What Else Are Our Mammograms Trying to Tell Us?

I’ve spent more time than I care to admit staring at patient portals, waiting for test results to populate. Fertility labs. Hormone panels. Bloodwork that’s supposed to explain why something feels off, or confirm what you already suspect. That specific kind of waiting — where you’re functioning, parenting, answering emails, but also mentally preparing for every possible outcome. When the word normal finally appears, there’s relief. But mostly exhaustion. Because being proactive about your health, especially as a woman, is rarely just one test. It’s a series of them. And they rarely tell the full story.

Which is why a recent study stopped me in my tracks: researchers found that routine mammograms may also reveal early signs of cardiovascular disease. Specifically, calcium buildup in the arteries of the breast, something radiologists can see but don’t typically report because it isn’t linked to breast cancer.

Here’s the part that feels both fascinating and frustrating: heart disease is still the number one killer of women, yet women are more likely to be diagnosed later and have worse outcomes. Not because we don’t show up for care (we do), but because the tools used to assess risk often underestimate us. Our symptoms are messier. Our timelines don’t match the studies. Our bodies don’t follow the script.

This research suggests that information we’re already generating — from mammograms we’re already getting! — could help flag risk earlier. No extra appointment. No new scan. Just a fuller picture.

The scans are already happening. The data already exists. The question isn’t whether women need to do more. It’s whether the system is ready to see more.

Ask Clara:

"How do heart attacks present in women?"

The Best Postpartum Advice I Didn’t Expect

The best thing that happened to me this most recent postpartum wasn’t a supplement, a system, or a “game-changing” routine I would later forget to keep up with. It was something my Italian, no-bullshit aunt said to me while I was very much postpartum — tired, hormonal, and trying to be responsible about my mental health.

At some point, almost casually, I floated the thought: What if I get postpartum anxiety again? I wasn’t panicking. I was just mentally opening the tab, the way so many of us do when we’re trying to stay one step ahead of our own bodies.

She didn’t flinch or ask follow-up questions or suggest we keep an eye on it. She just looked at me and said, “Stop thinking about that. You don’t have that.” And somehow, that was the end of it. No checklist. No monitoring. No circling back later. Just certainty.

And honestly, it worked. I didn’t get postpartum anxiety — or maybe I did briefly, in a way that passed before it could turn into a storyline I carried around with me. Either way, it didn’t become something I worried myself into.

I thought about this again recently while watching Marcello Hernandez’s new Netflix special, where he jokes that he has ADHD, except his mom told him he didn’t, so he didn’t. End of discussion. No label spiral. Life just kept moving.

It made me wonder if, in our very real and necessary effort to name and normalize mental health, we’ve also lost a bit of trust in ourselves — the ability to feel off without assuming it’s permanent, to have a hard week without forecasting a hard year, to let certain things pass through us instead of defining us.

This isn’t anti-therapy or anti-awareness. It’s just a simpler question about balance: whether everything needs a name right away, or whether some things need time, rest, and maybe a little less attention. In this case, it was someone I trust looking at me, completely unfazed, saying, “You’re fine,” and me choosing not to argue.

Ask Clara:

"What’s normal postpartum anxiety, and when should you get help?"

Apparently This Is How We’re Coping

On Rescripted’s weekly standup this morning, we acknowledged what everyone’s been feeling: things are heavy right now. With everything happening in Minnesota, layered on top of the general state of the world, it’s hard not to walk around with a quiet, background sadness — the kind you don’t always have language for, but definitely feel.

Then, in that same meeting, we pulled up analytics, which is where things took a (kind of hilarious) turn.

Our top articles right now are about orgasms, vibrators, ultra-thin condoms, and peeing during sex. If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry — and yes, we did laugh, partly because it felt absurd and partly because it felt painfully accurate.

At first, the contrast was jarring. But the longer I sat with it, the more it made sense. When everything feels overwhelming, abstract, and wildly out of our control, we reach for what’s closest and most immediate: the body, sensation, and questions that start with is this normal? and end with please tell me I’m not alone.

Sexual health content, it turns out, isn’t just about sex. It’s reassurance. It’s grounding. It’s a way of checking back in with ourselves when the world feels chaotic and unrecognizable: proof that even in hard moments, our bodies still exist and still want connection, comfort, and maybe five minutes of relief from the constant dread.

