#Unsettled

I was at the grocery store the other day, doing what any self-respecting woman does on a Tuesday: buying a bottle of wine. Okay, in the interest of “UnSettled” transparency, it was two bottles.

As I was checking out, the cashier asked for my ID. After a quick glance, she commented on how lovely my driver’s license picture was. I smiled, thanked her for the compliment—and honestly, thanked her for even asking to see my ID at all!

I’ll be the first to admit it: I’m vain when it comes to pictures, and I am certainly vain when it comes to my driver’s license. Perhaps it’s because, for so many years, I carried around the absolute worst photo ever taken of a human being.

It’s one of those fundamental differences in the “Battle of the Sexes.” Men don’t care. To them, a driver’s license is a functional utility. To a woman, it’s a five-to-ten-year commitment to a specific version of ourselves.

Twenty years ago, my husband and I had just moved into a new house. If you’ve ever moved with a baby in tow, you know the vibe.  I had spent the entire day in the trenches—unpacking boxes, scrubbing floors, and trying to find where I’d packed the toaster. My hair hadn’t been washed, and I’m fairly certain a shower hadn’t even crossed my mind yet.

My husband looked at me and said, “Hey, we have some free time. Let’s go get our new driver’s licenses right now.”

I looked at my reflection and said, “Okay, but I need to shower and make myself look presentable first.”

He looked at me, genuinely confused, and asked: “Why?”

That “Why?” turned into a full-scale domestic dispute. It was the classic collision of male efficiency versus female standards. Long story short: I lost. I ended up at the DMV, unshowered, unpresentable, and simmering with rage.

I was the last to get my photo taken. Our eldest was a baby then, so once my husband finished his (which, of course, looked perfectly fine despite him putting in zero effort), he took our son out to the car. I stood there alone in front of the blue backdrop, feeling every bit of the grime and the “spite” of the moment.

When the card finally slid across the counter, the woman working the desk didn’t just hand it to me. She looked at the photo, looked at my tired eyes, and leaned in. “You know,” she whispered, “you can come back in a couple of days and retake this if you want.”

She felt my pain.

Because women know. We get it. We feel it.  How many times have we huddled around a phone after a group selfie, checking every face to make sure it’s “post-worthy” before it hits the internet? We worry about these things. They are the “little things” that add up to a lot of unnecessary stress.

That woman didn’t know me; she could have just handed me the card and said, “Have a nice day.” But she didn’t. In that moment, she chose compassion. She chose to see me. That wasn’t just professional courtesy—it was a spiritual bond held among females.

I ended up keeping that horrible picture for years. At first, it was because life took over—new babies, playdates, school, and the constant “all of the things” that meant I didn’t have two hours to spare at the DMV. But eventually, I kept it out of pure spite.

There were so many times when we’d be out and someone would look at my ID, then look at me, and say, “I don’t think this is really you.” Every single time, I would give my husband the ultimate “go-to-hell” look.

It’s a running joke in our house now. We moved again recently, and this time, the experience was different. My husband waited patiently while I applied my makeup and curled my hair. He’s learned that it’s the little things that count.

But looking back, that DMV worker’s compassion is what sticks with me. It represents the very driving force behind UnSettled.

Women need each other. There is a spiritual connection between us that men—as much as we love them—simply don’t understand. It’s an unspoken agreement that we have to have each other’s backs because, frankly, if we aren’t looking out for one another, nobody else will.

This sisterhood is one of my greatest inspirations. For the women who haven’t found their tribe yet, or that “person” who just gets them—know that we are here. UnSettled was built on the idea that we shouldn’t have to navigate these “little things” (or the big ones) alone.

We are here to be that voice at the counter saying, “I see you, I feel your pain, and I’ve got your back.” Because if we aren’t checking the lighting, proofing the photos, and holding space for each other… who will?

Certainly not the guys.

Have you ever kept something out of pure ‘marital spite’ just to prove a point?

What’s your “DMV” moment?