Checking In: How are you?

Our individual worlds encompass so much more than what is happening on the national stage, so we need to remember to check in with each other.

Mar 08, 2025

(AI generated: American flag, television, how are you, chaos)

Hi, there, friend—

How are you doing? I mean, really doing? I’m not asking this in the perfunctory way we sometimes greet people, waiting for an “okay” or “fine” without taking time to really listen. Passing in the hallway, being pulled out of thoughts swirling in your head, throwing up a hand …

“Oh, hey, How’re you doin’?”

“Good, thanks; How are you doing?”

“Good.”

“Great.” Whoosh—walk away and back in my head.

Don’t we all do that sometimes? I mean, isn’t it rude to just ignore someone when you’re passing? You can’t just look away—they already saw you see them. But you’re socially awkward and don’t know what else to say. Plus, you’re busy, they’re busy, right? They would probably think you’re weird and avoid you if you tried to have a real conversation.

I may be guilty of that when passing, but when we are together and I ask, I want to know—really know.

For instance, when I come into your office, or call you up, or text out of nowhere, or stop what I’m doing, look at you in the eye, and ask, “How are you doing?”—I’m not just being nice, I want to know. I’m checking in on you. I want you to know you’re being seen. I am giving you a piece of me that takes effort for my ADHD brain to give—my attention—and a piece that is easier to give—my heart (yes, I saw my cardiologist this week, and he says I still have one).

I have few people who make me feel worthy of their time. One in particular will always make time for me, give me genuine support and attention, and remind me I’m not a horrible person—I’m only able to steal a few minutes with this person every few months, and that’s not enough.

I know when this person says, “How are you?” it’s a deliberate question of care.

So, I’m asking—How are you?

It’s easy to look at the world today and feel despair. We are not just dealing with changes being made on a global level that make us feel helpless and hopeless. We are in the thick of our own lives and the chaos that surrounds us.

Last month, I sat in the hospital with my husband’s stepdad—who lives with us—as he recovered from a broken right hip, just a couple weeks after graduating from physical and occupational therapy for a broken left hip. Because my father-in-law (let’s call him Phil) has significant cognitive impairment, my husband and I took turns working remotely from his bedside, answering questions, interpreting information in a way he could understand, and then returning to our work until the next person came in the room.

When he broke his left hip in September, we rotated nights with him because he was so scared. He was less scared this time, so we would stay until 8 or 9 p.m. and then go home to our two anxiety-suffering cats, drink a glass of bourbon, and then fall into bed to do it all again the next day.

During that same week, I had a colonoscopy with extended prep and polyps removed. My dad had an EEG to rule out seizures and an ultrasound on his kidneys. I saw the nephrologist who is monitoring a large kidney stone. My husband had an MRI on his prostate. Damn, aging is a real bitch.

Looking back at that week, my chaos was pretty mild—the results could have been much worse. I know you are likely experiencing greater challenges and deeper hurts—so many people are right now.

Counting on getting old

Maybe that’s why aging has been on my mind a lot nowadays. I wouldn’t have said it like this 20 years ago, but “I’m only 56!” When my granny turned 55, she was excited to be “double-nickels” and the speed limit (back when the national limit was 55). I was 13 at the time and 55 seemed really old.

I was 19 when I met my husband, 20 when we married, 21 when our first son was born, one day shy of 26 when our second entered the world—and 44 when our nest emptied.

With a large and elderly extended family, I had frequent reminders of mortality, but when September 11, 2001, happened, the tragedy of death became real—you didn’t have to be old to die, and it could happen any second.

Thirteen years later, on July 17, 2014, my grandma died. She was one of my favorite people, and I was 45. Less than a year later, on April Fool’s Day (read more here), my mom was put on life support in ICU. While I was in the midst of being consumed by hospital stays, medications, oxygen, tests, blood infusions, and chemotherapy, my loving mother-in-law suddenly died—it was August 25, 2016, our younger son’s birthday. Six months and one day later—February 26, 2017—my mom was gone. I was 48.

I was not okay.

I became meticulously—and maybe a little obsessively—attentive to every pain, ache, or mood and addressed each one, terrified that I would neglect some lurking disease that becomes terminal before discovered. I wanted to do everything I could to stay as long as possible.

