on growing.

She looks up and tries not qualify her experience with a metaphor. The view is poetic enough: blue sky, sparse clouds. Sun glowing through treetops. Soft breeze suggesting rain in the upcoming moments, hours, days. She doesn't have her finger on the pulse of this place just yet. Not yet. Her fingers are still meandering up and down, touching a wrist, the space behind an earlobe. 

Not yet, but soon.

She looks down and sees earth, soil. Green grass that reaches toward the soles of her feet, that provides cover and comfort for the billions of organisms that live intertwined in its clutches. 

Things are broken and plans have changed. 

Things are shifting and hearts will heal.

There is no running from this truth: it courses through her veins, quietly and completely rearranging the universe, rewriting history, reimagining fate.

It aches. It vibrates and bounces and beams. This, this change of plan, this respite from what is expected, it burns as it creates space, as it stretches, as it reconfigures.

She looks in.

She finds vessels contracting, synapses firing, her neurons ablaze with terror, with light.

She looks in and feels the endless expanse of pores, of follicles, of openings and closings, her blood pumping, her heart beating, pushing outward, growing ever greater.

She looks forward. 

The view is poetic enough.

in the eye of the hurricane.


Currently navigating my own major chronic illness setback and this quote damn near knocked my feet out from under me. Such beauty. Holding onto hope. 

Life passes. Then comes the depression. That feeling you’ll never be right again. The fear that these outbreaks will become more familiar, or worse, never go away. You’re so tired from fighting that you start to listen to all the little lies your brain tells you. The ones that say you’re a drain on your family. The ones that say it’s all in your head. The ones that say that if you were stronger or better this wouldn’t be happening to you. The ones that say that there’s a reason why your body is trying to kill you, and that you should just stop all the injections and steroids and drugs and therapies.

Last month, as Victor drove me home so I could rest, I told him that sometimes I felt like his life would be easier without me. He paused a moment in thought and then said, “It might be easier. But it wouldn’t be better.
— Jenny Lawson, "Furiously Happy"


There are shifts. There are new spaces that feel important, sensations that soothe my frazzled synapses, textures that never before felt like my own. There are sounds-- birds that screech before a storm, the gentle hum of the washing machine-- that are part of the rhythm here. 

You are home,

You are home,

You are home,

They say. 

And little by little,

day by day,

I start to believe them

on the sixth day.

I'm alternating between terror and fury, trying to get words down on a page before they're ripped from my fingers, between anger and despair as I press those same fingers against my abdomen and think of all the women who now fear their wombs, forced to be strangers in their own bodies, at war with their very biology.

This is not the piece I wanted to write. This was meant to be a celebration, a tearing through of the fabric, a shattering of the ceiling, a rocket ship straight to the stars. 

This is the quicksand we feared when we were children--thick, alien, inescapable. A poison without an antidote. A slow, syrupy sinking sucking us right back into the soil. I can feel it wrapping itself around my ankles, calculated and cold as it creeps past my knees. 

The ground is slipping out from under us. May our faces stay turned upward, may our eyes stay fixed on the sky.