The Abbey Yung Method, for Those of Us Who Never Quite Figured Out Haircare

I am not, and never have been, a haircare girly.

I didn’t grow up knowing the difference between a mask and a conditioner. I’ve never instinctively understood which shampoo was “obviously” right for my hair type. I’ve always kind of assumed that haircare was one of those skills you either picked up early — or quietly accepted you’d never fully grasp. 

For most of my adult life, my hair routine looked like this: wash when it felt gross, condition (because you’re supposed to), heat style if I was feeling virtuous, air dry if I wasn’t. If my scalp flaked, I panicked. If my hair felt dry, I bought something heavier. If it felt greasy, I solved the problem with… a lot of dry shampoo.

Then I started watching Abbey Yung on TikTok, and for the first time ever, haircare started feeling less like a chore and more like a system.

What people on social media refer to as “the Abbey Yung Method” isn’t an official program or a rigid routine. It’s more of a framework: a way of understanding hair that cuts through a lot of the noise, marketing, and frankly, nonsense that dominates haircare advice online.

If you’re starting a haircare journey and don’t identify as someone who’s “good at this stuff,” here’s everything you need to know.

Ask Clara:

"What else should I know about hair and scalp health?"

The Best Workout Is Still the One You’ll Actually Do

Like everyone else at the peak of COVID, my husband and I bought a Peloton bike with the purest of intentions. We’d ride every day from the comfort of our own home, it would pay for itself in less than a year, and we’d become the kind of people who casually referenced our ride streaks in conversation.

Five years later, the bike has technically paid for itself — thanks entirely to my cardio-loving husband — while I’ve mostly used it as a very expensive coat hanger. Meanwhile, I exercise at least four days a week, rotating between Pilates, strength training, and walking, just not on the piece of equipment that once symbolized my fitness aspirations.

For a long time, I framed this as some kind of personal failure, as if not loving cardio meant I wasn’t doing exercise right. Which is why two recent studies felt unexpectedly reassuring. One found that even a brief burst of intense exercise (as little as ten minutes!) releases molecules into the bloodstream that help switch on DNA repair and shut down cancer growth signals. Another showed that exercise variety, not just volume, is linked to a lower risk of premature death. 

Translation: your body doesn’t actually care how you move, only that you do.

There’s something deeply freeing about that. Permission, maybe, to stop forcing ourselves into workout identities that don’t fit, or chasing whatever form of movement happens to be most optimized, viral, or aesthetically pleasing at the moment. Consistency, it turns out, doesn’t come from discipline alone; it comes from enjoyment, from choosing movement that feels sustainable rather than aspirational.

We already spend so much energy trying to “hack” our health. Maybe this is one place we can ease up. If you love running, run. If you hate it, don’t. If Pilates feels grounding and walking clears your head, that counts — apparently, it all does.

It makes me wonder if the healthiest shift isn’t actually exercising more, but judging ourselves a little less.

Ask Clara:

"What are the long-term health benefits of exercise?"

What Else Are Our Mammograms Trying to Tell Us?

I’ve spent more time than I care to admit staring at patient portals, waiting for test results to populate. Fertility labs. Hormone panels. Bloodwork that’s supposed to explain why something feels off, or confirm what you already suspect. It's that specific kind of waiting where you’re still functioning, parenting, answering emails, but also mentally preparing for every possible outcome, all at once. When the word normal finally appears, there’s relief, sure, followed quickly by exhaustion — because if everything’s normal, then why does it feel like it took this much effort to get there?

Being proactive about your health, especially as a woman, is rarely just one test. It’s usually a series of them, spaced out over time, and they rarely tell the full story on their own.

Which is why a recent study stopped me in my tracks. Researchers found that routine mammograms may also reveal early signs of cardiovascular disease — specifically, calcium buildup in the arteries of the breast, something radiologists can see but don’t typically report because it isn’t linked to breast cancer. (Of course. Because women’s bodies are nothing if not efficient multitaskers.)

Here’s the part that feels both fascinating and infuriating: heart disease is still the number one killer of women, yet women are more likely to be diagnosed later and have worse outcomes. Not because we don’t show up for care (we do), but because the tools used to assess risk often underestimate us. Our symptoms are messier, our timelines don’t match the studies, and our bodies don’t follow the script.