I don’t think people are reading these articles because they don’t care about what’s happening. I think they’re reading them because they care so much and need somewhere personal and human to land, even briefly.

Sometimes coping looks like grief or rage, and sometimes it looks like Googling why you pee when you orgasm and feeling deeply, embarrassingly relieved by the answer. That’s not unserious; it’s human nature.

Ask Clara:

"How to cope when the world is on fire"

When the Tea Is This Hot, You Can’t Help but Sip

As someone who has spent the better part of the past 22 days away from social media (thank you, Opal app), I picked a truly chaotic week to check back in. I opened Instagram and immediately felt like I’d missed several chapters of a very loud book. The Blake Lively / Justin Baldoni situation had escalated straight into the text messages, Brooklyn Beckham had turned his Instagram Story into a family tell-all, Taylor Swift was somehow involved (of course), and everyone seemed extremely confident about which side they were on.

What surprised me is that I didn’t feel the urge to dogpile Justin Baldoni the way I expected to. Truthfully, I’ve kind of always been on his side — not in an “I don’t believe women” way, but in a harder-to-explain, this doesn’t sit right with me way.

If anything, Blake Lively’s energy doesn’t land for me. She exudes a kind of mean-girl confidence that isn’t just cringeworthy on paper (see: her unhinged letter to the PGA), but shows up in subtle power moves and perfectly timed charm. The kind you’ve probably encountered at work, at school drop-off, or in a group chat you eventually muted for your own mental health.

Then Taylor Swift entered the conversation, which added a whole other layer. Listen, I totally understand defending your BFF, but when someone’s brand is built on calling things out and advocating for women, people notice when behavior feels misaligned. That doesn’t erase the good, but it does make the moment harder to swallow.

Meanwhile, Brooklyn Beckham’s Instagram Story was doing something else entirely — less polished, less strategic, and impossible to unsee. Different situation, same energy: carefully curated images cracking in real time, with no PR buffer in sight.

What I actually appreciate is that none of this is being quietly swept under the rug. People are allowed to say something feels off now, without being accused of betraying womanhood or missing the point.

And yes, it’s entertaining. I’m not above admitting that. But it’s also revealing. Watching who gets defended, who gets dismissed, and who becomes untouchable says a lot about how power still works, even in spaces that claim progress.

Celebrities aren’t messier than they used to be. We’re just less willing to play along. The tea is piping hot — and for once, it actually feels like it’s saying something.

Ask Clara:

"Why do celebrity scandals feel so personal?"

Being Proactive About Your Health Shouldn’t Be This Hard

I’m currently three months overdue for a breast MRI. Not because I forgot or decided to live dangerously, but because staying on top of your health sometimes feels like it requires a level of coordination usually reserved for being the maid of honor at your best friend’s way too over-the-top wedding. 

I’m almost 37, which sounds reassuring until you add that I have an ATM gene mutation that puts me at about a 20% lifetime risk of breast cancer. Preventive screening isn’t optional for me; it’s the plan. Or at least, it’s the plan on paper.

In reality, this appointment has been scheduled and rescheduled five times. Some of that was logistics, some of it was insurance, and some of it was a mysteriously missing prior authorization. And yes, one of those times was on me, because the holidays happened and I am a working mom with three kids, not a robot built for medical administration.

Now insurance is saying that the MRI isn’t medically necessary, which is an interesting take given that my medical history, genetic testing, and actual doctor seem to disagree. So I need to call my doctor again, during business hours, to untangle a situation that somehow exists despite us living in an era where we can track our cycles, our sleep, our steps, and our glucose levels from our phones.

That’s the part that gets me. We have more health information at our fingertips than ever before, yet the system itself feels more confusing, fragmented, and exhausting than it should. 

Preventive care sounds proactive and empowering until you’re stuck chasing faxes, decoding insurance language, and wondering how many women fall behind not because they don’t care, but because they’re stretched thin.

I’ll get the MRI. I always do. But sometimes it feels like the real risk isn’t forgetting to take care of ourselves — it’s how hard the system makes it to follow through.

Ask Clara:

"How do you know if you’re considered “high risk” for breast cancer screening?"

The Month My Body Finally Got the Memo (Too Late)

The other day, I got my period on cycle day 30, and my first thought was: Didn’t I just have this?

