

When I was dating the Bear he used to call me…shit…I don’t remember anymore (good sign, right?)…but it was something like Girl on Tap because I was a really quick texter. I play Hot Potato with texts. If someone texts me, I hit back immediately no matter who it is or what I’m doing. That ding is hard wired into my brain: An automatic reflex left over from when I was working at the magazines.

I first started using email in late 1998 when I launched CosmoGIRL! Prior to that, email wasn’t really a thing. And OMG - I found my cellphone from when I was a Fashion Editor recently and I swear I thought it was a regular cordless phone, I spent a long time looking for its base! So, I very much remember the time before computers and cellphones existed in the workplace…much the less Slack! But once they showed up, there were no conversations about boundaries at work. It was like the Wild West. Whoever answered first, won. Whoever was most available, was MVP. All that success I enjoyed was in direct ratio to the number of boundaries I had. (Zero)

But. But. But.

There was one place… one place where I moved as slow as a snail: When I was creating anything that involved digging deep inside and coming up with a treasure.

For me, back in the day that meant creating the lineup for an issue. It was a process that was sacred to me. Each issue was like a care package for our beloved reader and I wanted everything to be meaningful. This was the process: On a Friday night, I would get a big stack of ideas for the issue in question from everyone on the team after they’d had a big staff meeting led by my Executive Editor. Those ideas were an important part of what I considered the care package creation aka magazine issue but there was nothing streamlined or systemic about what would happen next. And I’d never put a time limit on the process. Generating the lineup wasn’t a task I ever jammed into a slot. I’d leave an entire weekend open for it because I needed ample runway to get deep inside myself. Creating was where my soul got to play. The great spiritual teacher Frances Weller has said the Soul is shy. Yes. I needed to coax my soul out for this process. Somehow, I would slow down time…shake out any fear or sense of efficiency. I had to totally clear my energy and connect only with our girl. This girl who was good enough to come to us every month. This girl who trusted us. This girl who needed us. I would create an a super still internal state so I could be totally present with our reader. Nowhere to go but where I was in that moment. I would read reader letters. Understand what was being said between the words if that makes sense. Even read between the words of the submitted ideas so the ideas themselves would get to the nuance of what was important. What do we really want her know? How can we say it so she really hears it and it’s not just blah-blah words? You can’t read between words unless you feel like you have all the time in the world. That was the pace I created at. The soul’s pace.

Over the years people have asked me how we came up with some of our most original ideas. Like Project 2024 – remember that one? An interview series with the intention of getting a CosmoGIRL! reader in the White House for the 2024 election or the sticker page!  And lately my Alpha Kitty video series came up. We highlighted non-binary and trans folks long before they were a part of the mainstream culture. When you go at the soul’s pace, your ideas are directional. They’re not fear-based or derivative of what you’ve seen elsewhere. Fear-based thinking happens when we’re rushing. A classic example of a fear-based idea would be a knock-off of a successful feature from another magazine. Like I’d often get ideas in that packet from the editors like “Let’s do a blah-blah like InStyle.” And it’s a catch 22, right? I could go at the soul’s pace because I’d carve out an entire weekend for my process. So that certainly can be considered boundaryless. The editors working under me were juggling the lions-share of what had to happen at the magazine and so they were doing the best they could within their outrageously long working hours. But I saw the issue planning as my art. It was my pleasure. So the process worked: They picked a ton of fruit. Some of was ripe and juicy, others not so great. Then I would do the slow-down-time-trick and come up with a just-right recipe we could all then collaboratively make for you, dear reader.

Today I try to live my life at a soul’s pace. The quick text response piece is still very much a work in progress for me. I’m like a Pavlovian Dog: There’s still a trace of that old fear-based competitive corporate warrior floating in my system. But being here on Substack and doing my own thing quietly, not trying to rule the media world is helping me continue to detox my energetic body of this vibe. But my days have a different pace for sure. There’s a general eye toward mindfulness. I wake up to a really nice alarm sound. I give myself time to feel the sheets and the pillows comforting me. No phone in my bedroom. Daily meditation is as important as brushing my teeth. I don’t over schedule myself or my children. I cancel rather than rush. I like to go slow. And most importantly I don’t feel guilty for any of it. I have only one life. Audible lets us pick the pace of the book we’re listening to. I can pick the pace of my living.

