Rage is fuel.

I’ve spent a lot of years with people telling me I’m too much.

Too fat. Too loud. Too opinionated. Too smart. Too sweary. Too outspoken. Too angry. Too tattooed (yep). Too intimidating. And yet somehow, to those same people, I was never quite enough.

Not anymore. We’re just not doing that shit.

Dear Fuckers started years ago as a private blog between friends to rant and rave about things that frustrated us. Today, it’s my love letter to anger. It’s my space to take filters off, let raw rule, and channel all of those Big Feelings that I was constantly told I needed to tone down in order to fit in.

The reality is that as a woman of a certain age, I’m all done playing nice. Anger can be important fuel. It can be righteous and beautiful.

And while I don’t need my anger to define me, I also no longer need to let it limit me. So. Welcome to Dear Fuckers, the rantiest, sweariest newsletter around from a woman who refuses to shrink back and fit into tidy, mild-mannered boxes anymore. It’s part real-time memoir and part fun and ranty essays and another part yet to be determined, probably.

I’m glad to have you here.