Hey Dana Jane

Author: heydanajane

  • The Illusion of Progress: How Feminism Put Women on Men’s Time

    At some point, feminism took a turn. We fought to be equal to men, and in doing so, we stepped onto a path built by and for them. We entered their workforce, adapted to their schedules, and structured our lives around their systems. But in this pursuit of equality, did we really win anything—or did we just inherit the right to be overworked and underappreciated?

    Men have long dictated the pace of the world. Work from 9 to 5. Retire at 65. Push through exhaustion. Show up, no matter what. This timeline was never designed for the female body or experience. It leaves no space for pregnancy, no consideration for the unpredictability of motherhood, no allowance for the upheaval of menopause. Instead, we are expected to fold these realities into the margins, cramming them into schedules that were never made to hold them.

    And what did we gain for it? The right to do too much for too little.

    We secured the freedom to pursue careers while still bearing the weight of domestic expectations. We broke glass ceilings only to find ourselves drowning in the shards—balancing full-time jobs, caregiving, and the emotional labor that still disproportionately falls on us. The wage gap remains, the motherhood penalty persists, and “having it all” often translates to having no rest.

    This isn’t to say that feminism has failed. The right to vote, access to education, and legal protections against discrimination are undeniable victories. But the framework of equality we pursued was built on a flawed foundation. We asked for a seat at the table, but we never questioned why the table was set the way it was.

    Real progress won’t come from squeezing women into a system that wasn’t designed for us. It will come from dismantling the expectations that force us to fit into it. From reimagining work schedules, caregiving responsibilities, and success itself—not just for women, but for everyone.

    Because true equality isn’t about living on men’s time. It’s about creating a world where women’s time, women’s rhythms, and women’s lives are valued just as much as men’s. And we’re not there yet.

    What do you think? Have we gained true progress, or just a heavier workload?

  • Love, After 23 Years, 3 Kids, and 2 Dogs

    Valentine’s Day changes after 23 years of marriage. Gone are the days of dinners at fancy, darkly lit restaurants. Now, it’s more like takeout from your favorite Chinese place while you watch Netflix in your pajamas, trying to keep the dogs from stealing your egg rolls. And you know what? That’s just fine.

    When you’ve been married for over two decades, love isn’t always big gestures and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. Love is knowing your partner’s coffee order by heart and brewing the first cup before they wake up. It’s taking the dogs out in the freezing cold because you know they had a rough day at work. It’s tag-teaming the chaos of life with kids, jobs, and the never-ending to-do list, finding joy in the middle of the madness.

    And, boy, is there madness. With three kids, Valentine’s Day morning might begin with a frantic search for that one shirt they must wear to school, the one that’s probably been under their bed for three weeks. By the time you’ve packed lunches, wrangled the dogs, and settled into work, Cupid’s magic feels more like chaos than romance.

    But that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? The over-hyped, Hallmark version of Valentine’s Day doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. Real love isn’t about grand displays. It’s in the shared laughter, the inside jokes, and the quiet moments where you look at each other and think, “I’d choose you all over again.”

    Valentine’s Day gives us a chance to pause and remember why we started this journey together in the first place. It’s not about how many roses you get or how expensive the dinner is. It’s about taking a moment to say, “Hey, I still like you,” even when you’re folding laundry or picking up after the dogs… again.

    So, this Valentine’s Day, embrace the chaos. Laugh at the imperfect moments. Celebrate with your kids, your dogs, and your partner in crime. Love doesn’t have to be picture-perfect to be perfect for you. ❤️

  • Kendrick vs. Drake: Hip-Hop’s Modern-Day Tupac and Biggie Feud?

    Hip-hop feuds are nothing new. They’ve been around as long as the genre itself, but every once in a while, a rivalry comes along that feels bigger than just a couple of rappers trading bars—it feels cultural. That’s exactly what’s happening with Kendrick Lamar and Drake. If you’ve been paying attention, you know this isn’t just some petty social media squabble; it’s one of the most significant rap beefs of the past decade.

    And if it’s giving you déjà vu, you’re not alone. Many fans can’t help but compare it to the legendary feud between Tupac Shakur and The Notorious B.I.G. Of course, there are some key differences (for one, let’s hope this one doesn’t end in tragedy), but the parallels are impossible to ignore.

