The Emotional Support Hoodie Phenomenon

Every adult owns one hoodie they are emotionally incapable of throwing away.

It’s not the nicest hoodie. Or the newest hoodie. It’s just THE hoodie.

Usually it’s slightly stained, aggressively faded, mysteriously stretched out, and carrying the structural integrity of wet cardboard.

But psychologically? That baby is priceless.

It has survived breakups, illnesses, cold football games, grocery store runs, road trips, emotional spirals, random midnight drives, and at least one era of your life where you genuinely believed a nap might fix everything.

At some point, it stops being clothing and becomes emotional infrastructure.

You don’t even consciously choose it anymore. The second you get home, that hoodie appears on your person like a medically prescribed treatment plan.

Because THE HOODIE isn’t about fashion.

It’s about familiarity.

It smells faintly like your laundry detergent, old memories, winter air, and psychological safety. The sleeves fit exactly right. The hood sits correctly. The pockets are shaped to your hands. Every rip, stretched cuff, and faded logo feels weirdly reassuring.

New hoodies never stand a chance.

You can spend $140 on premium athleisure. Buy an entire stack of trendy sweatshirts. Own fifteen perfectly acceptable jackets.

Doesn’t matter. Your nervous system has already bonded with one ratty emotional support fabric tube from 2011.

And they always have the weirdest origin stories.

A college bookstore purchase.
An ex’s forgotten sweatshirt.
Company apparel from a job you quit six years ago.
A clearance rack panic-buy during an unexpectedly cold vacation.

Nobody ever ordains THE HOODIE. It chooses you.

And the panic when it goes missing? 100% unmatched.

Entire households suddenly mobilize like a search-and-rescue operation. People lift couch cushions. Check cars. Call spouses. And retrace timelines like detectives investigating a disappearance.

“When’s the last time you saw it?”
“Did you leave it at the game?”
“Check the dryer again.”

Because losing THE HOODIE feels less like losing clothing and more like temporarily losing emotional regulation. Scientists probably should study this.

I think as exhausted adults we just start attaching comfort to small, repeatable things because life itself is so mentally loud all the time.

Some people meditate.
Some journal.
Some wake up at 5 a.m. and do breathwork.

Others wear a 14-year-old hoodie while standing barefoot in their kitchen stress-eating shredded cheese directly from the bag.

And, I gotta say, that’s a completely valid survival strategy too.

Why Is Every Local Controversy Secretly About Feeling Unheard?

Every local controversy pretends to be about something practical.

Parking.
Taxes.
Bike paths.
Farmers Markets.
Sidewalks.
School policies.
Whether a parade route moved three feet to the left in 1997.

But if you sit through enough public meetings or scroll Facebook long enough, you realize almost none of these fights are actually about the issue itself.

They’re about people wanting acknowledgment— like dehydrated plants reaching for sunlight.

Because most people can survive a decision they dislike.

What they cannot survive is feeling ignored while somebody says: “Thank you for your comment,” before immediately moving to Agenda Item 7B and discussing mulch at the welcome sign.

Small towns make this way worse because accessibility changes expectations.

In larger cities, people assume government is distant and vaguely robotic.

In small towns? People see officials at church and football games, in line at Casey’s, aggressively inspecting cantaloupes at Fareway.

So when residents feel dismissed, it stops feeling political very quickly. Now it feels personal.

Public meetings have quietly transformed from decision-making bodies into emotional support groups with Robert’s Rules of Order.

People don’t just show up wanting outcomes.

They want acknowledgment, transparency, validation, eye contact.. really just some microscopic indication somebody considered their opinion before the PowerPoint was finalized six months ago.

That’s why tiny issues suddenly detonate into 147-comment Facebook wars.

It’s almost never JUST about the issue.

It’s accumulated frustration.

Feeling excluded.
Feeling managed.
Feeling like “public input” means: “We already decided, but please enjoy this ceremonial microphone.”

Now to be fair: some people absolutely ARE unreasonable.

There are citizens who interpret every inconvenience as the collapse of Western civilization.

A new stop sign goes up and suddenly somebody’s posting three paragraphs about constitutional freedom.

But leadership also dramatically underestimates how much tension disappears when people simply feel informed and respected.

Most residents are actually pretty reasonable when treated like adults.

The problem is that many institutions communicate like hostage negotiators reading from legal disclaimers.

And once people decide nobody’s listening?

Congratulations.

Now Facebook becomes Congress.
Everyone becomes a constitutional scholar.
And Karen from down the street is preparing a 19-slide Canva presentation about drainage infrastructure.

People don’t actually lose their minds over parking. Or taxes. Or the Farmers Market. Or school policy.

They lose their minds when they feel like the decision was made before they ever opened their mouth.

That’s the real accelerant in small-town controversy.

Because once people believe the public discussion is mostly ceremonial, every meeting starts feeling less like government and more like community theater with a consent agenda.

And suddenly the issue itself barely matters anymore.

Now it’s about respect. Access. Transparency. Whether ordinary people still have a seat at the table — or just a three-minute timer at the microphone.

Why Are Men So Emotionally Attached to Their Lawn?

There is no stronger emotional bond than a middle-aged man and his lawn.

Not his marriage. Not his cholesterol medication. Not his dog, nor his children.

The lawn.

A man will stand at the edge of his driveway with his hands on his hips staring at grass like he personally fought for it in Vietnam.

And the craziest part is how wildly disproportionate the emotions are.

Back into his garage and hear, “These things happen.” Or scratch his truck and he’ll say, “Insurance exists.”

But step on his freshly seeded patch of Kentucky bluegrass? Suddenly we’re at DEFCON-1.

Lawn guys operate on a level of delusion and optimism normally reserved for crypto investors and people opening restaurants. Every spring they emerge from hibernation absolutely convinced THIS is the year the lawn becomes legendary.

They buy fertilizer, grass seed, lawn food, weed killer, bug killer, and fungus treatment.. not to mention hoses with more attachments than a hospital bed.

All this so they can create a slightly greener rectangle than Greg across the street.

