And purchasing the book did not mean visiting one of my favorite independent bookstores. Instead, I purchased a ticket for “A Conversation with Kamala Harris” at The Wiltern Theater in Los Angeles, which also included a copy of the book! (The event was held just a few days ago, on Monday, September 29th.)
I attended the event with one of my closest friends which made it even more special. Before and after the discussion, my friend and I talked about what we already knew about the book, about the heartbreak of this last presidential election, about our concern/anger/frustration/sadness/dismay at the current state of our country.
And then, up on stage, standing before us was Madame Vice President. She talked about why she chose to write the book, even sharing that she and her husband, former Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff, had never spoken about election night until she wrote about that night for this book.
Completely unexpected!! -- The Former Second Gentleman graciouslyposed for pictures shortly before the conversation began.
I consider this book to be a historic document. A primary account of an unparalleled time in our country’s history. Many years from now, my copy of 107 Days will be passed down to future generations of my family. By then, I’m sure the book will have sticky notes on many pages. Maybe notes in the margins. Maybe a sentence underlined.
Years from now, I’ll share my memories of this time. How close our country came to doing something groundbreaking, (or ceiling-breaking, I should say). Something already being done in other countries — electing a female to the highest office in the land.
“Kamala Harris, for the people.”
And Monday night the people in Los Angeles were there for Kamala Harris and her book.
Love this photo on the back cover of the book!
Please note: I am including a link to buy the book that I’m highlighting this week. If you use my link, I do make a small commission on your purchase at no additional cost to you. I am working with Bookshop.org which also sends a portion of the profit to support local, independent bookstores.
My son helped me out by editing this photo. For privacy reasons, the teacher's name has been blurred.
Somewhere, I once read about a sneaky fact of parenting; the one you didn’t realize happened, until after it happened — the phenomenon known as “The Last Time.”
For instance, the last time I held my son’s hand as we crossed the street.
Or, the last time I helped my son wiggle his feet into his socks and shoes.
Just a few days ago, there was a last time. Though this “last time” was different because I knew it was coming. More than that, I looked forward to it.
Last Thursday evening was the last time I will attend a Back-to-School Night.
As a former teacher and parent, I always appreciated a parent’s attendance at school functions. At the same time, I completely understand why parents can’t always attend these important school events. (In fact, when I was teaching, if a parent missed Back-to-School Night and/or Open House, I always saved any handouts I distributed that evening, and the following day I sent them home with the student whose parents weren’t in attendance.)
So even though my son is a senior and is a strong student and there were no concerns we needed to discuss with his teachers, last Thursday evening, my husband and I attended Back-to-School Night and met seven of my son’s eight teachers. (One was absent.) We briefly chatted with each teacher and thanked them for all they do. In many instances, we were the only parents in the room.
But oh-my-goodness I am so relieved I won’t have to do that again. Because at my son’s high school, parents follow a very strict schedule during Back-to-School Night. We spend ten minutes in each classroom and have only five minutes to get from one classroom to another.
This means we went to our son’s first period class for ten minutes (4:00 pm – 4:10 pm) and then had only five minutes to get to my son’s second period class — located on the second floor in a different building. Now, I know I’m not going to get penalized for not being in class before the bell rings. (And yes, bells ring throughout Back-to-School Night.) But I consider it a courtesy and obligation for me to try, as hard as I can, not to be late. (You can imagine our frustration when we made it to our son’s second period class, a minute late, and found a note on the door stating the teacher’s absence.)
Which is a long-winded way of saying our son’s high school operates on an ableist mentality when it comes to Back-to-School Night. Parents are expected to be physically able to navigate the stairs, both inside and outside the buildings.
For those who don’t know, school elevators are not easily accessible. You don’t just push the up button like you do in an office building. School elevators require a key to operate, which means you have to get in touch with a school staff member who has the key. (Only a select few have the coveted elevator key. I did have an elevator key the last few years of my teaching career.)
