EPISTLE V: To The Mother-Wound That Still Bleeds
To the child who feels like Mother’s Day is a day of mourning,
not because you didn’t love your mother, but because you could never seem to love her enough to stop the cycle.
I am with you in giving myself permission to express the hidden dread I feel from the cultural pressure of Mother’s Day.
If Mother’s Day feels complicated for you, you are not alone. Some of us are celebrating. Some of us are grieving. Some are estranged. Some are surviving memories no one else saw. Some are learning that forgiveness and boundaries are not enemies. Some of us are still in denial.
EPISTLE IV: To The Brain That Requires Scaffolding
To the one whose strength is depleted in functioning “normally” in public but who is collapsing in private,
whose heart is heavy with a longing for a life you can’t seem to sustain. I ache with you too.
I am learning something I spent most of my life trying not to say out loud: I can be capable in certain areas of my life and still struggle deeply with maintaining the basic rhythms of home. I am writing to you from the middle of my mess, the midst of my cycle and the freefall of my slow collapse in hopes that you will not feel alone and we find connection in common here.