I gave up pieces of myself for a life I hoped would be enough. But the truth is, the only time I’ve ever felt real joy was when I chose myself. And I want that feeling back.

Three days without her. I don’t know how to move through the world without her eyes on me. This is the story of the sweetest love I’ve ever known.

Four hours and the house already feels wrong. Her bed is empty. Her water bowl is still half full. I keep thinking I hear her sigh in the next room.

I spent years being treated like what I wanted—or needed—didn’t matter. And I kept finding ways to live with that. I celebrated my cancer survivorship alone. I hosted my birth family alone. I parented through emergencies alone. And for too long, I convinced myself I didn’t need more. But I do. I always did. And now, I see it clearly.

When my 13-year-old got glasses, it hit me harder than I expected. This wasn’t just a vision correction—it was a marker of time, distance, and the slow shift from hands-on mothering to something quieter. A steadying presence. A daily choice to earn his trust as he becomes his own person.

I told my mother I didn’t want her life. I thought it was small. Ordinary. A warning. But twenty years after her death, I see it now for what it was: sacred. Fought for. And built from a kind of love I didn’t yet understand.

There was an earthquake in San Diego the week I found out my divorce was finalized—one day before our 22nd anniversary. It wasn’t just the ground that shifted. This is what it feels like when everything collapses at once, and you’re left to sort through what’s real, what’s gone, and what’s still worth building.

Puberty was supposed to be inevitable, but for me, it never arrived. I waited. I pretended. I borrowed symptoms, stole complaints, and built a version of myself that could pass as normal. But the truth lurked beneath it all, unspoken, undeniable.

I signed my divorce papers. So what do you do with twenty-five years you can’t get back? How do you hold both the grief and the relief? I found my answer in the one thing I never let go of—the dream that led me to my son.

This is the last day of our acquaintance. I will meet you later in somebody's office. I'll talk, but you won't listen to me. I know what your answer will be.

Loneliness has been my constant companion, hidden behind the roles I played and the love I gave, hoping to be seen. Now, without distractions, I face the void and the lifelong belief that I’m not worthy of the kind of love that stays.

Like kintsugi, I tried to fill the cracks in my marriage with love and tradition, hoping to repair what was broken. But some cracks can’t be mended, and letting go has taught me to honor the story they tell, even as I piece myself back together.

In the past year, I’ve lost my job, my marriage, and the home I’ve lived in for over a decade. Letting go isn’t a single act—it’s a process. And while I don’t have all the answers yet, I’m starting to feel ready to see what comes next.

Watching Conclave, I found myself transported back to my Confirmation day, steeped in the rituals and questions of my Catholic upbringing and the search for faith in adulthood.

i am on the edge.

As my son steps into his teenage years, I find myself on my own journey toward independence—letting go of the past, of old expectations, and maybe even of the idea that life has to be loud and full to be meaningful. This birthday is more than a milestone for him; it’s a turning point for both of us.

For most of my life, I believed I was on the outside looking in, thinking I was somehow missing an essential part of womanhood. But today, listening to We Can Do Hard Things, I realized I might be more ‘normal’ than I thought.

I knew I was different long before I understood why. As everyone around me changed, I stayed the same—and that’s when the shame took root.

I am many things, including intersex.

At this point in my life, I’m ready to acknowledge and accept myself as I truly am. But to do that, I need to tell my story to myself first—unraveling the parts I’ve hidden, even from me. It’s time to let go of the shame that’s held me back.