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My Own Prison
I've been held captive by the generational trauma of my mother. I wish it hadn't taken me so long to figure out just how deep in this prison I had been kept.
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Call Me Naive One More Time
Every time a man approaches me, the older women in my life lose their minds. They call it naive. I call it unbothered. There's a difference.
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Rewriting the Food Script
On emotional eating, food noise, and what happens when your coping mechanism isn't available anymore. A midlife personal essay from Guatemala.
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Improper Expectations
We had only been in Guatemala two weeks, and my mother had already asked me three times if I was happy to be here. And each time I gave her the same answer: Yes, I was happy to be here.
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How to Exorcise Your Mother – Demon Be Gone
Two months since she left. One month to remember what sleeping through the night feels like. Zero regrets. Demon be gone.
