Hey Dana Jane

Author: heydanajane

  • The Mirror of Grief

    The aim is not to untangle the past,
    to pull each thread and weave a new story,
    not to mend the frayed edges of memory
    with needles of reason or spools of time.
    No, the past is not clay,
    and we are not potters shaping its hardened form.

    It is the weight we carry,
    pressed into the soft earth of our becoming,
    an indelible signature of what was.
    We do not correct the rain for falling,
    nor the storm for its fury.

    Instead, therapy is the mirror held close,
    its surface dark and reflective,
    daring us to meet the gaze of our own ghosts,
    to sit in the company of sorrow
    and call each shadow by its name.

    Here, grief blooms like a strange flower,
    its petals heavy with the dew of acknowledgment.
    We do not prune it; we let it grow,
    wild and tangled in the garden of our truths,
    until the roots touch what has been buried.

    This is not the work of undoing,
    but the slow art of reckoning—
    to confront the echoes
    and let them linger,
    to touch the edges of pain
    and know it as ours.

    Only then, with the past unearthed but unaltered,
    do we breathe in the ache,
    let it fill our lungs like smoke
    until it fades into air,
    leaving us not lighter,
    but freer.

    -DJT

  • “Daisy Jones & The Six”: A Love Affair with the Book, a Love-Hate Relationship with the Screen

    When I first picked up Daisy Jones & The Six, I felt like I’d stumbled into the backstage chaos of rock ‘n’ roll royalty. Taylor Jenkins Reid didn’t just tell a story—she handed me a ticket to a time machine, took me straight to the 1970s, and let me sip whiskey with a band that felt as real as Fleetwood Mac. It wasn’t just a book; it was an experience. So, naturally, when Amazon Prime Video announced the series adaptation, I was ready to grab my headphones and crank up the volume. But while the book had me singing its praises, the series left me humming a bittersweet tune.

    Let’s start with the good, shall we? Riley Keough. Oh. My. Daisy. If there was ever a question of who could embody the free-spirited, self-destructive, magnetic Daisy Jones, Riley answered it with a mic drop. Watching her transform into Daisy felt like watching destiny. It’s not just that she has the Presley lineage—though let’s be real, that rock ‘n’ roll DNA sure doesn’t hurt—but she brought a raw vulnerability that made Daisy leap off the screen. Riley’s voice wasn’t just soulful; it was haunted, as if Daisy’s triumphs and heartbreaks were written in the very fibers of her being.

    But (and here comes the big but), the series felt like it was missing the magic dust that made the book so unforgettable. The book’s unique interview format allowed every band member to have their say, leaving readers to piece together the truth for themselves. It was messy, unreliable, and so human. The series, by comparison, flattened that complexity. Instead of feeling like I was in the middle of a stormy creative collaboration, I felt like I was watching a glossy highlight reel. It was pretty, sure, but where was the grit? The tension? The heartbreak?

    Billy Dunne, for example, was a man torn between his love for his family and his addiction to the high of the stage. In the book, he was frustrating, flawed, and so very real. On screen? He came across more like an archetype than a fully fleshed-out character. And let’s not even start on the way certain pivotal moments—ones that had me clutching the book in agony—were rushed or glossed over entirely.

    The music, though. Ah, the music. It was good, but was it great? The songs were catchy, yes, but they didn’t quite capture the layered emotions that the book conveyed so effortlessly. I wanted to feel like Daisy and Billy’s chemistry was going to set the studio on fire. Instead, I got sparks when I was hoping for a blaze.

    And yet, despite my gripes, I don’t regret watching it. The visuals were stunning, the cast was talented, and Riley Keough alone was worth the price of admission. But while the book felt like an anthem, the series was more like a cover band. It hit the notes, but it didn’t leave me breathless.

    So, here’s my advice: Read the book first. Fall in love with the messiness of Daisy Jones & The Six on the page. Then, watch the series with tempered expectations, and let Riley Keough dazzle you. Because even if the series doesn’t fully capture the spirit of the book, Riley proves one thing for sure: Talent like that runs in the family.

