I’ve read and listened to a lot of books since we last chatted, but the one that’s been living rent-free in my head is Wally Lamb’s The River is Waiting. Y’all, I don’t even know where to begin with this one.

First of all, it’s easily one of the best books I have ever read. Seriously, top five. The character development in this novel was outstanding. The way I went from absolutely despising Corby, the main character, to falling completely in love with him was just magnificent.

The story follows Corby, a dad of twin toddlers, who loses his job and spirals into prescription drug abuse and alcoholism. An enormous, jaw-dropping tragedy occurs early on (I love it when that happens) which he’s solely responsible for. It completely turns his life upside down and sets him on a path we, as the reader, never see coming.

I’ve finished several books since this one, and usually, I can’t remember the details once I’ve moved on. But let me tell you, I remember every gut-wrenching detail of this book, from beginning to end, and I can still feel each one deep in my soul. The ending left me sobbing, literally, and shocked that a book could shock me at this level.

Please, please read this book. Yes, it devastated me and left me inconsolable for about twenty-four hours, but it also reached inside my body and touched my heart like no book ever has. Lamb’s character, Corby, did that. He opened my eyes to things I’d never thought about before (sorry for being vague, but I don’t want to spoil anything). And he reassured me that we, as humans, are truly capable of not only surviving whatever the hell life throws our way, but of rising above it and allowing it to shape us into better humans because of it.

Five stars. I don’t give those out much. Just get this book immediately. For what it’s worth, I listened to this one and absolutely loved the narrator.

The Story

Behold: the story that was too awkward, even for the pages of my book. This little gem didn’t make the final cut of I’m Sorry I Cremated You, but I had to share. Please enjoy this extremely embarrassing story of my first kiss and my entire high school dating career. Brian, if you’re reading this, I’m single.

Brian walked me back to my family’s rented beach house one evening, after we had spent the afternoon on the beach together. I was 14 years old, on vacation at Emerald Isle with my family, and I felt nervous and anxious as we approached the house because I thought something might happen. I felt the electricity between us, and I liked it. I had never felt that before.

As we got closer to the house, we both saw the small outdoor shower used to wash the sand off before going upstairs. Brian and I looked at each other and slowly stepped inside, Brian shutting the wooden door behind us. He had on a pair of red swim trunks, and I was wearing a black bathing suit cover-up over my bright blue bikini. I slowly lifted the cover-up over my head and tossed it over the side of the shower door so that it fell onto the ground outside. I turned the water on, and the cold water began to fall on us.

Brian and I looked into each other’s eyes, our heads drifted toward each other, and our lips met. He put his arms around my shoulders, and we stood there kissing for about fifteen glorious minutes. He smelled like lavender, and his kisses tasted salty and sweet. Kissing felt so different on a real human being compared to the balloon I once used while pretending it was Patrick Swayze, or the times I practiced on my hand, pretending it was any number of cute boys at school. (Turns out, hands are terrible kissers.)

When we finished kissing, Brian turned the shower off, and I opened the door, grabbing my cover-up. I watched him walk down the street toward his family’s beach house and wondered if Brian was “the one.” Would we now fall in love and go steady, despite the fact that he lived in North Carolina and I lived in Georgia? Would we visit each other every weekend and take each other to school dances? Would we go to the same college and get married afterward?

Unfortunately, none of these things would happen. Though I gave Brian my phone number on a torn-off piece of notebook paper the next day, I never heard from him. I spent months and months waiting for the phone call that never came. (To be fair, he probably lost the paper—but it’s fine, I’m not bitter.)

A couple of years later, I finally had a few dates in high school. My first was with a boy named David, who was in band. Mom dropped me off at a coffee shop in the downtown Marietta Square, encouraging me to be myself and have fun. David was waiting outside when I arrived, and we awkwardly hugged before walking inside to get coffee. He paid, which I thought was very cool, and we took our drinks outside to the quaint little patio full of twinkling lights and wrought-iron furniture.

Decent conversation followed, but there were many long moments of silence, which I found unnerving. I had no idea what to say to David, and he had no idea what to say to me. After we finished our coffees, we hugged goodbye (again, awkwardly) and never went out again.

A few months later, a boy from church named Todd took me on a real date—dinner and a movie, just like on TV. We went to a Chinese restaurant I knew well because my parents and I went there often, and Todd talked my ear off. He was a couple of years older than me and had a lot more to say. He talked and talked, and I was bored to death. The only time he wasn’t talking was when he was chewing and even then, he managed to get a few words out. I sat there staring across the table, trying my hardest to feel some sort of electricity toward him, like I’d felt with Brian at the beach. Todd was cute, but I felt nothing.

After dinner, Todd took me to see Forrest Gump at a nearby theater. He bought us buttered popcorn and sodas, and as we sat in the dark, he slowly placed his hand on mine, which was resting on my left thigh. He intertwined his fingers through mine, and we held hands. My hand immediately started sweating, and I felt frozen—unable to move a muscle, silently begging God for him to remove his hand. We sat that way for what seemed like a lifetime, and when the movie was over, Todd tried to kiss me outside the theater.

I allowed him a quick kiss on the lips but ended it fast, signaling that there would be no tongue involved in this interaction. I never went out with Todd again and wondered if I’d ever feel that magic spark again—the one I felt with Brian in the outdoor shower at the beach.

When I got home from my date with Todd, Mom was waiting up for me. She was lying in the recliner in the living room, wearing her soft pink bathrobe, with a cat on her lap. She asked how the date went, and I told her it was fine but that I didn’t think I felt a spark with Todd, which made me sad. Mom then uttered the words she’d use for the rest of her life when consoling me after a bad date or broken relationship:
“You have to kiss a lot of frogs, Jaclyn.”

If she only knew…

The Update

Where Have I Been?

The last couple of months have been a whirlwind, and I’m sorry for being a bit missing in action on Substack! I’ve been a guest on several wonderful podcasts and can’t wait to share the episodes with you when they come out. (P.S. Being a guest is one of my favorite things to do, so if you have a podcast and want an adorably quirky guest who talks about life, death, and finding the funny along the way, hit me up!)

My New Role with the SC Alzheimer’s Association

I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve officially become a Community Speaker for the South Carolina Alzheimer’s Association! This is a topic I feel passionate about, as both my mom and dad suffered from dementia. I gave my first talk a couple of weeks ago on the 10 warning signs of Alzheimer’s.

This disease is a taboo topic, and it shouldn’t be. I want to raise awareness so that people feel more comfortable seeking help. Early detection is crucial because there are so many incredible treatments available now, and I know my parents were standing proudly behind me as I gave that first talk.

A Special Performance

I have some really fun news: I’m in a theater production here in Charleston on October 14th at Pure Theatre called Pass the Mic for Perimenopause. Once again, I find myself drawn to talking more openly about a taboo topic that’s so important and often ignored.

There are two shows, and a few tickets remain for the second one, so grab one and come see me read something special I wrote for the occasion! If you’re not in Charleston, you can also get a livestream ticket. It’s sure to be a tremendously moving evening celebrating women of all ages, especially us middle-aged ones!

Thank You for Your Support

Thanks for being patient with me during this brief hiatus. It’s all been incredible stuff that I’ve wanted my whole life, so I’m not complaining, just trying to figure out how to juggle it all. I’m sure most of you can relate; we always seem to be juggling too much, don’t we?

As always, thank you for your support. I truly couldn’t do this without you.

Jaclyn XXOO

As a full-blown memoir junkie, I had to check out My Next Breath by Jeremy Renner (well… listened to it, because audiobooks count as reading…don’t @ me).

Now, I’m not a Marvel person (too many explosions and not enough feelings), so I wouldn’t call myself a Jeremy Renner superfan. But I loved him in The Hurt Locker, and I was curious. So I hit play.

I was completely hooked. The memoir dives into Jeremy’s daily life, his deep connection with his family, and then goes full detail-mode on his nearly fatal snowplow accident in 2023. It’s one of those things you don’t want to hear about in vivid detail… and yet, you absolutely do. I couldn’t stop listening—it was like a train wreck, but colder.

