One of my favorite parts of this work, aka saymore, is meeting women I might not have crossed paths with otherwise. I was halfway through writing this July post on queer representation, but I scrapped it last minute. One conversation this week kept bouncing around these walls and I wanted to talk about it.

I’ve met a lot of people in my life so far, moving across the country a couple times, changing jobs a couple more times. I used to think ‘networking’ was just part of the deal and what a bummer that was. Shake hands, send the email, smile, repeat. But now, it feels different. Now I get to meet people who lead with something else. People who lead with a little more heart. Who weren’t immediately welcomed. Who kept going anyway. Those were the people I wanted to hear from the most and more often than not, they really do move me to tears (in the best way).

Being a queer woman building something in the mental health space, I knew I was not the majority. I still wanted to find my people - professionally speaking. And oh wow, did I find them. But not without casting a wide net, sitting through conversations that left me drained, navigating feedback I didn’t ask for. In the beginning you have to take every call, every introduction. Now I know better. I don’t need to meet everyone. I take referrals more seriously. I’m protective of my time. And more and more I make it a priority to spend my time with the right people.

So the other day, I met another one of those “right people.” She told me she’d read the “about me” on our  saymore site - something I always forget lives online. She even quoted a line from it back to me and I felt my heart catch. Hearing this woman who lives on the other side of the world identifying with my depression, I just felt so moved. 

But I also felt so sad. I always tell people I hope they can’t relate to the parts of me that write about depression. I wouldn’t wish that kind of knowing on people, though I know they are out there. The irony is not lost on me that I am building a space for connection and I hope no one connects with me and my depression. But she knew this kind of depression well. So we talked. We laughed. We shared stories. She told me she wrote a book of poetry, something I’ve always wanted to do too. She said her mom told her it was full of pain. She said it was full of truth. Before we hung up, she said something I’m still turning over in my mind. She said that even with all the pain of the pages before, she ended the book with this: she is every one of her favorite songs. Every sunset stacked on top of another. She is what she loves and what she hates. Like she’s collecting all these versions of herself, and they all get to live together. 

I ordered her book. I wanted to hear the rest.

So I’ve been thinking about myself, too. About not having to be just one thing. Just last week, I got a friend's old record player and I’ve been running around town collecting Mac Miller vinyls. I propagate my own plants now and I know what that word means! I organized a scavenger hunt for some friends and fed them rice krispy treats after like they were five year olds. You change. You keep changing. And the hard things don’t disappear, but they don’t define the whole picture either. 

Sometimes I think people hear the word mental health and it comes with a big sigh. But as much as my depression lives with me, it is smaller some days. That goes with anything. We’re all a lot of things. Not just strong because we have to be. Not just tired because the world is exhausting. We’re also funny, silly. Loud, quiet. Smart and kinda dumb… that’s great! That is allowed! I want to be all the things! 

In a binary world that only lets you be one or the other, I want it all. And I hope this gives you a little bit of permission today to be whoever the hell fits right this minute.

I will never forget the true swings of depression in my twenties. By the time this goes up I will be freshly thirty years old and I cannot wait. It’s not that I expect life to suddenly get easier, or that depression and disappointment disappear at thirty. But I feel grateful to be moving on from a chapter that felt so dizzying and raw.

I have been excited to turn thirty starting early on in my twenties. I remember coming home for Thanksgiving not long after graduating college. I had moved from a sunny, vibrant city to a colder, more sterile one, chasing a job I hoped would give me some direction. At the dinner table, surrounded by my family, I felt completely numb. I had no interests to speak of, nothing I was excited about. I felt like a shell. My sister made a joke about someone she knew turning thirty—how terrible that must be—and without thinking I said, “I can’t wait to be thirty.” Even at twenty-two, I knew: whatever this is, I don’t want it.

I was suspicious of the twenties in general. People told me college would be the best years of my life—it wasn’t. Then they said real money and promotions would fulfill me—they didn’t. They promised new cities would fix the rest. They hadn’t. So I started wondering: who were all these people, offering these vague, sweeping truths about how life should feel? Whoever they were—I didn’t trust them.

What I meant then, and what I still mean now, is that I wanted a life that felt more…human. I wanted new experiences to shape me. I wanted to change my mind and then change it again. I wanted to be in situations that challenged me and meet people who challenged my way of thinking. What I received was monotonous days, empty hangovers, and the endless shuffling of papers in Corporate America. This felt like the beginning of the rest of my life.  

The twenties moved forward in all their stumbling mediocrity. Every system—work, healthcare, relationships—revealed itself to be far more broken than I’d imagined. I’ll never forget my first “free” preventative doctor’s appointment that cost me $340 because I mentioned having a cold at the time. 

