on being brave


Two weeks after my brother’s death, I did a radio interview. About hospitality.

(In case you were wondering my specific shade of crazy.)

It was a mix of hilarious distraction, certified insanity, and unbridled adrenaline that screamed “the show must go on!”—a cocktail I hoped would bring me back to life.

On the air, I shared a story about what staying in a stranger’s house taught me about welcoming people in. On the inside, I was living in an unrecognizable frame, refusing to let even myself knock on the door. The show shouldn’t have gone on.

I wanted applause and confetti for doing the “hard thing”, for others to believe I was strong and resilient. I guzzled pride and hurt, one after the other, thinking one ought to bring me some kind of refund for my loss. It was far from the kind of brave I wanted to be.

The kind of brave I longed for was cute and whimsical—a damsel with a perfectly-portioned amount of distress and braids that effortlessly flowed down my back. I could let it go.

It was vulnerable and romantic—a woman who loses everything and finds herself in travel and pasta and boyfriends. I could eat, pray, and love.

It was smart and empowered—an inexperienced girl who defeats her doubts hiking miles and miles on the Pacific Crest Trail. I could be Wild.

It was composed and admirable—write-a-book-about-it, put-a-filter-on-it, people-will-cheer-for this kind of stuff.

I prescribed brave as my own numbing salve and protective shield, but blindly gulped down fear instead.

It was then I realized—these characters who’d taught me about being brave? I’d stayed with them. I’d committed to their stories at page 1 and didn’t leave after page 80. I didn’t stop the movie during the hard parts. I loved them—forgotten maps, bruised knees and all—but I hadn’t given myself the same chance. I’d been willing to sit in their sadness, but ran at the sight of my own.

Running away was comfortable. I craved plane tickets, hiking boots, and magic spells, thinking they would be my shortcut to bravery. But bravery is the daily doing of facing brokenness, and I wasn’t even close.

If that’s what brave looks like, brave for me, right now, isn’t moving or leaving or changing—it’s staying. Staying with myself, page by page, story by story, day by day.

It’s staying in a painful place, sitting with my grieving thoughts, allowing the tears to come when they want to. It’s promising to stay, even on page 80 and through the hard parts, to see them for what they are and hold them up to the light. It’s committing to loving the girl who may not be able to keep it together or let it go, who forgets how to pray and hides from love, who feels more trapped than wild.

Brave right now is learning to receive the grace I’ve been refusing.

And, as it turns out, being brave right now isn’t really the point.

Orlando: When Tragedy Is Greater Than 140 Characters

photo-1460132011327-1bcd44f7ae20It’s called rubbernecking, apparently.

Sitting in my stalled car in the middle lane of I-40 during Nashville rush hour, I couldn’t have cared less what the proper term was, but I certainly felt it.

The drivers behind me, with a gaze piercing my blinking hazard lights and a judgment ringing clear as they slowly moved past, turned their necks to gawk at my situation, one by one by one hundred.

Moments before, I’d been one of them, screaming traffic jam frustrations to the unforgiving radio “Rush Hour Report.” And then, without warning or engine light, I became the holdup.

I can only imagine what kind of things were whispered or yelled in the cars around me:

“I’m so glad that’s not us!”
“Seriously? Doesn’t she know how to fill a gas tank?”
“Ugh! I’m going to be late to dinner again.”
“This is why we don’t buy Jeeps.”
“She looks terrified. Someone should help her.”
“Nashville highways are the worst. I hate living here.”
“We’re going to miss The Bachelor!” (SO MUCH empathy here. Let’s be honest, I’m totally trying to bootleg the rose ceremony on my phone while waiting for the tow truck.)

Thankfully, those comments were sealed behind fastened seatbelts and sealed windows, and the only words I remember from that night were from those there to help me—my roommate, the policemen, the tow truck guy. Everything turned out okay in the end, but I’m afraid this outcome is becoming more and more rare.

Sure, we all mostly still travel along highways tightening our seatbelts behind closed windows, but do we use the same restraints when we click around online?