The man nearly died and came back swinging, with grit, determination, and a bionic-sounding rehab story that left me genuinely inspired. I woke up the next day with a little extra oomph in my step and a renewed desire to live life with intention (and maybe avoid snowplows).

Also, I found out after reading the book that Jeremy and I share a soft spot for foster kids. He founded the RennerVation Foundation to support foster youth in Nevada, which warmed my heart, since I have an annual toy drive for preteen and teen foster kids of the Lowcountry. Thank you, Jeremy, for sharing your story…and if you're reading this (which you obviously are, right?), I’d love to collaborate on our shared mission to uplift foster kids across the country. Let’s make it happen.

The Story

This month, I thought I’d share the funny-yet-traumatic story (which, honestly, describes most of my life) of how my book writing journey really began, just over two years ago in June 2023.

I fully intended this story to go in the book, but once I hit my word count limit (surprise, surprise), I had to make some brutal cuts. So here it is, in all its ridiculous, slightly tragic glory.

Back in May of 2023, when I realized my dream was coming true and I was actually going to write a book, I decided to take it seriously and go big. Though let’s be real…I never go small. I get that from my dad.

So I did what any overly ambitious, slightly dramatic Charleston girl would do: I booked a solo cruise. A four-day Bahamas cruise leaving right from the Charleston harbor, less than a mile from my office. I packed up all my life’s journals, a few sentimental items I was sure would serve as my muse, and boarded the ship ready to write a large portion of my future bestselling memoir while staring at the ocean. What could possibly go wrong?

(And no, for those wondering—it wasn’t the infamous Poop Cruise. Though I did watch the Netflix doc, and it only confirmed I may never cruise again.)

Every inch of me oozed with hope and excitement as I boarded that party ship with 5,000 other people. The difference? Their idea of a good time was wildly different from mine.

The family in front of me had already lathered on runny sunscreen and were fully dressed for the pool, despite being in a parking lot. The two twenty-somethings behind me were clearly several drinks in and celebrating early with a chorus of "WOOO!" every time a male crew member walked by. They reeked of tequila and bad decisions.

But me? I was there to become a writer! I even splurged on a balcony room so I could sit with the waves, typing away like a sea-bound Virginia Woolf. I also got the all-inclusive drink package… but that was just in case. And for celebratory cocktails after long, productive writing sessions. Obviously.

Upon boarding, I took full advantage of an “Embarkment Day” spa special and signed up for a half-price, 90-minute deep tissue massage. I figured it would help me fully relax and get into my creative groove the next morning.

I returned to my room, carefully arranged my journals and set my alarm for what I believed would be the first day of my brand-new writer life.

What actually happened?

I woke up and immediately knew something was wrong. Not “I had too much fried shrimp” wrong. More like, “my insides are rebelling against me” wrong.

Still determined to power through, I put on workout clothes and took a power walk around the upper deck to sweat it out. But the longer I walked, the worse I felt. Eventually I asked a crew member where I could get something for my stomach.

She directed me to the ship’s infirmary. "Just head down to Deck Zero," she said cheerfully, as if Deck Zero didn’t sound like a level straight out of a horror film.

I walked in hoping for some antacids. I left... with one less organ.

Okay, not right away…but close.

The moment I got to the infirmary desk, I started projectile vomiting. Right onto the very handsome nurse who had just approached me. Sorry, sir. You didn’t deserve that.

From there, everything escalated fast. I was taken to what would become known as “Jaclyn’s Room” in the infirmary. They pumped me full of fluids, anti-nausea meds, and eventually Morphine, as my stomach pain went from a 4 to a 10. I had a fever, chills, sky-high blood pressure, and no clue what was happening.

The doctor suspected an infected gallbladder but without an ultrasound machine, they couldn’t be sure. He gave me two options:

1. Be airlifted from the Bahamas the next day and flown to Miami for emergency surgery. (This would involve a bumpy boat ride and a private plane I’d personally be footing the bill for. No thank you, American healthcare.)

2. Stay on the ship for three more days in the infirmary, doped up on Morphine and IV fluids, and have the surgery when we got back to Charleston.

As a single-income human with no rich relatives in sight, I chose option two.

And so, for the next 72 hours, I rode out a serious infection in a tiny room on Deck Zero, completely missing the Bahamas. I never even got to sit on the balcony of the room I splurged on. (Shoutout to the sad little porthole window in the infirmary.)

I didn’t write a single word on that trip. I just survived.

When we finally docked in Charleston, I was rolled off the ship on a stretcher and into my very first ambulance ride! MUSC removed my gallbladder that night.

I am forever grateful to the staff of the Carnival Sunshine infirmary, especially the man I hurled on. They took incredible care of me, and I’ve never been so sick—or so alone—in my life.

Needless to say, my book writing journey was delayed a bit. But honestly? I wouldn’t change it. These kinds of ridiculous detours seem to follow me and they make for great stories. (They will be stand-up material soon, I promise.)

The MUSC doctor told me this would have happened no matter where I was. It just so happened I was on a cruise. Because of course I was.

Moral of the story?
Watch out for cruises. You might lose an organ.
But also: you’re stronger than you think. Even on Deck Zero. Even while covered in your own vomit.
And even when your solo writing retreat becomes a medical emergency.

I’ll be a little more careful with solo trips going forward. But one thing’s for sure: I’m never not going to have a story to tell.

The Update

I’ve been working my tail off marketing I’m Sorry I Cremated You—showing up on podcasts, sharing my story, and trying to help people navigate the wild, beautiful mess of caring for aging parents. And yes, I’m still praying someone in the entertainment industry reads it and says, “This needs to be a show.” (Where are you, streaming execs?! Call me!)

I’m also actively building my speaking career and I’ve got some big news to share with you next month, so stay tuned.

The most exciting thing I’ve done recently was take a trip to Colorado, where I finally got to meet my incredible book coach, Amanda, in person! My book simply wouldn’t exist without her guidance, and getting to hug her and thank her face-to-face was such a full-circle moment. If you’re ever in need of a book coach, reach out as I’d be thrilled to share her info.

As I wrap up this month’s newsletter, I want to thank each of you.
Thanks for buying my book, for leaving an Amazon review, for reading this Substack, for visiting my website or simply for sending good vibes my way. I appreciate it more than you know.

Love,
Jaclyn

It happened. I received my very first ARC!! What’s an ARC, you ask? It’s an Advance Reader Copy of a book that hasn’t been released yet. Basically, someone trusted me to get an early look. I know. I’ve peaked.

The book is called Sunny Side Up by the amazing , author, entrepreneur, founder of MEGABABE, body acceptance advocate, and all-around badass human. It’s a work of fiction, centered on Sunny, a mid-thirties divorcée who dives back into the dating pool in hopes of landing a date to her brother’s upcoming wedding. Along the way, she rediscovers herself, launches a swimsuit line for women with actual bodies, and starts living life on her own terms.

Confession: I’m only halfway through the book, but spoiler alert, I’m obsessed. It’s light, funny, and full of heart. The kind of summer read that sneaks up on you, tugs at your emotions, and leaves you feeling empowered without even trying too hard. Sunny’s confidence practically scorches the pages in the best way. As someone who is not 22 or a size 2 and is currently wading through the emotional landmine that is online dating, this book is giving me life. I find myself cheering for Sunny and accidentally cheering for myself in the process. Katie, thank you for writing the book we didn’t know we needed and for being the kind of cheerleader who shows up with pom-poms and real talk.

And here’s the very fun part: if you're in the Charleston area, or honestly, even if you're not, Buxton Books is bringing Katie Sturino to town to celebrate her novel, published by Celedon Books. She’ll be in conversation with (yes, THAT Grace Atwood), and I will 100% be there, probably crying and clapping at the same time. The date is Sunday, June 22, 2025, at 3:30 pm at Halls Signature Events. Join me in fangirling over these two legends and this phenomenal book!

Click here for more info and tickets!

The Story

Today is my 47th birthday. Happy Birthday to me! I’ve got to say, 46 was a damn good year. I’m so grateful for everything it brought me… including my first published book! Wait, did I say first? That means I plan on publishing another? Only time will tell, you ambitious little freak. (That’s me talking to me.)