    Now, excuse me while I reread the book, play “Aurora” on repeat, and pretend I’m the seventh member of the band. Rock on.

  • The Trouble With Never Having to Try

    Let’s get one thing straight: if you’ve never had to work for something, you probably don’t know how to work for anything. Yeah, I said it. And before you get defensive, take a moment to ask yourself—what have you really earned? Not inherited, not been handed, not stumbled into by sheer dumb luck. Earned.

    There’s a certain irony to the human condition: the less we’re required to try, the less capable we become of rising to the occasion when effort is actually demanded. It’s not a failing—it’s a lack of practice. People who’ve always had safety nets don’t develop balance. People who’ve never been told “no” don’t understand negotiation. And people who’ve never failed? Well, they’re not prepared for life, because failure is a guarantee.

    Here’s the kicker: this isn’t just about privilege or luck; it’s about entitlement. When you don’t have to claw your way to the top, you miss out on the process that teaches you resilience, problem-solving, and grit. You come to believe that success is a right, not a reward. And when reality doesn’t meet those expectations? Cue the tantrums, the blame, the flailing.

    Meanwhile, the rest of us—those who’ve fought tooth and nail, cried in frustration, and stayed up too late trying again—we know something you don’t. We know what it feels like to earn our victories. We know that the struggle is the point. The satisfaction isn’t just in getting what you want; it’s in knowing you had to fight for it.

    And let’s be clear: the world doesn’t owe you effortlessness. Relationships require work. Careers demand hustle. Even happiness takes intention. The sooner we stop romanticizing ease and start valuing the grind, the better off we’ll be. Because the truth is, those who haven’t struggled won’t survive when life inevitably demands that they do.

    So, here’s my challenge: instead of coasting on what you’ve been given, ask yourself what you’re willing to work for. What’s worth the blood, sweat, and tears? What will make you proud to say, “I earned this”? Because if you can’t answer that, then maybe the problem isn’t the world—it’s you.

    Think about it. Or don’t. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  • Marveling at the Everyday Miracles of the Human Body

    The other day, I had a small culinary mishap while slicing a rotisserie chicken. What was meant to be a delicious shortcut to dinner turned into an unexpected biology lesson—courtesy of my own finger.

    In my attempt to expertly carve that golden bird, I missed and nicked my finger instead. Now, I’m no stranger to being a bleeder (it’s like my body just knows how to throw a dramatic flair into a mundane moment). Blood began to drip at a pace that made me wonder if I was auditioning for a medical drama.

    But instead of panicking, I found myself utterly fascinated. Think about it: our bodies are these self-repairing wonders. I had just damaged myself, and already the biological clean-up crew was clocking in for duty. Platelets rushed to the scene like tiny EMTs, clotting the wound to keep me from, you know, bleeding out over a $6.99 rotisserie chicken.

    The more I thought about it, the more amazed I became. My skin, which I carelessly cut, would regenerate itself. In a week or two, the evidence of my dinner mishap will fade like it never happened. No memo needed, no training manual—it’s just what the body does.

    Most of us don’t think about these everyday miracles. We complain about paper cuts, bruises, or the occasional stubbed toe, but rarely do we stop to marvel at how our bodies are constantly at work, protecting and healing us.

    This accidental cut reminded me of how truly incredible we are. Skin grows back, blood clots, and eventually, even the faintest scar fades. Our bodies are always trying their best, even if we don’t give them the credit they deserve.

    So, the next time you find yourself dealing with a minor injury, pause for a moment. Sure, the sting is annoying, but isn’t it incredible that we’re basically walking, talking self-healing machines? Honestly, it’s enough to make me want to wear a Band-Aid like a badge of honor.

    As for that chicken, it was delicious—seasoned with just a little extra respect for the body that made it all possible.