I think a lot of people like to be busy. When I was still together with my husband, our weekends would be packed. Every day was like a Festival. Shows, events, concerts, get togethers, never a dull moment.  I hadn’t realized it at the time, but I had just adopted his pace for our family…because that too, was my pace when I was working. As soon as we separated, my weekends with (and without) the kids became really open-ended and spacious. We wake up and see where the day takes us. I don’t feel uncomfortable when they come back from a weekend at Dads that involves two grandparent visits, the beach, a water park and the movies. Or this morning when I said, “Nothing!” when the girls asked me what we were doing today. This pace gives me the bandwidth to go with the flow and do what feels right in the moment. Once I’m done writing this, I’m excited to see where the day takes us. TBD.

Although I laugh and say, “sheesh!” when people complain about how summer has raced by, this summer hasn’t gone fast for me. For the first time in my adult life, it’s felt almost as long as the endless summers of my childhood. I think I know the secret: My daily meditation practice has helped me consistently slow down time. Instead of letting time dictate what I can do (“I don’t have time to meditate!”), it’s helped me seismically shift my relationship with time…and myself. With meditation, I have 45 minutes to an hour devoted to my internal life so that will naturally limit what else I can do in the day. I believe that is actually the counter-intuitive secret to slowing down time: Less efficiency. I know how that sounds but who else is going to prioritize my happiness? My freedom? My peace? Only me so I can’t feel guilty.

To that end, I’m going to take off for a few weeks to soak up these last days of summer with my children and my love. See what happens if you shift pockets of your life to a soul’s pace. One hack is to add the daily meditation practice. I didn’t know it would have this particular side-effect but I can’t lie…it’s been so freeing to step out of the hamster wheel. I wish the same for you. See you in September! And maybe it’s time to take out the I’m here for you 24/7 piece. I AM here for you…at a soul’s pace at [email protected].

xo atoosa

Soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️:

Atoosa Unedited is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Hey,

Sometimes our fears are ones we aren’t even aware of, right?

So I Wordle with a guy I know at 9:45 every morning. We aren’t physically together, but we do it simultaneously and then compare our journeys. (Side note: You can learn a lot about someone by their Wordle choices! I highly recommend it as a dating tool.) One day, I had a meeting I couldn’t reschedule at 9:45 and I Wordle-cheated on him and did it on my own.

It did not go well.

I started out with my usual word: Death (I like to know where my as,es,and ts are at!), but things just went south from there. Look for yourself. (below) Even though I got the first letter right off the bat, once I realized the second letter was going to be another consonant, I kind of lost it. None of my subsequent choices even made any sense. I’m using letters I know aren’t in there over and over again. But putting aside the bad choices, my experience was so interesting.

I. Was. Terrified.

I couldn’t have guessed how much comfort having a puzzle buddy had given me. After my incorrect guess of Dingo, I was literally in fight or flight till the end. It felt like I was a non-swimmer dropped into the ocean desperately trying to stay on the surface…trying to stay alive. But dude, I was playing WORDLE.

Because I’m me, I had to discuss this with my beloved therapist, Joseph: Something happened when I was playing Wordle and I think it may be significant. (Raise your hand if you’re glad you’re not my therapist! 🙋🏻‍♀️) But joking aside, it was significant. What I tapped into with Wordle is one of the many things I was fleeing when I left Seventeen…and my career.

I have dyslexia.

I can’t read and process like you can. Yes, it gives me some superpowers. People are always really quick to say that about dyslexia. That soooo many creative and successful people are dyslexic. And it’s true. There are things I can do that many people can’t. I have a daughter with dyslexia and she’s a fucking unicorn. This girl is ready to host the 7 o’clock hour of the Today show tomorrow and she’s 9 years old for fuck’s sake. It’s truly wild.

