lowlights
2025 Cry Log Data and CHARTS
For YEARS, I wore a Fitbit every single day.
It grossed me out sometimes. Thinking about how infrequently it was washed (by me!). At night, I slept with my hands folded under my face/partially directly on its wristband. As I drifted off, I tried not to think about where I had probably bonked it during the day. Door handles, grocery store baskets, dirty dishes, bathroom stall doors etc etc. But I was addicted to the sleep data, basing my attitude for the day on my “sleep score” without considering if I felt that I’d had a quality night’s rest.
And I really liked Fitbit games. Absolute strangers invited me to rounds of Fitbit Bingo, where fitness accomplishments could be applied to tick Bingo board spaces. If I could take enough steps, log enough consecutive activity minutes, travel farthest distances, I could maybe win a Bingo round against Kim, someone with an orange Care Bear as their profile photo. Sometimes I would add another consistent virtual Bingo participant as a Fitbit “friend” and that’s how I connected with Tracy P.
Tracy P had springy curls in her profile photo, glasses, and (based on the time of day she was most active) probably lived in a different time zone than me. As my Fitbit friend, her weekly step count appeared on my leaderboard in the app. In a ranking consisting mostly of people I’d met at old jobs or once or twice in college, my little profile photo moved up and down in response to my activity level for the week. Tracy’s step count usually hovered just above mine.
It got to a point where I’d check the app in the evening and if Tracy P’s numbers indicated she’d taken a walk recently, I would do the same before going to bed. Tracy P once took her Fitbit off for a while. I could tell because her steps number plummeted to zero on the leaderboard. When she returned weeks later, I messaged her in earnest that I’d missed the motivation of her step rate. And she responded favorably! We had something!
Shortly after Fitbit removed the option to play Bingo and other games, I stopped wearing mine. But I’ve never completely lost my interest in personal DATA. Even though it’s embarrassing.
Music streaming app numbers are one thing, but I can tell you that I really didn’t need a “Crumbl Unwrapped” to notify me how many cookie flavors I tried in 2025.1
I think part of the reason I’m so interested in any numerical information about how I spend my time is because I have a poor memory! I actually do need to be reminded what’s happened, because I don’t recall. This is the greatest reason I’ve completed my third full year of diligently keeping a cry log.
At this point, I have enough information to create a compelling line graph that suggests trends from month to month/over the years. As expected, I cry a little more during the summer because I overheat and get grouchy, except for June 2024 when I cried once??? That does not seem right. And, as I did last year, I assembled a pie chart to track the reasonings that inspired the most upsets this year.
So, here is 2025 by (cry log) numbers.
And some notable and representative lowlights – in sequential order!
February Twenty-Sixth – When I find out Michelle Trachtenberg died, I do what many people do – visit her IMDB page and reflect on how life-changing it was to see her play Harriet the Spy. And remember how jealous we were of her character in Inspector Gadget. Because of the gadgets, but also because her name was Penny and she had a hot uncle (Matthew Broderick!!).
Desperately scrolling through photos of Michelle, I searched for clues as to what happened that probably only I could discern. Pictures of her on television sets and movie premieres in the 90s, wearing a genuine smile and her long brown hair straightened and parted down the middle, transformed into more vacant expressions as the years passed. Even just in front of the camera at event she attended towards the end of her life, her struggles are visible.
Unspecified illness and probably the effects of child stardom brought her to a dark place from which she never escaped. And we all forgot about her. Including me.
April Eleventh – In the middle of a Google search to find a suitable supper club to stop at on the way home, my phone died fully on my solo trip to Door County, Wisconsin.
On the drive back, Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” plays on the radio and I have vivid memories of singing along to this song with my dad and sister, piled together in the front seat of a truck with the windows down. As I recall, the sun is setting and my hair is whipping in the wind. Getting caught in my mouth.
I cry because I miss the simplicity of childhood but also I’m grateful that I had a simplistic childhood but also because things are so different now. My son doesn’t like loud music in the car and always asks me to turn it down. I love him more than anything, so I do.
April Fourteenth – I stagger from a hot shower into my bed without drying myself off with a towel first. I lay on my side and bicycle my legs in an attempt to lessen abdominal pain that has arrived quickly. Humming nonsensically to myself, I wonder if this is how I would have felt if I had declined an epidural while giving birth.
My sobs serve a purpose, distracting me briefly from the pangs in my midsection. I’m scared and confused but also immediately thinking of everyone that has a uterus in this country/world where it’s become so precarious to seek solutions to its problems!
After about forty minutes, my pain lessens and I fall asleep in my damp sheets. I think I had an ovarian cyst that burst or something. Having a vagina sometimes means having no answers.
May Twenty-Ninth – I don’t have enough PTO to both go to Europe in the fall and attend a road-trip to South Dakota with my son, husband, and some of his family over the summer. The decision is not a complete no-brainer for me. I really like tacky things, and I’ll be missing a trip to Wall Drug. Mostly, I’m worried about the moment I’ll receive a photo of my child in front of Mount Rushmore, and I will not be the one that took it.
Sometimes when I cry about something particularly pathetic, I hear Judd Nelson from The Breakfast Club sarcastically spelling out “b-o-o h-o-o” and this is one of those times.
I receive the photo of my son in front of Mount Rushmore. The moment passes.
June Second – A fledgling living in my backyard has a foot stuck in its birdhouse. It flaps and flaps, trying to free itself. I reach and cup the baby carefully, trying to help.
