We're Taj and Kelley — and before you ask, yes, our exes are together. Yes, we are friends. No, we don't fully understand it either, but here we are.
One of us grew up on the South Side of Chicago, where you learn early that life is not a soft place and neither are you. The other grew up in San Diego, where it's sunny and beautiful and apparently that does not protect you from getting your whole life blown up. Between us we cover both coasts, both vibes, and apparently the same terrible choices.
We found each other in the wreckage and did what any two reasonable women would do — we cried until we couldn't, then we laughed until we couldn't, then we opened the champagne, and tequila, we pulled tarot, we called a medium, then called a psychic just to be sure. Our mothers, who had absolutely no business becoming friends, now are. At this point we think the universe is just showing off.
We are not therapists. We are not gurus. We are two women who got handed the same terrible plot twist and decided to write a completely different ending — loudly, raw, unfiltered, with excellent spiritual support and questionable alcohol consumption.
We have cried in parking lots, laughed at things we probably shouldn't have, asked the cards hard questions, and slowly, stubbornly, built something that looks a lot like a life again.
Pull up a chair. Bring a drink. You're going to be okay — and we'll stay on the phone with you until you believe it.