On the heels of my diagnosis, I feel there is no way to construct a narrative around what’s happening to me—a deep betrayal for a writer.
If all adoptees felt not only safe, but empowered in their families and their communities, I would feel better—but not lucky.
Will my intestines turn the sacred bread into holy shit, or does the miracle not extend that far into the digestive process?
I wish I’d known Molly years ago. I wish I had known her when I was twelve years old, wondering who in my life would still love me if they knew my secret.
I wanted her language, her understanding of Honduras, a family like hers. I wanted things she could never give me.
Adoption didn’t give me a forever mother. Being in reunion with my birth mother did not make me wholly mothered, either.
Navigating the burdens of expectation as a married woman in Nigeria
The story is no longer me and my vehicles but my mother and hers. We called it an accident, but it wasn’t.
On space debris and a father’s remains.
Like a drawing is and is not mine once I’m finished with it, my son is not mine, not really, because he is himself.