I have the feeling the sessions I did the past two years on MDMA taught my brain how to sometimes slow time and to stay with the tangle of a problem, watching it unwind instead of jumping into reaction and tightening it.

Sometimes I get an urge to throw everything I own away.

What if one day a mother, out of the blue, threw her child down the stairs and then refused to acknowledge that it happened or talk about it?

Showing up, I have discovered, is complicated when you were adopted. At least it is for me.

I wonder if sometimes a hen gets desperate to lay her egg before it has fully egged nside of her. I wonder if she ever goes to her bedding and pushes until her eyes cross.

Our culture thinks adoption is the answer to a pregnant woman feeling alone and in trouble. In my experience, the problem didn’t end when my mother relinquished me to parents who purportedly had more financial resources.

I was feeling all over the place as a writer the other day, so I created a picture to help remind me of who I am and what I want to create, how I want to create it, and why.

We learned about how to flip the role of victim creator in Wayfinder training, and I have watched the video of Martha Beck teaching us this concept at least ten times because I’m trying to imprint it on my brain.

I have two dreams for my life: one is to have a house full of people and things I love, and the other is to be free to go anywhere I want with little more than the clothes on my back.

We watch for the fox, Bird and I, and today we saw him, both thin and puffed with winter, running across the snow to cross Route 6.

It wasn’t my fault I was a princess. It wasn’t my fault I deserved to be treated as one.

I think about my mom and dad a lot. I always have, but now, since I can’t call them or go see them, the thoughts feel rooted in stunned longing instead of judgmental push/pull attachment.