Winona Dimeo-Ediger

There’s something that happens on social media every time a celebrity dies. After the initial shock and questions of “is it a hoax?” have abated, people start telling stories.

You’re washing dishes or sorting laundry or grocery shopping, half-listening to a random Pandora station when it happens: Your favorite song from 7th grade starts playing.

When I felt a familiar wave of insecurity creeping up and threatening to mute my movements, I looked to you for inspiration, and I danced even bigger.

There is no law that says only certain body types are allowed to wear certain styles of clothing. Nothing terrible is going to happen to you if you opt for a pair of flare jeans that make your thighs look bigger or a maxi dress that visually shortens your already short frame. You will still be gorgeous and unique and worthy of love and respect.

You, dear senators, have been busy trying to bring about the apocalypse, which doesn’t leave a lot of time for self-care.

A New York Times editorial about women’s proclivity for apologizing for things that aren’t their fault has been making the rounds on social media this week. For many of us, the article hit home in a pretty profound way, especially the scene where the author, Sloane Crosley, described saying “sorry” multiple times for a restaurant messing up her order, something over which she had absolutely no control and in fact should have been receiving apologies for.

This woman has serious swagger. It’s a slightly more subtle swagger than, say, Snoop Lion, but it’s there: in the nonchalant flick of her wrist while tossing garlic cloves into a food processor; in her decision to throw a spontaneous formal garden party just because she made a frittata, and in her firm pronouncements to use only “good” ingredients — without ever defining what that means.

Practically speaking, if you want to try a fashion trend that you’re not initially comfortable with, approach it the same way you would an awkward convo with your mom or a spontaneous skinny dip in a freezing lake: ease in.

In 1897, a little girl named Virginia O’Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of the Sun, asking if there was a Santa Claus.

Ever had an imagined conversation with optimism? Yeah, me too.