  • The Narcissist-in-Chief: A Nation’s Reflection in the Oval Office

    Every four years, we, the American people, engage in a curious ritual: we elect a president. It’s supposed to be the highest office in the land, a symbol of leadership, integrity, and service. But if we’re being brutally honest, isn’t it really just a contest to see who has the most polished version of their own reflection staring back at them in the mirror?

    Let’s call it what it is: an exercise in collective narcissism. We choose leaders who don’t just represent us—they embody the parts of ourselves we’re either too proud of or too ashamed to admit exist. And yes, presidents are narcissists. All of them. It’s practically a requirement of the job. Who else would willingly take on the pressure of running an entire nation, standing under constant scrutiny, and delivering speeches with the cadence of a savior?

    The “Me, But Bigger” Syndrome

    Take John F. Kennedy, for example. Charming, polished, and endlessly charismatic, he gave America exactly what it wanted to see in itself at the time: youth, vitality, and boundless ambition. But let’s not forget, JFK loved the spotlight just as much as the nation loved him in it. He wasn’t just a leader—he was a mirror reflecting an America that was ready to take the world stage with confidence and swagger.

    Or how about Ronald Reagan? The actor turned president. Reagan’s “shining city on a hill” rhetoric wasn’t just about national pride—it was about making everyone feel like the protagonist of a blockbuster movie where America always saves the day. We didn’t just vote for Reagan; we voted for a Hollywood version of ourselves.

    Then there’s Donald Trump. Love him or hate him, Trump’s presidency was like a national therapy session—except instead of confronting our issues, we projected them onto a man who mastered the art of shameless self-promotion. His slogan, “Make America Great Again,” wasn’t just about nostalgia; it was a reflection of our collective fear of being left behind in a world that’s moving too fast.

    Narcissism is a Feature, Not a Bug

    Let’s be real: you can’t get elected president without a healthy dose of self-obsession. The very act of campaigning—standing on a stage, waving to crowds, and saying, “I alone can fix it”—requires a level of confidence that most of us would need several years of therapy to even attempt. The same traits that we find grating in politicians—arrogance, an insatiable need for attention, and a knack for spinning reality—are exactly what make them electable.

    Barack Obama, with his soaring speeches and rockstar persona, made Americans feel like they were part of something bigger. But let’s not kid ourselves: you don’t run for president because you’re humble. Obama’s carefully cultivated image as the “cool dad” of politics wasn’t an accident. It was a masterclass in appealing to a nation that wanted to see itself as progressive, hopeful, and yes, a little bit cooler than the rest of the world.

    Why We Elect Our Own Egos

    The truth is, we elect the candidate who best reflects our collective ego at the time. In moments of crisis, we choose leaders who project strength and decisiveness—qualities we wish we had. In times of prosperity, we lean toward charm and vision, because hey, who doesn’t love a little inspiration when things are going well?

    But the darker side of this is that we also elect candidates who mirror our flaws. When we’re divided as a nation, we choose divisive leaders. When we’re insecure, we choose leaders who promise to restore our sense of importance. And when we’re looking for someone to blame, we choose leaders who are experts at pointing fingers.

    So, What Does This Say About Us?

    If every president is a narcissist, and every election is a reflection of ourselves, then maybe it’s time to stop pointing fingers at the politicians and start taking a good, hard look in the mirror. Why do we need leaders who thrive on applause? Why do we gravitate toward candidates who make promises that no one person could possibly keep?

    Maybe the problem isn’t just the narcissists running for office. Maybe the problem is the narcissists voting for them.

    So the next time you’re watching a debate or scrolling through campaign ads, ask yourself: Do I like this candidate because they’ll make a good leader—or because they make me feel good about myself?

    Because in the end, the president isn’t just the leader of the free world. They’re the ultimate reflection of who we are as a nation. And sometimes, the mirror doesn’t lie.

  • Confronting History: Finding Healing in Grief

    As someone who spent years tucking childhood traumas into the deepest, darkest corners of my mind, I can’t help but marvel at the truth in Alice Miller’s words: “The aim of therapy is not to correct the past, but to enable the patient to confront his own history, and to grieve over it.” It’s a simple yet profound idea—that healing isn’t about rewriting the narrative, but about finally reading it with clear eyes.

