to the children I am not preparing adequately for adulthood

Lately, as I watch you take these steps into independence I’m struck by everything I feel I’m failing at. Everything I am not preparing you adequately for when you reach adulthood. I ask myself why cant I stop all the pain and yes, failure you will walk through? It’s my fault. Yes, according to all the books and all the speakers who tell me to do this and that. Who tell me if I make all the right choices now you will make all []

the measure of a human: when loving flowers was enough

Once upon a time, when we were young, what was liked was enough to define us. People would ask how old we were and then they would ask what we liked. Daisies, tv shows about builders, spinning in circles, slides, our parents, our siblings, cars and planes and trains. These were the things we loved. These were the answers we gave. These were the things people talked about when they talked about us. . Then we grew up, and the questions started []

come sit with me in shadows (bearing witness to silent pain)

Come sit with me in shadows, I can’t bear the light today. The light’s a mockery, a mirage, it moves each time I get close. I don’t want to chase the light today.  Today I’m sitting in the shadows, and I need someone who will come and sit with me. I need someone who won’t try to fix this unfixable thing. Someone who won’t tell me how the light means everything happens for a reason. Sometimes there is no reason. I don’t []

maybe we should stop thinking we’re awesome just because we love people we consider different than us

I read another article a few weeks ago. By a white woman. She spoke, in lavish and poetic detail about the people she saw around her. Carefully pointing out all the ways they were different from her. Mostly skin color. And age. And then she spoke of smiling at a Muslim woman just after the world learned of the horror in Paris. She smiled. She loved. And somehow I got the feeling this was meant to be inspirational. That article is the []

I don’t want you to be grateful: a letter from your (adoptive) mother

People are going to tell you you’re lucky. They already have. They look at you and look at me and know I’m your adoptive mother. And they tell you you’re lucky. Don’t listen to them.

You never have to feel grateful for your adoption. We don’t have to have special gratitude for something that is inherently ours. And my love? That’s yours. It was yours before we met. It will be yours when time is gone. It was, and is, your right to have. My love for you is something I want to be so part of your being that it doesn’t cross your mind to even contemplate its existence. Take it for granted. Assume it will always be there. Because it will.