caroline price

🖤

a girl obsessed with time

The Careful Season

September 21, 2026

It hit today, like a freight train.

It hits every year like a freight train, without warning. A large one, that takes my breath away.

Nothing prompts the change. Most years the weather is a hint, but in 2026 it is still hot like summer on September 21. It might be a little harder, actually, that the weather is not cool yet as it should be.

It’s like seasonal affective disorder, but not.

It’s that my whole emotional biome is just kicked out of balance, wherever it was on the spectrum to begin with. The calendar should tell me every year, but every year I am thrown for a loop.

Monday, September 23, 1996 I was in the throes of my first psychotic episode. That is the day I was hospitalized for the first time. I was 17 years old.

And every year since that time, whatever the situation at hand, whatever my pre-existing mental situation, it feels like a ton of bricks is hitting my body around the 20-21 of September.

As I said, it’s like seasonal affective disorder, but not. This time of year, I am legitimately more vulnerable, more fragile. I have experienced more than one psychosis that began in the Fall.

Today it hit by my utter inability to get out of bed this morning when my alarm went off. Oliver had a dentist appointment; thankfully it was at 7 AM so Jared was able to take him and he wasn’t even late for school. But there was no way to make my body get up when that 6 AM alarm went off.

And 9 AM rolled around and my body just felt heavy. I managed to get up a little after 10 AM to get some breakfast, but I quickly realized that what felt just tired to begin with was turning like sour milk into a depression. So I texted Jared, and went back to sleep.

At 12:30 PM, I heard the house alarm turn off, and looked at my phone. I’d missed a call 13 minutes prior. Jared was home for lunch.

And that’s all it has taken today; Jared came home, fixed us both lunch, got dishes and laundry started, and we set two priorities for my afternoon: switch the laundry when it finishes, and get myself cleaned up.

Those feel like high bars this afternoon. And I’m not even that sad at the moment, though seeing Jared midday really did help. It just seems like a lot of work to even move— it’s a literal physical depression, not a sadness, not a despondency. I know my life is a good one.

I told Jared when he was home that I was worried about getting done what needs to be done before we leave to go see Liam in Grinnell later in the week. Mostly all that needs to be done is laundry, but there is a lot of it and I had planned to spend the entirety of today keeping the machines going nonstop, to get it all done.

An evening trip to Wash Bowl might be in order for tonight, though I didn’t tell Jared that before he left.

The body keeps score, my body keeps score, and today marks the beginning of the careful season of bipolar disorder with psychosis. The season of being extra nice to myself, of letting housework slide, of letting Jared take care of me, of tending to my sleep and taking my meds above all else.

This year marks 30 years of careful seasons; the anniversary had not occurred to me until I drafted this post. Some years I’ve been more careful than others.

17 years old. I shake my head and sigh at that; I was so very young. Too young to have to face what many people see as their worst nightmare possible: the idea that my very own brain and thoughts might not be universally trustworthy.

This week I’ve had reason to pause to consider that very situation; that my diagnosis would be some people’s (let’s face it, a lot of people’s) worst case scenario. And I’ve decided there are actually gifts in knowing what it is for my mind to fail me. In my case, I’m extraordinarily lucky that I come to in the aftermath, back to reality. That doesn’t happen for everyone.

But the bigger gift is this: because I have had some very public psychotic episodes, and because my social sphere has mutated and shrunken due to that fact, I have become very, very comfortable in my own skin. I am me, I am comfortable with my situation and my lot in life, and I happen to know that the people who are in my life are genuinely there because they want to be there, not for some superficiality I never aspired to.

So, if you’re reading this, thank you. Thanks for reading, thanks for whatever roles we play in each others’ lives, thanks for not writing me off as a lost-cause mental case, as I know for a fact some have.

It may be the careful season, but this careful season, however heavy my body is, I know I am lucky.
Those QR Code Cards were Brilliant

September 21, 2026

Birthdays are interesting. Last Wednesday the 16th was my 47th birthday.

My boys made my birthday this year, for sure. Jared had them all record video birthday greetings for me, which he compiled in Google Drive and made QR cards for, which he placed as the cards in the flowers he came to the door to deliver about 10:30 on my birthday morning. It was very romantic, and very Jared, and my boys were very sweet to play along.

This gift was particularly effective given that two of our three boys are off at college, so I was unable to actually see them on my day.

Then I went and hung out with Jared at his work, so I didn’t spend the day alone, and for most of the day, it was pretty awesome.

And then about 6:30 PM I got melancholy for reasons I won’t go into here. Jared took me to the Marina for the sunset that night of my birthday, which helped tremendously. But that’s life, right? I mean, nothing is perfect.