The twenties have a way of teaching you just how much you don’t know, and how fast you’re expected to figure it out anyway.

I hoped that by thirty, I’d stop feeling like every mistake was a public faceplant and every heartbreak meant I’d never be okay again. I’m not saying that won’t ever happen again, but the edges have softened. I’ve grown more comfortable with myself, and less interested in pretending the status quo works well enough for me.

What I will always appreciate about that twenties shine that never fully arrived was I got to make my own world. I got to build my own timelines for what I wanted my life to look like. I ditched the fake luster of being a cog in a corporate machine. I left so many cities and made new friends that reflected the kind of person I was and wanted to be. I realized I was a queer woman who did not want kids and that blew up the rest of what was my ‘ticking biological clock.’ It was the best of times, it was the worst of times! But I was finally and truly free. 

In that same vein, I never planned to build something like saymore. It came from tuning into the parts of myself I used to try to quiet—the parts that craved connection, honesty, and something more meaningful than just checking boxes. I spent so much time chasing safety, doing what was “smart,” trying to follow the five year plan. But eventually I realized: it’s more worthwhile to take risks and lots of them. Saymore is my contribution to the internet, of shaping it into something softer, more reflective, more human.

Whatever this next chapter holds for thirty year old Steph, I know this: I will do it my way. There will still be all of the feelings from the twenties but this time I will have more confidence and self trust. And for whatever is still ahead—for me, for saymore—this space will hold what it needs to and we will be more than okay.

So no, I don’t dread turning thirty. I welcome it. I’m not going away—I’m just getting started.

Share with those who missed it - we had a BLAST!

March and April were a whirlwind for saymore—two live events, two more on-demand events coming soon, and one overwhelmed founder (hi). It was the kind of month that reminds you what you’re capable of—and also humbles you real fast.

It was such a busy time, and an anticipated time that I was so proud of. When we hosted our Women and Miscarriage event in NYC last fall, I felt it in my bones: this is the work I want to do. Real people. Real conversations. In real time. That’s where the magic is.

This spring, we wanted to take that same energy and bring it to our broader community—wherever they are. There was an urgency to it. Every topic we picked felt equally vital, timely, and necessary to tackle. These weren’t just content ideas or marketing themes—they were real conversations that needed a place to land. We leaned into virtual events to meet more people where they are and to capture more nuanced, sensitive, and deeply needed conversations. Topics that don’t often get the attention they deserve in glossy wellness spaces.

What I didn’t fully prepare for—despite all the planning and spreadsheets—was how much these events would impact me on a personal level. I’m an empath by nature, and what that means is that when people open up, I don’t just hear their stories—I feel them. I carry them around with me for a while. And this past month, I carried it all.

Each event was intimate in its own way. People were brave. They showed up with their full selves, sometimes with pain still fresh, sometimes with clarity that only comes from having lived through it. And after every session, whether it was a panelist sharing something deeply personal or someone in the audience speaking up in the live chat, I sat with it all.

I found myself processing long after the screen went dark. I was overwhelmed, yes—but not in a negative way. Overwhelmed by how honest people were willing to be. How much trust they placed in saymore, in each other, in the space we created. It’s no small thing to tell the truth in public. Especially about topics like imperfect parenting and life-long depression. These are things we’re taught to quietly survive, not share.

After every single event, I felt this wave of pride—not just in what we’d pulled off logistically, but in the kind of community we’re attracting. I kept thinking: These are the people I want to build with. People who aren’t pretending to have it all figured out. People who are curious, kind, and deeply human. Whether they were panelists, audience members, or folks just tuning in and holding space quietly from behind their screens—it all mattered.

Each of these conversations was special in its own way:

• The Influencer and Social Media round table—raw, honest, and hilarious with the young influencers themselves speaking about the good that they’ve built from the internet!
• A candid talk on the mental health of young adults and the parents who love them - a real life therapy session that made us laugh and cry!
• Coming soon, ADHD and Women: Relationships edition. We always talk about school and work with regard to ADHD but what about our platonic and romantic relationships, I promise you’ll come away giggling with this group!

After the last couple of months, I’m tired—but also clear. Clear on the importance of this work. Clear on the kind of community we’re building. Clear on how powerful it is to hold space for one another, even when it’s heavy.

May is a time to slow down—not to stop, but to soften. To integrate everything that’s unfolded. To stay grounded in why this matters, and to remind ourselves that creating space for others also means creating space for ourselves. The work continues, but so does the care.

Thanks for being part of this.

If you attended any of our events in March/April, we want to know—did you feel seen? What do you want more of? Let’s keep the momentum and make this space yours as much as it is ours.

Parents of Adult Children Full Replay - share with your parent/child today!