But I don’t want to just gear shift into what’s amaaaaazing about this learning disability because today I’m sitting with what’s hard. I can’t easily process text that my 13-year-old daughter can (Sure, she’s a brain but still…she’s 13!). I won’t bore you with the specifics, but I have issues with my working memory – my brain’s ability to hold onto small bits of content while it retrieves other information. Going to that next level of complexity is very hard (sometimes impossible) for me. This also impacts my processing speed. I read really slowly unless it’s super easy and doesn’t require much working memory. Like I’m the Queen of the beach read. 👑 (Where are my fellow Elin Hilderbrand fans?) Anything else? Not so much. That’s why I listen to a lot of talks, interviews and podcasts. It’s much easier for me to retain information that way and I usually take copious notes.

School was always hard for me but like other dyslexics, I figured out my ways around the system. And once I became a fashion assistant, I kinda never had to read a complicated paragraph again so I was in the clear. Creating CosmoGIRL! was a breeze. I’ve always been good at seeing what’s on the horizon and the prototype was essentially several tables of content and lots of images and headlines I pulled together with ease. It was a glorified art project – very much within my wheelhouse.

But then I was an Editor-in-Chief.

Tbh, I kind of don’t want to get into how hard it was for me. I’m here in New Paltz for July 4th weekend, typing while my oldest child is sleeping next to me. Just thinking about how I felt for so many years being slammed with so much copy, so many pages to read day in and day out is so, so hard. I worked non-stop. Literally around the clock. I worked from home half-days so I could focus better. Not because there was that much work to do. But because it was so hard for me to read all that fucking content. The dyslexia didn’t make me lower my expectations for what I wanted, but I just didn’t have the skillset to get it there with ease the way a typical Editor-in-Chief would. Most top Editors go up the ranks through the features departments. These are people who love words. People who are good with words. People who can easily…read words. I don’t know how to describe it to you other than to say it feels like I need to read the words through once before I understand what they mean. It’s not always automatic. Especially when the text is complex. People on my team will remember how many rounds we had to go through on each piece. How long our process was.

I don’t feel shame about it because I know I was doing the very best I could, and I brought other strengths to the table that contributed as much as my deficits slowed down our process. Like my disability also impacted our magazines in a positive way. If words didn’t have a “stop sign” quality to them, we wouldn’t use them in headlines or coverlines. I needed the reader to be able to read a word just by looking at it. We created a design system to help with automaticity. We didn’t use this word for it then. But that’s what our brilliant designers did because I would say things about coverlines like “it takes me too long to read it.” I was so sure this was how everyone experienced the words. I kind of didn’t realize then that this was my learning disability. But I believe it made our beloved magazines easier to digest, our important content more accessible and user-friendly.

But Wordle…Wordle.

What I realized after the Wordle incident was that this intense fear of reading and more specifically processing, is really holding me back in this next chapter of my career. Like, it’s why I haven’t written a book. A best-selling author I really respect called me the other day and literally the first words out of her mouth where, “Where the heck is your book?” I walked away from my first book deal many years ago. And today, I have a wonderful literary agent who also happens to be my good friend. Did I sign with her because I knew she wouldn’t push me? Or did I sign with her because I knew she would? I honestly don’t know but I know she’s got a sacred role in my healing. You’ve got a sacred role, my sister. I’ve had meetings with top publishers. But the truth is: I am paralyzed. I am just so afraid. But it’s not only the fear that’s holding me back. It’s the actual inability to hold complex thoughts together in my writing. I just can’t do it. I just can’t do it. I’m bawling as I type: Just what I wanted to avoid this morning. But for the first time in my life, I’m really sitting with why I have avoided my next step professionally. Why last year, I tried so hard to turn this Substack into a way of telling other women’s stories and taking the spotlight off my own. And this is not just about the work! I would only get serious with guys who had a very particular form of intellect: From my husband to the Bear. The Bear! 🐻 One of the biggest turn ons about the Bear was (I shit you not)…his processing speed! It sounds so asinine, but it’s true. I didn’t think I could survive in the world without someone next to me that had this particular  hyperability…even though this hyperability like other hyperabilities came with other qualities that couldn’t be less suited to me. But I digress….I digress.

