I’m writing this letter to you. What happens when you, only you, define your self-worth?
For many, today is the first day of school. I planned on writing this piece with advice for parents and...
Exactly 22 years ago, July 23, 1993 , was the first time I realized that my mom could die one day. Which meant that I could die too.
Is there a security in believing we fully know the ones we love?
What, if anything, would I march for?
Why we need to reclaim the most important conversation we could ever have with our chidren.
I am eight years old, lying in my parents bed. In another room, my parents are arguing. I drift away feeling this was all my fault. That somehow, I am responsible for the pain and rage around me. That somehow, I have to fix things. That somehow, I am only lovable if I am perfect. It's a heavy, heavy burden to bear. And now I am a mother of four, still bearing this weight.
