I read “mommy blogs” long before I became a parent. Though my weekends were spent closing down local bars and camping at music festivals, I read about childbirth stories and toddler meal plans on many quiet evenings. I can’t say why exactly. Maybe the sheer differences in our lives fascinated me—how your 20s can look so different depending on your choices and circumstance. Or, perhaps, subconsciously I was preparing for a life I knew I would live some day. This was me doing my homework, gathering all the information, becoming an expert. Lol.
As I read these parents’ stories and got to know their families, something more emotional happened. The term “parasocial” would enter our vocabulary later, but at the time I didn’t realize the connection was so commonplace. My “friends” included a mom named Heather in Utah, a rocker Rebecca in LA, a widower Matt from the Midwest, a Brit named Holly in the Bay Area, a hipster mom named Jo in Brooklyn, the hilarious Jill in my hometown of Baltimore. This was back in the days of Google Reader (you are so missed) where, in one scroll, I could read all their latest blog entries, catch up with all my pals.
They were all so open, so vulnerable. Adjectives, at the time, that could never describe me. I was shrouded in an opaque shell of happy-go-lucky and everything is fine. In my personal and professional life, I was focused on other people’s stories. So habitually consuming these blogs felt aligned, right at the center of my comfort zone. I read about their favorite local coffee shops and what they bickered about with their spouses, saw the cute outfits they dressed their babies in, and read why their week felt difficult. Though photo borders and sepia tones were all the rage, it was, ironically, before online content became so filtered. People were still revealing real truths, caring less about the opinions of others and certainly had no eye toward sponsors or brand deals. It was like they were giving away the keys to their diary.
Observe someone’s life long enough and you’re sure to be faced with tragedy. From the start, Matt shared his grief as he raised his baby girl following the death of his wife in childbirth. Eight years ago, Rebecca lost her husband to stage four pancreatic cancer after she had candidly written about being in an unhappy marriage. After battling depression and alcoholism, pioneering mommy blogger Heather died by suicide a few years ago. Holly was diagnosed with breast cancer. Jo got divorced. And, just last week, Jill, who was known more familiarly as Scary Mommy, died from glioblastoma.
Part of this, of course, is getting older. You mourn more. But blogs and social media have given us a wider lens, additional people to grieve. Sure, it feels different when a stranger suffers than when a loved one does, but parasocial relationships blur the line between the two. As readers, we worry about their partners, their children, their community. We offer condolences to people we’ve never met. And when our favorite writers go through something catastrophic, they have every right to stop sharing.
Yet, so many continue. Maybe it’s catharsis or distraction, or it’s simply that the writing has become their livelihood. But part of me thinks they are holding up their end of the bargain, showing the bad along with the good, proving that these blogging bonds are a two-way street. Matt allowed us to follow along on social media with his daughter, Maddy, who just recently graduated from high school. Rebecca and Jo are dating and parenting their kids into young adulthood. Holly is in remission. They’ve written books, they’ve inspired movies, they are helping others heal. And no doubt they’ve played a part in me opening up about my painstaking path to parenthood, and are part of the reason I co-founded this very newsletter.
As for the writers we have lost, we remember them by the stories they left behind. I’m so grateful for these archives, a place where they are still present. We get to keep their voice, maintain their legacy. Three years after her blog debuted, Jill was profiled in The Baltimore Sun. “Few recognize her tightly coiled curls, her peanut-butter-eating children, her tired dog,” the story began. “But online, thousands upon thousands of mothers grasp onto her every word.” We are lucky we still can.
Jess Mayhugh is the co-founder of Folly, and a writer and editor who spent nearly a decade trying to have a baby before the arrival of her son, Cole, in December 2025. She has published stories for The New York Times and The Atlantic about her fertility journey, the IVF process, and grief around infant loss.
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