And don’t even get me started on mowing patterns. Some men mow diagonal lines into their yard like they’re preparing Wrigley Field for nationally televised baseball.

Sir, you live next to a Casey’s.

Then there’s the weather obsession. These men suddenly become amateur agronomists.

“We really need a slow soaking rain.”

Todd, you sell auto parts.

And somehow every lawn conversation becomes deeply competitive while pretending not to be competitive.

“Oh, I don’t care that much,” says the man who owns three spreaders and checks soil temperature online.

Meanwhile, the wives are just trying to keep everyone alive and the garden ladies are out here quietly growing actual food while Lawn King 2026 is screaming because a dandelion appeared near the mailbox.

You know what, I think lawns are just Midwest men’s version of nesting. Other people process emotions. Midwestern men edge sidewalks.

And I kind of respect it. Because in a world that feels increasingly chaotic, expensive, political, digital, and exhausting… there’s apparently something therapeutic about standing in New Balances at 7:12 p.m. whispering: “Damn. Grass is really coming in.”

Sarah Says Things: The Midwest Goodbye Is a Full-Length Feature Film

There are many cultural traditions that define the Midwest.

Corn. Weather discussions that qualify as unpaid meteorology internships. The word “ope,” which functions as apology, greeting, and full personality.

But none compare to the most sacred, time-consuming, and wildly inefficient ritual of them all: The Midwest Goodbye.

For those unfamiliar, the Midwest Goodbye is not a goodbye. It is a slow, emotionally complex, multi-act performance that somehow requires standing, sitting, relocating, layering clothing, and multiple updates about road conditions no one asked for.

It begins, as all Midwestern sagas do, with one word: “Well…”

“Well” does not mean “I am leaving.” “Well” means “I am emotionally preparing to consider leaving at some point, but physically, I will remain here for at least 45 more minutes.” Everyone understands this.

No one moves. Because we are nothing if not committed to unnecessary process.

Next: the knee slap. The universal signal that departure has been discussed—but will not occur. This unlocks a brand-new round of conversation topics that were apparently forbidden while seated:

• The extended forecast
• A cousin who moved to Arizona (still controversial)
• Road conditions, regardless of actual conditions
• A restaurant that closed in 1998 but refuses to die

We have now made zero progress. We have, however, added 20 minutes.

Then: The Door. This is where the illusion peaks. People stand. Jackets go on. Keys appear. Someone says, “Okay we should probably let you go.” This changes absolutely nothing.

Instead, we begin a fully formed second visit. Standing. At the door. Because sitting would imply efficiency.

Topics now escalate:

• Local politics (casual, obviously)
• The school district
• A medical history no one requested
• A recipe no one will make

Eventually, someone attempts authority: “Alright, we really should go.” This has the same impact as a suggestion box no one checks. In fact, it usually triggers another story—longer, less relevant, and somehow unavoidable.

And then… the final boss: The Driveway. Car doors open. Engines start. You think this is it. It is not.

People are now leaning into vehicles, continuing conversations through open windows about topics that could absolutely wait—like someone’s schedule next Thursday. You will stand there. In the cold. In the heat. In aggressively average Midwest weather.

Talking.

Because leaving quickly would be socially alarming.

Eventually—possibly under different lighting conditions—the departure occurs. Waves are exchanged. “Drive safe” is delivered like a binding contract. The car pulls away at approximately 3 mph, because speed would be disrespectful. The door closes.

“Well that was nice.”

Of course it was. You spent more time leaving than visiting. And yet—no one questions it. No one says, “What if we just left?”

Because we all understand the rules. You do not exit a Midwestern home. You perform your exit.

And if you didn’t discuss the weather at the door, the driveway, and once while holding your keys but making no forward progress—did you even leave?

Sarah Says Things: The Facebook Comment Section Is a Sociological Experiment

I have come to believe the Facebook comment section is one of the most fascinating social experiments ever conducted. Not intentionally, of course. But it is.

Because nowhere else can you watch the full range of human behavior unfold under a completely normal post about something extremely harmless. For example, imagine someone posts:

“Reminder: The City Council meeting is tonight at 7 p.m.”

A simple piece of information. Neutral. Helpful. Mildly boring. And yet within minutes the comment section will contain the following:

1. One person asking what time the meeting is.

2. Someone else announcing they “heard something different” but refusing to elaborate.

3. A third person vaguely suggesting corruption.

4. Another person asking why the city doesn’t “fix the roads first,” even though the post had absolutely nothing to do with roads.

5. And then there’s always one individual who confidently declares the entire situation illegal despite having clearly learned everything they know about municipal law from a YouTube video.

The best part is how quickly people become experts. A post can be about snow removal and within five minutes the comment section contains professional-level analysis from people who have never operated anything more complicated than a microwave.

Suddenly everyone is an infrastructure specialist. “You know what they should do…” This phrase alone has solved approximately zero problems but continues to appear with impressive frequency.

Another fascinating species in the comment section ecosystem is the person who is deeply suspicious of basic information. For example: “The parade starts at 10 a.m.”

Immediately someone replies: “Is that what THEY want us to think?”

Who is they? What is the conspiracy surrounding the parade? Are we suggesting the marching band is involved in a cover-up?

These questions are never answered. But the suspicion remains.

Then there’s the classic internet detective who begins every sentence with: “Well I don’t know all the facts, but…” And then proceeds to deliver a twelve-paragraph analysis based entirely on speculation, vibes, and something their cousin’s neighbor once mentioned at a graduation party.

But my personal favorite is the person who treats every comment section like a courtroom. They arrive with full confidence, a strong opinion, and absolutely no intention of changing their mind. Evidence is irrelevant. Context is unnecessary. The objective is not understanding. The objective is victory.

Meanwhile the original post was just trying to tell people the farmers market moved to Saturday. And somehow we’re now debating property taxes, the school curriculum, and whether the weather forecast is politically motivated.

This is why running a community news page is such a unique experience. You start the day thinking you’re sharing useful information. You end the day watching two people argue about something neither of them actually read.

