​      ​Life is a never-ending series of plot twists, and let's be honest, it’s a lot harder if you just let it happen to you without some awareness of what might be coming next. Relationships, careers, education, and all the unexpected detours in between can pile on stress and anxiety, sometimes dragging us into cycles of self-doubt, therapy, medication, and plenty of existential overthinking.
We all need hope. Hope is what fuels us to do better, feel better, and, if we're lucky... be better. Well, hope and humor.
     I, like so many others, find hope in stories. Not just in the familiar tales of struggle and survival, but in the stories that make us feel everything. When we rage at a character, roll our eyes at their bad choices, or get frustrated by the absurdity of a situation, we know we’re not alone. And that, in itself, is hope—because if someone else endured it and lived to tell the tale, maybe we can too.
     Stories don’t just give us hope; they offer lessons, perspective, and, if we’re really lucky... a little humor. Writing (and reading) lets me wrangle my thoughts, figure out what I want to say, or, more accurately, what I should have said. If I had a dollar for every perfect comeback that only arrived at 2 a.m., I’d be rich. But since life doesn’t come with a rewind button, I tuck those moments into stories instead, hoping someone else might benefit from what I learned the hard way.
     Storytelling isn’t always fiction, but fiction is always storytelling, and it plays a vital role in shaping how we understand each other and the world. I’ve met people who dismiss fiction, claiming only nonfiction has real value. I think that wildly underestimates the power of stories. Whether real or imagined, they teach us about ourselves, about others, and about the strange and beautiful mechanics of human connection. You could read a thousand books and still have more to learn, because humans are wonderfully complicated.
     Millions of books have been written, and still, more stories demand to be told.
     I learn by reading, engaging, and wrangling a whole lot of thoughts. That’s what writing is... Thought Wrangling.
     And that’s what you’ll find here, at The Thought Wrangler Blog.

     Walter Mitty wasn’t paying attention. He wasn’t tuned in to reality. He didn’t hear or notice much of what was happening around him.
     The problem? The story in his head was better than real life. Or so he thought.
     When he finally wakes up, he realizes just how much he’s missed. If only he had been paying attention… listening.
     As someone prone to Walter Mitty-style thinking tangents, I can confirm zoning out has cost me my fair share of connections, opportunities, and warning signs.
     Take my friend—let’s call her Sharon. Sharon once told me she regretted marrying her husband. She felt they were a bad fit. Or something. I don’t really know... I wasn’t paying attention. We aren’t friends anymore.     
​     She divorced her husband too. Apparently, listening is important.

      It’s not that I didn’t care about my friend, I truly did. I hated seeing her struggle. But she had no way of knowing that, because I was oblivious to the details of her life. The worst part? I was probably off thinking about something ridiculous, like how many babies a mouse can have in its lifetime, (hundreds!)
     I couldn’t tell you the number of times someone has been talking to me while my mind wandered off to something profoundly unimportant. My itchy sweater, for instance. Why didn’t I wear the blue one? It doesn’t itch. Meanwhile, my neighbor was telling me about her fender bender last week, and—well, I don’t know the rest, because I wasn’t paying attention.
     Then she mentions how she’s been showing everyone her photo with The Rock.
     Wait—what?
     "When did you meet The Rock?" I ask.
     She stares. “Remember? I was in that fender bender with him?"
     Oh. Oh no. I really should have been paying attention to that one.
     Listening is also crucial for personal growth. At some point, we all have to admit we need to learn things. And learning from other people's experiences is way better than learning everything the hard way.
  It's also critical for communication. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been misunderstood, probably because I had half the conversation in my head and thought I had said it out loud. Thankfully, this happens less often these days. But it does still happen.
     Didn’t I tell you to turn left 35 miles back?
     (My husband has the patience of a saint. No, really, he does.)
    Paying attention helps us understand others, relate to their emotions, and build genuine connections. Sharon didn’t get that from me, and she walked away from our friendship.
     Can’t say I blame her.

Read: The Secret Life of Walter Mitty by James Thurber
Watch: The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (1947) This version is far superior to the 2013 version. 