    For most of my life, I denied the dysfunction that shaped me. My upbringing revolved around my dad’s tavern, where the clinking of glasses and the hum of jukebox tunes were as constant as the sun rising. It was a place of laughter, yes, but also a crucible for my understanding of relationships, self-worth, and emotional stability. Add to that the complexities of family dynamics, and you’ve got a recipe for a psyche riddled with cracks I didn’t even know were there.

    Therapy wasn’t about patching those cracks for me; it was about examining them. Each session felt like holding a magnifying glass up to my history, unearthing the silent resentments, unspoken grief, and buried fears that had quietly dictated my behavior. But the hardest part wasn’t just facing those moments—it was grieving for the child who endured them.

    Grief in this context is a strange thing. You’re not mourning a loss in the traditional sense; you’re mourning the life you didn’t have, the safety you didn’t feel, the love you didn’t always receive. You’re allowing yourself to feel the sadness, anger, and betrayal that you suppressed for survival. And let me tell you, that process is equal parts liberating and exhausting.

    I’ll admit, I resisted this grief at first. I wanted to be “fixed,” not to cry over memories I’d spent decades avoiding. But therapy taught me that grief is not weakness—it’s acknowledgement. It’s a way of saying to your younger self, “I see you. I understand now. And I’m so sorry you went through that.”

    For me, this grief brought clarity. It helped me understand why I’d accepted dysfunctional patterns in adulthood—because they felt familiar. It allowed me to set boundaries, to recognize that loving people doesn’t mean tolerating their toxicity, and to finally let go of the guilt I carried for simply wanting peace.

    So no, therapy didn’t rewrite my past. My childhood remains what it was—messy, complicated, and full of contradictions. But therapy gave me the tools to confront it, to grieve over it, and to move forward with a little more grace and a lot more self-compassion.

    If you’re on this journey, know that it’s not about erasing pain but about transforming it. You can’t go back and give yourself a different childhood, but you can give yourself the closure you deserve. Grieve the losses. Feel the feelings. And in doing so, you’ll find a strength within yourself that’s been waiting all along.

    And if all else fails, remember this: You’re not crying because you’re broken. You’re crying because you’re finally whole enough to feel it.

  • The Cost of Losing Control

    You know that person—the one who flies off the handle at the slightest inconvenience, blurts out the first thing on their mind, and barrels through life like a tornado with no regard for the aftermath. We all know someone like this, and if we’re honest, maybe we’ve been that person a time or two. But here’s the thing: living like that doesn’t just leave a trail of destruction for everyone else to deal with. It messes you up on the inside, too.

    Let me break it down. If you never learn to contain yourself—your emotions, your impulses, your words—you’re not living free. You’re living shackled to your anxiety. Why? Because every outburst, every impulsive decision, every careless word creates fallout. You spend your days putting out fires you started, constantly looking over your shoulder, wondering who’s mad at you or what disaster is waiting around the corner. That’s not freedom. That’s a life sentence of unease.

    Containment isn’t about suppression or being a robot. It’s about self-respect and understanding that every action has a consequence. The people who learn to pause, breathe, and think before they react? They’re not just being polite; they’re preserving their peace. When you stop letting your emotions control you, you take back your power. And let me tell you, that power feels a whole lot better than the temporary high of saying or doing whatever you want in the heat of the moment.

    I’m not saying it’s easy. It’s hard as hell to bite your tongue when you’re boiling inside or to walk away when every cell in your body is screaming for a fight. But the reward is worth it. Calm. Confidence. The kind of quiet strength that says, I don’t need to prove myself to anyone because I’ve got myself.

    So here’s the challenge: the next time you’re about to lose it, ask yourself if it’s worth sacrificing your peace. Because the truth is, the more you let yourself spiral, the harder it is to stop. And no one deserves to live life as a prisoner to their own chaos.

