Just like plants, we inherit some traits from those who came before us, but when I spend time with my siblings I’m amazed by how different we are.
It isn’t my job to bear as much pain as I possibly can to prove that I am somehow worthy of becoming a mother. Why is it so hard to remember this?
Our first book club discussion was a learning experience.
Once a mixed-race fishing community, the island is now empty, showing the gap between the state’s history and what it professes to be.
It took about a year for me to understand the bulimia was an expression of my anger. A way to hurt my body and myself, and a desperate attempt to regain normalcy.
As an artist, Vu was looking for a way to represent personal history without feeling like she was “performing otherness.”
This was about protecting the new self growing its delicate way within me.
I know by worrying about a room of mostly white readers I undermine myself, but it’s become instinct. And, honestly, I just get tired.
What if we thought of emotional trauma the way we do physical: as a wide class of wounds whose healing is unpredictable, whose scars take different forms?
If the muffins had been good, we’d have eaten them and gone to bed. But the story of their catastrophic badness: that, we could forever savor.