Which brings us to the most consistent law of the Facebook comment section: The people who are the angriest about a post are often the ones who read the least of it. It’s a remarkable system. Someone will comment with complete outrage, only to later admit they only read the headline. Occasionally not even that. Sometimes just the vibe of the headline.

And yet the confidence level remains extraordinary. If confidence alone were a renewable energy source, Facebook comment sections could power the entire Midwest.

But despite all of this, I actually love it. Because hidden among the chaos are the people who genuinely care about the community. The ones who ask thoughtful questions. The ones who thank volunteers. The ones who show up to events and support local things simply because they want the town to succeed. Those people are the reason the whole experiment works. Everyone else is just… additional entertainment.

And honestly, if you’ve ever watched a Facebook comment section unfold in real time, you know exactly what I mean. It’s not just social media. It’s anthropology.

Sarah Says Things: Public Restroom Etiquette Is a Lost Art

There was a time—allegedly—when public restrooms operated under a quiet, unspoken social contract.

No one spoke or made eye contact. They handled their business with the urgency and discretion of people who understood the assignment.

That time is over.

Civilization is hanging by a thread, and that thread is located somewhere between the third stall at Target and whatever is happening near the sinks.

Let’s start with the phone talkers.

Who are you? Why are you like this? Why are you conducting a full, emotionally layered conversation in a public restroom like this is your office and not a space where every sound is aggressively amplified?

No one on the other end of that call needs to hear the echo.. the flush.. the context clues. And yet—you persist. Loudly. Confidently. As if this is normal behavior.

It is not.

Then we have the stall door slammers. There is a very specific level of aggression required to close a stall door the way some of you do, and it is never accidental. It’s personal.

You walk in and immediately BANG like you’re announcing your arrival to the entire zip code. We jump and wonder what kind of emotional event just led to that level of force.

This is not a Western saloon. You do not need to make an entrance.

And then… the hoverers. You know exactly who you are. The people who refuse to sit and instead attempt a mid-air squat like this is an Olympic event you are wildly unqualified for.

Now listen—I understand the intent. I do. We’ve all walked into a stall and immediately lost faith in humanity.

But hovering is not the solution. Hovering is how we got here.

You think you’re avoiding the problem. You ARE the problem.

Because hovering leads to… let’s call it creative outcomes. And now the seat is worse. For everyone.

So the next person walks in, sees the situation, and says, “Absolutely not,” and they hover.

And just like that —we’ve created a full-cycle disaster where no one sits, no one aims, and no one wins. All we have left are sticky floors.

And can we talk about the people who choose the stall directly next to you when there are six open ones?

This is not a bonding experience. This is not solidarity. This is a space where distance is not only preferred—it is expected.

Give people space. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.

Same goes for the small talkers.

Nothing—and I mean nothing—has ever needed to be said between two strangers in a public restroom.

Not:
“Busy today?”
“Love your shoes.”
“Crazy weather.”

No. We are not doing this here.

This is a silent, transactional environment. We enter. We pretend no one exists. We leave. That’s the deal.

And yet… the rules are gone.

We’ve got people FaceTiming. We’ve got door slammers performing live. We’ve got hoverers creating a biohazard feedback loop. We’ve got casual conversations happening next to hand dryers like this is a networking event.

It’s too much.

All I’m asking for is a return to basics: minimal noise, maximum efficiency, and zero interaction.

We don’t need perfection. We just need… standards.

Because right now the only thing standing between us and complete societal collapse is a lock on a stall door that may or may not work—and honestly, that feels optimistic.

Sarah Says Things: Certified by Grandma & YouTube University

There’s a very specific type of confidence in the air lately.

It’s not earned. It’s not trained. It’s not even accidentally experienced.

It’s… YouTube confidence.

You know the kind. Someone watches three videos—two on 1.25x speed, one while half-scrolling their phone—and suddenly they’ve unlocked a calling. They make something just good enough for their grandma, their spouse, their coworker, or their emotionally obligated best friend to say, “oh my gosh, that’s amazing.”

And just like that—boom. They’re booked. They’re branded. They’re explaining things to people who have been doing this since flip phones were a personality.

And listen—I love a good DIY moment. I do. Try things. Learn things. Make ugly things. Make slightly less ugly things.

But there’s a difference between: “I’m learning this” and “I am now an expert, please pay me.”

Somewhere along the way, we skipped the middle part. You know… the entire phase where you’re objectively not good yet. The part where your work is… how do I put this… deeply humbling. The part where you don’t immediately slap a logo on it announce yourself to the public like you just dropped a masterclass.

Not everything needs to be monetized immediately, and not every hobby needs a logo, just as not every compliment is a business plan.

And respectfully—your biggest cheerleaders are not your customers. They’re your emotional support system. They love you. They would hype a burnt casserole. They would absolutely commission your macaroni art if it meant boosting your confidence.

But they are not the ones pulling out a credit card when stakes, standards, and actual money are involved.

Meanwhile, actual professionals are out here investing years—years—into their craft. Paying for tools. Paying for training. Paying for mistakes. Learning what works, what doesn’t, and what will absolutely come back to haunt them if they cut corners.

And they’re competing with someone who watched a 12-minute tutorial and said, “Yeah, I’ve seen enough.”

It’s not gatekeeping to say experience matters—sorry if that ruins the “I watched two tutorials” narrative. It’s not negativity to say skill takes time—shocking, I know. And it’s definitely not jealousy to notice the difference—sometimes it’s just… functional vision.

And here’s the part nobody wants to say out loud: confidence without competence is just audacity with a Wi-Fi connection.

By all means—learn, try, build, create. Post your progress. Be proud of it. But maybe… just maybe… linger in the “figuring it out” phase for longer than a weekend before announcing your grand opening to the public like you’ve been summoned by destiny.

Because CONFIDENCE is loud.

But COMPETENCE is what people are actually paying for.

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About Sarah Says Things
Sarah Says Things is a weekly column from Sarah DeMaranville that leans into real life with sharp humor, honest observations, and just enough edge to say what everyone else is thinking—but not saying out loud. From Midwest quirks to modern nonsense, it’s equal parts relatable, irreverent, and unapologetically blunt.