  • Roaring No More: Lions Join the NFC North’s Losers Club

    Oh, the sweet symphony of schadenfreude! Last night, the Detroit Lions, who had been roaring about their Super Bowl prospects, were tamed by the Washington Commanders in a 45-31 upset. Lions fans, whose confidence was practically dripping from their social media posts, were left stunned. As a Packers fan, I found this especially entertaining—though I’ll admit I had a personal stake in cheering for the Commanders. After all, their center is Tyler Biadasz, a local kid from Amherst, WI. Gotta support the hometown hero!

    The Lions, perched atop the NFC with a 15-2 record, were convinced their postseason would be a victory lap to the Super Bowl. Their fans, emboldened by this success, didn’t hesitate to remind the rest of us—especially those in the NFC North—of their dominance. But as the saying goes, “Pride comes before a fall.” And fall they did.

    Enter the Washington Commanders, led by rookie quarterback Jayden Daniels. Daniels delivered a stellar performance, throwing for 299 yards and two touchdowns, and adding 51 rushing yards. But let’s not forget the anchor of the Commanders’ offensive line—Biadasz kept things steady and ensured Daniels had the time to shine.

    Meanwhile, the Lions’ offense decided to go into full-on holiday mode, generously gifting the Commanders five turnovers. Jared Goff threw three interceptions and lost a fumble, making Commanders fans cheer while Lions fans cringed.

    As a Packers fan, it’s hard not to chuckle. The Lions, who had been the loudest in the room, now join the Bears and Vikings in the “We Almost Made It” club. It’s a familiar place for them, but this time, they tripped over their own arrogance on the way in.

    So, to all the Lions fans who were booking flights to the Super Bowl, welcome back to reality. The rest of the NFC North has kept your seat warm in the Losers Club. And to Tyler Biadasz—great game, kid! Keep making Wisconsin proud.

    Photo by: Seth Wenig/AP

  • Cold Weather Logic: A Teenager’s Guide to Freezing on Principle

    Ah, teenagers. The fascinating species that walks among us, simultaneously believing they are invincible and victims of the cruelest injustices. Case in point: my son. The other morning, he requested a ride to the bus stop because, and I quote, “It’s freezing outside.” Logical, right? I mean, who wouldn’t want to avoid hypothermia?

    Except there was one glaring issue: he refused to wear a proper coat, hat, or gloves.

    Let me paint the scene: It’s January. In Wisconsin, a.k.a The Frozen Tundra. The kind of cold that freezes your nostrils shut and makes your car sound like it’s crying when you start it. I looked at him, standing there in a lightweight hoodie (unzipped, naturally), sweatpants, and sneakers. No gloves. No hat. And the pièce de résistance? His insistence that “a coat is too bulky.”

    So, here I am, torn between sympathy for his chattering teeth and sheer disbelief. My motherly instincts kicked in, but not in the way you’d expect. “Why,” I asked, “would I drive you when you won’t even make the basic effort to protect yourself from the elements?”

    Cue the sigh. The teenager sigh. You know the one—the dramatic exhale that suggests I have personally ruined his life.

    Now, I’ve been around teenagers long enough to understand their logic—or lack thereof. Somehow, dressing appropriately for the weather is an affront to their entire identity. Hats? Uncool (and would mess up his perfectly styled hair). Gloves? A social death sentence. And a proper coat? Apparently, that’s only for grandpas and people without Wi-Fi.

    But here’s the kicker: he didn’t argue that he wasn’t cold. Oh no, he fully admitted that the Arctic blast outside was a problem. He just didn’t want to wear the solution. And this, my friends, is where my grasp of teenage logic fails.

    If you’re cold, dress warmly. This is not rocket science. In fact, this is the sort of wisdom I thought I had passed down to my offspring along with basic survival skills, like brushing teeth and not licking frozen flagpoles. But alas, he is a teenager, and they operate on a different plane of reasoning—one that adults are not invited to understand.