I had witnessed death twice and could no longer deny mortality and how suddenly it arrives. One minute you’re here and the next you’re gone.

Before I could fully feel okay, 2020 and the global pandemic erupted, spewing death all around me. I was 51. And less than a year later, on December 31, 2020, our empty nest repopulated and Phil moved in, dragging the reality and horror of aging with him, and it kicked me in the face. I was 52.

Phil and the talking heads

My husband’s teenage years with Phil were volatile and complicated. However, my experience up until that point was positive, since he generally treated me like a daughter. When he had no place else to go, I suggested he move in with us, following the example of my parents—it’s just what you do for family. Had I realized how bad my husband’s PTSD was, I don’t think I would have made that suggestion.

On New Year’s Eve, we welcomed 2021 with Phil, a 76-year-old with congestive heart failure, cognitive decline, combativeness, and uncontrollable bowels, sleeping in a recliner in our living room (he hasn’t slept in a bed for about 40 years).

Nothing—and I really mean nothing—prepared me for the reality of aging that came with being his caregiver or the frustration of dealing with his rude stubbornness. (My mother-in-law was a freaking saint!)

I was not okay. But I will learn to be.

When our sons left home, we had a difficult transition into empty-nesting, but we found each other again and embraced new routines and freedoms. That all changed when Phil moved in. The constant TV noise and talking heads of news-ertainment nearly drove us insane.

Three and a half years ago, we bought a house where Phil has his own area, and we regained control of the remote and the noise, rarely turning the television on—unless it’s baseball season or the fur-babies want to watch Cat TV.

However, staying with Phil at the hospital brought much of that anxiety back, because I was stuck in a room with all the national dumpster fire stories repeated every fifteen minutes or so. When he tired of those, he changed the channel and found more. I thought I would lose my mind.

Doesn’t anyone read?

I don’t know how many times I’ve said in the past year—and even more in the past couple months—“Doesn’t anyone read?” Growing up, my dad encouraged reading—one of my favorite pastimes—and he instilled a responsibility for being witness to government, politics, American history, and civics. A Marine who served in Vietnam, he is the only person I will ever debate politics with—it makes him so happy to get me riled. He respects my opinion and won’t bully me into adopting his beliefs. We don’t always align, but we do agree on the current administration. He taught me to form my own opinions, think for myself, and stand up for what I believe in—and I remind him of that when my mouth won’t stop.

It’s no surprise that I spent most of my adult life as a legacy journalist.

I was passionate about my work, but as so many good journalists have done, I left the field after interviewing for a promotion and my male manager said, “You’ve got a lot of good ideas, but I’m still the boss.” I went back to my desk and wrote a resignation letter.

I am okay. Not great, but better.

Journalism looks much different than when I left my full-time newspaper job in 2009; the internet has transformed the industry, often focusing on clicks and sensationalism instead of accuracy and balance. However, good journalists—with experience, integrity, and ethics—are still watching the government, holding it accountable, and informing citizens. They work tirelessly for the First Amendment and back up their words with proof. They are threatened, sued, and targeted, but still continue the fight for all of us.

I’m grateful that many excellent journalists who have lost or left their corporate jobs continue bringing truth to the public on Substack. They aren’t cowering to corporate media giants or the bully and his henchman in the Oval Office.

Where were we? Oh, yes… How are you?

So many of us are barely hanging on with the chaos in own lives and can’t even begin to think about anything happening on the national or international stage. Maybe you’re suddenly without a job, insurance, and assistance for your child with a developmental disability. Maybe you don’t know how you will afford a medicine that costs thousands of dollars but will help your parent recognize you for one more month. Maybe you can’t think beyond how to buy dinner. Maybe you’re afraid for your child’s life or afraid to fly for work. Maybe you worry someone will capture and dump you in a strange country because you are the latest pawn for power. Maybe you’re just worrying how to get from this paycheck to the next. Maybe the enemy lives in your house, and you don’t have time to worry about the rest of the world.

I don’t know what you’re going through, but I want to know—How are you?

When the world seems so big and out of control, we need to remember to check in on each other and be brave enough to lean on others when they check on us.

So I’m asking, “How are you?”

Life on Peoples Court

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