But this new research suggests that information we’re already generating — from mammograms we’re already getting! — could help flag risk earlier, without another appointment or another scan, just a fuller picture using data that already exists. Which makes the real question less about what women should be doing, and more about whether the system is ready to connect the dots it already has… and maybe, finally, pay attention.

Ask Clara:

"How do heart attacks present in women?"

The Best Postpartum Advice I Didn’t Expect

The best thing that happened to me this most recent postpartum wasn’t a supplement, a system, or a “game-changing” routine I would later forget to keep up with. It was something my Italian, no-bullshit aunt said to me while I was very much postpartum — tired, hormonal, and trying to be responsible about my mental health.

At some point, almost casually, I floated the thought: What if I get postpartum anxiety again? I wasn’t panicking. I was just mentally opening the tab, the way so many of us do when we’re trying to stay one step ahead of our own bodies.

She didn’t flinch or ask follow-up questions or suggest we keep an eye on it. She just looked at me and said, “Stop thinking about that. You don’t have that.” And somehow, that was the end of it. No checklist. No monitoring. No circling back later. Just certainty.

And honestly, it worked. I didn’t get postpartum anxiety — or maybe I did briefly, in a way that passed before it could turn into a storyline I carried around with me. Either way, it didn’t become something I worried myself into.

I thought about this again recently while watching Marcello Hernandez’s new Netflix special, where he jokes that he has ADHD, except his mom told him he didn’t, so he didn’t. End of discussion. No label spiral. Life just kept moving.

It made me wonder if, in our very real and necessary effort to name and normalize mental health, we’ve also lost a bit of trust in ourselves — the ability to feel off without assuming it’s permanent, to have a hard week without forecasting a hard year, to let certain things pass through us instead of defining us.

This isn’t anti-therapy or anti-awareness. It’s just a simpler question about balance: whether everything needs a name right away, or whether some things need time, rest, and maybe a little less attention. In this case, it was someone I trust looking at me, completely unfazed, saying, “You’re fine,” and me choosing not to argue.

Ask Clara:

"What’s normal postpartum anxiety, and when should you get help?"

Apparently This Is How We’re Coping

On Rescripted’s weekly standup this morning, we acknowledged what everyone’s been feeling: things are heavy right now. With everything happening in Minnesota, layered on top of the general state of the world, it’s hard not to walk around with a quiet, background sadness — the kind you don’t always have language for, but definitely feel.

Then, in that same meeting, we pulled up analytics, which is where things took a (kind of hilarious) turn.

Our top articles right now are about orgasms, vibrators, ultra-thin condoms, and peeing during sex. If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry — and yes, we did laugh, partly because it felt absurd and partly because it felt painfully accurate.

At first, the contrast was jarring. But the longer I sat with it, the more it made sense. When everything feels overwhelming, abstract, and wildly out of our control, we reach for what’s closest and most immediate: the body, sensation, and questions that start with is this normal? and end with please tell me I’m not alone.

Sexual health content, it turns out, isn’t just about sex. It’s reassurance. It’s grounding. It’s a way of checking back in with ourselves when the world feels chaotic and unrecognizable: proof that even in hard moments, our bodies still exist and still want connection, comfort, and maybe five minutes of relief from the constant dread.

I don’t think people are reading these articles because they don’t care about what’s happening. I think they’re reading them because they care so much and need somewhere personal and human to land, even briefly.

Sometimes coping looks like grief or rage, and sometimes it looks like Googling why you pee when you orgasm and feeling deeply, embarrassingly relieved by the answer. That’s not unserious; it’s human nature.

Ask Clara:

"How to cope when the world is on fire"

When the Tea Is This Hot, You Can’t Help but Sip

As someone who has spent the better part of the past 22 days away from social media (thank you, Opal app), I picked a truly chaotic week to check back in. I opened Instagram and immediately felt like I’d missed several chapters of a very loud book. The Blake Lively / Justin Baldoni situation had escalated straight into the text messages, Brooklyn Beckham had turned his Instagram Story into a family tell-all, Taylor Swift was somehow involved (of course), and everyone seemed extremely confident about which side they were on.

