Here I come...

My Name Is Mia (And Maria Too)

Let me introduce myself,

Ahem, ahem.

My name is Mia.

Well, actually, my name is Maria.

I was named after my paternal grandmother, whom I never met. I never liked the name much, so when I went away to college, I told everyone my name was Mia.

It stuck.

I’ve been Mia for far longer, to far more people, than I was ever Maria.

Only a very special few still call me Maria.

I answer to both.

People have strong opinions about names.

“You are such a Mia. I can’t see you as a Maria.”

As if names come preloaded with personalities. As if they seep into us instead of the other way around.

Sometimes I wonder who I’d be if I’d stayed Maria.

Maria feels proper.

Mia feels like she doesn’t take life quite so seriously.

The truth is, I live in both houses.

I can be light, enthusiastic, silly, joyful, funny in a way that surprises even me.

And I can sink into the darkest nights of the soul and struggle with being human so profoundly that I’ve wished, more than once, that I could just call it quits.

So.

There’s that.

The Basics

I’m 42.

White. Cis. Straight. Female. Married.

Mother of two.

Recently an only child.

A daughter in the sandwich generation.

I live in Colorado, but I’m a Southern California girl at heart. I spent some ill-advised years in my twenties careening around New York City with my best friends, smoking cigarettes, drinking heavily, singing show tunes at the top of our lungs.

I thought I’d be an actor.

I became a psychotherapist instead.

Grief, Matthew Perry, and Becoming an Only Child

I quit being a psychotherapist two years ago after my brother died suddenly and tragically.

You probably read about it.

You very likely know his name.

Matthew Perry.

Yes.

That Matthew Perry.

Chandler from Friends.

Here are the questions people ask when they find out he was my brother:

“Really?”

Yes. Really.

“Was he funny in real life?”

Absolutely.

“Were you close?”

Very.

“What was it like growing up with him?”

That’s a long, complicated story. I’m writing a book about it. Stay tuned.

“It must be so hard sharing your grief with the whole world.”

Not necessarily. I shared his life with the world. Sharing his death feels like an extension of that.

"I just can't imagine..."

All death is unimaginable until it happens to you. Then it becomes painfully clear.

So there’s that, too.

ADHD, Identity, and Living at Two Speeds

I love to crochet.

I’m terrible at it.

I love it because it’s a fidget spinner with purpose.

I’m bad at it because I lack patience and precision.

Both are symptoms of ADHD.

I was diagnosed with ADHD a few months ago, late, like many women, after a massive falling out with a close friend and business partner. I thought something was deeply wrong with me.

Turns out I just have a different brain.

ADHD feels like playing the game of life without ever having received the rule book, while everyone else read it, memorized it, and laminated it.

I lose my phone.

My keys.

My sanity.

I have two default speeds:

130 mph

or

zero.

Being around other ADHD brains soothes me.

We find each other.

We’re not dizzy on the ride.

We’re just relieved not to ride alone.

Alchemizing Pain Into Art

I believe in souls.

I believe even inanimate objects hold wisdom, if we get quiet enough to listen.

I believe in magic.

I believe in alchemizing pain into art.

That’s what I’m trying to do here.

Mia hopes you enjoyed reading this.

Maria hopes too.

My light parts and my dark parts hope you’re curious enough to explore the gray with us.

Ready or not

here I come.