Dear Mom…

I wish I hadn’t been such an asshole when I was younger.

I wish I had known how precious our time was and realized how lucky I was to have you as a Mom so much sooner than I did.

I’m so sorry that I screamed ‘I hate you’ at you when I was 10 years old. And 12 years old. And 15 years old. And probably fifty-dozen other times. I never really hated you.

I’m sorry I used to sit outside your bedroom door after a fight, knocking and crying incessantly and not giving you the space…


I spend a lot of time writing about my struggles

…about the myriad of tough life moments I’ve had over the years…

…about the trials and tribulations that I’ve gone through, both due to my own poor decisions and irresponsibility as well as simply being dealt a few shitty cards in an otherwise pretty decent hand.


My Mom has been dead for almost three years.

And if you’ve read any of my personal essay-type pieces, you’re probably sick to death (bad pun?) of hearing about my dead mother.

And how I helped her die.

And how her death has impacted my life.

Etc. Etc. Etc.


“woman in gray dress walking on sand” by Velizar Ivanov on Unsplash

How do you know when it’s time to make a change…?

I’m not talking small changes, like hairstyle or eating habits.

I mean BIG changes — like moving, relationships, careers.

I am obviously exploring this for selfish reasons as I am currently trying to decide what my next step in life is — not career-wise, but…I guess, location-wise.

Even though I am realistically not thriving in my personal life where I currently am, I am not unhappy. In fact, I’m pretty darn happy.

I’m also pretty darn alone.

So, my question is — do I need to move somewhere new…


“river surrounded by tree” by eberhard grossgasteiger on Unsplash

Grandfather’s hands gripped the steering wheel on our ancient, rickety pickup truck, guiding it down the backcountry road towards our family farm. I noticed his hands. They were filled with wrinkles and calluses, tanned and weary from years of hard work.

He had dedicated his life to our family’s peach fields. But despite his best efforts, we were poor. Many night’s spent hungry kind of poor.

Though weathered, his hands still revealed all the strength and dignity that defined Grandpa Yiannis. Glancing down at my own small little boy hands, riddled with dirt and grime, I wondered if one day…


“silver and black laptop computer” by Jay Wennington on Unsplash

I am an idiot.

Last night, I did exactly what I kept telling myself that I wouldn’t do.

Drank too much wine? Nope.

(Welllll…maybe. But what exactly constitutes as too much, anyways? 😂)

Went on a shopping spree? Nope.

(Ha — with what money, by the way? It’d obviously be more like a stealing-spree!)

I bought an e-book about blogging.

I know what you’re thinking, “Ummmm, so?”


When I was 19 years old, I went to a clinic in Tucson to donate plasma — not because I’m such a kind-hearted person who felt a strong desire to give back.

But because I was flat BROKE.


Photo by rawpixel on Unsplash

Blogging is hard.

Okay, the literal act of writing on a blog isn’t hard — but if you’re trying to build a successful blog with a wide readership that brings in money — it’s hard ASF.

Which is why I pretty much just up and vanished from my blog awhile ago.

Margot Carmichael

Writer + Producer | CreativeThinker 💡 | AnimalLover 🐾 | Life+Death+Love❤ | margotcarmichael.org

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