But can we just talk about those flowers, and those QR codes, and those birthday greetings from my boys? My husband is the absolute best.

He could have just shown up with the QR codes in hand– or an email link to the videos– and I would have been giddy. It for sure wasn’t about the money spent. It was about the effort that went into showing me how much he and my boys love me. Jared could have taken a piece of paper and written me a note, or had the boys write notes, and the message would have been equally effective: spending a dime was unnecessary to have the tremendous effect of spoiling me that he did.

Jared shows up. Every time, without fail. I am the luckiest girl on Earth. And he’s there in melancholy evenings, too.

I love you, Doodles.
How an Empty Nest Happens

September 19, 2026

One of the bittersweet things about having three children with two of them off at college is facing the reality that things and furniture left in their rooms can be repurposed.

We toyed with (and asked permission about) the idea of switching out Oliver and Porter’s rooms. Oliver decided that was NOT what he wanted to do.

Oliver has gotten really, really into simulated racing. He spec’ed out, at age 11, a Moza simulation rig. It’s sobering how good he actually is at racing, and when he turns 13 he plans to get into iRacing.com’s platform.

Unfortunately for Oliver, when I bought his current L-shaped desk off Facebook marketplace, I only had a homework station in mind. I had no idea we’d eventually have a competitive gamer on our hands. It was a very inexpensive used pressboard desk that is not sturdy or stable enough to support the kickbacks of his Moza rig.

So, his Moza rig is slowly tearing his desk apart.

And so, with his brothers’ permission, today is re-arranging day: we are making an L-shaped configuration with both of his brothers’ desk, as at least a temporary situation until we can figure something else out.

And it’s a seemingly little thing: some rearranging of some furniture that otherwise sees no current use, no investing in new, nobody was using these desks anyway.

But in this Mama’s heart, it is a reminder that we are solidly in a new season of life.

When I asked Porter about the idea, I was reminded that we are less than two years away from his college graduation. We talked about his grad school plans, and reminded him he will always have a place to live here. His furniture and belongings will always be his, and if he needs to move back in he can.

But there are no guarantees that will be a need.

And to be completely honest, Liam’s instant agreeableness to Oliver using his desk took my breath away.

It’s a different season. We are extremely fortunate that all is as it should be with our children, in each of their own phases of growth.

They’re just desks; it’s just rearranging of rooms. Minor things. It may be temporary until we can afford to get Oliver a more permanent situation.

But it’s a reminder that the nest is emptying. Our older boys’ rooms will not remain a memorial to their middle and high school days forever.

This is how it happens, too: seemingly small changes; a quick phone call to ask for permission as a courtesy. The reminder that home is always home.

And so, we’re all changing, one afternoon of rearranging at a time.
Today’s a Day for Banana Bread

September 15, 2026

There are lots of Mrs. Ruth stories.

Lots.

I remember the first time she walked across the front yard to speak. We’d just closed on the house, May 31, 2016. I suspect she sort of dreaded talking to us; we quickly discovered she’d seen us turning around across the street from her house in the city access drive on the back side of the soccer fields many, many times as we came, driving by our new soon-to-be-ours house in the spring of 2016.

I really didn’t know what we were getting into with our new neighbor. I remember the nervous dread of seeing her walking my way that first time. I didn’t know that I was about to meet one of the best friends I’d have for the next decade.

Oh, if I only knew then what I know now.

Mrs. Ruth is the single best thing that happened to me in the last decade.

Oliver was 2 years old, Porter was 9, and Liam had just turned 8 when we met Mrs. Ruth.

My Nannie, my own grandmother, had died the year before I met Mrs. Ruth, in 2015.

Most times when I took the dogs out, there was Mrs. Ruth, to chat.

Mrs. Ruth was there during some of the hardest years of my life.

Mrs. Ruth did not bat an eye when I shaved my head in 2020 after the botched bleach job. Whatever she really thought, she told me she liked it and went right on talking.

She didn’t care that I was on SSDI for bipolar disorder and PTSD. I ended up hospitalized during the time we lived next door and she acted like it was just something that happens sometimes. It was a non-issue for her.

That’s pretty unusual for someone of her generation.

For someone who hated the magnolia trees that were in our yard but whose leaves fell in her yard, she never said a single solitary thing to us about it.

I could talk to Mrs. Ruth about anything and everything, and did. And I’m pretty sure she felt the same.

Mrs. Ruth died last week.

It was her Japanese tulips that I’d go photograph every April or so whenever they bloomed. But I have lots of photos of them. We had light pink ones in our yard but she had a gorgeous deep plum-colored Japanese tulip tree. I posted a photo last week from 2024’s blooms. She called me this year to say that they wouldn’t be worth taking a picture this year.

