This is for the millennial era who survived low-rise skinny jeans.
Not metaphorically. Anatomically.

We lived through whale tails, butterfly clips, frosted eyeshadow, cargo pants with seventeen pockets and zero purpose, platform flip flops that hated our ankles, trucker hats, popped collars, and Abercrombie & Fitch stores that felt like a nightclub staffed by intimidatingly hot teenagers who absolutely judged us. We smelled like Fierce. Always. Against our will.

We were raised by TRL, MuchMusic, and MTV, back when music videos fixed heartbreak. When you could sit on your bedroom floor, press play, and let Backstreet Boys do the emotional labour. Before algorithms. Before doom scrolling. Before sadness required Wi-Fi.

And now here we are.
Still standing. Slightly tired. Deeply self-aware. Carrying more than we planned to by this age.

This feels like our time to heal. Or at least acknowledge we need to.

Because if you haven’t noticed, something sacred is happening.
Backstreet Boys at the Sphere is not a concert. It is a full-blown Sunday church service. Okay, not actually, but you get the drift. (mid-drift if we’re keeping this on theme.) Grown adults crying. Hands in the air. Harmonies healing things therapy hasn’t fully reached yet. This is the revival we apparently needed. Okay yes, and also a lot of Jesus. Both can exist here.

We’re in that strange age span where we remember life before the internet but are expected to survive because of it.

We survived dial-up internet. Y2K panic. One household computer. Being yelled at to get off the internet because someone needed the phone. The rise and fall of MuchMusic and MTV. Losing music videos that used to save us during breakups.

We also survived the Britney and Justin breakup.
Which, if we’re being honest, was the first time many of us learned that love could implode publicly and still be talked about for decades. Watching Britney then, and watching her now, it’s hard not to recognize pieces of ourselves. The pressure. The loss of control. The very human urge to say “enough” and grab the clippers. I’m fairly confident most of us have had a shaved-head moment. Ours just happened emotionally. Or financially. Or quietly in a bathroom at 2 a.m.

There were no participation awards. You either won or you didn’t. First, second, third. And if you didn’t place, you went home motivated or quietly spiraling. Either way, you learned how to get better. Not because someone booked extra training, but because you wanted it. Then you sat around a dinner table and talked about it. Together. Anyone remember when Sundays were sacred? When the world shut down and families stayed in?

I want that back. Deeply. Almost aggressively.

Let’s talk 7th Heaven. Remember that righteous show? The one that we all sat and watched and was appropriate to even watch with the grandparents… except maybe not the episode where Annie admitted to smoking pot. Awkward. Looking back, their trauma feels like a Disney movie compared to what we’re carrying. We’re dealing with divorce. Loss. Addiction. Estrangement. Infertility. Grief in all its forms. Losing partners. Parents. Children. Futures we planned. Families we wanted but couldn’t start. Families we built anyway, with whatever we had left.

For me, that looks like parenting through it. Loving my kids loudly while quietly rebuilding myself. Taking a second run at marriage with far less illusion and far more boundaries. Recovering from narcissistic exposure and learning how to carry the weight of what someone else defiantly left behind without letting it turn you bitter. None of this is rare. It’s just heavy.

And when it gets heavy, what do we reach for?

Books.

Chicken Soup for the Soul. The book. The one that lived on our shelves next to The Berenstain Bears. Dog-eared. Highlighted. Passed around. The one that reminded us we weren’t alone. That other people survived hard things too. That healing could come in short stories and quiet moments.

Although yes, a warm bowl of actual chicken soup while reading is still undefeated.

Before cell phones. Before social media. Before trauma became content. Our shelves were full. Our imaginations were alive. We escaped into stories instead of numbing ourselves staring at screens. Is there a connection between evil and screen time? I’m not saying yes. I’m just saying I have questions.

Somewhere along the way, DJ Tanner in Fuller House became an unexpected reference point. She grew up. She lost. She rebuilt. She loved big. She was obsessed with New Kids on the Block and still managed adulthood. And here I am. Same spirit. Different boy band. Backstreet Boys forever.

Maybe we were meant to live closer.
Maybe it’s our job to pull things back together. Big tables. Shared meals. Family that isn’t perfect but present. Healing that doesn’t require an app or a filter.

We are the generation that learned resilience before the internet taught us how to numb it.

So here’s the idea.

We need a new Chicken Soup for the Soul. Not a reboot. A revival.

Chicken Soup for the Millennial’s Soul.

Real stories. Yours. Mine. Survival. Healing. Faith. Music. Loss. Love. Divorce. Rebuilding. Parenting. Choosing joy again. The nostalgia that still saves us.

If you have a story, I want to hear it.

And publishers, if you’re reading this.
This book is ready to be made.
And I’m ready to make it happen.