Remember, Back-to-School Night operates on a very tight timetable. There is no extra time built in for navigating the elevator situation. Plus, I never wanted to be a distraction, or make more work for anyone else — things I think about, things I know logically aren’t true, but they feel true to me. I wanted Back-to-School Night to be about my son and his experiences in school, not on my weak left leg and my bad knees and my invisible disability.
Plus, I always feared someone would accuse me of not really needing an elevator. Let’s face it, I don’t look like I “need” an elevator. How best do I explain my invisible-to-others physical limitations?
Now, all that’s behind me. I made it to the finish line — The Last Time I Attended My Son’s Back to School Night.
First, I must admit, I love the “Pep Talks” part of the sub-title.
Many books offer “practical advice.” Some include “Tips and tricks.” And still other books may have “Steps and suggestions.”
But “pep talks”? That’s a new one, at least for me. (And if I’m overlooking another writing craft book offering pep talks, please, friends, let me know.)
And there will definitely be a blog post dedicated to Ms. Smith’s book once I finish reading it.
This week, at the halfway-ish point of the book, I wanted to pause and share some of Ms. Smith’s “pep talks,” because maybe you’re needing them as much as I am.
Because, let’s be honest, most of the time, us writers aren’t working each day with someone giving us a pat on the back, or a back rub, or even a set of new file folders. (Is it just me that enjoys looking at all the stationery supplies at Dollar Tree?)
We write, not because anyone is necessarily cheerleading us on (though, that is one of the wonderful benefits of working with a Book Coach). We write, day after day, not because anyone will ask us at dinner about the progress we made on the fourth draft of the new personal essay we’re working on.
We write simply because we have to. We have to get words down on the page — whether those words are fiction or nonfiction. Whether they rhyme or not. Whether a day’s work will stand alone or be a part of a much larger piece.
But, it’s hard work. And I have found non-writers generally don’t understand just how hard this writing work is. Not physically hard like a landscaper, down on their knees under a fiercely bright sun. And not hard like needing an entire chalkboard to work out one math equation. (Anyone else think of the film Hidden Figures here?)
But, still, hard. Hard because we don’t always know where the writing is going. The words I got down today may be the same words I delete four days from now in a later draft. And the words I wrote and then spoke out loud to hear the rhythm of the language may be the words some faceless person on the other side of the country will declare “not a good fit for us at this time.”
So, yes, I’ll take a pep talk. Thank you.
And if you’re needing a pep talk, or four, allow me to share some pep talks from Ms. Smith’s Dear Writer:
“Taking care of yourself is taking care of your creativity. Taking care of yourself as a whole human being is taking care of the writer in you.”
“Any piece of writing is a time capsule. It reflects the choices — and the abilities, and the limitations — of the writer we are at the time.”
“Being true to your own vision as a writer or an artist means doing your work, the work that only you can do. Your memories, your point of view, your observations and metaphors — everything about you that you bring to bear when you write — is a combination that no one else has. “If you don’t write your poems, your stories, your plays and essays and scripts, they won’t exist. No one else can do it for you.”
“Be for you first. Create for you first. Trust your own vision.”
Please note: I am including a link to buy the book that I’m highlighting this week. If you use my link, I do make a small commission on your purchase at no additional cost to you. I am working with Bookshop.org which also sends a portion of the profit to support local, independent bookstores.
Each post shares some variation of the same message:
I live with pain. Every. Single. Day. For fifteen years and counting.
That’s why it’s called “chronic pain.” It’s long-lasting.
You never know what someone is going through just by looking at them.
Because during those fifteen years, I have lived. I have made new friends. I have written, and published. I have traveled. I have adventured (horseback riding, hot air ballooning, parasailing – twice, zip lining). I have attended Back to School Nights and Open Houses. I have gone grocery shopping and shoe-shopping for my son. I have attended book launch events and Harlem Globetrotter games. I’ve visited museums and beaches.
I remember meeting with a neurologist, referred to me by my neurologist-at-the-time. She thought this other doctor could look at my medical records and give us a fresh perspective with another set of eyes.