    West Coast vs. East Coast 2.0?

    One of the biggest reasons this feels like a spiritual successor to Pac and Biggie’s feud is the geography. Tupac repped the West Coast, signed to Death Row Records, and became the face of California hip-hop in the ‘90s. Biggie, meanwhile, was the king of New York, holding it down for the East Coast under Bad Boy Records. Their beef wasn’t just personal—it became a full-blown coastal war that divided the hip-hop world.

    Now, fast forward to today. Kendrick Lamar, Compton’s lyrical son, has long been hailed as the modern torchbearer for West Coast hip-hop. On the other side, Drake—while technically Canadian—has been the most dominant rapper on the charts for over a decade and is closely tied to the industry powerhouses of New York and the East Coast. Their clash is not just about their egos; it’s about two different philosophies of hip-hop.

    The Pen vs. The Pop Star

    Tupac and Biggie’s beef wasn’t just about where they were from; it was also about their styles. Pac was raw, emotional, and confrontational—more of a poet than a technician. Biggie, on the other hand, was smooth, calculated, and had a storytelling ability that made him one of the greatest to ever do it.

    Now, look at Kendrick and Drake. Kendrick is a purist’s rapper—deeply lyrical, poetic, and razor-sharp with his pen. He’s the type to make you rewind a verse three times just to catch all the layers. Drake, meanwhile, has mastered the art of blending hip-hop and pop, making him a global superstar. He can rap, but he can also sing, and he’s got a formula that keeps him topping the charts.

    Much like Biggie, Drake often leans into a more commercial and melodic approach, while Kendrick—like Tupac—seems more concerned with making music that challenges and provokes. Their differences in style fuel their rivalry, making it more than just a battle of words—it’s a battle of what hip-hop should be.

    The Subliminals, The Shots, and the Fallout

    The Tupac and Biggie feud escalated through subliminal (and not-so-subliminal) shots in their music. Pac’s Hit ‘Em Up is still one of the most aggressive diss tracks of all time, while Biggie’s Who Shot Ya? (whether or not it was actually aimed at Pac) fanned the flames of an already volatile situation.

    Kendrick and Drake have been at this cold war for years. The tension goes all the way back to Control, when Kendrick name-dropped Drake (along with several others) in his now-iconic verse. Since then, both have sent subtle (and not-so-subtle) shots at each other in their music. Drake’s The Heart Part 6 and Kendrick’s Euphoria have only intensified things, turning whispers of a beef into an all-out lyrical war.

    The biggest difference? Today’s feuds play out in real time, dissected on social media within minutes of a song dropping. Fans choose sides instantly, memes fly, and conspiracy theories about ghostwriters and industry plants run rampant.

    Will This End Differently?

    The Tupac and Biggie feud ended in tragedy, with both artists losing their lives before they could reconcile. Their deaths left a permanent scar on hip-hop and serve as a cautionary tale of how beef can spiral out of control.

    Thankfully, the music industry is different now. While things can get ugly, the odds of this feud leading to real violence are much lower. This is a battle being fought with beats and bars, not bullets. Still, the rivalry is reshaping modern hip-hop, making fans pick sides and debate who the real king of the game is.

    Whether you’re Team Kendrick or Team Drake, one thing is clear: this is the most exciting rap battle we’ve seen in years. Let’s just hope it stays on wax.

  • Book Review: It Ends With Us by Colleen Hoover

    I read It Ends With Us in less than three days. I didn’t want to like it, but I did. And that’s the conflict this book leaves you with—how can something so well-written, so compelling, also feel so deeply unsettling?

    Colleen Hoover doesn’t just tell a love story; she unravels one. At first, I wanted to love Ryle. He was charming, ambitious, and passionate. But then I hated him. I wanted to shake Lily, to hug her, to beg her to see what so many women struggle to recognize: that love doesn’t excuse abuse, and that abusers don’t often change.

    This book wrecked me. I haven’t personally experienced domestic violence, but I know women like Lily. I have watched some leave, and I have watched some stay. And that’s what I may never be able to fully understand—the staying. Hoover doesn’t romanticize Ryle’s actions, but the novel does what real life often does: it makes you question, makes you hope, makes you ache for the person who isn’t what you thought they were.