Moving six minutes away from her street in 2021 meant that we had to pick up the phone instead of walking out into the front yard to see Mrs. Ruth, but we still talked frequently and visited, too.

There are lots of Mrs. Ruth stories. Some, I will never tell.

But this one… this one is worth telling.

In recent years, Mrs. Ruth had taken to presenting me with banana bread when I visited. Sometimes holidays, sometimes random visits.

So sometime in the past year, I said, “Mrs. Ruth, I want you to make a list of the ingredients for your banana bread and I want to bring them and I want you to teach me how to make your banana bread.”

So she said, “Here, I’ll show you,” and led me to her pantry, where she promptly presented me with this box of premixed Pillsbury mix, telling me to take it home with me.

I hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time, and she laughed, too. I laughed about that for weeks— the banana bread tasted homemade, and it really was some of the best ever. She said it was better than her homemade receipe. It does rival my own grandmother’s, my Daddy’s Mama’s, banana bread.

I held onto that box of banana bread mix, not in any hurry to make it here at home.

But tomorrow is my birthday, and I’m missing Mrs. Ruth terribly. I got to talk to her the day before she got sick last week, and I’ll be forever grateful. I’m grateful it was just a normal, like so many times in the past, conversation.

Just a regular check-in.

So today’s the day for baking her banana bread.

I’ll be forever grateful that, whatever our differences, and there were many, and however unconventional it was for someone her age and someone my age to be good friends— I’m grateful that I got to know Mrs. Ruth.

I didn’t know in 2016 how badly I needed a friend just like her.

Grateful.
Get Off My Lawn, Hair Edition

September 12, 2026
Having enough hair, with nicer layers cut in it, is a novelty still.

I invested in a Cricket 1.5-inch round brush. It is okay. Just okay.

I stand by the old-school curling iron method for my layers. A round brush is not a substitute.

It will be fine on days I am lazy, frankly. Or less interested in actually highlighting my layers. Or some variation of lazy and wanting big, one-movement hair.

Round Brush vs. Curling Iron: Which is better for layered hair? The curling iron wins every time.

Why in the world are people more averse to old-school curling irons these days? Why have we lowered our standards? I get that we’re to the point that pajamas are real clothes beyond just trips to Walmart. But why?

The exact 1-inch Conair curling iron I used, purchased probably ten years ago now, is still available on Amazon (affiliate link).

It is perfectly servicable, people! I’ve used it on setting 5 for most of the time I’ve owned it. I did recently learn that the turbo boost doesn’t actually help it warm up faster— it just makes it a little hotter. It goes to 25 but there is zero need in my case to fry my hair.

But seriously….setting it between 5 and 9 won’t kill your hair, and it’s perfectly serviceable.

I guess doing crazy bangs between 1989-1994 on myself at formative ages paid off. Because I did learn how to use an old-school curling iron without the dreaded crimp and without frying my hair.

I do feel a bit like the “get off my lawn!” old woman, preaching the wisdom of tasteful versions of late 90’s and early 2000’s hair.

But you curling wand and flat-iron people, I don’t get you. Really. More trouble than it’s worth, and now that the curling under techniques are coming back in, apparently people don’t even know how to use old-school curling irons or fear the easily-avoidable crimp too much.

And as for that round brush, it feels intuitively more damaging to my hair than the curling iron, really. Can’t control the heat in the metal as well from the blow dryer, and the bristles are much harder on my hair than the straight up stationary metal from the curling iron.

It wasn’t even that much faster a process to accomplish the look I settled on today with the brush. And for sure, the top layers are not nearly as accentuated. It’s not worth taking a photo.

To be fair to the brush: the brush in question that I purchased is absolutely fine quality. I will keep it.

My point is more obvious with my stylist who cut the beautiful layers. When we were discussing styling, she didn’t ask if I had a curling iron. She asked if I had a round brush. And worse: she used a flat-iron on my hair when she styled it herself, which did nothing but make my already mostly straight hair straighter. It did nothing to accentuate her beautiful work, which I promptly came home and re-styled myself.

But, she was mid-20s. She likely never used a curling iron on herself, much less clients unless doing a formal up-do or something.

Back to my question, which I find myself asking in all kinds of situations, not just hair-related:

Why have we lowered our standards?

When Styling Layered Hair:
1. Curling irons are perfectly serviceable, easily learned products.
2. Round brushes curling wands, and flat-irons “reinvent the wheel” and make hair styling so much harder, especially for old-school blowouts.
And, in 2026, it happens that I do pay attention but my own tastes are frequently ahead of the curve by a few months: old-school polished blowouts are coming back in.

Get your curling irons out, people.