Instead, this fresh-set-of-eyes-doctor was condescending and rude and mean. Before leaving the exam room he patted my shoulder and told me my pain really couldn’t be all that bad if I truly did all the things I told him I do each day.
And that, right there, is the purpose of Pain Awareness Month.
Those of us living with chronic pain have figured out how to navigate our days while struggling with pain that doesn’t ever completely go away. We have developed work-arounds and shortcuts when possible. We have learned to bite our tongue or clench our fists or whatever it is we do that helps us push past the limit of what we thought our bodies were capable of.
Oahu, June 2025. Same day as the picture above. This is also a photo of a woman in pain. Notice my lips. I often do that when in pain.
Which leads me to this — please, be kind and patient and compassionate toward others. That person walking slowly in front of you could be me. Someone who is walking slowly but it’s the best she can do because each step brings a fresh jolt of pain up and down her leg.
Or maybe it’s someone whose stomach hurts. Or their head. Or their back. Or their feet. Or their shoulder. Or their elbow.
I could go on, but you get the idea.
And, one more thing – this year, I wanted to end the post introducing you to an alternative way to talk about pain. Most of us have experience with the (dreaded) pain scale that depicts faces on a 1-10 scale. And if you haven’t had personal experience with this scale (wonderful for you!), it’s most likely you’ve seen it hanging on the wall in an exam room.
Christina Irene, a hidden disability advocate, speaker, and author, has developed what she calls the “Splat” system. As she writes, “Splat is a system of communication for people with chronic illnesses, mental health diagnoses, and other hidden disabilities. Our conditions are often a ‘moving target,’ meaning we never know how we’re going to feel from one day to the next. The one certainty is: Every day, we feel like we’ve been run over by something.” Check out her website where she has a whole page dedicated to the Splat system, with resources you may find helpful.
I’ve been packing up a bag of children’s books to donate. (In case you’re wondering, we usually donate our books to the public library, little free libraries, and Big Sunday, a wonderful organization here in Los Angeles.)
That’s how I came across my son’s copy of 13 Artists Children Should Know by Angela Wenzel. We bought this book many years ago during one of our visits to the Getty Center. And rather than immediately place the book in the donation bag, I decided to read it. It had been years since we had gone through it, and I had forgotten which artists had made the cut and were included in the book.
Vincent van Gogh is one of the artists featured in the book. Our family likes van Gogh. He painted a series of sunflower pictures, which happen to be my favorite flower. Plus, my son not only shares his birthday with his Grandma, my mom, but also Vincent van Gogh.
Claude Monet is included. (I love his Water Lilies and have a framed print hanging in our bedroom. We also have a framed print of Impression: Sunrise, 1872; both prints were bought in Paris twenty years ago.)
Other artists included in the book are Andy Warhol, Pablo Picasso, Leonardo da Vinci. Names we all recognize.
Among the thirteen, only two were women — Mary Cassatt and Frida Kahlo.
(If you’re curious, the rest of the list includes: Marc Chagall, Franz Marc, Paul Klee, Henri Matisse, Jan Vermeer, and Henri Rousseau.)
And as I read through the book, I wondered — who decided which artists to include. Why these twelve?
Likewise, why during his high school years, did my son read The Catcher in the Rye? The Great Gatsby? Romeo and Juliet?
I’m not saying these literary pieces aren’t worthy of being read.
But I am saying I read these same pieces of literature, in the same high school, thirty years ago.
We really need to expand the lists of artists, authors, and musicians young people “should” know.
Do you agree? If you were putting together a book of artists, or writing a list of books to be taught in a public high school, who or what would you include? I’m really curious; feel free to share your thoughts in the comments.
Earlier this week I finished reading Jasmine Guillory’s romance novel, By the Book. The novel is part of the “Meant to Be collection,” books “inspired by the classic fairy tale stories we all know and love, perfect for adult readers who crave contemporary, escapist rom-coms.”