Listen, I can’t tie this up in a neat bow. There is no big, beautiful finish where I announce, “And now I have written my book proposal and it’s being published by Simon & Schuster, Spring 2023!” This column is about sitting with uncertainty…making space for vulnerability. This is about holding my younger self who had to sit in class with peers who seemed to “get” it when I never could...who had to fake confidence until it seemed so real that top colleges believed it…Hearst believed it…even I believed it. And a bow to the learned confidence that took me so far in life! Thank you, Confidence. I’m going to sit with what’s beneath you today. I need to hold what’s beneath you…and that is uncertainty and fear. I have no idea what kind of future waits for a writer who is afraid of words. So today I’m resting in this space of, “I don’t know.” Not sure if you’ve ever been there yourself.

Sending love and care your way, 24/7, as always at [email protected].

xo atoosa

The Soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️:

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Hey,

I just got home from the Pride parade in Manhattan. 🏳️‍🌈 I have to say, it’s hard not to feel joyful and connected after a gathering like that. To me, it felt like soul medicine…good timing after the Supreme Court decision this week. As I read, like you, various responses on social media, one posting stopped me dead in my tracks.

To me, this felt over the line. Not because I don’t think the intel is legitimate. Let’s pretend it’s true. I mean…I’ve had three abortions and I just kind of assume many other people have had one, too. It’s not something I consider scandalous. But I do consider it private health information. Not political click-bait…no matter who the person is. She is not in office. Yes, her father was and is a lightning rod whose choices have put us here. And yes, she was involved in a lot of his bullshit maneuverings. But where is our humanity? We are quick to point out the other side’s depravity but this, to me, felt like an impulsive angry response that doesn’t in any way further the pro-choice movement but merely stoops to a very low EQ level. How will the revelation of Ivanka’s private information in any way move the needle forward for women? To me, it moved it back.

Rather than this type of hand to mouth response when we are under threat, how can we regularly feed what we actually want in life? We’re so busy responding to what we don’t like in the world. Are we, everyday, nurturing what we do want to see? Have very many of us thought and acted to protect a women’s right to choose with regularity day in and day out over the years? The same way we brush our teeth? The way many people pamper their dogs? Some people go to Soul Cycle every day. My teacher, Frances Weller, says devotion has the capacity to the stop the world. But it has to be a practice. We can’t just vomit angry words in fits and starts when we feel threatened. That is not useful. It’s like people who meditate once a month or when they feel stressed. Very nice. Totally useless. Meditation “works” when you do it every single day. Devotion means Every. Single. Day.

The question is: What are we devoted to?

I’ll never forget a hilarious line from the first season of Real Housewives of NJ delivered flawlessly by Caroline Manzo: “You hang out with trash, you start to smell like garbage.” Sorry – I just love that quote. But I’m sure you’ve said or experienced some version of this in your life, right?  What we’re devoted to, who we spend time with impacts our frequency. Some small examples: My husband and I fueled each other’s ambition. The boyfriend before was the kind of guy who would quit his job by not showing up one day. I, during that time, also would call in sick from work when we were fighting. We know this about human nature, it’s why our parents didn’t want us hanging out with certain people. This is not new information.

But this is the piece I want to sit with today: The frequency we’re all tuning into most today…the thing that has our devotion? Electronics: Our phones, laptops, computers. I don’t know all of what that’s doing to us. But when I think of that Tweet about Ivanka, I feel the author was synched to…Twitter…to technology…certainly not her heart because our hearts are big enough to hold complexity like how our friend may have had an abortion AND her father could be responsible for so many others not being able to have one. On a personal level, I know for sure I’m synched up with the apps I use more than the people that motivate me. And I don’t mean motivational speakers. I mean motivational people.

