Every once in a while, I find myself in conversation with someone, whether a colleague, an old friend, a friend of a friend, and they say something like: “Oh yeah, I read that in your blog.”

Cue record scratch.
Wait… You read my blog?

It never fails to amuse me. I don’t really write for people in my immediate orbit. Or I don’t anymore. I don’t post on Facebook or anywhere that would reach them. I don’t assume the folks in my day-to-day life are clicking through to PsychologistMimi to start their mornings. I mean, maybe my dogs would if they had opposable thumbs and a Wi-Fi connection. But let’s be honest, unless my posts contain the words treat, breakfast, or walk, they’d swipe left. Or lick the device.

Still, there they are. These humans I’ve encountered in meetings, holiday parties, and random get togethers. Occasionally, they Google me, maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of boredom, maybe because they’re wondering why I used the word “gigil” in a work meeting and boom, there’s the blog.

And, suddenly I’m no longer just Mimi with the meeting notes—I’m Mimi the blogger. The one with thoughts. Opinions. Moods. Dogs.

And here’s where it gets stranger.

Some people read it like it’s a psychic hotline. They’re looking for clues. What’s her mood? What’s going on in her head? Who’s she writing about? And more pointedly: Is it me?

Honestly, that’s the funniest part. The speculative sleuthing. The decoding. “She must be mad at someone. Who’s she hating on today?” Spoiler alert: Probably no one. Unless you’re a scammy nonprofit vendor, or someone who ghosted me after scheduling a Zoom with no agenda. Then maybe.

But here’s the twist: I rarely write about the people closest to me. Not anymore. That was more than a decade ago, back in my early blogging days when boundaries were… let’s say “under construction.” These days, my posts are more about vibes, life truths, existential musings, and my canine companions who, for the record, are the most emotionally stable beings in my orbit. Their drama is refreshingly simple:

Breakfast late? Betrayal.
Rain during walk? Apocalypse.
New squeaky toy? Bliss.

If I were writing for an audience of dachshunds, waterdogs, and mixes, I’d have bestseller status in the Barking Book Club.

Still, the people-readers persist. Some scan my posts to see if they’re in them. Or if someone else is in them and why. It’s very Carly Simon. You probably think this blog is about you. Unless you’re Warren Beatty (it’s about him after all, right?), it probably isn’t.
But then again,  maybe it is.

Because writing is a funny thing. Even when it’s not about you, it might still touch you. Annoy you. Delight you. Confuse you. Make you wonder.

And maybe that’s the point.

So to all my wondering-if-its-me readers, welcome. Keep snooping, speculating, side-eyeing. Just know that the real stars of this blog shed, snore, and bark at Amazon boxes. And they’re not impressed by your theories.

But me? I’m amused.
Always.

P.S. Maybe it is about you. But I’ll never tell …