I have had this feeling of being a sponge full of black muck as I work on the sequel to You Don’t Look Adopted. I think of the black stuff as gaslighting, lies, other people’s business, other people’s feelings, and other stuff that isn’t organically mine. The sponge is me. I don’t think it’s ever been clean as, even in the womb, sponge me was busy absorbing the grief and shock and fear and shame coursing through my mother’s body.

I truly feel as if I’m wringing myself—my self—out as I write about what it’s like to finally start trusting and feeling at home in my body. I mostly go to bed around 9 and wake up at 5 to take my dog outside. I feel like I’m on a funny kind of vacation, or that I’m living like a 6 year old. I find that if I’m gentle with myself and let myself lie in the hammock for hours, my body begins to trust that I’m not going to throw it over a cliff and lets me see my own truths and wants and stories.

It's such a slow process! I mean, I might be here for years when all I want to do is get in my car and drive to California. Good lord. But I am learning the art of staying. The more I cut out afternoon caffeine, the more I can see how hard I pushed myself to keep up with all that muck. Without my brain amped to run, my body is getting to learn what deep rest feels like.

It feels like safety.

It’s like I’m holding my own fisted hand and witnessing it slowly, slowly, slowly open so I can see what it has been holding onto for all this time.