As I listened to Panache today, I thought about pretending to go to graduate school for a sense of felt safety.

Just how many times can you cry in front of your spouse or your best friend or your child and say, I’m thinking about when I was a baby? I’m wondering why my mother didn’t want me? I’m bent over double because I can’t believe this happened?

Any adoptee who is “out of the fog” knows where the grief started - day one. The separation. I just don’t know where it ends. I don’t know IF it ends.

I believe in collaboration. I believe in the power of writing. I believe that when you step into your voice and combine that with writing, community, and collaboration, anything is possible.

This blog was actually created over two years ago and has sat gathering cobwebs with the “private” setting on. (Some good that’s doing.) I would write, and then I would get too nervous to do anything with what I wrote.

Sometimes I think the greatest gift you could give an adult adoptee is a few nights of deep, restful sleep.

It occurred to me that what I take as self-centeredness in myself—a preoccupation with finding a safe felt sense of self in the world—is perhaps a corrupted version of narcissism.

Our stories are a gift to each other: our voices have power!

It occurred to me the other day that I’ve got life all wrong.

So today I decided to stay in bed until I got it right.

I want this class to be fun. I also want it to change your life.

The pursuit of perfection is a suckhole of terror. It’s like spitting into the wind that blows into your face and thinking things will go well.

This morning my friend Laura Foote sent me a drawing she did of a mouse singing a ball of pizza dough. Of course she did.