Yes, we have people we work with. Yes, we have other moms at school. Yes, we have our neighbors. But we need to get together in person with other people who match our vibe to talk real talk. To create real community. Not just likes, emojis, or follows. Not just being shouted at or talked to when we visit their social media. Real two-way conversation.

That’s why I’m excited about our Coven gathering this coming Thursday at my apartment. We have an interesting mosaic of women coming. I can open up next Thursday, July 7th 6-8pm as well. Respond to this email if you want to join on the 7th.

I have no idea or expectation for what may come out of these meetings. But I know for sure we need to start doing it. And even outside of me: Please start meeting together. Set up a salon at your home once a week, once a month, whatever works. The world is not changing in our favor but rather than getting stirred up on social media, let’s be more devotional about our community. It’s got to start somewhere. In the words of my fellow Barnard College graduate Margaret Mead, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” Or…as Fergie said, Let’s Get It Started. Meeting at Atoosa’s place, RSVP at [email protected].

xo, atoosa

Soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️:

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Hey,

One of my favorite things to do when I was an Editor was getting in trouble. I mean, I must have loved it on some level, right? Because I never tried to avoid it. But in all honesty, I never set out to get in trouble, I just got really into whatever I was doing and often ruffled some feathers in the process. Kinda like those puppies we see on IG with the big innocent eyes surrounded by something they totally wrecked.

I’ve told you about my last kerfuffle. It was when we ran pictures of vaginas in our Vagina 101 piece in Seventeen. Apparently, in October 2005, this was a big no-no. 😇 But I had always wondered if I would have been silent about getting sexually abused if I had been more empowered about my body…if I didn’t have shame about my womanhood. I’ve said before that it wasn’t until this piece that I (in my mid-30s!) learned that what I was calling my vagina was actually my vulva. Today, my own children when they’re feeling extra silly may greet me with, “How’s your labia minora?” So yes, times have changed. We got pulled off newsstands at more conservative places like Walmart and Albertson’s and our publisher was livid because I guess vag pictures weren’t what advertisers wanted to see in Seventeen. If Awkwafina had debuted “My Vag” back then, I suspect I would’ve been all over it. But alas our vag moment was four years earlier. My boss, then-President of Hearst, Cathie Black, a baller and true feminist called Walmart and publicly stood by my editorial choice to run the pictures. But I remember after that phone call (which I guess was rough) her message to me was something like, “Maybe a heads-up next time?”😬

Today influencers are creating the content once curated by women’s magazines.

As content has become democratized every person’s voice has the potential to be as important as the biggest publications in the world once were, right? In fact, many are bigger. There was a time that if you wanted to speak to women, you needed to be in Cosmopolitan. If you wanted to speak to teens, Seventeen. A broad general audience? People was the one. Today, a single social media post can reach all those audiences combined in a matter of hours. My personal pet peeve is that it gives huge platforms to people who are just unimpressive. In lieu of better content, smart people follow…I don’t know…Addison Rae! I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an asshole, but someone has to say it. I would love to read say…Katie Rosman from the New York Times do a profile about Addison Rae. (Okay, maybe not Addison Rae. I’m not sure why she’s on my mind today. Let’s replace her with Hailey Bieber. I kind of can’t get enough of Hailey Bieber…perhaps because there’s not much there and she leaves me hungry, but I’d love someone smart to dissect her for me!) But instead of reading juicy articles like we used to, we’re mindlessly scrolling because there’s such little quality female-centric content available.

I like my celebrities in one bucket and my content creators in another one. And I’m okay with (some) influencers being the new editors: Fashion Editors, Beauty Editors, Relationship Editors, and so on. But they are not Editors-in-Chief. Influencers need to be curated, too. When I was a Fashion Editor, I was a better Fashion Editor because of my Fashion Director…because of our Editor-in-Chief. It takes a strong collective to make great content. We have lost that.