Social media is a vehicle that fills one of our deepest human longings—to be seen, heard, and connected. We hide behind the safety of instant affirmation and wild anonymity, pressing publish and arranging feeds to ensure our significance. We forget the pain of our followers in an attempt to numb our own wounds.

A few years ago, I was stuck in the middle of a different difficulty—the loss of my brother. It was sudden, shocking, and public, exposing wounds that needed to be seen, heard, and connected.

And so, a few weeks after the accident, I found that my own wounds had the same needs, and I turned, terrified, to the internet. The pile of posts was overwhelming—tributes and headlines, photos and stories, some informed, many not-so, some from friends, many from strangers.

Overall, like my highway rescue, the ones that rose to the top were helpful, but I’m not so sure its authors knew they were in a windows-down, seatbelt-less vehicle. Most of them probably didn’t know I would read it at all. Rubbernecking, apparently.

I don’t tell this story to bring mine back into the spotlight or compare it whatsoever, but I ache for the brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers of the Orlando shooting victims or any other tragic situation in the public eye who will make their return to the internet in their own time.

Let’s ask ourselves, what will they find?
Will it be kind? Will it be true? Will it be necessary?*
Will they feel seen, heard, and connected?
What will rise to the top?

Let’s expose our rubber necks for what they really are—broken hearts.
Friends, it’s okay to talk about your wounds, your fears, your confusion. Grieve in community.
Leave space for others to do so, too.

May social media be an extension of our empathy and a bridge to our unity.
May those affected only feel seen, heard, connected, and may help rise to the top.

Lord, have mercy. May Your grace go before and follow behind our faulty words. Let love be the loudest.

*paraphrased from Socrates


There was a time in my life when strep throat was the worst case scenario. I was a six year old girl who adored school and hated doctors, especially doctors who wanted to steal me away from darling Ramona Quimby, Age 8 to ram oversized q-tips down my throat.

My brother, the smart whipper-snapper he was, also dreaded strep throat. For him, it was the antibiotics. Can I pause for a moment to tell you that this boy also possessed a gift from the metabolic Gods in that he did not enjoy SWEETS? Ahem.

So, when presented with liquid torture also known as children’s antibiotics, lured with flavors of “pink bubblegum!” and “strawberry milkshake!,” the candied disguise he hated anyway, we cried in unison for sweet Ramona Quimby to rescue us.

One winter night, the situation was especially bleak. Four-year-old, strep-throat-diagnosed Kendall resisted the prescribed medicine like a champ, pulling out just the right amount of tears and kicks to send our family’s dinnertime peace into an immediate nosedive. A professional, I tell you.

“You’ll love the pink bubblegum!,” my parents pleaded.
“Your favorite—strawberry milkshake!,” they lied.

He needed backup. Enter six-year-old sister to the rescue. I jumped into the middle of the spat, motioning for Kendall to climb on my back. Piggybacked and void of socks, jackets or plans, I opened the door and whispered “We’re running away. I won’t let them get you.”

Now, when I wake up and see there’s no one to carry on my back, I worry I broke this promise. 

At worst, I wonder if my fear of losing my brother spoke it into existence.
At best, I hate I wasn’t there to wedge myself between him and the pain.

Yet, each time I rehearse these thoughts, I come face to face with someone who’s still here.
It’s her.

The six year old girl who adored school and hated doctors.
The one who thought strep throat was the worst.

The six year old girl who adored her brother and hated his pain.
The one who knew losing him would be the real worst.
Her name is sister.  

Sister hides in the wings. I’m not sure she knows the story has been rewritten; her role excluded. I’m too scared to break the news of her brother’s death, and consequently, her own.

She’s waiting with her knees bent, ready for someone to hop on her back. She doesn’t know any other stance.

I won’t get rid of her, but can’t distract her for much longer.

“Pink bubblegum!” “Strawberry milkshake!”, I attempt, to no effect.

She’s on to me. Her hands are empty, the weight on her back light. I want to give her Ramona. I want to give her someone, but I can’t give her a brother. Sister is uncharacteristically quiet, tiptoeing around, knowing the power she has to break my very days in half. She misses him.