Honestly, my forties have been really good to me. I mean, despite losing my soul dog and my dad, which were two of the hardest things I’ve ever faced…something happened to me in this decade: I started to thrive. I stopped worrying about all the little, ridiculous things we waste far too much time on, and I started actually living.

Hold on... is this what people call a Midlife Crisis? I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m here for it.

There’s a freedom that’s landed in my forties that I didn’t know was possible. Like a deep, unshakable happiness that lives in my bones (right next to the joint pain and mystery ailments I wake up with most mornings). So, to all the younger ladies (and gents) out there—hear me when I say:
IT. GETS. BETTER.

If your life feels good now, it gets even better in your 40s.
If your life feels like a dumpster fire, it gets better in your 40s.

To celebrate this 47th trip around the sun, here are some of the most important things I’ve learned in my forties—little gems of truths from yours truly…

• If it’s not bringing you joy, it’s not meant for you. Let that shit go. Immediately. With gusto.

• You are one of a kind. Full of magic, flaws, strength, and sparkle. Stop comparing yourself to others. Nobody else was built like you, on purpose.

• Nobody is watching. Do the damn thing. Dance. Speak up. Make a fool of yourself. Live big.

• True friends are everything. If you’re lucky enough to have even one, hold them close and don’t let go. Water that friendship like your favorite houseplant.

• Comfort is queen. Stop wearing clothes or shoes that make you want to scream. We are far too old for blisters and evenings of sucking in.

• Fear is not the enemy. Growth happens in the scary places, not in your comfort zone. Do the things you’re afraid of. Then high-five yourself.

• Celebrate everything. Big wins, small wins, showing up, making it through the day. Treat yourself like someone you love.

• Be kind. Always. Help others when you can. Volunteer. Give blood. Donate money. Make the world suck a little less.

• Do what makes you happy, even if no one else gets it. As long as you’re not hurting anyone, you do you. Loudly.

• You’re not for everyone. And that’s a blessing. Be your weird, wonderful self anyway. Your people will find you.

• Take the damn nap. Rest isn’t lazy, it’s sacred.

• If it’s not a hell yes, it’s a no. Boundaries are beautiful.

• Family matters, if they’re not toxic. Keep the decent weirdos close.

• Love yourself. Date yourself. Learn what makes you happy and give it to yourself often. Happiness is an inside job.

• Don’t let politics ruin your relationships. Those politicians don’t care about you, but your people do. Lead with love and accept differences in opinions.

The Update

I’m absolutely over the moon to share that I’m Sorry I Cremated You is officially on the shelves at one of my all-time favorite Charleston gems, Mildred Newberry! This dreamy little gift shop on Broad Street is full of magic, heart, and hands-down the best cards and gifts in town. Go visit and soak it all in…you won’t want to leave empty-handed. Huge thanks to the wonderful team at Mildred for making this dream come true!

You can also find the book at several other amazing local spots: Barnes & Noble in Mt. Pleasant, Buxton Books, Itinerant Literate, The Village Bookseller, and Main Street Reads! And hey—if there’s a bookstore in your neighborhood that needs a little cremated chaos on the shelves, I’d be honored if you requested it.

Also, some incredibly exciting news from last month…BookBub featured I’m Sorry I Cremated You as one of their top humor recommendations! That was such a huge honor for me and honestly, a total game-changer. The feature helped catapult the book right back to the top of the Amazon bestseller charts, which is just bananas in the best way. Thank you, BookBub!

And more fun ahead—I’m recording a podcast this week! I’m so excited to be a guest and dive into some great conversation. As soon as I have the air date, I’ll share all the details with you.

Thank you for being part of this wild, beautiful ride with me. I appreciate you more than words can say.

Love,

Jaclyn

This month, I’m recommending a book I haven’t even made it halfway through yet, but it’s already leaving a big impact on my heart. The Midnight Library by Matt Haig came highly recommended by someone in the Silent Book Club Charleston. Actually, “highly recommended” doesn’t even cover it. It was her favorite book of the entire year last year. Obviously, I had to give it a try.

From the very beginning, this book captured my imagination, which honestly isn’t easy to do, since I usually prefer nonfiction. I tend to get lost in real-ish worlds, not made-up ones. But this world? It’s fascinating. I can’t put the book down.

The premise: Nora Seed isn’t happy with her life. She does what many of us, myself included, often do: longs for a life that matches the dreams she had for herself years ago. A timeline she (and maybe the world) expected her to follow. She’s deeply depressed that things haven’t turned out the way she planned, and she attempts to take her own life.

But instead of dying, she finds herself in a mysterious library filled with books—each one containing a different version of her life, had she made different choices. Some small, some life-altering.

I’m not far in yet, but I already relate deeply to Nora (I often find myself wishing I was in a happy marriage with a cute little kid or two), and I can tell this story will offer gentle reminders of lessons I already know but could use a refresher on. As Nora opens each book, she discovers that the lives she longed for come with their own challenges and disappointments. And I assume the story will lead her—and us—to realize that the life she already has might be more meaningful than she thought.

Even just a quarter of the way in, I can already recommend it. It’s beautifully written, deeply relatable, and full of much-needed reminders about finding contentment in what we have.

The Story

There were a lot of changes along the way while writing I’m Sorry I Cremated You, which, as I’ve learned, is just part of the book-writing process. In honor of Mother’s Day, and my favorite mom of all time, here’s a section that was originally meant for chapter one but didn’t quite make the final cut. You’ll still find pieces of it woven throughout the book.

My mother was an angel on earth. Okay, maybe that is opinion and not fact, but this is my book so I will do as I please. She was tall, 5’9, with lots of curves and gorgeous blonde hair that fell just above her shoulders. Her skin was flawless—creamy tan and silky to the touch. She always had make-up on… but never too much, which as we all know is a delicate balancing act. A little bit of foundation, a hint of eyeshadow, usually a natural color, unless she was going out for a fancy evening- mascara, light blush, and mauve lipstick. Always lipstick. Mom never ever left the house without lipstick. And her nails (usually acrylic) always matched her lipstick.

Growing up, I was very envious of my mother’s style and fashion sense. While getting ready to go shopping on a Saturday afternoon (there was so much shopping) I would glance over at her in her jeans, trendy silk vest, with matching silk blouse underneath, stylish flats, and matching accessories, and just hope that one day I could be as classy and as fashionable as she was. If that was even possible. I had absolutely no fashion sense of my own so this was very wishful thinking. Mom tried to help me from time to time by offering fashion tips and tricks but let’s face it, nobody wants fashion advice from their mother, even a stylish one. She did take me shopping often though- shopping was her favorite pastime- and she would try to steer me towards her fashion preferences as much as she could.

Mom’s voice was soothing. She rarely yelled or got upset. She smelled sweet all of the time, as she always had perfume on. Tresor was her favorite, and to this day, if I close my eyes tight enough and breathe in deeply I can smell it. It reminds me of smokey amber incense with sweet, subtle undertones. I remember being completely aware, as a child, that my mom was a very put together, classy woman, and she smelled really good.

Mom loved music, especially the Rolling Stones, but also Elton John, Rod Stewart, and the Beatles. Fun fact—my mom was at the first ever Beatles concert in America, at Washington Coliseum, on February 11, 1964, two days after their first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show. I’m pretty sure my mom was the only one of my friend’s mom’s watching MTV when it came out and I liked that. She was a cool mom. Always was, always will be.

Mom was also funny. Really funny. She was always laughing and loved playing little practical jokes on everyone. She just loved getting a reaction from people. One of her favorite things to do was to hide behind a door in a hallway and jump out and scare me. She’d laugh and laugh and laugh, and I would vow to never let her get me like that again. But I did. She always got me. And I’m still jumpy because of it, to this day.

So many family photos I have include my mom’s mouth being wide open from laughing. She did not mind making a fool of herself if it would get a laugh from someone, which is something she most certainly passed on to me. She always had a witty or funny comment to make, often under her breath, but still audible to whoever she was talking to. My sense of humor definitely comes from my mom. What a funny and wonderful lady she was.