    While It Ends With Us is undeniably powerful, it also toes a line that made me uncomfortable. Is it fair to frame a story of domestic violence within a romance? Does it risk softening the reality of abuse? I don’t know. What I do know is that this book makes you feel everything—love, anger, frustration, devastation—and maybe that’s the point. Hoover gives us a protagonist who has to make an impossible choice, and through her, we are forced to confront the complexities of love, trauma, and survival.

    Would I recommend It Ends With Us? Yes, but with caution. It’s not an easy read, nor should it be. But it’s an important one.

  • A Glimpse Into the Future

    Yesterday, I took my son, Owen, to lunch after his dermatology appointment. It was a rare weekday treat—just the two of us, with enough time to sit down, enjoy a meal, and chat before he had to be back at school. We chose Olympia, a local favorite, not just because the food is good, but because it feels like home. It’s the kind of place where you always know someone, where the waitresses recognize you and where the owner, Pete—who also happens to be Owen’s football coach—buzzes around, refilling coffee cups and checking in on regulars.

    As we settled into our booth, I took in the familiar hum of the restaurant—the clinking of coffee mugs, the murmur of conversation, the easy rhythm of a place where people have gathered for years. And then, across the aisle, I noticed three elderly women sitting together.

    They were probably in their seventies, dressed in the kind of casual comfort that comes with age—soft cardigans, sensible shoes, easy laughter. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on the little things that make up a life: plans for the afternoon, where to find the best sales at Kohl’s, the upcoming visit from grandchildren, the latest community news. It was nothing extraordinary, yet it was everything.

    When the waitress asked if they wanted more coffee, they declined. It was time to say their goodbyes. They stood up, embraced, and promised to do it again.

    “You have to join us again—we hardly see you!”

    “Yes, I should do that. Let me know when you’ll go to lunch again.”

    “We’re here every Tuesday,” one of them said with a knowing smile. “Keeps us busy in our retirement years.”

    And just like that, I saw my future. I saw Jamie and Katie sitting across from me in 25 years, our hair graying, our faces softened by time but still recognizable to one another. I imagined us sharing updates about our children and, perhaps, our grandchildren. Maybe we’d vent about our husbands driving us crazy in their old age—or maybe, by then, some of us would be navigating widowhood. We’d talk about doctor’s appointments, books we’re reading, the latest deals at our favorite stores. The topics would change, but the comfort of friendship wouldn’t.

    The thought made my eyes misty.

    So much of adulthood is spent in the rush of responsibilities—work, kids, errands, obligations. It’s easy to assume friendships will always be there, waiting, but the truth is, if we don’t tend to them, they fade. Watching those women, I realized how important it is to nurture the friendships I have now—to make time, to stay connected, to carve out spaces for laughter and conversation. Because when the noise of career and parenting quiets, when the days stretch out in retirement, those friendships will be the tether that keeps us grounded.

    As the ladies parted ways, I smiled to myself. Getting older isn’t going to be so bad. Not if we have friends waiting for us every Tuesday at lunch.

  • Surviving the Sancti-Mommies: A Guide for the Judged and Jaded

    Let’s talk about a special breed of mother: the Sancti-Mommy. You know the type. She’s the self-appointed Queen of All Things Parenting, here to bestow her infinite wisdom upon you—whether you asked for it or not. She’s got strong opinions on everything—screen time (none, ever), organic-only diets (of course), and the absolute worst offense: how you are raising your child.

    I’ve been in the trenches of motherhood for quite a while. I’ve raised a child to adulthood, and I’m currently wrangling a teenager and a pre-teen. I’ve done the sleepless nights, the tantrums, the school drama, the sports schedules, and the why-do-they-keep-eating-like-I’m-feeding-a-small-army phase. And yet, despite my literal decades of experience, I still somehow find myself dealing with these high-horse-riding moms who act like their way is the only way.

    Honestly? I’m over it.

    Who Are the Sancti-Mommies?