What surprised me is that I didn’t feel the urge to dogpile Justin Baldoni the way I expected to. Truthfully, I’ve kind of always been on his side — not in an “I don’t believe women” way, but in a harder-to-explain, this doesn’t sit right with me way.

If anything, Blake Lively’s energy doesn’t land for me. She exudes a kind of mean-girl confidence that isn’t just cringeworthy on paper (see: her unhinged letter to the PGA), but shows up in subtle power moves and perfectly timed charm. The kind you’ve probably encountered at work, at school drop-off, or in a group chat you eventually muted for your own mental health.

Then Taylor Swift entered the conversation, which added a whole other layer. Listen, I totally understand defending your BFF, but when someone’s brand is built on calling things out and advocating for women, people notice when behavior feels misaligned. That doesn’t erase the good, but it does make the moment harder to swallow.

Meanwhile, Brooklyn Beckham’s Instagram Story was doing something else entirely — less polished, less strategic, and impossible to unsee. Different situation, same energy: carefully curated images cracking in real time, with no PR buffer in sight.

What I actually appreciate is that none of this is being quietly swept under the rug. People are allowed to say something feels off now, without being accused of betraying womanhood or missing the point.

And yes, it’s entertaining. I’m not above admitting that. But it’s also revealing. Watching who gets defended, who gets dismissed, and who becomes untouchable says a lot about how power still works, even in spaces that claim progress.

Celebrities aren’t messier than they used to be. We’re just less willing to play along. The tea is piping hot — and for once, it actually feels like it’s saying something.

Ask Clara:

"Why do celebrity scandals feel so personal?"

Being Proactive About Your Health Shouldn’t Be This Hard

I’m currently three months overdue for a breast MRI. Not because I forgot or decided to live dangerously, but because staying on top of your health sometimes feels like it requires a level of coordination usually reserved for being the maid of honor at your best friend’s way too over-the-top wedding. 

I’m almost 37, which sounds reassuring until you add that I have an ATM gene mutation that puts me at about a 20% lifetime risk of breast cancer. Preventive screening isn’t optional for me; it’s the plan. Or at least, it’s the plan on paper.

In reality, this appointment has been scheduled and rescheduled five times. Some of that was logistics, some of it was insurance, and some of it was a mysteriously missing prior authorization. And yes, one of those times was on me, because the holidays happened and I am a working mom with three kids, not a robot built for medical administration.

Now insurance is saying that the MRI isn’t medically necessary, which is an interesting take given that my medical history, genetic testing, and actual doctor seem to disagree. So I need to call my doctor again, during business hours, to untangle a situation that somehow exists despite us living in an era where we can track our cycles, our sleep, our steps, and our glucose levels from our phones.

That’s the part that gets me. We have more health information at our fingertips than ever before, yet the system itself feels more confusing, fragmented, and exhausting than it should. 

Preventive care sounds proactive and empowering until you’re stuck chasing faxes, decoding insurance language, and wondering how many women fall behind not because they don’t care, but because they’re stretched thin.

I’ll get the MRI. I always do. But sometimes it feels like the real risk isn’t forgetting to take care of ourselves — it’s how hard the system makes it to follow through.

Ask Clara:

"How do you know if you’re considered “high risk” for breast cancer screening?"

The Month My Body Finally Got the Memo (Too Late)

The other day, I got my period on cycle day 30, and my first thought was: Didn’t I just have this?

Which is funny, because for most of my life, the opposite was true. Periods were rare, unpredictable guests. Ovulation was more theory than practice. And now — after eight years of infertility, anovulation, PCOS, and three IVF babies — here I am, suddenly having the most textbook 30-day cycle imaginable.

Call it a Christmas miracle. Call it “just relaxing” (please don’t). Call it a sick little cosmic joke. Because of course I’m ovulating regularly for the first time in my life at the exact moment I am very, very done trying to get pregnant.

What surprised me most wasn’t the timing; it was the frequency. Even working in women’s health, I don’t think I fully appreciated how often women are just… dealing with hormonal side effects. When you really break it down, there’s maybe one week a month where something isn’t happening. Bleeding. Bloating. Mood shifts. The kind of low-grade irritability that makes you wonder if everyone else is being annoying or if it’s just you.