Mom grew up in the Washington DC area, on Arlington Blvd, not far from the hustle and bustle of the heart of D.C. Dad would later refer to mom often as a “Capital Gal.” She lived with my grandparents until just after high school and she had a significantly younger brother named George, who adored her. She adored him too. They were very close, despite their 16 year age difference.

Mom and her mother, Edna, had an extremely close relationship and it became closer and closer as the years went on. When mom was 16 years old she was in a car accident in Emporia, Virginia, while visiting family there. The car accident was a nasty one and resulted in mom having a compound fracture leg break, as well as some other injuries. She was in the hospital for a couple of weeks and Edna couldn’t come to be with her because she was taking care of George III, who was just three months old at the time. Mom’s dad, George Jr, drove down to Emporia from DC and got himself a little hotel room to stay in, close to the hospital. He would spend days with mom in the hospital and then retire to the hotel in the evenings. One evening George Jr. had a massive heart attack in that hotel room and dropped dead. Mom’s life would never be the same and she and her mother clung to each other in despair to get through the next few years.

Mom had a high school sweetheart named Don. Don was a tall, skinny, non assuming, sweet man, with coke bottle eye glasses, and they married shortly after they graduated high school. They were very much in love, and before the ink was even sealed on the marriage certificate, mom was pregnant. No—not with me—with my older brother, Lance.

The young newlyweds moved out to Alexandria, Virginia, just outside of D.C., to start a life together and to prepare for their first little bundle of joy. Lance was born in the summer of 1966 and was the apple of his parents’ eyes. They were a happy little family until tragedy quickly struck, and Don was diagnosed with an aggressive form of Non Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Lance was just a few years old when this happened. Don tried several different kinds of treatments but none would abolish the cancer rapidly growing inside of his body. Don passed away when Lance was just 3 years old, leaving behind my grief-stricken young mother to raise Lance on her own.

Mom rose to the occasion in the way strong women do. She had no choice really. She had to pick up her life and carry on, for my brother’s sake. Mom became a Legal Secretary and worked for some important U.S. Senators on Capitol Hill. She worked hard every single day to provide Lance with a good life but times were tough for them. Mom never let on to Lance that things were hard and that she was struggling. She kept a smile on her face and just kept trucking along.

Mom had had her mom, Edna, to lean on during these rough years and Edna knew better than anyone what mom was going through. After all, she had lost her husband tragically a few years before, while caring for a small child. These two women were fierce in the face of adversity and they developed a support system between the two of them that would last a majority of mom’s life.

And then, in December of 1972, mom and Lance’s lives would change forever. That is when mom met my dad. Dad loved to tell me the story of how they met- “your mother was wearing white hot pants and white gogo boots and was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.” They were at a Christmas party of a mutual friend and from the moment they met, they were inseparable. My mom and dad were together for five years before they married, though dad moved in with her and Lance within a year of meeting each other.

The Update

The past month has been incredible, you guys! I had a couple of author events, and one of them was at the iconic Buxton Books last week—something I’ve always dreamed of! And let me tell you, it lived up to every bit of that dream. Even the title of the event was surreal: A Night with Jaclyn Michelle Smith. I mean, can you imagine?

I had the honor of being in conversation with Polly Buxton herself, and we spent an hour in a heartfelt, intimate discussion about I’m Sorry I Cremated You, my writing process, and what comes next—namely, starting a much-needed conversation about caregiving for aging parents and the emotional toll of their eventual loss.

So many dear friends came out to support me, and I felt love in every inch of that room. A couple of my besties even made the trip from Atlanta, which meant the world to me.

The other author event was at one of my favorite places, Main Street Reads, in Summerville, SC. This is such a cozy bookstore and they’ve been extremely supportive of I’m Sorry I Cremated You. I got to hang with a couple of other fantasic local authors, Misty Jae Ogert and Kathryn Austin, and had the pleasure of meeting some local readers!

I’ve also been booked on a few podcasts recently—stay tuned for more details once those episodes are out! I absolutely love doing podcasts, so if you know of one that might be a good fit, please send it my way. I also love joining book clubs—virtually or in person—so if your group wants to read I’m Sorry I Cremated You, I’d be honored to join for a conversation afterward. These chats always turn into meaningful, moving discussions that nearly everyone can relate to.

Thanks, as always, for your support—it means the world to me. And Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there. For those of you who find this day hard, I see you. Please do something kind for yourself today—you deserve it.

Love,

Jaclyn

I’m a little ashamed to admit that I consumed a lot of media in March. It was mostly bad reality TV. This is a safe space, right? I also made it through several books, mostly of the audiobook variety. But the media that stands out most to me is a sweet little movie I watched on Netflix called The Life List.

The main character is a twenty-something named Alex, who’s smack in the middle of what some call a quarter-life crisis, which is something I remember experiencing in full. Oh, the existential dread that comes with being young enough to have your whole big ol’ life ahead of you, and no clue how to actually do it…

Alex is a mama’s girl, and her mom dies of cancer right in the thick of this crisis—which, of course, is not ideal. Before she passed, Alex’s mom saw how much she was struggling and, after her death, leaves her with the teenage bucket list Alex wrote years ago (and never completed), delivered through a series of pre-recorded videos. Every time Alex checks an item off the list, she gets another message from her mama and moves one step closer to receiving her inheritance. She also reconnects with herself and what she wants out of this big beautiful life with every item she crosses off.

Maybe I was a sucker for this movie because it centers on a mother-daughter relationship, always near and dear to my heart, which now has a giant mom-sized hole in it. Maybe it’s because I remember every detail of my own quarter-life crisis and the fear it brought at such a delicate age. Or maybe it’s because I’m reasonably obsessed with bucket lists and the idea of checking off incredible things as we move through this one wild life.

Whatever the reason, I loved it and I recommend it, especially if any of those reasons resonate with you.

The Story:

Whenever someone gets into my beat-up 2010 Honda Civic (hey, it’s paid off, okay?), which is a rare occasion because let’s be honest, I’m a little embarrassed by it, I silently pray they don’t ask to toss something in the trunk. If I’m picking someone up from the airport, I cross my fingers they packed light and their bag will fit nicely in the back seat. Once a year, when I splurge on getting my car detailed, I warn the poor soul cleaning it: “Please… don’t open the trunk.”

No, there’s no dead body back there. And no, I’m not smuggling drugs either. The trunk is full and has been for two and a half years—since the day my dad died.

On November 20, 2022, after my dad took his last breath, I had about an hour to wait for the crematory to come pick up the body of the most important man in my life for the past forty-four years. And in that hour, rather than sit in shock (which I was definitely in), I did what I do best in hard moments: I got productive. I started packing up his nursing home room. Because I could not imagine ever stepping foot in that room again.

That room held my dad’s most treasured memories—the things he chose to surround himself with in the final phase of his life. I carefully took every photo off the white wall, including the enormous framed photo of my mom (who passed away eight years before him) with her Red Hat Society scarf draped over the corner. I gathered every beer stein from his lifelong collection, every U.S. Navy hat, every trinket and token—and I loaded them, delicately and respectively, into my trunk.

And then… I never opened it again.

I didn’t mean to avoid it for two and a half years. I didn’t mean to let time slip away. But the truth is, as most things in life are—it’s complicated. I don’t know what to do with the items in my trunk.

I spent the spring of 2022 emptying my dad’s house before the bank took it in an unavoidable foreclosure. Each week, I’d load up my car with framed photos, photo albums, yearbooks, childhood artwork, the “good” china—all of it—and neatly stack it in the guest room of my small two-bedroom townhouse. I kept going until that room was full to the brim. No more space left.

So now you see the problem. These items in my trunk? They matter. They tell a story. They tell my family’s story. But I’ve avoided them, because I don’t want to face the decisions that come with them. Do I make space in my already-crammed home for more photos? More beer steins? Do I donate my dad’s most prized possessions to Goodwill? And let’s be honest, who exactly out there wants to inherit a stranger’s dusty old beer steins or the commemorative bowling pin celebrating his perfect 300 game?