It’s then I realize I’ve spent so much time protecting her, that I’ve forgotten to mention I really miss her, too. 


photo-1453372723567-aab945d195b8Last year, February was a deep sigh of relief.
Overnight, time leaped from the 28th to March 1st, which felt like an intentional kindness from the clock.

You see, each month since September 29, 2014, the 29th has marked another month of missing my brother. 

Seventeen times, I’ve filled the day with distractions, excuses and numbness, staring at the date on my phone and waiting up for the ease that 30 brings.

It’s a useless cycle, really. The numbers are simply a benchmark for the grief marathon I didn’t sign up for; a reminder that the finish line is not near, and maybe doesn’t even exist. But one day each month, my jello-ed legs suggest I may never stop running.

The first time I realized this, I was getting my hair cut. The stylist pumped a bottle of shampoo as I lowered my head into the sink of warm water. Mid-lather, she smacked her gum and searched for a conversation starter, while I prayed it wouldn’t be the question I’d managed to avoid until then.

“Do you have any siblings?” she asked. I stared back at her, wondering if her fingertips had accidentally slipped into my brain through my ears or if she genuinely was well-intentioned and oblivious. I mumbled the response I’d rehearsed and immediately began to cry.

The only thing worse than sobbing in a shampoo bowl was realizing that I am now the kind of person that sobs in a shampoo bowl.

It’s somewhere in this sudsy mess I start to see that I am ashamed of my grief.

I don’t want to be the one who walks out of movie theaters during the previews.
I don’t want to be the one with the most complicated prayer request at Bible study.
I don’t want to be the one who remains quiet at parties to avoid hard questions.

I don’t want to be the one to explain that the emptiness of my loss is the heaviest thing I have to carry.
I don’t want to be the one to tell you that grief says I am both too much and never enough for normalcy.

And honestly, I don’t want to be the one to admit I felt this way before my story even contained grief and I started counting 29’s.

From cropping the unflattering parts of my life out of Instagram pictures to creating a default response of “I’m fine” no matter what, it’s creeped in much more than I noticed.

It wasn’t until I physically couldn’t pretend to be polished that I realized how long I’d been playing the game. I’d spent my life leaping over my imperfections, only pausing when absolutely necessary—which now, is the 29th.

I thought that dusting myself off and standing back up as if nothing had ever happened was the “Christian” thing to do, but now I’m realizing Jesus never did that. When I read that Jesus walks through weeping instead of around it and turns mourning into gladness instead of sustaining a strong persona, I see that sorrow and joy are equally important and necessary. And in the midst of them, He never asks us to stop being human.

Just as nighttime is half of the story, it’s okay for darkness to be an acknowledged part of ours.

So although this February 29th seems like a cruel addition to the 2016 calendar, I’m choosing to stand knee-deep in its purpose, allowing myself to stop running from the darkness. Maybe you can do the same?

Let us give ourselves permission to see our stories less as something forced upon us and more as hope displayed through us. May we live true stories today and always.

Cheering you on always,


a good friend’s guide to grief


Hey friends, hey! So excited you’re here. A question I’ve been getting a lot recently is “How do I love my friend who is grieving?” and I LOVE THAT. Please keep seeking the answer to that question! My answer is usually “A.) You’re a great friend! and B.) Keep being that friend!” but I want to give it a little more thought here because the people in my corner mean the world to me—and have been the best examples of love!—, and I think simple misunderstanding is the only difference between someone feeling lonely or loved in their grief. While this is only based on my personal experience with losing my brother, I hope it helps you feel prepared when your friends lose someone they love. Here goes: 

If there’s one thing I learned in college, it’s how to kill a cockroach.

I had a different set of roommates each year at South Carolina, which meant every living situation brought its own opinions of how to deal with the crawly pests that appeared everywhere. The bugs must have assumed that since USC cheered for the cocks, they must also appreciate the roach variety. They were wrong.

My roommates’ reactions to the bugs could be separated into 2 distinct categories:

The screamers—It was only the most blissful fate that lead me to these sweet screechers who’d drop coffee mugs, slam doors closed and break ear drums at any sight of a creepy crawler.

