There are some things it’s almost impossible to write about. These are things I can only live. Things that no number of photos or blog posts can do justice. Virginia Woolf writes, “One can’t write directly about the soul. Looked at, it vanishes.” What is true of the soul is true of other things. One of which is this: This

You know the ones I’m talking about. At least, I hope you do. The nights that feel overwhelming, the busy weeks that leaving us scrambling. The nights the couch calls our name so loudly we can almost hear it. Oh wait, that just the four-year-old, scream-singing our name from his bed, two hours after bedtime. The nights we don’t feel

This blog was born out of big things. Specifically, one big giant thing that enveloped lots of smaller big things. It’s coming up on three years since I first choked on the word “widow;” since I saw with my own eyes how grief overshadows everything. C. S. Lewis wrote in the wake of his wife’s death, “Her absence is like

I was one of those lethargic teenagers who groaned when we had to run the mile once a year at school. I ran the straights and walked the curves, simultaneously intimidated and bored by that black hot track. It was torture. But then, sometime around the beginning of college, I casually decided to go for a run. And then I

It was 3am, every single day of my pregnancy: I would wake up sobbing, convinced I was going to be a terrible mother. All the mistakes I’d ever made came flooding back to me, and I imagined my child making the same regretful decisions, simply because it was I who made him. When he was first laid on my chest,

I reached 5 miles with a smile. I turned at the half way mark, a pedestrian bridge across the Fox River, and I ran back down the ramp towards the riverside path. And then it happened. My ankle buckled. I flew with the downhill momentum. I landed in a heap, with a bloody knee and instantly swelling ankle. And I

The Year I Learned to Listen

This year has been my year of throwing on mismatched fluffy socks and devouring Harry Potter page by page for the eighteenth time. It’s been a year of dance parties with the three year old and dinners with the friends I love. A year of storytelling and struggling with how to write what I need to say. A year of

Robert Frost is famous for saying, “a poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It is never a thought to begin with.” I’d argue that, at least for me, most writing begins this way. My 9 year old self would probably disagree. At 9 I started writing a journal. Correction, a

Did anyone else think they’d have life all figured out by the age of 27? I did. My shy, pimply 14-year old self thought 27 would be a magical age: I would be happily married, growing a family and publishing my first novel. We’d be living in our first house with a friendly dog and regular dinner parties. I probably