This year, I’d really like to get a new car- maybe a small SUV if I’m feeling fancy. But in order to do that, I have to face what’s in the trunk. I think I will soon. Maybe I’ll start by removing one item a day so I don’t overwhelm myself. Or maybe I’ll bribe a friend with wine and emotional support snacks to help me sort through it. Either way, I’ll tackle it soon…and I’ll keep you posted.

And I know this month’s story isn’t funny or lighthearted, which I usually aim for. But I guess this was just something I needed to get off my chest.

Thanks for listening. And please let me know if you’d like to be a real pal and help me go through my trunk.

The Update:

• I had the pleasure of attending The Midlife Monologues at the Charleston Music Hall, which is one of my favorite venues! This brilliant production from @hotincharleston beautifully captured the arc of a woman’s life with a wildly talented cast. I laughed, I cried, and I left with puffy eyes and a full heart.

• Another highlight? Buxton Books hosted an unforgettable author event with Jenna Bush Hager and Barbara Pierce Bush, where they shared stories about life as the daughters of former President George W. Bush and their new children’s book, I Loved You First. I even got to meet them afterward and, of course, handed Jenna my book info while casually (but not-so-casually) pitching myself as a guest cohost for Jenna and Friends. I mean… would you expect anything less from me?

• One of my favorite moments this month: I had the honor of speaking about I’m Sorry I Cremated You at my very first Charleston Reading Rhythms event. It was equal parts magical and emotional, and I’m so grateful for the warm welcome.

• Speaking of the book- it's now available locally at Buxton Books, Main Street Reads, and (cue dramatic gasp) Barnes & Noble! When the Mt. Pleasant location told me they were ordering copies, I almost fell out in the self-help section. If you happen to snag a copy there, I’ll owe you big…and might even add you to my will.

• Also, mark your calendars if you’re in Charleston! Buxton Books is hosting An Evening with Jaclyn Michelle Smith on Wednesday, April 30, 2025. It’s free, it’s going to be heartfelt and hilarious, and I’d love to see your face there. Click [here] to view and send an email to reserve your seat.

Thanks for your continued love and support! I couldn’t do any of this without you.

Love,

Jaclyn

February was a whirlwind and an absolute blast! A couple of weeks ago, I had the honor of speaking at the inaugural Summerville Book Festival and signing books afterward, where I met so many wonderful readers. I loved speaking to my community about the importance of starting conversations around caregiving and grief— especially as we approach a major shift: within five years, all Baby Boomers will be 65 or older. This means countless Gen X and Millennial children will find themselves navigating caregiving for their parents, if they haven’t already. I especially love sharing my unique way of using humor and improv comedy to get through it.

Little did I know that the mastermind behind the entire event, Shari Stauch, owner of Main Street Reads, would go on to write an absolutely incredible review of I'm Sorry I Cremated You in The Post and Courier the following week, in the Summerville Reads section.

I woke up that Wednesday morning, saw this huge beauty of an article, and immediately considered getting it framed, tattooed, or both. Somehow, thank you, Shari, doesn’t seem like enough! And a big thanks to my Uncle George, who’s old school and still gets the physical paper—making sure I saw it right away. I suppose this means I should stop teasing him about his love for printed newspapers and MapQuest directions.

The Story

Dear Mom,

A few days ago, I celebrated (terrible choice of words, but what else is there?) the ten-year anniversary of your death, and I found myself more affected than I expected. February 28 has come and gone for the past ten years without knocking me down too terribly or punching me directly in the face, so I figured this year would be the same. Boy, was I wrong.

I was traveling on the decade anniversary of the worst day of my life—AKA the day you peaced out of this world—and as I sat alone in my hotel room that evening, feeling all the feels, I couldn’t help but think of all the things you’ve missed over the last ten years. Things I’d give anything for you to have seen or been a part of. So, here they are—everything I wish you’d been around for:

• Your epic funeral situation (which I kinda sorta wrote about in my book). I’m fairly certain you were pulling the strings on that one and laughing your ass off. I’ll never look at a cargo van the same way again.

• 10 Tween and Teen Toy Drives for foster children that I’ve hosted (13 total). I think you’d be pretty proud of that one.

• A trip to the Biltmore in Asheville, NC- something I dreamed about as a kid, flipping through your Southern Living magazines.

• Three Lumineers concerts (and another one coming up this year!)—you instilled my love of music, and I’m forever grateful.

• 18 Shovels & Rope concerts—you’d love them.

• Bought my first house!

• Started donating blood regularly with the American Red Cross in your honor.

• Visited Nashville for the first time!

• Left the country for the first time—France and Spain!

• Cut all my hair off, which, in hindsight, was a terrible idea. But, you know, we live and learn.

• Experienced a total solar eclipse and somehow managed not to burn my eyeballs (despite those ridiculous glasses you would have loved making fun of).

• Had carpal tunnel surgery on both wrists—what a drag.

• Made some new, truly kick-ass forever friends.

• Volunteered for years with East Cooper Meals on Wheels and became the “Card Lady,” making homemade cards for recipients on special holidays.

• Accidentally got two cats, which I know would delight you. They’re giant orange gingers, just like my childhood cat, Brandy.

• Tripped over one of these cats when they were a kitten, broke my ankle (on a Friday night, while trying to get my frozen cauliflower pizza out of the oven—not a proud moment).

• Went to France again, AND Italy, with said broken ankle. No walking boot was going to hold me back.

• Bought my second house!

• Visited Vancouver and Alaska!

• Spent Christmas in the South of France and then went to Paris for the first time!

• Lived through a global pandemic that you would have absolutely hated. We had to wear masks and stay home—it was a whole thing.

• Got laid off from the job I thought I’d be at forever (during said pandemic), which turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

• Worked for the federal government for a hot minute (do not recommend), then finally landed my dream job in HR at a publishing company (big things ahead!).

• Lost my soul dog, Buster Brown, and somehow didn’t actually die from heartbreak, though it came close.

• Fell in love again (spoiler alert: didn’t work out, but it was a beautiful experience- also, pretty sure you sent him, so thanks for that).

• Discovered improv comedy!

• Bought my third house!

• Officially became a writer and wrote a book (which I highly recommend you read because, well, you’re in it).

• That boyfriend that didn’t work out took me to California and Colorado!

• Went on my first-ever solo trip and first cruise… which ended in me getting horribly sick, spending the entire time in the ship infirmary, and then getting rushed to a hospital upon docking to have my gallbladder removed. (Only me, right?)

• France again (getting ridiculous, isn’t it?).

• Went to Maine and ate some of the best food of my life!

• Had a huge book launch party, which will forever go down as one of the best nights of my life—most of the people I love the most were there to celebrate with me. It was a dream.

• Uncle George, Hope, and John moved to Charleston, and we’ve all become so close (I know this makes you so happy).

• Was a Big Sister with Big Brothers Big Sisters of the Lowcountry for a year—learned a lot and am forever changed by it.

• Got four tattoos (sorrrrrrrrry!).

• Still driving the same old Honda Civic.

• Lost almost 50 pounds!

• Stopped smoking (I know you’re jumping up and down right now).

• Discovered that I love raw oysters.

• Spent seven years doing my best to take care of Dad, then lost him to dementia.

• Rescued a new pup named Elouise. I named her after a Lumineers song. She’s a handful but is teaching me more than I could have imagined.

• Have the same best friends, the McGees, and wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world. They’re like sisters to me now, and I’m lucky to have them by my side.

As you can see, a lot has happened. No, I haven’t gotten married or had kids, but I’m okay with that. My life is full, and I’m surrounded by so much love. And who knows? Anything could happen.

Life now feels divided into two eras—before you died and after you died. But I’m still here, living life to the fullest, even without you. I know that’s what you’d want. There’s just a hole in my heart that most people don’t see.

I hope you’re watching from wherever you are, cheering me on. I love you more than anything and hope to see you again one day. Please hug Dad for me—and tell him I love him—along with Grandma, Grandpa, and Buster Brown. Thank you for making me the woman I am today.

All My Love,
Jaclyn

The Thoughts

Some people dream of winning Oscars, some want Grammys… but me? I just want the Charleston City Paper’s Best Local Author title.

