I’m picking through a bowl of Lucky Charms.

With my fingers.

They’re sticky from the marshmallows.

What?

You do it too.

I eat the giant oversized white unicorns first.

Then the pink ones.

Then the purple ones.

After that I stop caring and shove handfuls into my mouth.

Crunchy.

Sweet.

Sugary.

Like crack.

Which is a ridiculous thing to say because I’ve never had crack.

I don’t know why people say that.

My brother probably knows.

Or knew.

He’s an addict.

Former addict.

Current addict.

I honestly don’t know.

We haven’t talked in seven or eight years.

But that’s another essay for another day.

The point is I’m standing in my kitchen on a Tuesday morning eating my third bowl of Lucky Charms.

Technically, it's a small bowl.

A bougie bowl.

One of those tiny bowls you buy to trick yourself into thinking you're eating less.

The bowl holds about a quarter cup.

I bought them eight years ago because I'm a former bulimic / eating disordered obsessed girl who spent half her life negotiating with every morsel that entered my mouth.

Tiny bowl theory is simple.

Eat whatever you want.

Use the tiny bowl.

Then you can have anything without gaining weight.

Freedom.

Portion control.

Mental gymnastics.

Whatever.

Yet here I am standing over my third bowl feeling guilty anyway.

Because I know I shouldn’t be eating this.

Because it’s sugar.

Because it’s kid cereal.

Because it’s artificial colors.

Because I’m not hungry.

Because it doesn’t even taste that good anymore.

Because I’m procrastinating.

Because I should be doing something else.

Because I’m emotionally eating.

Because I’m standing in my kitchen having a relationship with a cereal box.

Check.

Check.

Check.

Could it be my period?

Hard to say.

I had a hysterectomy.

I basically have ghost periods now.

A phantom cycle.

The emotional support version of PMS.

Could it be because I already ate my eggs and fiber this morning?

Probably.

Could it be because I skipped the gym?

Maybe.

Could it be because I didn’t do my walk?

Possibly.

Could it be because my husband is home and he has an office and I don’t, and for some reason that annoys me?

Maybe that too.

Could it be because I need to change the sheets on the bed?

Nope.

That’s Friday.

Thank God.

Then it hits me.

We just got back from vacation.

The same week I gained five pounds.

The same week I told myself I wasn’t going to gain five pounds.

The same week I gained five pounds anyway.

Which honestly is probably only two or three pounds because vacation weight is mostly water weight and sodium and red wine and lies.

But still.

Five pounds.

Who doesn’t gain five pounds on vacation?

You’d have to be a psychopath.

And while I’m standing here eating marshmallows and negotiating with myself about cereal and calories and vacation weight, I’m also thinking about the fact that my daughter makes more money than me.

Which is awesome.

And weird.

Mostly weird.

Because she’s seventeen.

Works part time.

And I used to make a lot of money.

I used to know exactly what I was doing.

I used to know exactly who I was.

Now I feed ducks.

And squirrels.

And a cat that doesn’t belong to me.

And lives three doors down.

I write books.

Build frameworks.

Make videos.

Fill notebooks.

Talk to God.

And change the sheets every Friday.

And I haven’t been paid in six months.

Not because I’m lazy.

Not because I’m sitting around watching Netflix.

Not because I’m doing nothing.

I work every single day.

Hard.

Probably harder than anyone else in the household.

That’s the strange part.

I’m working.

I’m just not getting paid.

And after a while that starts messing with your head.

You start wondering if you’re building something.

Or keeping yourself busy.

You start wondering if it’s faith.

Or insanity.

You start wondering if God is preparing you.

Or if you’ve completely lost your mind.

You start wondering how many ducks one woman can feed before she’s officially unemployed.

And these are the things I’m thinking about on a Tuesday morning at eleven o’clock.

Not world peace.

Not politics.

Not gas prices.

Lucky Charms.

Five pounds.

My daughter’s paycheck.

My missing identity.

My nonexistent income.

And whether or not God has a sense of humor.

Mostly, I’m just waiting for Friday.

Because on Friday I’ll change the sheets again.

And lately that seems to be the one thing in my life I know how to do.

---

MAY 31, 2026

Written by Robyn Lynn Tanner

---

 

ESSAY #1 in my New Series

I Changed the Sheets Today

For High Performing Rebel Women in the Ugly Middle when Survival is no longer your full-time Job. Weekly real time raw footage essays on usefulness, identity, faith, and the strange space between who you are and who you are returning to.

By: Robyn Lynn Tanner, Author of The Machete Mentality and Founder of The Edit and 500 by 50 Mission.

---

Follow me on Instagram: @robynlynntanner

JOIN the 500 by 50 Mission:

THE EDIT MEMBERSHIP

Book me to speak: robyn@robyntanner.com