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A Brief Reader’s Guide to Me

Hi! I’m Talia. And just like every good cookbook has a section up front explaining what ghee is, how to prep tofu, and why we don’t panic about protein—this section is that, but for me.

I love reading people’s personal essays, but I always want to know a little about their life. Just enough to understand what they mean when they casually drop things like, “after the break-in” or “when I lived with those seven goats.” So this is your guide to the recurring characters, eras, and emotional plot points that show up in my writing.

Also, yes, the cookbook metaphor is appropriate—because in a former life, I was literally a cookbook author. (See? Background knowledge helps.)

🧠 BD / AD: Before & After Diagnosis

I have bipolar II, and discovering that changed… everything.

So I break my life into two eras:

BD = Before Diagnosis (unmedicated, overachieving, crying daily in places like the post office).

AD = After Diagnosis (still emotional, still ambitious, but now with mood stabilizers and fewer spiritual crises triggered by drawer dividers).

BD/AD is how I mark time now. Some people use “before kids” or “before the pandemic.” I use “before I realized my brain was doing loop-de-loops I wasn’t controlling.”

I explain it more in this post if you want the origin story.

🥬 Party in My Plants Era: The Cooking Showgirl Years

Before I wrote about mental health, motherhood, and meaning, I built a brand called Party in My Plants. I wrote a cookbook, hosted a podcast, and made a career out of turning kale into comedy. I was the kind of girl who went on Dr. Oz to make jokes about hibiscus.

That past life still pops up here and there—especially when I talk about wellness culture, reinvention, or food metaphors. Here’s more of the backstory.

🧒 Meet Hannah (Child #1)

Born in April 2022, Hannah is my older daughter and my meaning muse. She was whisked straight to the NICU the moment she arrived, a plot twist that made me a mother in the most intense way possible. Her beginning was scary, sacred, and defining.

Her song is “You are my sunshine.”

👶 Meet Mia (Child #2)

Born in March 2025, Mia is my new roommate, counter-space hogger, and early-morning jogging buddy (she rides, I huff). I’m back in the postpartum season—which means lots of beginnerhood, identity spirals, and the occasional 5 a.m. existential breakthrough.

Her song is “This little light of mine.”

📘 The Problem with Being a Person

(Book #2)

This is my most recent book, and it’s essentially a breakup letter to toxic positivity. It weaves together existentialist philosophy, my own mental health journey, and lots of cultural critique.

If you’ve ever tried to self-help yourself into oblivion, had an identity crisis while scrolling Instagram, or wondered why being a person feels like a group project where no one knows the rules—you’ll probably like it.

🏙 I Live in NYC (Again)

After a brief detour into country life—complete with five acres, a garage, and an unnecessary number of pantry bins—we sold the dreamy house and moved back to Brooklyn. Turns out the city chaos calms me more than the country quiet.

I write a lot about that transition, as it elicited an obsession with identity and intentionality—and surprisingly, fashion?

🌀 My Existentialish Philosophy (or something like it)

I’m not a therapist. I’m not a coach. I’m not even that friend who remembers your birthday without Facebook. But I am someone who’s spent a lot of time stuck in the psychological equivalent of an overgrown hiking trail, muttering things like “what even is a self?” and “is this lunch… meaningful?”

I lean existential-ish. My favorite philosopher is Albert Camus—the hot one—who basically said: life is meaningless, which is exactly why we mustn’t take things (including ourselves, especially ourselves) too seriously, make pancakes, and be kind to each other anyway.

I also admire Jean-Paul Sartre—the, uh, less genetically fortunate one—who was basically Jerry Seinfeld with a pipe and a God void. He believed there’s no preset purpose to life; we have to DIY our meaning through choices, actions, and awkward small talk at parties.

I believe in asking big questions, living in the gray, and laughing at the fact that no one knows what they’re doing—even (especially?) the people who pretend to.

Existentialism reminds me that meaning isn’t discovered—it’s made. Not with a perfect life plan, but with presence. With attention. With the weird little moments we choose to notice and share.

I write about the absurdity of modern life—motherhood, mental health, social media, selfhood—not to solve it. But to survive it. Together.

Well, that’s me—at least enough of me to make this whole thing make sense. Life’s weird, being a person is confusing, and writing is how I make sense of it. 🙃 I’m glad you’re here while I try.