Gemma Hartley

Gemma Hartley

Bio

Gemma Hartley is a freelance writer with a BA in writing from The University of Nevada, Reno. She is author of FED UP: Emotional Labor, Women and The Way Forward. She lives in Reno with her husband, three young kids, an awesome dog, and a terrible cat.

Gemma Hartley Articles

The real reason I’m worried about sending my kids to school is that I’m going to be alone.

All Of My Kids Are In School & I Don't Know How To Be Alone

The real reason I’m worried about sending my kids to school is that I’m going to be alone. For the first time in nearly a decade. And that’s scary.

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It’s a wish that I could live a thousand different lives if only there were time.

Chasing The Life I Didn't Live

Starting a new year makes me look toward the future, looking at all the choices that lay ahead of me. But it also nudges me to examine my past in a very certain way. It's the time of year I always find myself thinking about the choices I didn’t make — about the life I didn't live.

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I wish that people understood that it’s never OK to comment on a mother’s age — young or old. Because the judgmental connotation is always there, no matter how innocent the intent.

Is It Ever Okay To Comment On A Mother's Age?

The insecurities about my age pushed me over the edge, making me work myself to the bone trying to be what I thought society would deem as a “good mom.” So I wish people understood that it’s never OK to comment on a mother’s age — young or old. Because the judgmental connotation is always there, no matter how innocent the intent.

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When does being a grown-up happen again?

10 Things I Thought I'd Know How To Do By Now

To be honest, I consider myself pretty damn good at adulting. I’m a great cook, as long as I have a recipe. I’m a self-taught professional baker.

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The lies would keep me up at night, gnawing at the place inside me where I felt my baby should be.

I Hid My Miscarriage From My Son & Pretended I Was Still Pregnant

How was I supposed to tell my son, who was already preoccupied and frightened by the idea of death, that his new little brother or sister was gone, that I'd had a miscarriage? I didn't know. So I lied.

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I want to live my best life and, honestly, it's exhausting.

The Endless Quest To 'Live My Best Life:' Honestly, It's Just Exhausting

I want to live my best life and, honestly, it's exhausting. Sometimes I wish I could just take a break and say I'm content with where I'm at.

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Since breathing can be a subject of much controversy (at least it can be in my house), try sneaking in mindfulness under the guise of a game.

5 Tips For Practicing Mindfulness With Your Kids

But how do I go about actually practicing mindfulness with my kids when I still can’t seem to get them to find their shoes in 30 minutes or less? To be honest, it’s not always easy. However, there are a few key things that I have found really helpful in getting my kids started on the path to a more mindful life.

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I had no belief that my babies were in heaven, nor that they would ever be born into this world.

I Don't Believe My Babies Are In Heaven

I had a lot of well-meaning friends and family searching for the right words to say after my back-to-back miscarriages. So many offered solace by guessing at where my lost babies resided in the ether: taken away to Heaven, perhaps forever, perhaps waiting for a better moment— an unknown, destined time these small souls were meant to break into the world. I accepted these comments silently, because they did nothing to comfort me.

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Third Child Party Favors: My favor to you was providing booze and grilled meats. Image: Thinkstock.

To My Third Son On His First Birthday: I'm Sorry

My first child’s milestones were elaborately marked, photographed, and celebrated with much fanfare... My third child however? Not so much. His first birthday was a much quieter affair — if it could be called an affair at all.

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I want and need to save some room for myself, to know that I am worthy of a place in the world without the label of mother.

My Children Cannot Have All Of Me

I want and need to save some room for myself, to know that I am worthy of a place in the world without the label of mother.

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