Nazzy vibes

This morning, my husband made breakfast — bacon, eggs, toast, the usual. I sat down, took a bite… and froze.
I hadn’t smelled my food first.
When I was little, my mom used to poison my food, usually with some kind of cleaning chemical. So for years, without even thinking about it, I’d smell everything before I ate. A little survival ritual. Sniff. Check. Then eat.
But this morning? Nothing. I just sat down and ate, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Somewhere along the way, without me even noticing, my body had decided this kitchen was safe. This man’s kindness — his quiet, consistent, everyday love — had finally convinced my nervous system to stand down.
Healing doesn’t always announce itself with fireworks. Sometimes it’s just a regular Tuesday, a plate of eggs, and a habit you no longer need.
And I think that’s something worth celebrating.

My teen daughter stood in the bathroom doorway, holding a fresh bar of lavender soap like it was a trophy.
“Mom, I’m just saying, sharing the shower bar is objectively gross,” she declared.
I looked at the slightly melted bar of Dove sitting in the dish. “It’s soap, sweetie. It literally cleans things. It cleans itself.”
She wrinkled her nose in pure teenage disgust. “It’s a communal bacteria puck. Having my own should be a given.”
I rolled my eyes but handed her a personal bar from the hall closet. As she triumphantly marched back to the shower, I couldn’t help but laugh. Growing up, my entire family of five survived on one single bar of Irish Spring. You used it, you rinsed it, you passed it on. If you dropped it, you picked it up and kept scrubbing. I’ve never even seen a shower with a soap dish buffet.
I let her have her own, but I’m still trying to figure out if multiple bars of soap per shower is actually a standard thing now, or if my kid just watches too much TikTok.