So many adoptees and birth mothers tell me they feel bad about themselves, inherently bad, like—they not only feel bad: they are bad. Rotten. Ruined. They are normal-looking people walking around with a poisoned apple wedged in their belly that eats at their guts, heart and brain.

You have five minutes to see one of the best moments of your life.

I came to Las Vegas because I wanted to see what happened. I wanted to watch a woman cook a meal for friends, acquaintances, and strangers and see how it all went down.

What if when you die, you have to stand in front of a judge, and the judge asks what your point was, what your one argument was, what most of your attention went to in your life. What if the judge told you to start your response, I want to tell you…

I can’t imagine how hard it would be to be the parent of an adopted child. The messages are so mixed. I would just let my kid quit everything, live at home forever.

Amanda Medina is a treasure of a human and a writer, and I asked her to do a guest blog post.

You are welcome.

If I don’t write tomorrow, call 911.

A cool thing about being in contact with so many other adopted people is that it helps keep me honest.

I tried reading a section of Belonging, Remembering Ourselves Home without a pen in hand. I lasted one sentence.

I think my body after 50 is redefining intimacy.

I think about Thoreau a lot as I stay here. My daughter came to visit last night and she also brought up Thoreau. She said we could pretend I was him and she could pretend to be his mother and do my laundry and it could be Walden all over again.