In subtle and not so subtle ways, I have been trained to look outside myself for what I want.

2020 was a big anticipation mine field. We (the bubble in which I live) went, almost overnight, from a (privileged) society that said I hope my food arrives hot to I hope I don’t die.

I can’t write about adoption. I’m so glad that there are so many of you who do. I can only write about isolation and loneliness and how I’ve tried to maintain a tight grasp on hope despite these feelings. I won’t tell you it’s not hard. It’s hard. Some days it’s really hard.

If your brain is constantly telling you that you are about to die, guess what? You create situations, consciously or not, to prove this true.

To feel compelled to write your story and to feel you have permission to tell it are two very different things.

What happens when you calm the wild in your mind to open to the silence?

What I can say is that in addressing my adoption, I have had to rethink what I am.

If you gave me a trillion dollars tomorrow, I bet I could spend it and enough to get me into debt by next Friday.

One day I hope to see my disappearing acts blossom into a superpower. I hope to discover that overcoming my greatest fear and embracing the devastating losses of my past plunges me into intimate contact with a world that is always dying, always being born anew.

It’s confusing when part of feeling alive also involves destruction.

Writing a report for work.

The task is officially accepted. Time to shit myself ever so slightly.

Stealing caused me the most pain and gave me the most satisfaction.