The killers—The category of first responders of which I am a proud member. We see the bugs less as vicious threats and more as problems to be solved.

But recently, I’ve noticed we all split into the same categories when other hard, uninvited circumstances crawl in. When grief found its way through my floorboard cracks, I experienced the same two distinct gut reactions from others: screaming and running away, or staying and trying to fix it. Both responses have the same motivation: to relieve discomfort, either by removing yourself or its cause.

That’s the thing about grief—you cannot heal the wound or relieve the discomfort. 

If that’s true, we’re just left with the “removal” part of the friendship offering, usually presenting itself as a buddy with a quick exit and not enough to say, or a pal with a cure-all and painful advice to distribute. Both are hurtful and damaging to relationships, so we’re going to say goodbye to those, okay?

Here’s where I’m not going to give you a list of do’s and don’ts, because there aren’t any that are true in every situation. But what we can do is revisit our motivation.

What would happen if you knew you couldn’t kill the cockroaches?
What if you knew that they couldn’t kill you? 

Your life would probably be pretty weird at first, and you’d have to get used to the uninvited creepy crawlies, but after a while, it would feel pretty normal. You’d learn to live amongst them and they’d start to feel less creepy.

Remove the pressure to fix your friend.
Relax the fear of things never being the same.
Show up in the midst of the uncomfortable.
Don’t scream in horror, don’t suggest a remedy; Just be willing to sit.

My girl Shauna Niequist communicates this scenario beautifully in her book Cold Tangerines. Wanting to have a baby, she wrote in a blog post that if she found out she wasn’t pregnant one more time, she would break glass, just to feel it shatter.

The next week, she had lunch to celebrate a girlfriend’s good news—pregnancy.

Shauna hoped the friend hadn’t seen the blog post, filled with jealous and frustrated words about the very thing her friend had and she didn’t. Her friend showed up to lunch with safety goggles.

“When you feel like shattering something, I’ll be right there with you.  I’ll help you break it, and I’ll help you clean it up.” She said, “You’ve been celebrating with me, and I’ll be here to grieve with you. We can do this together.”

Do that. Be the friend who brings the safety goggles or doesn’t mind stepping around the cockroaches.

Don’t love your friend because they are grieving; love them because they are your friend. 

Celebrate and grieve, and do it all together. You’re a great friend. Keep being that friend.


photo-1428947828962-3ad251e1571bThe air was stiff, our pace slow, my words silent.

I looked down, realizing I had no memory of putting on my sneakers before leaving the house.

Somehow, my laces were perfectly tied the same way I’d knotted them for every other neighborhood walk. Then, I saw them: bare ankles, exposing the fog that filled my thoughts.

It was the first time I’d felt strong enough to leave the house since receiving the news, and only for a quick walk up and down the street. A few family members decided to join, needing a break from the home that kept warm hundreds of grief casseroles.

A car passed us without fanfare, followed by a local news truck. They reached the end of the street, both shining red brake lights in unison before stopping in front of a house. Ours.

We were those people, the ones you hope to never be.
Our devastating loss had become someone else’s breaking news.

At 6 o’clock that night, I collapsed on the bathroom floor, plugging my ears, failing to drown out the TV playing in the next room.

The familiar voices of neighbors, teachers and friends told the story of my brother’s life and sudden deaththe story I’d be retelling for the rest of my own life.

I’d spent four years studying journalism and I knew the criteria for highlight reels and front page stories. It wasn’t a category I wanted to find myself in, yet the full-page cover spread of my brother’s face confirmed our tragic circumstance.

I was haunted by the words Kendall wrote in response to the death of Robin Williams, just a month before his own passing:

“How will the world react when I die? Will my face be on the news? Will people say it was a terrible occurrence? What will they remember about me?”

As I watched the answers to the first three questions somberly unveil themselves, I couldn’t help but wonder about the fourth.

Before my own story became a headline, I’d find myself turning off the TV during the stories of terrible occurrences. I’d attach to their drama, create unnecessary fear in my own life, then be thankful the freak accident didn’t happen to my loved one, and never hear about it again.