This enviornment also gives power to audiences to silence voices they don’t like.

For instance, I have trans friends and advocates I look up to. I have so much respect for the hard path they have walked and are continuing to walk. However, here’s something you can’t say publicly without being called transphobic: I am not sure that asking children in kindergarten to choose their pronouns is the right thing. I am not sure. I am not sure that tweens and younger teens can make big choices about identity. I am just not sure. I say this with all seriousness: If given the choice to change my pronoun at age 8, I would have certainly changed to He/Him. I would have. I know this. I used to tell my mom repeatedly: I am not a girl. I felt strongly identified with my male identity until I was in my mid-teens. But I’m glad I didn’t have to make such a big choice for myself at a very young age.  It feels like an adult decision with years of therapeutic support to me.

But this isn’t about trans kids. This is about how in today’s media climate in an absence of more balanced and experienced guardians of content, social media takes on a mob persona that makes it impossible for people to have different views and express them in the spirit of important societal dialogue. Cathie Black would have never been able to stand up for my editorial choice today. There’s no room for shades of gray. For curiosity. For the questions. You can imagine that the Seventeen or Teen People of the early aughts would have had had two essays written by teens on both sides of the debate. There would have been top experts giving advice and information. The Editors would have been making space for the questions…not just opinions.

Bottom line for many different reasons, we need more curated sources for content – particularly for teen and women’s interests.

A few months ago, I said I would put together an IRL meeting at my place, and we had a lot of interest but I got really mired in the planning of it. I totally dropped the ball trying to make schedules work. (And a special thanks to Mike Fazioli, a former Hearst Managing Editor, who worked hard to help me organize the scheduling, but I was as much of a pain in the ass to him as I was to all the Managing Editors I’ve annoyed over the years.)

So let’s start over:

June 30th, 6-8pm. My place. (I live in Manhattan).

I’m okay if one person shows up. I’m okay if no one shows up. I’m okay if we have a room full of women who don’t know where to start. I just want to be in community regularly trying to figure some of this out. If there’s an appetite, we can shoot for every Thursday. If you’re available, just respond to this email and I will send you the address. There is so much more balance and power in collective. That is what I miss most about working in the magazine world. I wonder what it would look like if we looked at content today from the ground up without needing to hit any numbers. No fear. No algorithms. Just joy and the desire to connect, learn and include others in the conversation. Oh, and let’s get in trouble…obv.

I’m here 24/7, as always at [email protected].

xo atoosa

Soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️:

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com

Hey,

Something happened at my TEDx Asbury Park talk a few weeks ago.

Before the actual event, we did a quick run through of the whole program and I learned that the whole cast (all the speakers) would go back on stage at the end and sing a musical number about Joy with a group of performers. The idea was that we would be holding hands, clapping and singing lyrics like, “This joy I have, the world didn’t give it to me. The world didn’t give it, the world can’t take it away.” It was a beautiful song and they had a wonderful lead singer. And forgive me if this is right up your alley but for me doing this type of thing on stage is the equivalent of dying a thousand deaths. I can do my thing anywhere, no problem. But singing and holding hands?

I was like…Yeah…no. I don’t fucking think so.

I waited until after the run through and explained that I wouldn’t be participating in the finale. My Ted point person kind of laughed and was like, Everybody’s doing it! Even so-and-so celebrity chef! I was very nice about it all, but I didn’t budge from my position. I’m not doing it. No way. No how. No chance. Not my jam. And honestly? I felt proud of myself for standing up for my inner child.

I gave my talk, it went great. And so I sat in the audience to watch the second set of speakers.

Out came Edafe Okporo, author of the upcoming book Asylum. Edafe is a Nigerian refugee. He spoke about feeling Othered. Nigeria had criminalized homosexuality with up to 14 years imprisonment…Edafe was outed, beaten and humiliated. He came to the US as a refugee. He spoke about being othered in Nigeria because he was a gay man…being othered in America because he was a refugee…being othered in the black community because he’s African…being othered in the LGBTQ community because he’s a refugee. It was one of the most painful yet beautiful and inspiring talks about belonging and finding home that I’d ever heard.