Sarah Says Things: My Daughter Is Running a Very Successful Cash-Based Economy

My daughter has a fascinating relationship with money.

She loves having it.

Spending it, however, appears to be completely unacceptable.

Over the years she has built an impressive financial portfolio consisting of Valentine’s Day money, birthday money, Tooth Fairy contributions, and what I can only describe as opportunistic spare change acquisitions from the car.

If there is a loose quarter in the cup holder, it will not remain loose for long.

This child could locate money hidden in a couch cushion from 2007.

Her system is thorough.

Valentines from grandparents? Saved. Birthday cash from relatives? Saved. Tooth Fairy payment? Deposited immediately.

At this point she has what I assume is a small but respectable savings account stored somewhere in her room.

But here is the interesting part. None of that money is ever used. Ever.

The funds are treated less like spending money and more like a museum exhibit. Look, but do not touch.

Meanwhile she very much enjoys shopping. She loves walking through stores and identifying things she would like.

“Mom, look at this.”

“Mom, I love this.”

“Mom, can we get this?”

And I say, very reasonably, “You have money.”

Which is apparently the most offensive statement anyone has ever made.

Because while she enjoys having money, the concept of actually spending it is where things break down.

Take Caffeine & Carbs.

She absolutely loves her iced macadamia nut latte.

She wants the drink.

She will happily accompany me there.

But if the conversation shifts even slightly toward using her own money, the enthusiasm disappears immediately.

“Oh… never mind.”

Not never mind on the drink. Just never mind on the paying.

This same financial philosophy extends to Hobby Lobby or Target.

She can walk through Hobby Lobby for an impressive amount of time pointing out items she desperately wants.

Craft supplies.

Decorations.

Random small things that apparently have enormous emotional significance.

But the moment I suggest she could purchase one of them with the money she has carefully accumulated, she looks at me like I’ve suggested something truly outrageous. Use her money? For things? Absolutely not.

That money has a purpose. The purpose appears to be continuing to exist.

It’s actually a remarkable financial strategy. Collect revenue from multiple sources while ensuring no expenses ever occur.

Honestly, it’s not unlike certain corporations. And I have to admire the discipline. This child has more restraint than most adults.

Adults see money and immediately start mentally allocating it to groceries, bills, or something mildly responsible.

My daughter sees money and thinks, “Excellent. The collection grows.”

The only spending she fully supports is mine. My money is apparently the community fund. Her money is the national reserve. Protected. Untouched. Carefully guarded.

And honestly, the longer I observe this system, the more I realize she might be onto something. Because if you never spend your own money, you technically always have money. Which is a pretty solid financial position for someone who still needs a ride everywhere.

So while she continues to build her impressive treasury of Tooth Fairy earnings and recovered vehicle currency, I will apparently remain the primary investor in iced beverages and craft supplies.

But if this child ever decides to enter the banking industry, I feel confident she will do very well.

She already understands the most important rule. Acquire assets. Protect assets. And absolutely never spend your own money if someone else’s is available.

Sarah Says Things: Apparently I’m Artificial Intelligence Now

I recently learned something about myself.

I’m not a person.

I’m artificial intelligence.

This revelation came to me the way most important discoveries do: through people confidently saying things on the internet with absolutely no evidence whatsoever.

Apparently the only logical explanation for my column existing is that it was written by a robot.

Because obviously the idea that a human being might sit down, have thoughts, and type them out once a week is simply too far-fetched.

But let’s say for a moment the theory is correct and I really am AI.

That raises several logistical issues.

For example, if I’m artificial intelligence, why do I still have to make dinner every night? Shouldn’t someone from OpenAI be doing that? And if I’m a robot, why does my back hurt when I sit wrong? That seems like a design flaw.

If I were AI, I assume someone would occasionally update my software. Maybe plug me into a wall.

But I highly doubt they’d expect me to wash socks that somehow multiply like rabbits but still never match.

And I’m fairly confident artificial intelligence does not spend twenty minutes every morning asking questions like:

“Where are my keys?”
“Why is my phone not where I just put it?”
“Did I already drink this coffee or is this yesterday’s coffee?”

These are not the problems of advanced technology.

These are the problems of a human brain running approximately 37 open tabs at all times.

And while we’re on the subject, if I were truly artificial intelligence, I’m fairly certain I would not need coffee to function.

But here we are.

A supposed robot that requires caffeine before producing any useful output whatsoever.

That seems like a critical design flaw.

So while the rumor that Sarah Says Things is written by artificial intelligence is flattering in a weird, futuristic sort of way, I regret to report that I am still doing this the old-fashioned way.

With a keyboard.
A cup of coffee.
A half-finished to-do list.
And the occasional moment where I stare at the screen wondering why the internet so confidently believes the most complicated explanation possible.

But if anyone out there does know how to convert me into a robot, please let me know.

Mostly because I would really like to stop doing laundry.

Sarah Says Things: Weather Whiplash: 70° One Day, Flurries the Next

There are two seasons in Illinois: winter and construction. But for about three chaotic weeks every March, we also get a third one: meteorological emotional abuse.

This is the time of year when the weather wakes up every morning and chooses violence.

On Monday, it’s 70 degrees. The sun is shining. People are wearing shorts. Someone grills for the first time since October and posts about it on Facebook like they personally defeated winter.

By Tuesday morning, we are all standing outside scraping frost off the windshield like, “Well that was fun while it lasted.”

I’m convinced Mother Nature is running some kind of psychological experiment on Midwesterners.

“Let’s see how quickly they put their winter coats away… and then BAM. Flurries.”

The problem is that one warm day triggers a chain reaction of poor decisions.

The moment it hits 65°, the entire town collectively decides:

• It’s safe to pack away all coats.

• The kids only need hoodies now.

• The patio furniture must emerge immediately.

• And most importantly, the flip flops come out.

This is a trap.