    Sancti-mommies come in various flavors, including but not limited to:

    • The Natural Mama – If your child has ever had a processed snack, you might as well hand over your mom card. She ground her own baby food from day one and will let you know it. Repeatedly.
    • The Screen-Free Saint – Her child has never watched TV, played video games, or touched an iPad. (You’ve also never seen this woman alone in a room with her kids for more than ten minutes, so… interesting.)
    • The Competitive Crafter – Homemade Halloween costumes? Always. Bake sale? From scratch. School projects? Museum-quality. You, with your store-bought cupcakes? Shame.
    • The Sports-Obsessed Strategist – Her kid is obviously going pro in three different sports, and if your child isn’t specializing at age 6, well, enjoy your mediocrity.
    • The Gentle-Parenting Guru – Everything is a “teachable moment,” and if you ever raise your voice, you’re a monster. Consequences? No, no. “We just talk through our feelings.” (Meanwhile, her kid is running wild at Target, knocking over displays.)

    Why Do They Do This?

    Simple: insecurity. Parenting is hard, and instead of admitting they’re winging it (like the rest of us), sancti-mommies double down on their “perfect” approach. If they convince themselves their way is the way, then they don’t have to sit with the reality that, deep down, no one has this whole parenting thing figured out.

    How to Deal With Them (Without Losing Your Sanity)

    1. Recognize That Their Judgment Says More About Them Than You

    Their need to be right doesn’t make you wrong. Their loud opinions don’t override your lived experience. Just because they say something with confidence doesn’t mean it’s true.

    2. Smile, Nod, and Keep It Moving

    Sometimes, the best response is no response. Let them talk, let them judge, and then go right back to doing whatever works best for you and your family.

    3. Deploy the Power of Sarcasm (When Necessary)

    When a sancti-mommy makes a particularly bold statement, a simple “Wow, you must be exhausted from being right all the time” works wonders.

    4. Don’t Engage in the One-Up Game

    Resist the urge to defend yourself or explain your choices. You owe them nothing. Your kid, your rules. End of discussion.

    5. Find Your People

    Not every mom is like this. Seek out the ones who understand that we’re all just doing our best. Those are the moms you want in your corner.

    6. Trust Yourself

    I’ve been doing this mom thing long enough to know that there is no one right way. If your kid is happy, healthy, and loved, you’re doing great. Period.

    Final Thoughts

    Sancti-mommies will always exist. They will always have opinions, and they will always find something to criticize. But here’s the thing—they don’t matter. Your kids won’t remember whether you followed the latest parenting trends. They’ll remember how you made them feel, the love you gave them, and the memories you created together.

    So let the sancti-mommies judge. You’ve got more important things to do—like enjoying the chaos of raising actual human beings.

  • The Wanderer’s Lament

    Through fog-bound streets of ashen hue,
    Where gas lamps flicker, cold and few,
    I tread a path both dim and wide,
    Yet find no beacon at my side.

    The cobbled way, it twists and turns,
    Each corner mocks, each lantern burns—
    Yet never bright enough to show
    The place from whence I used to know.

    Oh, time! Thou art a fickle guide,
    With fleeting whispers, cast aside.
    Once, fortune’s hand did point me true,
    But now I chase the wind and rue.

    My purpose, lost to swirling mist,
    A name once held, now but a wisp.
    The echoes call in hollow tone,
    Yet every voice is not my own.

    I beg the night to yield its veil,
    To show some truth behind the tale—
    But fate, it grins, it turns, it jeers,
    And leaves me wandering with my fears.

    So on I roam, through gloom and doubt,
    Till fate or mercy leads me out.
    Yet should I walk these streets so grim,
    Perchance I’ll find myself within.

    -DJT

  • Super Bowl Sunday: Faith, Food, and Football

    Ah, Sunday. The day of rest, reflection, and—if you’re in our house—strategic grocery shopping and football-induced snacking.

    We kicked off the morning (pun absolutely intended) at St. Bronislava, where I’ve been a parishioner since birth. Gannon served at Mass today, and let me tell you, there is nothing cuter than seeing your kid in an altar robe, looking all angelic and composed—until you remember this is the same child who, just yesterday, probably tried to wrestle his brother over the last slice of pizza.

    Post-Mass, the Huz declared that lunch was necessary, but first—Super Bowl snack reconnaissance. We made our way to Plover Metro Market to stock up for the big game, dodging fellow shoppers who were also on a mission to secure their game-day essentials. Chips, dips, and all things that will ruin my attempt at healthier eating magically found their way into the cart.