My spouse is working from home and available to assist. I call to him with panic in my voice, and he uses an electric drill to dismantle the birdhouse so the little guy can be released. The bird flies away, but not before I notice its leg is rubbed raw and red.
I hate that I can’t know for certain that the bird was completely okay. And I resent my inability to be calm, collected, and useful in these situations.
I kind of hate animal rescue stories because I hate thinking about those that were not.
June Fourteenth – The day two Minnesota state representatives are shot (one killed), I take my four-year-old son to a library behind an assisted living facility. It’s Flag Day and a No Kings Rally was supposed to take place at the state capital but was canceled due to recent events. I’m genuinely frightened by the targeted political violence so close to home, and my heart is heavy as the events intended to unify and provide comfort have been called off.
As my son and I drive past the assisted living facility, we wave as some of its occupants are gathered on the sidewalk with their No Kings rally signs. Democracy is important and has mobilized them, even though they can’t go far.
From the backseat, my son asks why I’m crying. I try to decide if my current tears are from sorrow or hope, and what is even appropriate to try to explain.
“Those people really care about something, and it means a lot to me.” I choose vague for now.
July First – I’m stuck in road construction on the way home from a nice lunch with friends. It’s so hot outside. In this moment, I cannot believe I have chosen to live somewhere with SO much pavement! Concrete! Nowhere forgiving to place my FEET.
Plus, I didn’t want to try to find a bathroom at the unfamiliar restaurant I’ve just left, so I have to pee so badly that I start crying.
July Twelfth – I’m camping with my son, and he falls face first into a super gross slimy puddle because he was bent over, looking too closely at a cluster of tadpoles. I hope he didn’t kill them with his face. We both return to our tent in tears.
August First – I’m in the kitchen with a clear view of the backyard where my son is playing. I hear him scream over the sound of music playing while I prepare dinner. Somehow, I just immediately know he’s been stung by a bee.
With tears streaming down his face and arms outstretched towards me, I rush to meet him and ask where he’s been stung. He exclaims, “Everywhere!”
I’m allergic to bees or wasps or something, so I’m wary as I remove one from his shirt. He’s been stung four times on his tiny little body. After he’s bandaged and calmed down, I return to the back porch to clean up. The wasp is still alive, but barely. I crush it till it’s a powder and hope it can feel it.
September Second – I’m in Amsterdam with my husband and we’ve rented bikes so we can see a real windmill. It will be one of my favorite memories of the trip, both pedaling past vacant gas stations at the edge of town and down meandering roads surrounded by fields of swaying grasses.
But my husband bikes so much faster than me. I’m killing myself trying to keep up but also annoyed when I see he’s pulled over to wait for me. There’s no winning. We go around fifteen miles round trip and even though I’m drinking water and using balm at pauses, my lips hurt from the dry wind coupled with all the panting I’m doing. I feel like a crusty doinky loser. It starts to rain.
September Tenth – I worry that my son is drinking too much juice at school.
October Eighth – I attend a scheduled vaginal ultrasound to investigate my irregular periods. While they’re shuffling around In There, they discover my IUD is crooked and should be removed. Since I’ve first had an IUD installed (this can’t be what it’s called, but you should know that’s the vibe), this has been my nightmare. That it’s just floating around up there.
The doctor pulls to release the IUD and makes the mistake of telling me the strings have fallen off. I cry so hard that she thinks I’m laughing and asks me to stop so she can finish the removal.
November Sixteenth – I find out a friend of mine has visited the area where I live and chosen not to contact me. This hurts my feelings in all the obvious ways but also sends me reeling. To what else have I been so clueless?? I think I’m extremely aware of exactly the amount of value I add to interpersonal exchanges, but I’ve miscalculated. Though I sent her an awkward and desperate message in a birthday card months earlier, it is confirmed I am no longer a priority to her.
December Fourteenth – I have to stay thirty minutes late for work, delaying my arrival at a holiday gathering where good food and familial warmth are waiting for me. I am a word beyond ‘weak’ when I am inconvenienced.
It’s been another year marked by a horrible news cycle. I make less cry log entries in response to exploitation of power, racism, transphobia, homophobia, and senseless violence mostly because these just shut me all the way down or find me struggling to remember all that I’ll lose if I let my purest anger dictate my actions. I want it to be clear that I’m angry and I refuse to yield.
With last year being the one of avoidable crises and this one the year of often petty pouting, I AM grateful that so much that upset me was a little pathetic and/or a little boring. It’s a gift that 2025 provided to me.
I’m hopeful for the new year every single time. I dread the awareness that I will feel pain and discomfort in 2026, but I’m confident I will hear a new song I like, read a book that will alter the way I see the world, witness something that makes me happy I was BORN. And I cling to those.
See you in 2026 for more of the softest lobes. Happy New Year, y’all!
The answer is 15 – with only 7 trips to Crumbl stores. This feels low considering how dedicated I am to checking the weekly rotating menu.
I think I may need to start crying more?? My pie chart would be 99% “Crying silently in an AMC”. I love all your insights and deeper ways you connect with the world & your loved ones. It’s always a highlight of my day to read a new Soft Earlobe and reflect. I still think about “The Pile” whenever I look at My Pile.
Absolutely loved this read and feel more inspired to remember, catalog, and account in earnest this upcoming year.