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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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Depleted Momentum • The Art of Weaponized Truth
Everytime the phone rings lately and it’s my mother on the other end, I think back to the times when she was not a phone call away but instead all in my face and in my personal space. I do not wish those days back.
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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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Stress Eating My Emotional Abuse
Joy of joys. I love winter. I do not love winter weight—the inevitable extra cushioning I seem to accumulate around my middle as my body prepares for the never to happen hibernation. However, this season I was doing better…until my mother came into town.
