Yesterday, out of the blue, I got a raging private message from an adoptee on Facebook telling me that I am a pathetic freeloader and a big piece of crap.

I felt slapped but it didn’t hurt—what I felt was more about shock than pain. I had spent that afternoon digging up the garden looking for something to do with the sewage system, and so my body was tired and maybe I didn’t have the energy to feel hurt, or maybe because what she wrote didn’t ring true to me, I was, more than anything, bewildered.

What had happened? How did we go from being friends on Facebook, adoptees bonded by experience, to this place of fury?

When you don’t feel seen, loved, and appreciated, hate makes sense. I hope that person gets a gold star today or something amazing because I can’t imagine how much pain she is in. You can only spew on another what you carry inside.

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the soft spots on babies heads, the fontanelles. There are actually six of them, and these spaces between the bones of the skull allow for the head to get squished during birth without the brains to squish out of our little infant ears. These spaces allow our brains to grow.

We need so much tenderness when we are small. We can’t even lift our own heads or feed ourselves when we are born! We are completely dependent on other humans to keep us alive.

I feel as if I have soft spots on my head these days. There’s something about this whole experience with COVID that has asked my system, my body, to adjust in dramatic ways. I went from living in the world to living in a test tube for almost a year now. I don’t travel. I don’t eat out. I don’t hug people. I don’t go to the movies. I cling to my phone, hungry for connection.

When I put down my phone and listen to my body, I see that it wants to connect with what is right here: the space I occupy. My body wants to listen to the world. My body wants to open. My body wants me to remember it’s a walking universe, and that I am a lot less alone than I feel. My heart wants attention. My liver. The bottoms of my feet want me to remember they are there. Things flourish under loving attention, and that includes the soft spots of me that are vulnerable and need gentle care.

Yesterday night I posted the hateful message I had received, and man oh man did the love flow in. I hadn’t been sure whether posting it was a good idea—why make other people feel bad by sharing the ugly? But my friend Pam said it was good I shared it because I shouldn’t have had to bear that on my own, and so I feel okay about it..

I’m the one who jokes about Camp Suck It Up, so all this business about receiving love when I’m vulnerable is still amazing to me. It’s okay to not be okay!

Soft spots are tough—they are covered by strong cartilage, but, still, they are a soft spot.

It feels so good to be loved.

It’s scary because the love can disappear, but that’s another soft spot, another place to nurture. Another place to love.