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Essays on motherhood, middle-age, and becoming yourself again. Read in any order. Start wherever you are.
Lately I've been startled by the depth of my own sadness. Not every day. Some days I stay busy enough not to notice it. But when I stop long enough to really look at my life, I realize there is a quiet depression threaded through it now.
ReadWhat I keep returning to lately is the uncomfortable realization that children often build entire narratives about their parents from incomplete information. Not intentionally. Not maliciously. Simply because children interpret love through the narrow lens of their own pain.
ReadIn the months since she moved beside me, I have gained weight, grown more depressed, and developed a kind of alarming apathy toward her that I can barely admit out loud. I spend an unreasonable amount of time quietly inventing reasons not to walk next door and check on her.
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