This story won’t play out like the tragedies you’re used to.

A few weeks ago, I had the privilege of visiting Norcross High School in Atlanta to work on an amazing project inspired by Kendall himself. The Good Turn Initiative is a program designed to help high schoolers live with intentionality in their academic, personal and professional lives. In true Kendall fashion, each student will create their own mission statement and participate in “good turns daily,” pushing them to see beyond their routines and into the creation of a lasting legacy.

While there, I was put in front of a camera to tell Kendall’s story, but this time was very different.

I recalled the mornings my brother and I dragged our feet into the high school doors as the late bell rang. What came out next wasn’t perfect, but I think it’s exactly what Kendall would have said to inspire little teenage Kait and Ken.

And then I gushed. I thought about all of the students who would be watching the video, explaining how much they would have loved Kendall (and how much cooler he was than I), and really truly feeling how much Kendall would have loved them.

It wasn’t newsworthy and it definitely won’t meet the criteria for a front page story, but if Kendall were still here, that’s exactly how he would be spending his days—inspiring others while developing himself.

As for me, this is the story I’ll spend my life telling: the one about my incredible little brother who continues to change the world. And I’m pretty sure nothing about that is tragic.

*Author’s Note: Since this post was published, the beautiful city of Paris faced its own tragedy. It only feels appropriate to acknowledge their own hurt and loss in this post, not to compare my personal story to theirs, but to collectively pose the question of how we can rally around those suffering in and through their tragic story. Thank goodness suffering is not the end. Jesus, be near. 

a big announcement!

GoodTurnYou guys, I have a not-so-secret confession to make: I’m still the most overprotective sister I know. In the Wernet family video archives, I can be seen time and time again, demanding that my brother “SING!”, or “Be nice to the cat!”, or “Let me do it!”.

Although my voice is (thankfully) less mysteriously Southern and deep, I’m finding that I’m just as bossy and loud as I used to be.

Kendall had the same genes of determination, but he was much more generous and kind with his ambition. You could say he was an overprotective brother to me, but I’m slowly learning I wasn’t the only one. He adopted so many of you as siblings, looking out for our best interest and pushing us further than we could go by ourselves. It’s a true privilege to watch you share how Kendall shaped your story, and I can clearly picture his humble smile forming in response.

A month before his heaven day, I moved to a brand-new city full of strangers, taking a job not many people in my circle supported. In the weeks leading up to this decision, Kendall was my truest cheerleader, staying up night after night helping me make pro/con lists and listening to my endless worried sighs. After I accepted an offer, I was relieved and ready to celebrate when he told me my work was just beginning.

“Okay Kait, so now that you’ve got the job, what’s your new goal?”

It’s been over a year since we had that conversation, and I’m missing my brother more than ever. But when I think about what he’d be saying to me today, it’s something very similar to before: “What’s next?”

In that spirit, I’m thrilled to finally announce an opportunity we have to join together in memory of Kendall.

I’ve spent the past year being my usual overprotective self looking for the best way to steward my brother’s legacy in a way that he would be proud of. My parents and I wanted to create something intentional, long-lasting and well-researched, and, well friends, I’m excited to announce the establishment of the Kendall Alexander Wernet Community Foundation.

What does this mean? You guys, in true Kendall-style, we’re going to “do good turns daily” LIKE CRAZY through the creation of grants and scholarships.

A community foundation allows us to specify a variety of recipient causes over time, keeping in step with Kendall’s multi-passioned, well-rounded spirit. However, there will be one common thread: each cause will be chosen based on alignment with Kendall’s mission:

 “To lift up and encourage those around me and to develop them as I develop myself. I will capture greatness and succeed through passion in order to please those around me and ultimately achieve a paradise known as heaven.” 

With your generous donations, prayers and pep-talks,  we look forward to “doing good turns daily” in the areas he loved most, including music, education, entrepreneurship, community improvement and helping those in need.

All of the details can be found at KendallWernetLegacyFund.com.