​    I’ve tried to be more selective about the accounts I follow, more conscious of the content I consume. I swear I have. But social media is like popcorn during a movie, you keep eating it just because it’s there. You don’t think much about it until your fingers hit the greasy, salty bottom of the bucket. Did I seriously eat all that popcorn?
    They (the ever-mysterious "they") say that media minimalism can ease anxiety and depression. The constant exposure to highlight reels isn't great for mental health, even in small doses. Some studies even suggest that a certain app (cough) might be contributing to psychosis. While I can’t speak to that particular claim, I do know researchers have linked attachment issues, anxiety, and depression in kids and teens to just fifteen minutes of screen time a day. Fifteen minutes? That’s barely enough time to fall down one clickbait spiral.
    They (this time, the researchers, not the teens) claim that scaling back our screen time frees us up for things like spending time with loved ones, pursuing hobbies, and being more present. But let’s be honest, that’s exactly what I’m avoiding. We all are. Those things take effort. Social media asks nothing of me but my attention. Entertain me. Numb me up. Don’t make me work for it.
    One popular solution? Set a daily screen-time limit. (Baw-ha-ha.) Use apps or built-in settings to remind yourself when it’s time to log off. Yeah… I’m gonna ignore that notification the second it pops up. Maybe even disable the app outright.
    So, I did something drastic instead. I deleted all my personal accounts. Three years. No scrolling, no liking, no posting. Just… nothing. And you know what? I felt more relaxed almost immediately. A few months in, I noticed I was happier, and my friendships... so much better. I mean, noticeably better.
    Why? Because I actually had to choose to reach out, to text, call, and talk to my friends and family.
  No passive updates, no vague sense of their lives drifting by in my feed. Just real conversations, intentional connections. Even better? I chose who I wanted to connect with.
    Out of the thousands of people I was linked to online, I found I genuinely only wanted to keep in touch with about ten.
    And honestly? Those ten people... the best of the thousands... are worth so much more than mindless scrolling. I feel closer, happier, more able to be supportive and supported.
    I won’t sugarcoat it: social media is terrible for building deep, meaningful relationships. Full stop.
    These days, I only use a few platforms professionally. I know myself well enough to avoid the black hole of Instagram, where dancing ferrets and perfectly timed fails would devour my evening before I could blink.
    The time I’ve gained, the relationships I’ve deepened, none of that is worth trading for a ferret or a fail. I may not be a hard-core minimalist, but this? This is my own minimal minimalism.

                                                  A (Not-So-Short) Guide to Sanity in a World Gone Mad
​     Life is overwhelming. Exhausting. Loud.
   Our brains are running at max speed, drowning in a sea of news, notifications, and questionable hot takes. It's no surprise so many of us are crashing and burning.
     And what do we get in return for this madness? A lovely uptick in anxiety and stress.   
Fantastic. Just what I needed.
     So, in the spirit of reclaiming a bit of peace (or at least preventing a total meltdown), I’ve compiled a short list (well, 50 is short, right?) of things worth working on. If we tackled every single one of these, our lives would transform. But hey, even one or two could make a difference.

                                                         50 Ways to Keep Your Head on Straight

     I’m wired for anxiety. In other words, I’m really good at worrying and coming up with worst-case scenarios—WCSs, if you will.
     Not only was I blessed with an amazing ability to feel anxiety, but I also have a vivid and creative imagination.
     Not always a great combination. 
     The problem with anxiety and fear?
​     It makes you difficult to be around.

     We land in the vast, chaotic universe of parenting, a place where many of the old rules need to be adjusted, rearranged, or just thrown out entirely. We start a journey of trial and error:

• We find therapies. Some work, some don’t.
• We try charts. We watch videos.
• Friends send articles.
• We buy more books.