    So, I gave him my final word: “No coat, no ride. Your choice.” And off he went, shivering all the way to the bus stop like a martyr in a Netflix drama, no doubt imagining how he would recount this tale of hardship to his friends.

    Parenting a teenager is a lot like negotiating with a toddler, except the toddler thinks they’re smarter than you. The good news? This phase will pass. The bad news? It might take a while—and several frostbitten walks to the bus stop.

    In the meantime, I’m just going to keep shaking my head, sipping my tea, and reminding myself that one day, he’ll have kids of his own. And when they refuse to wear a coat in the middle of winter, I hope he hears my voice in the back of his head saying, “Told you so.”

  • Default Parent Chronicles: When Do I Get to Retire?

    I’ve officially hit the stage of parenting where I’m wondering when my retirement plan kicks in. You know, the elusive phase where the kids magically figure out life on their own and your spouse suddenly becomes the go-to for all the snacks, emotional crises, and life-or-death decisions (like which socks match with those shoes). Spoiler alert: It doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon.

    Let me set the stage: I’m the proud mom of three boys—ages 20, 15, and 9. The eldest? He’s on autopilot. I’ve essentially been promoted from full-time caretaker to occasional consultant in his life. If he needs advice on college, a ride to the airport, or tips on how to budget (he won’t take them, but he’ll ask), I’m there. But the younger two? Oh, they are still very much tethered to me, like I’m some sort of Swiss Army knife of parenting.

    Here’s the thing: I love my kids deeply, but why am I always the default? Stubbed a toe? “Mom!” Can’t find the remote? “Mom!” Need a snack? “Mom!” Their dad could be sitting right next to them—arms open, ready to help—and they’ll still make the trek across the house to find me, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. I’ve tested this theory. I’ve sat silently, pretending not to hear. But they have radar. They know I’m there.

    Why Don’t They Go to Dad?
    Good question. Their dad is fully capable, funny, and sometimes more patient than I am. And yet, somehow, I’m the chosen one. I’ve asked him about this, and his response? “Well, they know you’re better at it.” Better at what? Googling “how to stop a nosebleed”? Guess who has two thumbs and a Wi-Fi connection, too? This guy.

    But let’s be real—he’s also a master deflector. Got a kid asking about their science project? “Ask your mom.” Wondering why the dog is barking? “Ask your mom.” Need help figuring out why your sibling is being annoying? “Ask your mom.” It’s like a game of Hot Potato, and I’m always the potato.

    Here’s where I’m at: I thought that as the kids got older, my parenting workload would decrease. HA. Rookie mistake. Sure, I’m not waking up for midnight feedings or spending hours chasing toddlers around, but the mental load? Still there. There’s homework to supervise, sports schedules to coordinate, teenage drama to referee, and existential questions from my 9-year-old to answer. (“Mom, if animals could talk, what would our dog say about me?” Probably that you don’t share your snacks.)

    Now, before anyone accuses me of being ungrateful, let me make this clear: I adore my children. I’d move mountains for them (and I have, metaphorically speaking). But sometimes, I fantasize about what it would be like to be the “fun parent.” You know, the one who swoops in for the movie nights, the weekend getaways, and the pizza parties—without being bogged down by the day-to-day monotony of parenting logistics.

    So, what’s the answer? I don’t know. Maybe I need a sabbatical. A momcation. A week (heck, even a weekend) where I disappear, and my husband takes on the full brunt of “default parent” duties. I’ll leave detailed notes:

    • “The 9-year-old likes his grilled cheese cut diagonally but only on Tuesdays.”
    • “The 15-year-old will lock himself in his room, but check his Spotify playlist. If it’s all sad songs, bring snacks.”

    Maybe then, when I come back, they’ll realize just how magical I truly am. Or maybe they’ll just keep yelling “Mom!” anyway.

    Until then, I’ll be here—armed with snacks, wisdom, and a small glimmer of hope that someday, my retirement will come. Probably around the time I’m pushing 90.