I’m not a big fairy tale, prince-saves-the-princess fan.
However, I do have a soft spot for Beauty and the Beast, which serves as the inspiration for By the Book.
Why, you may wonder, do I have a soft spot for Beauty and the Beast?
I mean, besides the fantastic library that is such a big part of the story (or at least it was for me).
Almost thirty years ago, my closest college friend and I went to see the live production of Beauty and the Beast here in Los Angeles. Specifically at the no-longer-there Shubert Theatre in Century City. In the front row. (Tom Bosley made eye contact with me!) On February 29, 1996. Leap Year.
A souvenir from Beauty and the Beast
I have read, and enjoyed, a few other novels written by Jasmine Guillory. (You can read my post, The Need for Romance Novels, which features Ms. Guillory’s book, The Proposal. And this post featured Ms. Guillory’s book, Royal Holiday.)
By the Book was an absolute delight to read. And not just because it was a lovely escape-read. Or that the two main characters did finally express their love for each other. But because the book itself was also a love story of another kind — a love letter to books.
Here are a few of my favorite passages:
“Something she barely wanted to admit to herself was that working at TAOAT had spoiled her previously uncomplicated love for books and reading. Reading used to be her greatest hobby, her source of relaxation, comfort, joy. Always reliable, always there for her.” (12) (Note – TAOAT is the acronym for Tale as Old as Time, the New York publishing house where our female main character works as an editorial assistant.)
“I work hard at my job because I love books. I love everything about them. I love the way you can fall into another world while you’re reading, the way books can help you forget hard things in life, or help you deal with them. I love all the different shapes books come in, and the way they feel in your hand. I love seeing authors develop their idea from just a few sentences to a manuscript to an actual book that’s on the shelves, and I love the face they make when they see their name on a book cover for the first time. I love when readers discover books that felt like they were meant just for them, and they’re so happy and grateful and emotional that everyone in the room want to cry, and sometimes they all do. Those books do change lives.”
“When she found the bookstore, she walked inside, then stopped and took a long, happy breath. God, she loved that moment when she walked inside a bookstore. Books were stacked everywhere, with friendly little signs directing you to local authors or signed copies or bestsellers.”
“At one point, she saw a book she was looking for, high up on a shelf, at least a foot or so out of her reach. But right next to it was a rolling ladder, one that could slide along the whole wall. She’d always wanted to climb up on one of those. She looked to the left and then to the right. “ ‘I won’t tell,’ the woman behind her said. “Izzy grinned at her and climbed up the ladder. She grabbed her book and then turned to look at the bookstore from above. It was fun up there. She should have done that years ago. “When she finally left the bookstore, it was with two new books in her bag, a smile on her face, and warm happy feeling in her chest.”
“She’d gone to the library with her parents, once a week, every week, when she was a little girl. It had felt like a magic place to her, full of books just waiting to be read — on shelves, in stacks, in every corner. She’d fantasized about having a place like that in her own imaginary future home, with sleeves and shelves of books, wherever you looked.”
“Izzy slowly walked around the room, trailing her fingers over the spines and occasionally stopping to pick one up and flip through it. There was fiction, history, science, cookbooks, politics, and many shelves full of children’s books. And the best thing about them was that these books looked read. She could tell. These weren’t all brand-new books that some interior decorator had bought in bulk and arranged carefully on a shelf in some sort of order to make the room look good. As a matter of fact, many of them were in no order at all — she itched to organize them. But that also told her they were all books that had been reached for, and read, and maybe even reread. The spines were broken, the book jackets removed or a little torn, pages dog-eared. These books hadn’t just been read, they’d been loved.”
Readers, have you read any of Jasmine Guillory’s novels? Any favorites?
Please note: I am including a link to buy the book that I’m highlighting this week. If you use my link, I do make a small commission on your purchase at no additional cost to you. I am working with Bookshop.org which also sends a portion of the profit to support local, independent bookstores.
