Rosie Glow Wellness

Mind body health for the deeply fabulous


On Inner Children. Or something.

Long time, no #realtalk, Sweet friend. Truth: I am working very dilligently on a secret mission that has no business being on the internet (Truesdale. Rose Truesdale.) BUT I STILL HAVE A LOT OF THOUGHTS, and lately, the ones worth sharing have been all about inner children. Look. I am clearly no one’s mother (though I am perpetually surrounded by babies) and I have no real aspirations to test my maternal instincts. Ever. But teasing out your creativity entails becoming reacquainted with little you: shaking her tiny hand, complimenting her tutu and light up sneakers, and asking her what she wants to do today. Sometimes Baby Rose wants to collage:


This is the beginnings of a shrine to me, my roommate and my cat.
Meow mreeeeeow more to come.

Sometimes she wants to bedazzle sh*t:


#blurryphonephoto. Let’s call it intentional.

And, sensitive girl that she is, sometimes life gets her down. Sometimes she kicks and screams with her scrawny legs and squeaky voice and all of her horrific might (#kidsareterrifying) and desperately needs an exorcism some kindness and understanding from her cool older self (that’s you.) Now, I may not want to physically expel another person from my own personage because gross. But I do know how to talk to children: I have a Disney Princess air about me, which goes a surprisingly long way with the three feet and under set; and I respect imagination. I respect the meaningful use of imagination so much more than I respect displays of power or efficiency or whatever witchery people use to keep their houses clean. Adults: you’re boring and you need to re-prioritize. But kids. Kids, we have a mutual understanding. Props, young grasshoppers.

Here’s how to talk to your creative self:

It does her no good to hear how pretty she is. Compliment the picture she drew:


By the mother-daughter combo Busy Mockingbird. Read about them.

Marvel at her fusilli noodle and Elmer’s glue ferret statue. Compliment her goddamn blog. An aside: whenever someone tells me they read my blog, I instantly love them. Boys, take note. ANYWAY, my mom used to go to these seminars when I was wee, in which she was instructed to focus on my talents instead of my looks. As a result, I grew up joyfully geeky. I could have been a mean girl! But I was, and still am, too busy drawing  pictures and writing terrible poetry and reading about awakening my artistic spirit to remember to wear pink on Wednesdays. If you can remember to put on pants in the morning and brush your teeth sometimes, no one cares what you look like and every second you spend worrying about your appearance is a second you COULD have spent painting portraits of your ex boyfriends as cats. Get on that. Your hair’s fine.

Don’t criticize her either. Quit it with the negative self-talk, Homie. If she’s terrible with numbers, help her pass her calculus test, sure, but acknowledge that her real skills lie in English. Or if she loves math and science and hates glitter and craft glue… I mean, I can’t personally relate, but you do you! Don’t tear your inner child down: build her up. Don’t call her stupid. Don’t call her ugly. DON’T call her fat. My (wacky, weird, wonderful) mother would never call me fat. She tells me that I need to wash my hair more often, and throw out my disintegrating shoes, and stop wearing spandex crop tops and high waisted shorts in the winter (with TIGHTS, Mom! With tights!). But she accepts me as is and probably knows that advising me to look a little less grungy just makes me wanna be grungier. The 90’s are back, yo. WOAH, TANGENT. Anyway, you wouldn’t call a child names unless you are #theworst, so don’t say that sh*t to your inner child either. Unfair judgement kills creativity. Kills it. Nourish and flourish, baby!

Let the girl wander. Your creative soul can’t do sh*t if you keep her on a leash… and there are those parents. Give her permission to explore! Go for a walk! Wander around a museum by yourself! Window shop! Volunteer at a gallery space or a farmer’s market or a concert venue or a community garden! I love you, but you have no excuses. Get out there. Unless you’re busy making something. Then you can stay in. (Aside number two: I “volunteered” for the Comfort Station last night. A.k.a. I listened to live music and took advantage of the photo booth and free PBR and handsome hipster boys while I worked registration, and today, I’m positively buzzing with creative energy. Thanks Emily!) Carve out creative space for yourself, but don’t, you know… live in space. You can only relate to the world if you’re part of it. So take part and take heart! #rhymezone

Happy Friday, Babygirls and Babyboys. Take care! Treat yo’self! There are exciting things to come.

What do you say to your inner child? I want some taglines. Best one wins a batch of cookies and a hug from yours truly, so lay it on me.



The Rocks That I Got: On Making A Diamond

Hey Bunnies! To begin today’s rambling; a disclaimer: I’m in a bit of a transitional phase right now. To this, you may justifiably respond with “No shit, girlfran. You 25. You want a trophy?” That’s cool. I could use some tough love – and Emma could probably use someone with whom to carry that particular burden. But here’s what’s up:


Just me on my way to work

– With great responsibility comes a permanently furrowed brow; a reassessment of one’s beauty and hygiene regimen (unkempt is a statement, y’all — if MK Olsen, the French and the homeless can pull it off, so can I!); and a really tremendous learning experience. I’m learning that it’s hard for me to shake my people-pleasing tendencies and set boundaries for myself and the people in my life. I’m also learning that those people, even the ones I like a lot, can and will walk all over me if I don’t repeatedly stick up for my sanity.

– More on those neuroses: I hate confrontation. Instead, I like to practice what this babe (again!) likes to call “making a diamond.” Here’s how it works: I retain a lump of coal comprised of layers and layers of ash and silt and anger. I pressure cook that shit in my hot little hands because I’m so conscious of upsetting other humans that I can’t even articulate my needs to myself. Then there’s a volcano or some crap because #geology, and bam! A diamond!

My diamonds – the rocks that I got – oft materialize into rant-y blog posts against the male species, anti-Robin Thicke propaganda, poems about Sylvia Plath, and creepy paintings (currently working on one of a girl who looks just like me getting knifed by mutinous kewpie dolls #dateme).


We’re coming for you! Heh heh heh!

Clearly, mining my feelings in this way is all part of my creative process. Another part of my creative process, however, is actually giving myself time to create; and in that way, I’ve failed myself. Lately, it’s been all pressure cookin’, no diamonds. And frankly, I’m starting to feel like a lunatic.

Solution: make stuff. These will be long-harbored blood, sweat and tears diamonds, yo. I’m going to finish a chapter of the book this weekend. I’m going to paint and decoupage and sparkle-fy the shit out of my book case and nightstand. I’m going to finish my Chicago Hood Rats drawing. I’m going to buy a bicycle helmet and bedazzle it and take it to the streets. I’m going to relentlessly pursue a new performance opportunity. And I’m going to keep in mind that a job is just a job; my friends will stick by me no matter how hermit the frog I get; eventually I may discover that not every guy is #theworst and, you know; I have to keep doin’ me. A tougher, less easily manipulated version of me. Aw, here I go again.

Love you guys. Are you hatching any diamonds? Let a sister know 🙂