Writing I'm Sorry I Cremated You was my way of helping people feel less alone in caregiving and grief- through humor, heart, and a whole lot of chaos. And now, I’d be honored if you’d vote for me!

If you’ve read the book, laughed at my stories, or just appreciate a Charleston gal doing her thing, head to the Best of Charleston 2025 and throw a little love my way. (And if you haven’t read the book yet, voting for me totally counts as a preemptive good decision.)

Vote here!

I know I’m a little late to the party with this book recommendation, but better late than never! This month, the book that stuck with me the most was The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. It’s a memoir—and since writing my own memoir last year, I’ve become completely obsessed with the genre. Side note: It took me a year to write I’m Sorry I Cremated You, and during that year, I gave myself strict instructions to only read memoirs—you know, for “inspiration.”

The Glass Castle tells the story of Jeannette’s unconventional, chaotic, and often neglectful and abusive childhood. Her life was shaped by her father—a deeply flawed man—which hit close to home for me. The Walls family lived like nomads, constantly on the move, struggling to keep jobs, and her dad battled a raging alcohol addiction. What really struck me though was Jeannette’s unconditional love for her father. Despite everything he put her through, she forgave him right up until the day he died. Having imperfect parents is… complicated.

What blew me away, though, was the resiliency of Jeannette and her siblings. They managed to rise above such a destructive and difficult childhood to become successful, happy adults. While reading, I couldn’t help but think about my social work days and the people I encountered. It reminded me so much of those stories. It even inspired me to dig into my Google Drive folder labeled Leftovers—where I keep the stories and material that didn’t make it into my book. I found something I’d written about my social work experiences and thought I’d share it below. Hopefully it’s worth the read.

The Story

In Charleston, I waited tables at Queen Anne's Revenge and ended up bartending at the Village Tavern. I was having the best time living a carefree life, without a “real job” to speak of. But deep down I longed for more, something meaningful. This listlessness couldn’t last, so one autumn day I applied for a social work position at the Berkeley County Department of Social Services. I was hired quickly, and soon I was changing my image.

Before I started my new job, I shopped for professional clothes and the appearance of confidence to do the difficult job I was hired to perform. As an investigator for Child Protective Services, I was assigned cases of suspected abuse or neglect. When I found extreme abuse or neglect, I was the one who removed the children from the home and placed them in foster care.

Let the record show that I was a twenty-five-year-old waitress with a bachelor’s degree who was given that extreme responsibility, when I was still basically a child myself. I worked in the most rural part of South Carolina, mostly out of a town called Moncks Corner, and its surrounding areas.

I trained with a sweet coworker named Kim, who was hired at the same time. She was a beautiful blonde from Minnesota, a true natural beauty who needed no makeup to look gorgeous. Hilarious but true, the most memorable thing about Kim was that she had the best posture of anyone I had ever met. It was amazing. She also had big, beautiful blue eyes that always showed so much wonder and curiosity for the world and for everything she encountered.

Kim and I were sent to Columbia, South Carolina, the state capital, right away, for a month of Social Services training. We lived in adjoining hotel rooms and dined together at random hole-in-the-wall restaurants downtown that Kim would find. She sought out different ethnic foods and introduced me to incredible global cuisine. We soaked in as much culture as we could at night, to distract ourselves from the horrors we were learning about all day long in training. Training included educational topics like, “How to Recognize a Meth Lab,” “How to Know When to Call the Police for Backup,” and “How to Be a Professional Witness in Court.”

In our downtime, Kim and I chatted about our families, and I learned that Kim had a brother she loved dearly, who struggled with drug addiction. Kim’s entire face lit up when she spoke about her brother, despite his problems. While I was happy my new friend had such a close relationship with her brother, I was also disappointed because I didn't have much of a relationship with mine.

Kim and I practiced wishful thinking, hoping we would figure out what the hell we were doing when we graduated from Social Services training and started our jobs in Moncks Corner. However, nothing can truly prepare a person for what they will experience as a social worker. My first week after training, I removed my first child from their home, due to neglect and drug use by her mother and father. They both tested positive for cocaine that day during their hair follicle tests.

Before I arrived, I called for police backup, something required for removals in case things got out of control with the parents. My hands trembled on the steering wheel as I drove. While I waited in my car until the police arrived, I mustered up the courage required to approach the door and tell two parents I was taking their daughter, Lydia, into Protective Custody.

Then I did the work. The yelling and crying from the parents were to be expected. Lydia also cried and yelled. I helped her pack a black trash bag full of clothes and her most treasured possessions, including her favorite old, weathered teddy bear named Alberto.

I forced myself to remain calm for Lydia as I grasped her little hand and escorted her and Alberto out of the house that had been her home, dysfunctional, yes, but still her home. I assured her parents that this was temporary and would be resolved when they completed the Safety Plan I drafted before heading to their house.

I prayed that they believed me. I prayed that they would follow the Safety Plan so their family could be reunited. I refused to consider what would happen to them and to Lydia if they did not follow the plan. The Safety Plan required both parents to complete Parenting Classes, clean their home, and make it safe for Lydia. That was the easy part. The harder part was that both parents needed to have clean hair follicle drug tests. I hoped for all their sakes that they could do it.

Lydia and I finally pulled into the long gravel driveway at the foster home at nine in the evening. Her foster home was in a far more rural part of South Carolina than I’d ever experienced. I’d gotten turned around quite a bit, trying to find the correct house. The entire time, Lydia remained quiet in the backseat with Alberto. I tried to make conversation with her to take her mind off of what was happening. But really, how can a person really take a child’s mind off of being removed from her home and her parents?

Lydia and I walked slowly, hand in hand, up the concrete path to the small ranch style home. I carried her trash bag of belongings in my other hand. Before we reached the bright yellow door it slowly opened and Ms. Lancaster, the foster mother, popped out, in a white terry cloth robe and pink cotton slippers.

Ms. Lancaster stepped out onto the front porch and got down onto her knees to greet Lydia and give her a warm hug. She told her she was happy she was here and that she’d take really good care of her until she could be with her family again. I went inside with Lydia, and Ms. Lancaster proudly showed us the room where Lydia would sleep and the bathroom she would use. Ms. Lancaster and I completed all of the necessary paperwork required by DSS for her to take Lydia into her possession, like signing for a package.

When it was time for me to go, I hesitated. Exhausted as I was, I couldn’t fathom leaving Lydia, whose eyes were full of fear and uncertainty. I hugged Lydia close and promised her that she would be in good hands with Ms. Lancaster and that she’d be with her parents again soon. Then I prayed to God that that was the truth and that I hadn’t lied to that sweet little girl whose life was turned upside down in an effort to protect her.

Lydia was the first of many children I removed from their parents and placed in foster care over the next two and a half years. Parental drug use, physical abuse, neglect, and domestic violence were all situations that led me into their homes to take their children. Half of my days were spent interviewing children at their schools and homes, identifying any warning signs about the children’s safety.

At the same time, I had to worry about my own safety. Social workers have been killed by angry parents. No parent appreciates strangers poking around in their lives and in their homes or telling them how they should or should not be treating their children. The fact that I was a twenty-something blonde flanked by cops didn’t help.

I did end up busting a few meth labs, which were most definitely the most exciting times I had as an investigator. While investigating a home I would notice some dead giveaways like the odd chemical smell, too many propane tanks for a backyard barbeque, or glass bottles with plastic tubing. Acting as calm as possible, pretending I hadn’t noticed, I would tell the person I was investigating that I needed to retrieve something from my car.

Back at my car I called the police department, and within fifteen minutes the yard would be covered in Berkeley County Sheriff and DEA vehicles. Then, I would calmly but quickly pack the kid or kids up and take them to foster homes. I needed to be as fast as possible; it’s not uncommon for meth houses to explode.

Once, the father of a teenage girl named Mackenzie threatened to kill me after I removed Mackenzie from her home. She claimed that her father physically abused her, and she had the marks all over her body to prove it. Her father, Bruce (I will never forget his name), looked me in the eyes and promised to kill me if I didn’t bring his daughter home right that minute. Instead, I brought myself right on over to the police station and filed a police report against Bruce so that there would be a record of the threat, in case I wound up dead.