Illinois spring is basically that friend who says, “Let’s go out, it’ll be fun!” and then leaves you stranded in a parking lot at 11:30 p.m. with no jacket.

You know better. And yet you fall for it every year.

The biggest victims in this annual weather betrayal are parents.

Because when the temperature briefly climbs above 60°, your kids start asking questions like:

“Can we put the trampoline up?”
“Can we open the pool?”
“Can we wear shorts to school forever now?”

Meanwhile the forecast for Thursday is 32° and sideways snow.

But the real moment of Midwestern optimism happens when someone says the most dangerous phrase in the English language:

“I think winter’s finally over.”

This is immediately followed by three inches of snow and a wind chill that makes your eyeballs regret existing.

Illinois weather doesn’t follow rules. It follows vibes.

One day you’re outside enjoying sunshine and pretending to garden. The next day you’re digging through the hall closet trying to remember where you shoved the gloves you smugly put away yesterday.

And somehow, despite decades of living here, we are surprised every single time.

But maybe that’s the charm of it.

Because nothing bonds a Midwestern community faster than collectively stepping outside in April and saying:

“Wow. It’s freezing again.”

And then, two days later:

“Wow. It’s 72.”

And then the next day:

“Wow. Is that sleet?”

Spring in Illinois isn’t a season.
It’s a personality disorder.

But at least we’re all suffering through it together.

My Fifth Grader Discovered Oregon Trail and I Have Never Been More Grateful for Modern Life

Not long ago, my fifth-grade daughter came home buzzing with the kind of excitement usually reserved for Roblox updates and recess drama.

“Mom,” she said, reverently, “we played Oregon Trail.”

And just like that, the 1840s barged into my kitchen uninvited.

Within minutes, I was informed that our entire family would have died by Kansas.

Not metaphorically.
Not “life is hard” died.
Dysentery-on-a-Tuesday died.

She explained—patiently, like I was an idiot—that people simply went west in wagons, hoping for the best. No GPS. No group chat. No “maybe we’ll turn around if this feels unsafe.”

Just vibes. And cholera.

She recounted the highlights of the game:

• Hunting pixelated buffalo (but only carrying 100 pounds of meat, because apparently even famine has rules)

• Watching oxen drop dead without warning

• Deciding whether to cross a river or drown trying

At one point she said, “It’s really hard. Everyone keeps dying.”

Yes, sweetheart. That was the brand.

And suddenly, I felt a deep, spiritual gratitude for the following modern miracles:

• Central heat, that turns on without chopping wood or questioning my moral fortitude

• DoorDash, where food arrives without me hunting it or salting it for survival

• Antibiotics, which prevent me from dying because I drank the wrong puddle

• Google Maps, which does not say, “You are lost. Good luck.”

• Winter coats, which exist in abundance and are not optional DLC

Can you imagine parenting in 1847?

“Sorry, kids. We’re out of flour. Also, your father fell in a river. Keep walking.”

No wonder everyone in Oregon Trail looks vaguely exhausted and morally broken.

What really got me, though, was her shock—not at the suffering, but at the casualness of it.

“Oh,” she said, click forward. “My sister died. Anyway…”

Anyway???

This is why we have medicine. And therapy.

So yes, watching my child discover Oregon Trail made me deeply grateful—not in a seasonal, gratitude-journal way, but in a thank-God-it’s-2026 way.

Thankful that my biggest parenting challenge today is limiting screen time—not deciding which child gets buried by the river.

Thankful that if someone in my house gets sick, I don’t shrug and say, “Welp. That’s the trail.”

And most of all, thankful that my daughter can learn about dysentery as a historical curiosity—
not a personal lifestyle risk.

History is important.

But I’m very glad we don’t have to live in it.

Sarah Says Things: What Your Dog Is 100% Thinking

I spend a mildly concerning amount of time wondering what dogs think about all day. And based on the evidence, their inner monologue has to be spectacular.

Because dogs operate with a mix of confidence, confusion, and emotional intensity that absolutely suggests a running commentary like this:

“Ah. You’re awake. Excellent. I was monitoring your breathing. I will now escort you to the bathroom for safety.”

Dogs behave as though humans are fragile beings who require supervision at all times.

Brushing your teeth? Observed.

Showering? They’re stationed outside the curtain like anxious Secret Service agents.

Folding laundry? They lie directly in the walkway like well-meaning but immovable obstacles.

Half the time they’re probably thinking:

“I’m not sure what you’re doing, but I’m confident you shouldn’t do it alone.”

And the food reaction. The absolute theater.

You can serve the exact same kibble they’ve eaten twice a day for seven years and every single time it’s:

“FOR ME? This feast? Again? I assumed supplies had run dry forever.”

No memory. Full gratitude. Academy Award–level performance.

Then there’s the outside obsession.

Not to accomplish anything. Not to achieve a goal.

Just to go out, stand still for eight seconds, inhale deeply, and then stare at the door like:

“I have surveyed the land. We may return.”

Dogs also possess wildly inflated views of their own importance.

Leaf movement equals danger. Car doors demand surveillance. Squirrels require swift and decisive action.

Meanwhile the “danger” detected is merely a breeze, the same neighbor who has lived there for a decade, or a plastic bag minding its own business.

But internally:

“Fear not, citizens. I have barked. Disaster averted.”

As for personal space? That is an irrelevant concept.

They believe — with their entire soul — that your lap is always available, regardless of size ratios or physics.

“You appear emotionally unstable. I will assist by applying full body weight.”

And yet, the theory I am absolutely convinced is true: Dogs genuinely believe we are extraordinary.

They watch us like we personally invented doors. Like operating the refrigerator is wizardry. Like finding our shoes is a heroic act.

Meanwhile we can’t locate our phone while actively holding it.

Dogs don’t know we’re flawed.
They don’t know we’re tired or overwhelmed.
They don’t question our competence.

They think we hung the moon.
And the sun.
And possibly invented the concept of snacks.

Which might be the funniest — and sweetest — thing about them.

They live in a steady state of joy, awe, mild concern, and complete devotion.