Which is funny, because for most of my life, the opposite was true. Periods were rare, unpredictable guests. Ovulation was more theory than practice. And now — after eight years of infertility, anovulation, PCOS, and three IVF babies — here I am, suddenly having the most textbook 30-day cycle imaginable.

Call it a Christmas miracle. Call it “just relaxing” (please don’t). Call it a sick little cosmic joke. Because of course I’m ovulating regularly for the first time in my life at the exact moment I am very, very done trying to get pregnant.

What surprised me most wasn’t the timing; it was the frequency. Even working in women’s health, I don’t think I fully appreciated how often women are just… dealing with hormonal side effects. When you really break it down, there’s maybe one week a month where something isn’t happening. Bleeding. Bloating. Mood shifts. The kind of low-grade irritability that makes you wonder if everyone else is being annoying or if it’s just you.

And then there’s ovulation cramps: a sensation I apparently unlocked in my late-thirties, just for fun.

Friends keep telling me I’ll be “that person” who gets pregnant naturally after years of infertility, and maybe I will. But honestly? I don’t know if I want to. Not just because our family feels complete, but because IVF, as brutal as it is, gave me something I never had before: predictability. Control, for lack of a better word. I have PGT-tested embryos in the freezer. I know the odds. I know the plan. Why would I trade that for the anxiety of rolling the biological dice and risking miscarriage?

This cycle doesn’t feel like a gift so much as a reminder: our bodies don’t always move on our timeline. Sometimes they show up late, sometimes they arrive when you’ve already closed the chapter, and sometimes they remind you just how much women are carrying, month after month.

Ask Clara:

"How many days in a “normal” menstrual cycle actually come with zero hormonal symptoms?"

3 Reasons to Write Your BFF a Letter (Even If You Never Send It)

Next week would have been my best friend’s 37th birthday, but instead, she’ll stay forever 31 (morbid, I know). Lisa died of breast cancer almost six years ago, and tucked away in my nightstand is a note she wrote me during her cancer battle — one I still haven’t opened since she passed. I don’t reread it. I don’t even really touch it. And yet, just knowing it’s there gives me a surprising amount of peace.

I was reminded of this while listening to The Correspondent by Virginia Evans, a book that makes you really think about what words on paper can actually hold. Evans describes letters as “the pieces of a magnificent puzzle… the links of a long chain,” scattered across the world like “the fragile blown seeds of a dying dandelion.” Even if those links are never put back together, even if they’re never reread, isn’t there something kind of wonderful in that? The idea that a life, a love, a soul-altering friendship, is preserved somewhere in ink.

Which brings me to three reasons to write your best friend a letter (aside from the fact that life is fragile, time is weird, and anything can happen at any moment... sorry).

First, letters slow you down enough to tell the truth. You can’t casually skip over what matters most. Writing by hand forces a pause. It asks you to sit with what you really want to say instead of skimming the surface.

Second, letters endure. In a world of algorithms and iClouds, where memories are filtered, sorted, and, let’s be honest, one forgotten password away from disappearing, letters preserve something real. They live in drawers and boxes, aging alongside us, asking nothing but to be kept.

And finally, letters outlive the moment they’re written in. As Evans puts it, “this very letter may one day mean something, even if it is a very small thing, to someone.” Sometimes the comfort isn’t in reading the words at all; it’s simply in knowing they exist.

So write the letter. Send it, or keep it. You never know how, or when, it might matter.

Ask Clara:

"What to know about cancer in women under 40"

Is Too Much Content… Actually a Good Thing?

In a meeting recently, one of my colleagues was practically giddy about how much watchable, readable, and listenable content exists right now. She started listing shows, books, podcasts, even soundtracks, and instead of the usual polite nodding, everyone on the call perked up. Actual enthusiasm. In January, of all months.

With so much going on in the world and seasonal depression very much in the group chat, it helps that January is stacked in a way that feels comforting rather than overwhelming. Not everything needs your full attention or emotional investment. Some things just need to be there at the end of the day.

Emily in Paris is perfect for nights when your brain is tired, but your eyes want something colorful and familiar. The Traitors works when you’re in the mood for drama without the emotional labor, all scheming and accents with a clean ending. Landman apparently hits differently if you’ve ever worked in oil and gas, because, according to Abby, yes, people really do act like that. And Stranger Things is for when you want a little nostalgia and real stakes — a reminder of when friendship solved things (mostly).