    Then, Pizza Ranch. We arrived right as they opened, narrowly avoiding the stampede of hungry weekend warriors. The boys went all-in on pizza and fried chicken, while I attempted to show some self-control with salad and soup. (The keyword here is attempted—fried chicken is a powerful temptress.)

    Once home, groceries were put away, and I donned my Chiefs gear—not out of loyalty, but out of the practical need to get more mileage out of an outfit I wore last year. Hey, if I own it, I might as well wear it, right?

    Now, I’m curled up on the couch with both dogs at my side, diving into It Ends With Us by Colleen Hoover. I started it last night and am hoping to get a few more chapters in before the game. Whether the book or the Super Bowl will have the more dramatic twists remains to be seen.

    So here’s to a relaxing Sunday filled with family, football, and fun commercials. May the best team win—or at the very least, may the halftime show be entertaining enough to distract us from the calories we’re about to consume.

  • Why Steel Magnolias Will Forever Have My Heart (and My Tears)

    Some movies come and go, but Steel Magnolias? That one stays with you. It’s been a favorite of mine since I was a young girl, and no matter how many times I watch it, I still find myself laughing, crying, and quoting lines like it’s my own personal scripture.

    The casting? Absolute perfection. Julia Roberts, Sally Field, Dolly Parton, Shirley MacLaine, Olympia Dukakis, and Daryl Hannah—legends, every single one of them. They don’t just play their roles; they become them. M’Lynn, Shelby, Ouiser, Clairee, Truvy, and Annelle feel like old friends, the kind you can always count on for a good laugh or a shoulder to cry on (even if that shoulder is your own, because let’s be real, Steel Magnolias will wreck you in the best way possible).

    It’s the kind of movie that makes you laugh so hard you snort (thank you, Ouiser), then turns right around and shatters your heart into a million pieces. And somehow, you want it to. You need it to. Because sometimes, life calls for a good cry, and no one delivers catharsis quite like Sally Field’s heartbreaking, raw, and unforgettable monologue in the cemetery. If you know, you know.

    But for all its emotional gut punches, Steel Magnolias is ultimately about love, friendship, and the kind of resilience that only the strongest—like the flowers themselves—possess. It’s about finding humor even in the darkest moments and holding onto the people who make life worth living.

    So, will I keep watching it even though I know it’ll leave me sobbing on my couch? Absolutely. Because sometimes, you just need a movie that makes you feel everything—and this one does, every single time.

    And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find my tissues. And maybe some sweet tea.

  • Common Sense and Politics: Oil and Water

    I don’t know when it became a crime to think for yourself, but here we are.

    If you don’t march in lockstep with the left, you’re a villain. A heretic. A backward, uneducated, heartless monster. And I’ve had it.

    The media demonizes us. Hollywood ridicules us. Social media silences us. And the loudest voices on the left? They don’t just disagree—they want us shamed, fired, ostracized, and erased. They claim to stand for tolerance, but only if you nod along and repeat their slogans like a trained parrot.

    God forbid you ask a question. God forbid you use common sense—because common sense and politics are like oil and water. They don’t mix. They can’t.

    We’re expected to accept the absurd without hesitation. We’re told crime isn’t a problem while cities burn. We’re told men can get pregnant. We’re told the economy is fine while our grocery bills double. We’re told to trust “the science”—until the science doesn’t fit their narrative, and suddenly we’re deniers.

    It’s all so blatantly hypocritical that I sometimes feel crazy. Like I’m the only one seeing it. But I know I’m not. The left lives by a double standard so glaring it should be blinding, yet they walk around with smug self-righteousness, utterly oblivious to their own contradictions. They scream “democracy!” while silencing dissent. They preach “equity” while crushing the middle class. They demand “accountability” but refuse to acknowledge their own failures.

    And somehow, we’re the problem?

    I’m tired. Tired of being told what to think. Tired of having my values mocked. Tired of being gaslit by people who wouldn’t last five minutes in a world without the very systems and structures they claim to despise.

    You don’t have to agree with me. But you sure as hell don’t get to silence me.