     And then, as we’re sorting through it all, trying to make sense of what works, what doesn’t, and whether we’re just sinking deeper into the unknown, the inevitable thought creeps in…
What could I have done better? Was I too strict? Too lenient? WHYYYY did I feed her soooo much gluten?!?
     Enter Regerts.
     A terrible little creep who lurks in the dark corners of our memories.
     But hear me out... it’s time for him to go.
     Kick him out.
     If you knew better, you would have done better.
    We create our own monsters, and life is already full enough, no need to add unnecessary worries to the mix.
     So, write Regerts a farewell letter, burn an effigy, or just tell him to get lost.
     This parenting journey? It’s already packed with things demanding your energy, your time, your sanity.
     Choose how you want to spend it.
     Leave no room for what isn’t helpful.
     And when doubt starts whispering in your ear, remind yourself... NO REGERTS.
     Because parenting is hard. It’s full of missteps, corrections, and constant learning.
​     But regret? Not welcome here.
​

​        I want to present a different and controversial point of view on suicide, but before I do, I want to explain why I feel like I may have some honest justification for my feelings of frustration on the topic.
       Like too many others, I was a neglected and abused kid who had some “undiagnosed differences”. I struggled to connect and relate to other kids, I missed a lot of social cues, which left me with few friends, and in spite of being “gifted,” I got completely lost in school and didn’t do well. As a result, I was isolated, misunderstood, and depressed.
         By the time I was 19, I was spiraling into a deep, dark, all-consuming depression. This combined with drug and alcohol use sent me into hopeless bleak places in my mind, places that I would revisit several times before I finally broke free, and all this was made more challenging because I didn’t have a foundation of understanding in my home life. 

​     ​Remember, these platforms weren’t designed to enrich our lives. They were built to keep us hooked. And that’s precisely where the beast lurks, in their addictive, effortless convenience.
     We’ve grown so comfortable in passive consumption that our idea of "socializing" has become an illusion. We scroll Facebook, binge-watch YouTube, let Netflix autoplay another episode, all to fill that craving for connection, but ironically, we’re only disconnecting further.
     "But I Use It to Stay Connected!"
     Ah yes, here come the justifications:

• "I just use it to keep in touch with friends and family."
• "I use it to learn."
• "I use it to relax."

     I hear you. But let’s be real.
     We’re not using it. It’s using us.
     We let it replace genuine human interaction. We choose easy over effort. And why wouldn’t we? It’s human nature to conserve energy, to do the undemanding, the effortless. It’s wired into our survival instincts.
     Except… we aren’t surviving.
     We’re stagnating.
     The Beast is consuming our relationships, making us awkward and uneasy in deep conversations, even putting us at odds with physical touch. It has led us down pathways of anger, division, and apathy, slowly, insidiously, until hope itself feels like an endangered species.
     Just ask a Gen Z kid about optimism.
​
                                                    "Bread and Circuses" Redux
​
     The Roman poet Juvenal nailed it centuries ago:
     "Give them bread and circuses, and they will never revolt."
     Translated into modern terms: Give them snacks and unlimited media, and the Beast will keep them docile.
     We are being conditioned to believe this is the way forward, that those who resist are simply "being oversensitive" or "refusing to accept progress."
     Of course, the Beast says that.
     It convinces us that tolerating others is good enough, no need for respect, empathy, or understanding.   That we should segregate ourselves into ideological bubbles while simultaneously including and accepting everyone.
     …Wait, what?
     See the contradiction? The uncertainty? The deliberate disorientation?
    The Beast needs us to be cynical. It thrives on division. It wants us to flatten people into categories of good vs. bad, right vs. wrong, black vs. white—never acknowledging the complexity that makes humans a nuanced mix of all these things.
     And what happens when you lose that flexibility in thinking? When you begin to see people only as "the enemy"?
     That’s when hate strolls through the unlocked front door.
     That’s how the Sneaky Beast wins.

                                                              Breaking Free.

     If we think... even for a second... that we're not feeding the beast every time we sit voiceless and passive in front of a screen, then we are evolutionarily doomed.
     We are being led down a primrose path of faux enlightenment, convinced that "connection" is happening online.
     But there is no deep relationship at the end of a social media post.
     So yes, plug in from time to time. Scroll. Watch. Consume. But don’t let it be your life.
     Call someone. Take a walk with a friend. Have a conversation that makes you uncomfortable... but in a good way.
     Real human connection takes effort. It takes work. But it’s the only thing that will save us from the beast’s grip.