Reading-wise, The Correspondent is one of those quietly heartwarming books that makes you want to write your best friend a letter, even though the two of you already text every day. The Four Winds is for when you’re emotionally stable enough to be wrecked, while Outlive is for a motivated Sunday that might turn into a nap.

As for me, I’m currently binging Owning Manhattan, listening to Good Hang with Amy Poehler, and genuinely excited for Bridgerton to return. Because sometimes it’s not about keeping up; it’s just about having something to enjoy.

Ask Clara:

"What exactly is cozy cardio?"

The Food Rules We Grew Up With

This might be a controversial take, but if you’re a millennial woman who grew up in the ’90s and early 2000s, there’s a decent chance body image issues were a regular part of the curriculum — whether anyone ever called it that or not.

I don’t remember my mom saying a single negative word about her body in front of me. And yet, I was on Weight Watchers in high school, which probably tells you everything you need to know about the cultural air we were breathing.

I’ve also been pretty open about my complicated relationship with food rules. The endless “do this, not that” advice cycle. The moralization of eating. The way social media keeps rebranding restriction as wellness. And now, in 2026, layered on top of GLP-1s and a renewed obsession with being visibly smaller, it’s hard not to feel like we’re back in familiar territory. Everyone is shrinking again. Victoria’s Secret even brought back its controversial runway show last year, and the stock market was thrilled. 

So when the new food guidelines dropped, I didn’t feel excitement so much as a pause.

Partly because women have good reason to be wary of “guidance” from institutions that haven’t always respected our bodily autonomy, and partly because it’s fair to wonder whether federal nutrition advice actually changes anything at all. Still, I noticed what felt different this time. The messaging was more direct. Less nutrient math, more real food.

Protein was framed as something to actually prioritize (not minimize), especially as we age. Full-fat dairy quietly made its way back into the conversation. Ultra-processed foods and added sugar were named more clearly, instead of politely danced around. Even gut health got a mention, which would’ve been unthinkable in the old low-fat, calorie-counting era.

It doesn’t undo decades of diet culture or fix access and affordability. And it certainly doesn’t protect women from the pressure to be smaller. But it also doesn’t feel obsessed with restriction in the same way past guidance often did, which, given our history with food rules, feels worth acknowledging.

After years of being told our bodies were problems to manage, clarity — and learning to trust what actually feels supportive — is at least a place to start.

Ask Clara:

"How can I incorporate more protein into meals?"

Keep Your (Witchy) Friends Close

Last weekend was full of lots of girlfriend time, which — for a mom of three — is few and far between, deeply needed, and never (ever) taken for granted. On Saturday, a bunch of us went out for wine and apps. On Sunday, we regrouped with the husbands and kids to debrief, watch football, and… casually dabble in some tarot readings.

Yes, you read that right.

One of my closest friends reads tarot, collects crystals, and keeps sage next to her bed like someone who absolutely would have been burned at the stake in the 1800s. And honestly… it tracks.

It tracks because we don’t really do typical mom small talk. We’re bad at it. We don’t want to linger on snack logistics or carpool calendars (important, but not our calling). We want to know the real you — the thing you’re circling but haven’t said out loud yet, even if it makes you a little uncomfortable.

These are newer friends, too, which somehow makes the whole thing funnier. At one point, one woman, still assessing the vibe, laughed and asked, “Is this… normal?” Without missing a beat, I said, “Welcome. We’re not regular mom friends. We’re witchy mom friends.” Everyone laughed. She stayed, which felt like the point.

Because what we were really doing wasn’t fortune-telling. It was skipping the pleasantries and creating space to say things like, “I think I want more,” or “Why does this feel harder for me than it seems to for everyone else?”

That same friend is also the one who gently helped me recognize my own ADHD: the kind of person who notices patterns before you do and says something when it matters. Looking back, it explains a lot.

Maybe that’s why none of this feels that strange. I’ve always been the kind of person who senses when something’s off before I can fully explain it, who wants to talk things through instead of letting them sit and get heavier than they need to be.

Motherhood can shrink your world if you let it. These women expand mine, reminding me that intuition isn’t mystical at all; it’s just paying attention.

So yes, keep your friends close, especially the witchy ones. They’re not here for the small talk. They’re here for the truth.

Ask Clara:

"Could my past trauma be affecting me now?"