The more I thought about the fact that each heartbeat could be the last and the fact that, again and again, something decided, no, we’re going to beat again, the more my mind began to feel like night sky.

These days, if I had to say what I needed most--after food, water, and air--it would be rest.

I have the thought that I need to find a full-length photograph of myself and have it made into a puzzle so I can put the pieces together.

Nolan. We let you down.

Ten years ago this week, I published You Don’t Look Adopted. I was so in my head. If I could only get my story out, I would be…better…safer…freer to be myself.

I want to tell you a story about two of the people who saved my sister-in-law’s life and who tried to save my brother Sam who died of a heart attack while snorkeling. My brain is changing with this story in it. It’s recalibrating. My brain keeps whispering to me: goodness, goodness, goodness.

Most of my life I have felt both real and not real.

Tomorrow, my Uncle Clint is turning 90. I don’t know how old my Uncle David, my Uncle John, and my Uncle Don are. Not 90. Clint, probably to your delight, you win.

Part of the experiment is to name your feelings: cheerful, pissy, scared, excited, guilty, amazed.

“Are you on anything now?” the therapist asked.

She is.

Mention the gummies your friend shared with you this past week to help you sleep.