And because I know we’re already ridiculously in this together, THANK YOU. We look forward to updating you on all of the incredible things made possible with your help!

when it’s okay to feel small

282540_SimplyTuesdayFreeman_pinsI’m not a fan of grief books. Not yet, at least.

Honestly, I’d prefer to pawn the bereavement library I’ve accumulated off on all of my friends and loved ones-the people who know but don’t understand. It would save me a lot of explaining.

I’d assume prisoners probably aren’t eager to read books about jail cells.
They certainly don’t need a guide to point out the stark white walls and fluorescent lighting.
I’m not sure I want a stranger to highlight the dark framework and dusty corners of my grief.

In an effort to preserve my upmost affection for reading, my book list backflipped favorably in the humor section. That’s right, for the past several months, I’ve been devouring words from Tina Fey,  Amy Poehler and Mindy Kaling. I was quite literally kidding myself, but it was fun while it lasted.

Enter the best non-grief-book-for-grief-and-other-overall-reading-enjoyment:

Simply Tuesday, by Emily Freeman.

If you want to see me melt into a fangirl in half a second, ask me about Emily. I stalked met her at a writing conference a few years ago, which sounds way too casual for my brain to even bear. The truth is I was an intern for the organization putting on the conference, bribed my fellow interns to cover my morning responsibilities and snuck down to a breakfast table where Emily was meeting some of her readers. There, instead of signing books and kissing babies, Emily circled the group together and asked us to share with one another. She looked to her left at the shy intern girl (me, because fangirl) and asked me to answer the question:

In this moment, where are you? 

Babble fell from my mouth before I could even recognize it as words. I looked at the circle of older, wiser, real-life writers, and responded:

I feel so small. 

And ever-so-gracious Emily celebrated with me. As the other women responded around the circle, I watched the significance of taking a moment to feel still and small. I’m still great friends with many of the writers in that circle, and they continue to be some of the loudest cheerleaders on my team.

You may know Emily from her blog Chatting At The Sky, her books Grace For The Good Girl and A Million Little Ways, or just from my straight-up heart-eyed recommendation. Her newest work, Simply Tuesday, is so beautifully composed that I won’t cheapen it with a summary, but I will tell you this: this book is a deep gulp of air for your weary, hurried, grieving, wherever-you-are today soul.

You in? I thought so. You’re super in luck because the book releases TODAY and you can find it here. (Tuesday? Genius). Brb too busy letting my soul breathe.



*I was chosen to be a member of Emily Freeman’s launch team and given a free copy of Simply Tuesday in exchange for my honest review. I’ve already ordered eleventy billion copies for my family and friends, so sorry if that spoils your Christmas present joy.* 

kendall sky

IMG_4203Our first night without Kendall, hours after he went to heaven, my dad and I sat in the car, breathing in stiff silence. We were going to the Asheville airport, dropping off the friend who, selflessly and without hesitation, let go of her plans in Nashville to hand deliver a stunned sister to her hometown.

I was scared to let my friend go, realizing I was losing the last excuse to stuff my despair. I didn’t want to stay, but I knew I couldn’t leave. The home I grew up in felt oddly unsafe and everyone’s sudden use of past-tense verbs made me livid. “He was, he did, he would have, he loved.” 

As the tires rolled past Moe’s, Target and our local gas station, I tried to absorb the normalcy they once radiated, but felt nothing. A plane took off in the distance, as the curves in the road began to shift and we approached the terminal. As we rounded the bend our eyes meet the sky and then, immediately, each others’.

We saw the pink streaks and knew. 

But even now as I recall the encounter, I’m not exactly sure what we knew. Previously, I’ve always kind of secretly become uncomfortable when others try to pinpoint something as a sign from a lost loved one, and I promised myself I’d never be “that” girl. I don’t know if that hot pink horizon was from Kendall or God, or honestly if it was intentional or meaningful, but I do know that it was enough. Just for that second, it was enough to help me take my next breath.

And so when I started sharing some of my thoughts about grief publicly and people asked more about my faith, I shared the story of Kendall Sky. If I’m being a truth teller here (and I want to be!), the story began as a way to neatly avoid or disguise the status of my messy relationship with God. But as I told the story over and over again, I realized He is using the story to draw me to Himself.

