I wrote my first blog post on June 9, 2016, after my best friend from childhood created a website for me as a present because, somehow, without seeing me for years, she knew this was what I needed.

In my previous post, I wrote about my resistance to claiming my own body, to admitting I was embodied to a group of people who were being trained to use their bodies as compasses to direct them toward their truths.

I love Martha Beck.

I have the best job in the world. I get to think of things I’d like to hear about, and then I get to listen to word musicians, word magicians, word kings and queens read what they conjured up in a minuscule amount of time.

I asked for a session with Katie because everything is great but I’m not feeling it in a deeply meaningful way.

The word for what happened to me as a baby doesn’t exist, and so I don’t have the power I need to feel fully present and connected to others.

The thing about feeling broken is that “broken” is related to “broke” which is related to “not whole” or “in trouble”.

Someone once gave me a dishtowel that says But Did You Die?

I thought about the writing classes I have with adopted people, and how, 100% of the time, when they read their work out loud, I feel in the presence of something holy.

You said your daughter’s therapist wondered how many times your daughter would hit bottom.

I took To Be Real, the sequel to You Don’t Look Adopted off the market after I spent seven hours in the recording studio reading it for the Audible version. I kept saying to the guy at the controls, Is this over yet?

I was pulling out the Dunkin's parking lot when a woman walking her dog came out from behind my car and walked in front of me. She gave me a long, mean look as she walked in front of my car, like, You almost ran me over.