I used to think there was a black seed of bad in me. It was a thing I could feel, the seed. It was like I was an apple that was, at its heart, rotten.

Come back. I want a second chance with you. I won’t be as scared of you, of you leaving me. I won’t be so scared I’m turning into you. I won’t be so angry you don’t do a good job with your makeup because my eyeliner, when I wear it, is always smudged and a mess. I forget I put it on and rub my eyes.

I have spent the past three years obsessively reading, writing, and talking about being an adoptee. I want to spent the next three years, perhaps, learning more about what it’s like to be a first mother and an adoptive parent.

My friend got a present for Christmas, and I stole it.

I want to talk about executive function.

Buy a length of hose. Or buy a whole hose and cut off a piece about the length of your arm.

I’ve been in a weird state of anxiety lately—it came out of nowhere, and then, when I thought maybe I was having a heart attack, I remembered about the vagus nerve, and I went to my long-time yoga teacher, Kent Bond, for a private lesson.

Secrets are the death of the family, the soul, the space between us.

I used to go to the doctor a lot because there was always something wrong. I wanted a diagnosis. I wanted to feel safe in my body. Every time something hurt: my throat, my foot, my eye, I knew death was coming, and so I went straight to the doctor to find out what was wrong.

Getting triggered is such a weird thing. I’ll be walking around, happy as a clam, and then I’ll see something or hear something or feel something, and suddenly I’m out of my mind with fury.

During the interview, Van der Kolk said that the nature of a traumatic experience is that the brain doesn’t allow a story to be created.

Four minutes after I ordered a Lyft, Mr. Sweetheart arrived. I rushed out of the restaurant, grabbed my things from my friend’s car, and climbed into the back of the minivan.