But I’m not just sharing this because he is incredible (which he is!).

This talk penetrated me viscerally in the moment. I realized that the reason I didn’t want to do the group activity was I was Othering myself before someone else had a chance to do it. I also grew up Othered as an Iranian immigrant. My family would get chased by a group of teenagers with sticks when we first moved to America. I was othered for being Muslim. Even when I was at the height of my career, I was othered by Gawker for being successful. And not just Gawker, Jane Pratt, my hero at the time publicly made a statement about how she was younger than me when she became Editor-in-Chief of Sassy at 24 because some news outlet said I was the youngest ever Editor-in-Chief. Other Sassy Editors went on record for a book about Sassy’s history saying how desperate I was to work there in college (true) and made me sound like a big dork. (True, yes. I was. But publicly? In a book? Who does that?) I’d been othered my whole life – not as horrifically as Edafe, but it was a wounding for me. And by avoiding new group settings, I was othering myself before anyone else had a chance to do it. As the following speakers came on, honestly? I didn’t hear a word they said. I was just replaying the different strategies I’d come up with to avoid feeling Othered. It was truly a revelation. I told myself, “Atoosa, next time, you’ll make a different decision. A braver decision.”

Just then one of the Ted people found me in the audience to tell me it was time for the song performance. She hadn’t gotten the memo that I was a hard no. In that moment, I realized this is next time. I got my opportunity to make a different decision. And I went. I went.

I sang the song. Held hands. Awkwardly clapped. The whole nine yards.

Was I horrified? Hmm…well….it wasn’t my most comfortable experience. But I stuck my proverbial paw out from under the couch. I became part of the group and took several big steps outside my comfort zone. And most importantly, I felt so proud that I course-corrected in the moment. I credit meditation with my ability to be present enough to really hear Edafe’s powerful message and gear shift in real time. That felt big for me. I wouldn’t have been able to do that just six months ago.

And the progress doesn’t end in Asbury Park!

Yesterday, as you may know, Planned Parenthood helped organize Bans Off Our Bodies rallies all over the country to protest the Supreme Court leak. None of my friends were available to attend with me…and I had actually never attended a rally ever….and well…we’ve already established how I feel about groups where I don’t know anyone. Add to that, I’m not a yeller or hooting and hollering type. I was feeling all the feels I felt at the TEDx conference. But I did a 40-minute meditation, put on my favorite new jeans and reminded myself I could always leave if it was too uncomfortable.

And off I went to the rally!

I bee-lined all the way to the back and stood on my own. I told a woman next to me I had never been to a rally before and I was feeling a little anxious. The lovely organizer of the event, poetically named Joy (I swear! I couldn’t make that up!), came over and gave me a very warm welcome and draped a fun pink necklace around me. Another person came and gave me bubbles. And…I blew bubbles! That felt like something I could do. And little by little, I started woo-ing…maybe not as loud as the others. But slowly I melted and relaxed into belonging and before I knew it, it was 2pm and the protest was over. I did it and I even made a new kick-ass friend (Hi Jennifer!) in the process! We chatted about my opinion about the importance of overcoming shame to tell our abortion stories so that our side comes out of the shadows. Women who exercise their right to choose don’t belong in the shadows. And neither do I. Neither do I.

Thank you for co-creating this space of belonging with me. One day, we will have more comments in the comment section!!!! I know it!! But as the girl who was tucked in at the back of the rally yesterday, I also understand that it can be scary to put your voice out there. But still, I wonder - where do you feel the most belonging? Leave a comment!

Whether you comment or not, I’m here for you, 24/7, as always at [email protected].

xo, atoosa

Soundtrack of my 🤍🖤❤️:

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atoosa.substack.com