Which means somewhere out there is a creature who thinks you’re absolutely crushing it.

Sarah Says Things: Do We Ever Grow Out of Middle-School Meanness?

There is no creature on Earth more quietly ruthless than a middle-school girl.

Sharks? Predictable.

Wolves? Organized.

Middle-school girls? They can end you socially with nothing but a whisper, a glance, and a well-timed hair flip. They’re basically tiny political operatives with butterfly clips.

People talk about “mean boys,” but boys are easy. They punch each other, call it a day, and become best friends by lunch. Middle-school girls will emotionally dismantle someone using nothing but strategic seating and subtle shifts in tone.

And here’s the part no one wants to admit: We didn’t magically outgrow it.

Sure, we aged. We got jobs. We pay taxes. We own throw pillows.

But the instinct? That middle-school survival twitch? Still there.

It’s just… evolved.

Adult women aren’t slamming locker doors and color-coding friend groups anymore. No, no.

We’ve moved on to more sophisticated forms of combat:

• “accidental” exclusion

• vague compliments

• subtle tone changes

• strategic group chats

• the kind of smile that says “I respect you” and the eyes that say “No I don’t”

We’ve traded hallway politics for PTO politics. We’ve replaced cafeteria hierarchies with neighborhood text threads. We’ve swapped “Are you sitting with us?” for “Oh! You must not have seen the message. It’s fine.”

The weapons changed. The energy? Same DNA.

And let’s be honest: women can feel threatened by… well… absolutely anything.

Someone’s confidence.
Someone’s haircut.
Someone’s success.
Someone’s silence.
Someone breathing too loudly at a meeting.

We say we’re mature — and we are, mostly — but there’s always that shadow of our 14-year-old selves lurking in the background, filing things away, noticing small shifts, scanning for tiny social earthquakes.

Maybe the real issue is that we were raised in a world that taught girls to be:

1. polite

2. likable

3. put-together

4. agreeable

5. competitive

6. and non-competitive at the same time

It’s exhausting. It breeds strange behavior. It creates entire subcultures of unspoken tension where everyone is smiling like a politician on debate night.

But here’s the good news: We can outgrow it — if we want to. And some women absolutely do. They hit adulthood and go, “This is ridiculous,” and choose friends who feel easy, honest, and un-performative. Those friendships are gold.

Others take a little longer. Some never get there.

But the truth is, adulthood gives us something middle school never did: choice.

You don’t have to sit at anyone’s table. You don’t have to impress anyone. You don’t have to swallow mean-girl crumbs to feel included. You get to pick your people — the grown-up ones, the healthy ones, the ones who don’t weaponize tone and group chats.

Do women ever fully grow out of the instinct? Maybe not.

But we absolutely can grow past the behavior.

And honestly? Life gets a lot sweeter when the only drama in your circle is who’s bringing dessert.

Sarah Says Things: Not Every Child Needs Your Vocabulary Lesson

There is a very specific type of adult — you’ve met them, I’ve met them, society has endured them — who will drop a full, unfiltered string of profanity directly in front of someone else’s child without even blinking.

Not a slip. Not an “oops.” Not a muttered one-off. No, no. A full sentence. A paragraph. A TED Talk.

They swear like the child is a houseplant.

Meanwhile the parent is standing there doing emotional calculus at light speed:

• Do I say something?

• Do I let it go?

• Do I pretend my kid didn’t hear that even though their eyebrows shot up like cartoon springs?

• Do I glare?

These adults always look so relaxed, too. Like they’ve been waiting all day to unleash a high-level profanity buffet and finally found a stage.

And look — I’m not anti-swearing. I love a well-placed expletive. A precisely delivered curse word can carry the emotional weight of a thousand therapy sessions.

But there is an art to public swearing. A silhouette. A code.

You don’t unleash the full alphabet of chaos when someone’s kid is standing next to a snack rack holding a juice pouch.

There’s always that moment when the swearer realizes what they’ve done… and instead of apologizing, they double down with the confidence of a retired pirate.

“Oh, he’s fine,” they say, waving a hand toward the child who is now absorbing new vocabulary like a sponge with an internet connection.

Or worse: “They’re gonna hear it eventually.”

Yes. Eventually. Preferably not at 10:37 a.m. in the cereal aisle.

And the kid? They ALWAYS react. Eyes wide. Tiny smirk. Storing the word away like treasure. You can see it forming a little speech bubble above their head: “I will deploy this later.”

Meanwhile, the parent is mentally drafting a future email to a teacher:
“We don’t know where he heard that word.” (We do. We absolutely do.)

Look — swear how you want in your own home. Add glitter to it for all I care. Invent new ones. Write them in cursive. I don’t give a $&@#.

But when there are small humans around who repeat everything like malfunctioning parrots?

Just… edit yourself.
A little.
Please.
For the love of every teacher, babysitter, and grandparent who will eventually deal with the consequences.

Because the only thing more powerful than a curse word…
is a child learning it for the first time.

And they will use it. At full volume. In public. At the worst possible moment.

Sarah Says Things: My Phone Has Too Many Feelings

At some point in technological evolution, our phones quietly stopped being tools and became… emotional support animals with boundary issues. Mine, for example, has developed a personality so bold, so involved, and so uninvited that I’m convinced it’s training to become my life coach.

Every day it greets me with a barrage of opinions I did not ask for.
“Here’s a photo from six years ago!”
“Your screen time was up 27% this week.”
“You haven’t stood up in a while.”
“Let’s reflect on your goals!”

I did not open a mentorship program. I bought a phone.

Half the notifications feel like criticism. The other half feel like passive-aggressive encouragement. All of them feel like overreach.

There’s the health app, acting like we’re in a relationship and it’s concerned about my choices. “You only hit 48% of your movement goal today.” Correct. And I will be doing the remaining 52% horizontally on the couch, thanks.

Then there’s the battery warning, which manages to sound personally offended every time it dips below 20%.
“LOW BATTERY.”
Okay? Calm down.
You’re not dying.
You’re just dramatic.