Mom and Dad worried endlessly about my safety when I was an Investigator, and the truth was, I worried too. My youth gave me the illusion of invincibility, but my job was not the typical post-college gig. Dad called me multiple times per day to make sure everything was okay. Each time I recounted whatever had happened at work that particular day, I heard the fear in his voice.

I lived in Charleston County but worked for Berkeley County, which meant an hour drive to and from work every day. The drive was wearing on me, especially because it was most often after dark. The hours, commute, and fear for my safety were all getting to me. I still felt proud of the work and started looking online at Charleston County DSS jobs and found one, as a foster care worker for Intensive Foster Care and Clinical Services. Not entirely sure what the job entailed, I applied anyway and got the job.

It was tough to leave the friends I made at Berkeley County DSS, and it was tough to leave Kim. When I started at Charleston County DSS, I found out that my new department worked with emotionally disturbed foster children, who were usually teenagers and usually had a mental or behavioral diagnosis of some kind. My job was to look after fifteen of these kids and try to reunite them with their parents, when possible. My parents were ecstatic with my safer new job, and I could hear the relief in Dad’s voice every night when he called.

This job was a cakewalk compared to being an investigator. I testified in court a lot and basically visited all of my kids and their parents once or twice per month. I loved the kids and I rarely had to fear for my life!

It was a good couple of years until I started having trouble sleeping at night. Ultimately, I could no longer relax or fall asleep because I was constantly reviewing a checklist in my brain of which kids I hadn’t laid eyes on yet that month and how I was going to see them and get it all done. This triggered a nightly mental spiral worrying about what could happen if I failed to get it all done. When I was able to fall asleep, I would wake in a pool of sweat, panicked from my dreams that something horrific happened to a child I was responsible to help.

I was almost 30 years old and just not feeling right. Recurring headaches started plaguing me and struggled to sleep. My new primary care doctor, Dr. Kinney, diagnosed me with high blood pressure, exacerbated by stress, and put me on blood pressure meds.

“But I’m not even 30 years old yet; I don’t want to be on blood pressure meds!” I whined to Dr. Kinney.

She quickly responded, “Then you may want to think about a new job. Or figure out how you can better handle your stress.”

Ha! If she only knew that I’ve been trying to figure that out since I was a kid.

The Thoughts

What have I been up to lately? Thanks for asking! I just found out that my book is officially on the shelf at Buxton Books! Can you hear me screaming? I'll be stopping by soon to sign some copies and will take pics to share with you next month, I promise. Huge thanks to Buxton Books for this amazing opportunity!

Next month, I’m taking a big step in my professional speaking journey by attending an event with a speaker's group called ImpactEleven. It’s happening in Atlanta, and I’m lucky enough to be going with my mentor and friend, Nina. I couldn’t be more excited! I’ll share all the details soon.

In the meantime, please let me know if you or anyone you know has a podcast I’d be a good fit for. I’d also love for you to consider having your book club read I’m Sorry I Cremated You and then invite me to attend your event, either virtually or in person. My goal is to share my caregiving and grief journey with as many people as possible, so those going through it don’t feel so alone. And of course, I also want to share how I got through it with humor—improv comedy in particular.

Have an amazing February, everyone! Live big! And thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being on this wild journey with me.

Love,

Jaclyn

I’ve done a lot of reading this past month, and two books really stood out: Ina Garten’s memoir, Be Ready When the Luck Happens, and Alison Espach’s The Wedding People.

To be honest, I didn’t know much about Ina Garten before picking up her memoir. I’ve never even watched her show (I know, shocking). But I’m obsessed with memoirs, so I gave it a shot—and wow, am I glad I did. Ina’s story of career determination was inspiring, but more than anything, her voice was just so dang comforting. No matter what was going on in my life while I was listening, she made me feel like everything was going to be okay. And let’s not forget her sweet love story with her husband—it was absolutely lovely.

On the other hand, The Wedding People couldn’t be more different from Ina’s memoir, but it was equally captivating. I loved diving into the neurotic main character’s brain and getting lost in the chaos of her world. When I finished the book, I was genuinely sad it was over. I didn’t want to say goodbye to the off-the-wall characters I’d fallen in love with, and moving on with my own life without them felt almost unfair. Also, can we talk about the cover? Obsessed.

The Story

2024 was an extraordinary year—one of my absolute best. I finished my first (should I say first?) book, I'm Sorry I Cremated You, and it was officially released on October 29, 2024. Even now, I catch myself asking, "Did that actually happen?" It feels like a dream come true. I’m so proud of what I wrote and who I wrote it for—all of us, really. Because if you haven’t yet faced the caregiver journey with your parents, odds are, you will. And eventually, we all have to face the inevitable. This book is for us, collectively, as humans figuring it out as we go.

I celebrated the release with an epic book launch event at Theatre 99, and honestly, it was the best night of my life. Hands down. My closest friends and family were there, and the love in that room was palpable. It felt like my wedding... or what I imagine my wedding might feel like, only instead of marrying a man, I married myself and birthed a beautiful baby book!

The evening featured some improv comedy—because of course it did. We were at the place where my improv journey began. I even got to share the stage with my improv teachers (Josh, Andy, and Ali) and the owner of the theater, Brandy, who I’ve been fangirling over for twenty years. Then, I did a couple of readings from the book, signed copies for the last hour, and capped it all off with a gorgeous after-party at Little Palm Bar across the street. Even now, I catch myself grinning from ear to ear just thinking about that night (shout out to Megan Papageorge with Sweet Peach Planning- the best event planner in the business).

I’ve also had the immense honor of attending a couple of book clubs recently, and let me tell you, the conversations blew me away. It turns out that most people who have been through caregiving or loss really want to talk about it, and that’s exactly why I wrote this book. One book club was virtual, the other was in person, and both were deeply moving experiences. I’m so grateful to connect with readers in such a meaningful way.

Towards the end of the year, I had the chance to be a guest on a couple of amazing podcasts! The first was Houseguest with psychic medium Hailey Lowe Fennell, who connected with my mom and dad on the other side. Apparently, they’re proud of the book I wrote and the direction my life is taking. I wasn’t totally convinced it was real until Hailey said, “Your mom is telling me she loves the headband.” The night before, I’d been rocking a new leopard-print headband and had looked in the mirror, saying out loud, “Mom, I bet you’d love this headband.” She always adored animal prints. That little detail? It was all the proof I needed. My mom also joked about not being in the book enough but promised she’d make a bigger appearance in the next one—and in the TV show I dream of creating someday (a girl can dream, right?).

The second podcast was Are You For Real with Sarah Frick. We had an intimate conversation about my book-writing journey and how improv comedy became my therapy while I was losing my dad. We also talked about my lifelong desire to help others and my plans to step into a professional speaking career.

So, what’s on the horizon for 2025? I’m diving headfirst into professional speaking, and I couldn’t be more thrilled. In February, I’ll be attending my first workshop with ImpactEleven, a speaker training and development community. I can’t wait to soak up all the knowledge and grow in this new direction.

I’m also hoping to do more podcasts! If you host a podcast or know someone who does and think I’d be a good fit, please reach out—I’d love to chat. And more book clubs, too! If your club wants to read I'm Sorry I Cremated You and have me join the discussion, let’s make it happen—in person or virtually.

I’m excited for the future because it’s all about sparking the conversations we need to have: the gut-wrenching realities of caregiving and loss, and how we can support one another through those moments.

The Thoughts

A heartfelt thank you to you. Yes, YOU! For reading this, for showing me so much love and support, for buying my book, and for leaving reviews on Amazon and Goodreads (Seriously, those reviews mean the world to me and help get my book in front of more people). This year has shown me that it truly takes a village to birth a book—and to navigate this wild thing called life. I love you all.

Jaclyn

The Man on the Inside on Netflix was my November binge and it totally blindsided me—in the best way. I pressed play because, hello, Ted Danson, and figured it would make the perfect background show while I checked off my to-do list. Spoiler alert: my to-do list is still unchecked because this show had other plans.