And then there’s ovulation cramps: a sensation I apparently unlocked in my late-thirties, just for fun.

Friends keep telling me I’ll be “that person” who gets pregnant naturally after years of infertility, and maybe I will. But honestly? I don’t know if I want to. Not just because our family feels complete, but because IVF, as brutal as it is, gave me something I never had before: predictability. Control, for lack of a better word. I have PGT-tested embryos in the freezer. I know the odds. I know the plan. Why would I trade that for the anxiety of rolling the biological dice and risking miscarriage?

This cycle doesn’t feel like a gift so much as a reminder: our bodies don’t always move on our timeline. Sometimes they show up late, sometimes they arrive when you’ve already closed the chapter, and sometimes they remind you just how much women are carrying, month after month.

Ask Clara:

"How many days in a “normal” menstrual cycle actually come with zero hormonal symptoms?"

3 Reasons to Write Your BFF a Letter (Even If You Never Send It)

Next week would have been my best friend’s 37th birthday, but instead, she’ll stay forever 31 (morbid, I know). Lisa died of breast cancer almost six years ago, and tucked away in my nightstand is a note she wrote me during her cancer battle — one I still haven’t opened since she passed. I don’t reread it. I don’t even really touch it. And yet, just knowing it’s there gives me a surprising amount of peace.

I was reminded of this while listening to The Correspondent by Virginia Evans, a book that makes you really think about what words on paper can actually hold. Evans describes letters as “the pieces of a magnificent puzzle… the links of a long chain,” scattered across the world like “the fragile blown seeds of a dying dandelion.” Even if those links are never put back together, even if they’re never reread, isn’t there something kind of wonderful in that? The idea that a life, a love, a soul-altering friendship, is preserved somewhere in ink.

Which brings me to three reasons to write your best friend a letter (aside from the fact that life is fragile, time is weird, and anything can happen at any moment... sorry).

First, letters slow you down enough to tell the truth. You can’t casually skip over what matters most. Writing by hand forces a pause. It asks you to sit with what you really want to say instead of skimming the surface.

Second, letters endure. In a world of algorithms and iClouds, where memories are filtered, sorted, and, let’s be honest, one forgotten password away from disappearing, letters preserve something real. They live in drawers and boxes, aging alongside us, asking nothing but to be kept.

And finally, letters outlive the moment they’re written in. As Evans puts it, “this very letter may one day mean something, even if it is a very small thing, to someone.” Sometimes the comfort isn’t in reading the words at all; it’s simply in knowing they exist.

So write the letter. Send it, or keep it. You never know how, or when, it might matter.

Ask Clara:

"What to know about cancer in women under 40"

Is Too Much Content… Actually a Good Thing?

In a meeting recently, one of my colleagues was practically giddy about how much watchable, readable, and listenable content exists right now. She started listing shows, books, podcasts, even soundtracks, and instead of the usual polite nodding, everyone on the call perked up. Actual enthusiasm. In January, of all months.

With so much going on in the world and seasonal depression very much in the group chat, it helps that January is stacked in a way that feels comforting rather than overwhelming. Not everything needs your full attention or emotional investment. Some things just need to be there at the end of the day.

Emily in Paris is perfect for nights when your brain is tired, but your eyes want something colorful and familiar. The Traitors works when you’re in the mood for drama without the emotional labor, all scheming and accents with a clean ending. Landman apparently hits differently if you’ve ever worked in oil and gas, because, according to Abby, yes, people really do act like that. And Stranger Things is for when you want a little nostalgia and real stakes — a reminder of when friendship solved things (mostly).

Reading-wise, The Correspondent is one of those quietly heartwarming books that makes you want to write your best friend a letter, even though the two of you already text every day. The Four Winds is for when you’re emotionally stable enough to be wrecked, while Outlive is for a motivated Sunday that might turn into a nap.

As for me, I’m currently binging Owning Manhattan, listening to Good Hang with Amy Poehler, and genuinely excited for Bridgerton to return. Because sometimes it’s not about keeping up; it’s just about having something to enjoy.

Ask Clara:

"What exactly is cozy cardio?"