Where I Live: Book Launch Edition

An essay inspired by Nora Ephron

If you enjoy this newsletter, you'll love journals on the journey, a weekly-ish newsletter full of inspiration, encouragement, and community for driven people trying to live a fulfilling, values-based life. Author

Liz Ryan

shares essays, practical tips, and book recommendations to help you find joy and thrive on your adulthood journey.

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Hopefully by now you’ve heard the news… my new book, Good (Enough) Mother, is available for preorder! Check it out at goodenoughmotherbook.com. And don’t forget to claim your preorder bonus—instant free access to my self-paced course, Journaling 101, so you can start writing your story today. Join me over on Instagram for more book updates (easy ways to support an author’s launch, sneak peek of the author’s note, page 77, and the slow art I’m here for in 2025).

Where I Live: Book Launch Edition

Inspired by Nora Ephron’s essay, “Where I Live,” published in I Feel Bad About My Neck.

1. I live in my home. It is the dead of winter. Childcare plans flicker on and off like our power did all last night in the gusting winds. Daycare is open! Daycare is closed… My son might come home with flu A-Z at any moment. Darkness hits by 3pm. I’m cold and tired, but hey, at least we have a tea pot and snacks. My husband gave me a heart-shaped chocolate box for Valentine’s Day and the highlight of the day is using the guide to dodge the caramel and select the next flavor (dark chocolate truffle).

2. I live on a stool. Oh, it drives my husband wild. We have a whicker stool that lives tucked under the counter by the sink. Every day, multiple times a day, I scoot the stool over to the kitchen island. We don’t have an island with a proper lip. You know, the overhang part that allows for scooting in and tucking out of the way. So, said stool ends up right in the direct path to the stove, trash can, pantry, and refrigerator. There is no tucking away involved. I awkwardly slump over the counter while I eat or work. Often, I can smell the trash stored in the cabinet under the island, and I think, I should really find a new spot. Or I think about how much my back aches from hunching, and I think, I should really find a new spot. Or my husband whispers something under his breath while he trips over it for the 100th time, and I think, I should really find a new spot. Please do not judge me. I don’t know why, but this stool in this particular spot is where I choose to live.