It starts off light and quirky, pulling you in like a warm hug, and then—bam—it sneaks up on you and tugs at your heartstrings in the gentlest, most unexpected way. Somehow, it beautifully tackles the heavy stuff: watching your parents age, the heartbreak of a dementia diagnosis (been there, written about it in I’m Sorry I Cremated You), and the rawness of the human condition—all while keeping things surprisingly uplifting.

Oh, and here’s the kicker: Cheers (starring Ted Danson, of course) was my dad’s favorite show growing up. Now, decades later, here’s Ted Danson, about the same age my dad would be, comforting me in the weirdest yet most wonderful full-circle moment.

Is this show winning an Emmy anytime soon? Probably not. Did it make me laugh, cry, and feel ridiculously seen all at once? Absolutely. If you’ve ever loved a parent, do yourself a favor and watch this.

The Story

Two Saturdays ago, I had what might just go down as the best day ever. It started with meeting my new friend Jacqueline (yes, same name as me—first time that’s happened), who is also a writer. Side note: is it weird that calling myself a writer still feels like I’m playing dress-up? We met at the cutest coffee shop downtown, talked about all things creative, and I left feeling totally inspired and ready to take on the world.

Naturally, my next stop was Buxton Books, the crown jewel of Charleston’s bookstores. Armed with a copy of I’m Sorry I Cremated You, I was on a mission to meet the owner and make my pitch to get my book on their shelves. I had the pleasure of meeting Polly Buxton, who was as amazing, warm, and wonderful as I’d hoped. She told me she’d order my book right away and let me know when it arrives so I can come by to sign them. Cue the high-pitched squeals echoing down the street!

Just when I thought the day couldn’t possibly get better, fate decided to sprinkle a little more magic. I wandered down King Street a bit, to shop, because it was a gorgeous day and I felt like treating myself. That’s when I spotted her. Martha Stewart. Yes, THE Martha Stewart, walking into a boutique ahead of me. Did I casually keep walking like a normal person? No. Of course not. I followed her in, because I’m me.

The store, RTW, was one of those places where the air itself whispers, “You can’t afford anything here.” But I was determined to fake it, so I started browsing and inching closer to Martha and her very chic girl gang. The saleslady was sweet, but I could see it in her eyes—she knew I was riffraff off the street who couldn’t actually buy anything.

Then I struck up a conversation with someone in Martha’s orbit: Charlotte Beers. (Go ahead and Google her—she’s a legend.) She casually mentioned she’s writing a memoir about grief, and I casually mentioned I just published my first book... also about grief. What are the odds? She asked for the title, and when I told her—I’m Sorry I Cremated You—she laughed out loud. We talked books, exchanged info, and honestly, it felt like a scene out of a movie.

Meanwhile, I’d been eyeing this gorgeous brown leather purse. It was wildly out of my price range, but Charlotte insisted I had to buy it as a gift to myself for publishing my book. Martha herself wandered over, gave me an approving nod, and smiled like, “Yes, darling. You deserve it.”

Reader, I bought the purse. It was the cheapest thing in the store (which doesn’t say much), but I justified it as a symbol of one of the most surreal days of my life. Buxton Books agreed to carry my book. I accidentally joined Martha Stewart’s entourage. Charlotte Beers may read my memoir. And now I have a purse that will forever remind me of the day the universe handed me a moment straight out of a rom-com, minus the handsome male lead. There’s always next weekend, right?

My only regret? Not having a copy of my book on hand to give to Martha or Charlotte. Sure, I had plenty in my car parked right out front, but there was no way I was letting them catch a glimpse of my trusty, beat-up 2010 Honda Civic. Humble as it may be, that car proudly carries one happy new author (and her fancy new purse) on the adventures of a lifetime.

The Thoughts

The holiday season is here, and for many, it’s a time of joy, family, and celebration. But for some, it can feel bittersweet or just downright sad. There might be an empty chair or two where loved ones once sat, and the absence of family can make it impossible to embrace the festivities. For others, the season can highlight what we're missing, even while we're doing our best to be grateful for what we have. But hey, on the bright side, at least we don’t have to pretend to love fruitcake anymore, right? Let’s remember to spread kindness and love, especially to those who need it most. And let’s take a moment to celebrate the blessings we do have, big and small.

Love to all!

Jaclyn

My name is Jaclyn Michelle Smith, and yes, I wrote a book called I’m Sorry I Cremated You (shameless plug: publication date is 10/29/24, and you can totally pre-order it now on Amazon… I’ll wait). This is my first blog post, and I’ve been sweating over it because I wasn’t sure what to say. Then it hit me—just share why the hell you wrote the book, dummy! So here it is: the “why” behind what will probably be the biggest accomplishment of my life, unless I win a hotdog-eating contest one day.

2022 was, to put it lightly, a dumpster fire. Just a few days into the new year, my dad was found incoherent in his home in Surfside Beach, South Carolina. We hadn’t been on great terms because he flat-out refused to leave his house and move into an assisted living facility near me in Charleston. I watched his health and life crumble like a bad Jenga tower, and I was devastated that he wouldn’t listen to reason—or, you know, his daughter, the reasonable one. The weekly calls from the Surfside Beach Police Department, asking about his safety, didn’t exactly help my blood pressure.

So I stepped away. I told Dad to let me know when he was ready to accept help and move forward with life. Spoiler alert: he didn’t. Instead, the first week of January, a home health aide found him, and he was taken to Grand Strand Hospital. Cue the next three months of me living at that hospital, wishing I’d invested in a better travel pillow.

Do I regret stepping away when I did? Kind of. Did I need to do it for my own mental health? Absolutely. Because here’s the thing: watching your parents fall apart is like a horror movie with no popcorn and no escape button. And no amount of antidepressants can make it okay.

From January to March, I spent most days in a hospital room with Dad, as the doctors tried to figure out why he suddenly developed advanced vascular dementia, basically overnight. I then had to move him into a nursing home—against his will—which ranks pretty high on my list of Worst Days Ever. And then, I watched as he slowly became a shell of himself until he passed away in November.

Sad, right? Like, sad as hell. And since I’m a single woman with no husband to lean on and a tiny extended family, I was alone for most of it. BUT—and here’s the twist—while I was living through all that sadness, I kept finding these knee-slapping, ridiculous moments that made me laugh so hard I had to write them down. That’s right—laugh. At the absurdity, the weirdness, the “are you kidding me right now?” situations. I documented it all in a journal—the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Here’s one of those fun life surprises- I started improv comedy classes the week dad was hospitalized and what was supposed to just be a bucket list item to check off became an incredible form of therapy that would teach me so many life lessons, which I of course documented in that journal of mine.

I didn’t plan to do anything with that journal. It was my emotional dumpster—something just for me. But one day in 2022, I found myself sitting in my boss’s office (shout out to Adam), pitching a book idea based on everything I’d just been through. The wildest part? He said, “Let’s do it!” And suddenly, I was writing a book.

I wrote I’m Sorry I Cremated You because, in 2022, I felt like I was living on a deserted island of grief. Sure, I had friends and family, but I mostly felt alone. People don’t often talk about what it’s like to lose your parents, or the messy journey you take to make sense of life after it happens. Yet, almost all of us go through it, or will. So why aren’t we talking about it? I’m here to normalize that conversation. I hope that by sharing my story, it helps someone out there feel less alone. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll find themselves laughing when they thought they couldn’t.

Now you know why I wrote the book. It’s basically a love letter to my fellow caregivers and to everyone who’s lost a parent, or will one day (sorry to be a buzzkill). But why did I title it I’m Sorry I Cremated You? Easy—because I am sorry I did that. You see, Dad didn’t want to be cremated. He made that clear. But he also didn’t leave me many options, so I made the tough decision (with the help of my brother). Sometimes life throws you a curveball, and you just have to catch it. Or, in this case, cremate it.

Ok, fine—I also wanted a title that would make people do a double-take. And judging by the reactions so far, I think it worked.

So that’s the story behind the book, friends. I hope you love it. But more than anything, I hope it brings someone a little comfort—and maybe even a little joy—when they need it the most.

Love,
Jaclyn