June 2025 - Oahu. The smile is real. And so was the pain.
Some weeks I know exactly what I want to write for my weekly blog post.
Some weeks I have several ideas for my weekly blog post, and it’s just a matter of deciding which one to choose.
And other weeks, I have no idea what to write for my weekly blog post. I thought that was going to be the case for this week’s post.
But I was wrong.
Because all of a sudden, on Monday evening, the idea for this post came to me. I could see the post, in a sense. I just had to get it down.
Barbara Abercrombie, who I have written about before, used to tell our classes that writers don’t just wait for “The Muse” to show up. If you do that, you’re waiting most of the time, and writing almost none of the time. But, she did say, that if you put in the work, if you regularly wrote, if you dedicated yourself to a writing practice, every so often The Muse shows up and gifts you a piece of writing.
This post is that gift. Here I present:
4 Things Everyone Should Know About Living with Chronic Illness(es):
Crying doesn’t always mean the pain is extreme. Sometimes, I cry out of frustration. Exhaustion. Sadness. Fear. Discouragement. Weariness.
Not crying doesn’t mean the pain isn’t extreme. Sometimes, crying isn’t an option. Standing in line at Trader Joe’s, it’s best if I can hold the tears back until I get into my car, for at least a bit of privacy. Tears out in public lead to questions. And while those questions may all be well-meaning and may come with offers to help, I just don’t always have the bandwidth to start explaining my specific situation, my pain, to strangers.
Chronic illness is not the same as an illness. Yes, everyone has a story — of a bad flu, a broken bone that didn’t heal properly, an unforeseen side effect after a “routine” procedure. But none of that is the same as living with a chronic illness. (And, just to be clear — I’m not saying one is “worse” than the other. I’m saying one is different than the other.) Living with chronic illness involves a different type of “wear and tear” on your body that most people aren’t experiencing. A different type of tiredness. Think of it this way — me telling you I spent time practicing my three-point shooting is much different than Caitlin Clark telling you she spent time practicing her three-point shooting.
There is no easy fix. Someone lives with a chronic illness for that very reason — it doesn’t eventually “go away.” Chronic illness patients aren’t being difficult. Or stubborn for not trying the thing that worked and helped you/your relative/your coworker. These chronic illnesses are lifelong conditions because they aren’t curable. No amount of green smoothies, yoga, or vegan-only foods will magically change that.
Note — several years ago I wrote a similar post, 4 Reasons Why Chronic Pain Sucks. Everything I wrote then is still true. Again, that’s the “chronic” part of it.
Spoonie friends, what would you add to my list? What do you think more people should know about living with a Chronic Illness?
This week’s blog post is related to the week-long project I started on Instagram. If you’re not on Instagram or just haven’t checked it for a while, let me briefly explain.
Life has gotten busy and full, and one of the things I have let slip is my daily five-minute writing practice. (I’ve written about my five-minute writing exercises before. Here’s a link to one such post.)
Since the new school year starts on Thursday, August 14th (at least, schools in the Los Angeles Unified School District begin then, other schools in other districts may have different start dates), I thought this week would be the perfect time for me to begin doing my five-minute writing exercises again.
Except, I needed some help, some way to be held accountable so I wouldn’t brush it off when I felt too tired or felt like I had “more important” things to do. So here’s the plan — Monday, August 11th through Friday, August 15th I am posting a reel a day on my Instagram account. In that reel, I read aloud a writing prompt — either one from Kicking in the Wall by Barbara Abercrombie or Rupi Kaur’s Writing Prompts – Self Love.
And me, being a former teacher, decided to keep track of my progress by placing a sticker on the calendar for each day I completed my five-minute writing exercise.
Today, I am sharing with you what I wrote in response to Tuesday’s prompt — Write about a name that creeps into your heart. The name of someone or something you love — an animal, a place, weather, a song.