Even the photos app has opinions. It pops up with “Memories” I did not request — often at emotionally inconvenient times.
“Here’s a nostalgic slideshow of moments you forgot!”
Thank you?
I guess?
Let me just go cry in a parking lot real quick.

And don’t even get me started on the reminders.
The reminders are essentially my phone clearing its throat at me.
“Did you forget this?”
Yes.
I forget many things.
Why must you announce it like breaking news?

Meanwhile, every app wants to “check in,” like we’re all in therapy together.
“How are you feeling today?”
“Do you want to set an intention?”
“Ready to be more productive?”
No.
No.
And absolutely not.

The worst part is when my phone tries to motivate me.
“You can do it!” it chirps, as if it hasn’t watched me abandon 43 to-do lists and a meditation streak that lasted 11 minutes.

Somewhere along the line, technology shifted from “helpful” to “emotionally needy.”
It buzzes.
It nudges.
It vibrates like a toddler tugging at your pant leg.
“Pay attention to me! Pay attention to me!”

I swear my phone is seconds away from giving me a pep talk.
“You’re doing great, sweetie.”
“Have you hydrated?”
“Let’s circle back to your goals.”
If it starts sending me inspirational quotes at sunrise, I’m out.

Here’s what I want from my phone:
Silence.
Utility.
A little respect.
Maybe a flashlight when I drop something under the couch.

What I do not need is a pocket-sized therapist slash accountability partner with delusions of grandeur.

Until Apple releases a “Stop Coaching Me” setting, I’ll be here — turning off notifications, ignoring helpful nudges, and reminding my phone that I am a grown adult who does not need to be emotionally managed by a rectangle.

Not today, Siri. Not today.

Sarah Says Things: Groundhog Day is a Personal Attack

Every February we’re reminded that America has placed its meteorological hopes in the paws of a small, confused woodland creature who did not ask for this job and is almost certainly unqualified for it.

Groundhog Day arrives. The cameras roll.  The handlers in top hats appear, as if this isn’t bizarre enough already. And then the groundhog emerges, glances around for half a second, and proceeds to ruin the collective mood of roughly 80% of the country.

This year, our furry forecaster delivered his usual verdict: more winter. I took it personally.

The audacity of a groundhog — a groundhog — telling me, a functioning adult with tax obligations and a mortgage, that I must emotionally prepare for six more weeks of seasonal misery feels, at best, insulting. At worst, targeted.

And let’s be real: there is no version of February in which we’re suddenly getting “early spring.” Those of us who live in the Midwest know better. Spring is not coming early. Spring is not coming on time. Spring will show up whenever it wants, wearing flip-flops and acting like it didn’t ghost us for months.

The whole tradition makes even less sense the older I get. Why are we consulting a rodent? Why do we pretend he understands shadows, seasons, or consequences? Why is he perched on a platform being treated like a small, furry CEO? This is not a weather system. This is community theater.

The best part is that the groundhog has no accountability. He predicts six more weeks of winter, then simply waddles off to take a nap, leaving the rest of us to shovel driveways and emotionally stabilize ourselves with hot beverages.

Meanwhile the meteorologists — the ones with degrees — are out here doing daily forecasts like, “We don’t know why you keep listening to the rodent. We’re literally right here.”

So no, I won’t be taking further winter guidance from Punxsutawney Phil or his associates. If a woodland mammal wants to give me advice, it had better be about finding snacks or avoiding predators, because clearly weather is not his lane.

In the meantime, I’ll be ignoring his proclamation and mentally transitioning to spring anyway. Does that mean anything will warm up sooner? Of course not.

But denial is so much more comfortable than wind chill.

Sarah Says Things: Cold Weather Has Turned Me Into a House Goblin

Every winter I hit a point where I stop being a person and start being something closer to a winter creature — highly functional indoors, deeply skeptical of the outdoors, and entirely uninterested in pretending otherwise.

Around mid-month, it happens.My will to leave the house? Gone. My tolerance for wind? Negative. My desire to participate in society? Currently on leave and not responding to emails.

I have fully transformed into a cold-weather being whose natural habitat is “indoors, wrapped in something soft.” And frankly, I’m thriving.

It always starts subtly.One day you choose slippers instead of shoes. The next day you grab a blanket just for a minute. And by Day 14 you’re working, reading, and contemplating the meaning of life under the same fleece cocoon like a medieval peasant with Wi-Fi access.

Leaving the house becomes a full expedition. Check the temperature.
Check the wind. Check whether this particular errand is truly essential or if it can be accomplished later… or by someone else… or never.
If the temperature is lower than my age, I’m not going. It’s a simple, sensible policy.

Meanwhile, people keep inviting me to go places — lunches, coffees, gatherings — and I respond the same way every time: as if they’ve politely asked me to join an Arctic expedition.

“Out? As in… outside? In January? Absolutely not.”

My wardrobe has also adapted to the season. At this point everything I wear is either stretchy, fuzzy, or something I’ve owned long enough to have developed a deep emotional attachment to. Functional, practical, cozy — not a fashion emergency, just seasonal survival.

The cold does strange things to a person. It shrinks your world down to warm corners of the house and makes the outdoors feel less like fresh air and more like a rude personal attack. Even the walk to the mailbox feels dramatic. I brace myself like I’m stepping onto the set of a nature documentary: “The suburban woman ventures briefly into the wild, battling harsh winds and mild irritation.”

Eventually, spring will appear. I’ll emerge blinking, cautious, and unsure of the current trends in pants. I’ll rejoin society, maybe. We’ll see.

Until then, if you need me, you know exactly where I’ll be:
Under a blanket. With snacks. Ignoring anything that requires shoes.

Sarah Says Things: January Is 87 Days Long

At this point in the month, I no longer believe January is a time period. It’s a geographic region. A frozen emotional hellscape we’re all wandering through like pioneers with slightly better coats.