When tragedy hits, I think all of us huddled in faith want to believe that God will shield us from the pain, revealing a detail that will make everything make sense and work out in our favor. I immediately wanted to be the poster-child of faith, activating my Sunday School memory verses to safeguard my heart from the pain. I thought I needed a different God from the One I had before my loss: one who was bolder and braver with an upgraded shield and shelter. I was wrong.

I was too busy looking for a numbing savior to see my real need for a nearby savior. 

I find myself clamoring for big signs and logical explanations in prayer, and I haven’t gotten them. But what I do find in the small, simple moments is Immanuel: God with me, just as He promised. The more I look for and rely upon His presence, the more I feel His closeness. (Seriously, guys. I would not put myself in a position of being “that cliche Christian girl” if it wasn’t so shockingly and comfortingly true.) 

Since the first Kendall Sky, it has been my companion in different cities, on hard days, and via text messages from friends. I’ve learned to anticipate its reliable and consistent appearance by simply looking in the same place each day. Now, I see that God is the same way: reliable, consistent, and always close by. Maybe one day I’ll be able to muster a deep explanation for what I know about God, but for now, breath by breath, I know that He is enough.

And I think I’ll keep looking up.

what I’m loving lately

11230431_390934114432436_662734505_nThe notes I keep in my iPhone are borderline batty for a few reasons.

First of all, let’s start with my baby name list. You guys, it’s embarrassing. If you found my phone abandoned on a shelf in J. Crew, you’d turn to the nearest pregnant woman, assuming she dropped her phone in the midst of consoling a crying toddler or carrying a diaper bag.

No, just a 20-something unable to juggle an Auntie Anne’s pretzel and her phone at the same time. You’re welcome, future children.

Then, it’s a collection of favorite words, books to read, restaurants to visit, office ChickFilA orders and car wreck contact information. PS: iPhone notes don’t count as official documents, just so ya know. *insert cry-laughing/concerned-for-my-future face”

But somewhere in the midst of grief and people telling me weird stories of things that comfort them, I made a new list. A pick-me-up list of sorts.
There’s a little more fog in my brain that makes comfort seem distant and harder to recall, so I began recording the tiny, tangible things that cheer me up.

I thought it’d be fun to share a few of those things with you today, and don’t worry, this is probably the only iPhone list of mine that will ever go public!KWPicMonkey Collage

  1. LaraBars: A few people I’ve suggested these to have been turned off by a select few flavors, but I’m here to tell you the secret: chocolate chip cookie dough, key lime pie, lemon bar. Repeat. All week long. Insider tip: microwave the cookie dough bar for 10 seconds=warm cookie. Enough said.
  2. Periwinkle nail polish: I got this color a few weeks ago at the nail salon, and I asked the manicurist a million times if she thought it was a terrible choice. It wasn’t. Moving on.
  3. Have you heard of Darling magazine? Their slogan is “the art of being a woman,” and I’m positive you’ll love it. The pages are beautifully designed with substantial articles and you’ll want to keep it on your coffee table forever. Bye, US Weekly.
  4. Acai bowls: When you learn to say acai, (ah-sah-ee), you’ll want to eat them all the time and use all the puns. (I can’t wait to acai you again. On board?) Basically a smoothie you can eat with a spoon and cover in healthy toppings, this is the definition of healthy comfort food. I get mine locally from Franklin Juice or make my own using these.  Did you notice in the picture up top that I’m holding an acai bowl with my periwinkle nails? Oops.
  5. Up2 By Jawbone: I wrote a post for She Reads Truth about our cutthroat office competitions with these fitness bands, and I’m still loving accountability wrapped around my wrist. I’m always up for a challenge, so 10,000 steps a day? Let’s do this. This little guy can also track your sleep, food, mood and initiate personal or team goals. I’ve been going on walks after work each day and it makes such a difference. And, I get to see my small changes add up. #obsessed

What are some things on your pick-me-up list? Do you have suggestions for mine? I’d love to know!