Growing up, my mom’s family called her Honey. In a family of five children, she was the only girl. They called her Honey, even into adulthood, but everything I know about my mom’s childhood doesn’t match with the way they treated her. It doesn’t seem like she was ever treated like a Honey. In the stories she tells and the memories she shares it feels as if her years at home were missing a sweetness and tenderness and love, both explicitly expressed and implicitly felt.
My mom, now 80 years old, has always spoken fondly of her maternal grandmother. A woman who wore lots of jewelry (like me). A woman who, when visiting California from New York, would ask my mom to polish her nails for her. A woman who called my mom Honeycakes.
Honeycakes. I love that name. It sounds like a delightful dessert. Like something you eat with your fingers and when you’re done eating, you lick your fingers clean, one-by-one, because you’re trying to savor every little bit of the sweetness. It warms my heart, knowing my mom’s grandma spent time with my mom — hugging, being affectionate, letting my mom know she was a special girl.
After 50 years of marriage, my 79-year-old dad, still calls my mom Honey. The red heart tattoo on his right arm has the name Honey written inside.
My mom is Honey.
And because it’s my mom’s name, I don’t call my husband Honey.
He’s Honeypie.
Readers, please let me know if you’re completing these five-minute writing exercises. I’d love to cheer you on!
Please note: I am including a link to buy the book that I’m highlighting this week. If you use my link, I do make a small commission on your purchase at no additional cost to you. I am working with Bookshop.org which also sends a portion of the profit to support local, independent bookstores.
This is elementary-school-me holding the certificate I earned for all my reading during the library's Summer Reading Club.
Saturday, August 9th is Book Lovers Day.
I am a book lover, but I don’t think of Book Lovers Day as a special day just for me. Instead, I think of Book Lovers Day kind of like Earth Day. We should respect, care for, learn about, and protect our planet every day of every month of every year. Earth Day is one big extra-celebratory day when a whole lot of people focus on the same thing — our Earth.
Just like Book Lovers Day. Readers, book lovers, writers, booksellers — in one way or another, we all respect, care for, learn about, and protect our books every day of every month of every year. At the same time, it can be fun to organize a special day when people come together and talk about books, celebrate books, give books, buy books, and read books.
I have always been a book lover, even when I didn’t have the words for it. Growing up, I participated in our public library’s annual summer reading program. I visited the library each week, filling up my canvas tote bag, dutifully writing down the titles of the books I read on the library’s record sheet.
I grew up reading about Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield. (If you don’t recognize those names, then I guess you didn’t grow up reading Sweet Valley High.) I saved my money to buy big, heavy, hardcover books about NASA and America’s Space Program.
When I was in high school, I spent some of my lunches and after-school time volunteering in our school’s library. I liked books, and I knew our school library was understaffed and underfunded. (And, let’s be honest, I also knew that volunteering would look good on my college applications.)
And when I was a college student, I worked in a public library for a few years. I enjoyed seeing how all our different departments (including Circulation, Support Services, Reference) contributed to the end result — the book on the shelf. I remember the days of card catalogs, and if you don’t know what a card catalog is then yes, if you were wondering, chances are I’m much older than you are. (And you can click here to learn more about a library’s card catalog.)
As an elementary school teacher, I made sure each of my classrooms had a colorful, cozy, well-stocked library. Colorful as in big blue and pink storage bins from Ikea. Cozy as in pillows and stuffed animals. And well-stocked meaning fiction and nonfiction. Chapter books and picture books. An old set of encyclopedias. Guinness World Records books. A set of Little House on the Prairie books. Diary of a Wimpy Kidbooks. Books by Roald Dahl and Kate DiCamillo.
September 2010. I had to move classrooms so I started the school year with an incomplete library corner - we had to wait a bit for our new rug.
And as a parent, I started building my son’s library before he was born, filling the shelves with books that celebrate diverse families (Todd Parr’s The Family Book, Shades of Blackby Sandra L. Pinkney, Sesame Street’s We’re Different, We’re the Same). Books were a part of my son’s childhood — in the diaper bag, in the car, read at night, read during bath time, and read at a restaurant while waiting for his chicken nuggets and fries. Books were given as gifts for every birthday and every holiday. Our son knew there was always money for books — whether they were bought at a bookstore, or Target, or through the Scholastic order form sent home by his second grade teacher.
