Can we talk for a second about what adoption actually looks like? I’m not talking about the fairy tale that you were sold or have come to believe exists through media. The adoption rhetoric that pushes people to tell you to be grateful. To be happy, to feel blessed. I wanna talk about the inherent
This story begins, like any extraordinary story, with vulnerability. It’s etched with the importance of our voices, of our words, and our experiences. It’s a tribute to all the things you think you should never say, the things you wish you could say or do, the times when you second guess reaching out to someone,
I’d grown restless and anxious in the tiny cream house filled with one too many people. The creaking of the hardwood would startle me awake at night. The front door would rattle the old windows in my room whenever someone went in or out. The way I could hear my roommate play the piano, effortlessly
I used to take a break from my work, whatever it is – writing, parent council, other volunteerism – by sliding out onto the porch and smoking. It was a brief moment, where I could feel the sun on my skin, I could legitimately shoo my children away without guilt. Somewhere along the line, smoking
Let me take you on a bit of journey, a vague one, but a journey nonetheless: The last 6 months of my life has been this chaotic sphere of feelings, emotions, more feelings, (Asking for a friend: Does anyone know how to shut these off?) and a lot of words that haven’t seen the light
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