We’re on Day 20-something, which means we’re roughly a quarter through the month’s 87-day runtime. I’ve lost all sense of when anything is supposed to happen. The holidays feel like they occurred three presidential administrations ago. The kids returned to school sometime in the Cretaceous period. I think I made a New Year’s resolution? Couldn’t tell you what it was. Might have been “survive.” Might have been “buy more broccoli.” Both seem unrealistic at this stage.

January has this strange quality where each individual week somehow contains 14 days, and every Monday arrives with the confidence of someone who refuses to acknowledge they were just here.

The days are long. The month is longer. And the sun appears briefly each afternoon just to taunt us before disappearing again like a shy Victorian ghost.

People keep saying things like, “Hang in there, spring is coming!” which is adorable, because spring is not coming. Not in any meaningful or emotionally accessible way. Spring is a rumor. Spring is a myth parents tell their children so they don’t lose hope during recess.

Meanwhile, the motivational crowd is still out there posting their color-coded planners and 5 a.m. workouts as if time functions normally for them. Their January appears to be moving at a reasonable pace, while the rest of us are trapped in dog years.

And now—since we’re being honest—here’s where we are today: the weather has settled into its monotony. One day it’s cold, the next it’s colder, and occasionally we’re granted a day that is “not quite as punishing,” where the wind merely disrespects you instead of assaulting you.

This is the stretch of January where the novelty of a new year has worn off, the routines have settled, and reality has tapped us politely on the shoulder to say, “Better get comfortable. We still have at least five more weeks of this.”

But don’t worry.
We’ll make it.
Eventually.
Probably.
Ish.

Sarah Says Things: Why Are Receipts This Long?

At some point in recent retail history, receipts stopped being receipts and became… documentation. Scrolls. Historical records. Artifacts meant to be preserved in museums so future generations can study the purchasing habits of people who just wanted toothpaste.

I’m not sure when it happened, but every store has collectively decided that buying one item requires a receipt the length of a toddler.

You go in for gum. You come out with a novella.

Every time a cashier hands me a receipt, it feels like they’re presenting a diploma. A folded, ceremonious parchment documenting my journey through the impulse-buy gauntlet. I’m half-expecting them to shake my hand and say, “Congratulations on your purchase. You’ll find the epilogue on page six.”

And the content? UNHINGED.

It’s:

• your items

• your savings

• your loyalty points

• your potential loyalty points

• five coupons you didn’t ask for

• a survey for a chance to win $500 if you answer 92 multiple choice questions

• a QR code

• a reminder to follow them on Instagram

• AND some sort of “Thank you for supporting our community values” mission statement you absolutely did not read

All for a $6 body wash.

Also, why are receipts printed on paper so thermally sensitive they start to fade before I reach the parking lot? The ink disappears faster than my patience. You could time-lapse a Walgreens receipt and watch it vanish like a ghost. In three hours it’s just a blank, suspiciously long strip of paper that may or may not have any legal significance.

And let’s talk about the coupons.

I love that stores believe I will return within eight days to use a coupon for 40¢ off mayonnaise, batteries, or cat litter. The optimism is cute. Misguided, but cute.

The worst part— I KEEP the receipts.

Why? Because at some point, we were conditioned to believe that throwing away a receipt is an act of tax evasion. We hoard them in wallets, purses, glove compartments, and junk drawers.

“Just in case someone asks about that $1.79 banana purchase.” Spoiler alert- No one is asking. But I am prepared.

And then there’s the self-checkout receipt, which prints automatically whether you want it or not. You bag your items, turn to walk away, and the machine shrieks, “TAKE YOUR RECEIPT.” The tone is hostile. That machine has unresolved issues.

Honestly, I’m not anti-receipt. I’m anti “receipt that could double as a festive holiday banner.”

I’m just asking — politely, minus the rage — why, in the year we live in, we’re still printing receipts long enough to lasso a medium-sized farm animal.

At this point, I don’t need a receipt. I need a backpack, a reading light, and a quiet place to process what I’ve just committed to.

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Sarah Says Things is a space for noticing the small, strange, occasionally unhinged moments of everyday life—and saying the quiet parts out loud. Written by Sarah DeMaranville, the column isn’t about having answers so much as asking the questions we’re all already thinking, usually while standing in a long line somewhere. The goal is simple: to offer a familiar nod, a shared laugh, and the reminder that if something feels absurd to you, you’re probably not alone.

Sarah Says Things: The Return of Regular Meals (Regrettably)

There’s a specific cruelty to early January that nobody warns you about. Not the cold. Not the return to routine. Not the existential dread of a fresh calendar.

No — I’m talking about the abrupt, jarring transition back to regular meals.

Remember December? That gloriously unstructured, socially acceptable grazing season where “lunch” could be anything from a cheese cube to a cookie someone handed you while you were minding your own business. When charcuterie boards multiplied like rabbits and every social setting involved at least three varieties of carbs.

It was beautiful. It was festive. It was efficient. Truly our most evolved state as a society.

Then January arrives, clipboard in hand, ready to audit your life choices.

Suddenly we’re expected to chop vegetables again. To plan dinners. To cook things that don’t arrive pre-arranged on themed platters. Meanwhile, the refrigerator has the nerve to look back at me with shelves full of “responsible” ingredients I apparently bought during some burst of optimism I don’t recall having.

My kids are still adjusting. They’re not feral — just confused in a polite, civilized way. They look at a plate of normal food like, “Oh, right… this. We used to do this.” They’ll adapt. Eventually.

The real whiplash is the mental transition. December is powered by spontaneity and baked goods. January demands structure, order, and the emotional stamina to answer the nightly question, “What’s for dinner?” with something other than “I don’t know — what year is it?”

I’m perfectly capable of cooking. I just resent the sudden expectation that I must. The holiday rulebook is barely cold, and already we’re pretending we didn’t spend a month surviving on festive small plates like fully functioning adults living their best lives.

Truthfully, part of me thrives on the reset — clean counters, fresh routines, the noble return of real meals.
But the other part is mourning the end of that brief, sparkling season where food was fun and whimsical and required zero planning on my part.

And if I daydream about Christmas cookies while assembling a respectable January dinner… well, I consider that reasonable.

We all have our coping mechanisms.