My son at age 6, during one of our weekly visits to the library.
Nowadays, I go into an independent bookstore knowing I won’t leave without buying at least one book. I have run out of shelf space and started a pile of yet-to-be-read-books on the floor near one of my smaller bookcases. I regularly add titles to my list of want-to-read books. And, I continue to research publishing paths for my memoir-in-essays.
I did all that, I do all that, because I’m a Book Lover.
Every day.
Please note: I am including a link to buy the book that I’m highlighting this week. If you use my link, I do make a small commission on your purchase at no additional cost to you. I am working with Bookshop.org which also sends a portion of the profit to support local, independent bookstores.
Because Nin and I are Instagram friends, reading this book felt even more like a conversation between the two of us. This is not just a memoir written by some unknown author. This is the story of another woman, another mother, whose life was forever changed by a sudden illness.
My copy of Nin’s book is full of sticky notes. Because though our medical conditions vary, though our life circumstances differ, many of the emotions she wrote about really resonated with me. This week I’m pleased to share some of the excerpts that most touched me:
“I have no idea why I was certain my turn would come at the end of my life. I imagined being old and frail before discovering I had an incurable disease. I would then be afforded a moment of introspection before being shown the exit, like a happy-go-lucky partygoer who leaves when the music and fun are over. Never once did I imagine that I would have to stick around after the celebration for the long and arduous clean-up.”
“Jet and Jade were five and three when I got ill. They don’t remember their healthy mother, the one who chased them through the parks, raced them to the car, and sang aloud, albeit out of tune. They just know this mother. The one who struggled to make it through the day. Jet and Jade constantly needing my help and attention made my recovery more challenging, but at the same time, they made my recovery possible.”
“And what about all the other vital organs that I had only one of, such as the heart, liver, and brain? What if they suddenly failed too? My once safe world now felt fraught with unavoidable threats.”
“Why me? What did I do to deserve this?”
“My family relied on me as a co-breadwinner to keep a roof over our heads. This was a matter of survival. I was also our home’s central processor, who organised and coordinated our activities. Lives would fall into disarray if I remained incapacitated.”
“It was this attitude that made me feel insecure about writing this memoir. I questioned whether my suffering was big enough, whether my misfortune was dramatic enough to warrant a book. Ridiculous, really.”
“Trauma has no size. Rather, trauma is like light, capable of filling the entire room regardless of its wattage.”
“I now lived in a world that was no longer made for me; it was made for the able. I no longer felt normal here.”
“The life I had planned, was looking forward to and counting on, was upended for real.”
“Returning to work would have rubbed the comparison in my face. By keeping every facet of my life exactly as before, I would know for certain that my life had got worse. I would lead the same life, but now as a disabled person. Returning to work would make the downhill trajectory obvious.”
“Young people were supposed to recover from illness, not remain ill indefinitely. Worse, I couldn’t rest as one might expect a sick person to. I was not retired; my children had not left home. I couldn’t curl up with a good book all day. I still had to put food on the table and my children through school, all while being sick.”
“I could see the date creeping in from a distance. It marked the unhappy anniversary of my downfall. That date took the life I loved, chewed it up and spat back out something unrecognisable. It was the day I took a tumble and never stood back upright. That dreaded date will forever be remembered.”
“I no longer compared myself to the previous Nin, nor did I keep measuring up to her. I only cared about where I was now, and where I wanted to be, not where the former me wanted to be.”
“I went from feeling unlucky that this happened to me to feeling lucky that only this happened to me.”
Please note: I am including a link to buy the book that I’m highlighting this week. If you use my link, I do make a small commission on your purchase at no additional cost to you. I am working with Bookshop.org which also sends a portion of the profit to support local, independent bookstores.
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