Q: What if my honeymoon broke my heart? A: — Found In: An Advice Column I Write to Myself, Letter 3

Dear Kelly,

Recently, I went on a honeymoon with my husband. The honeymoon was three years late. It probably shouldn’t have even happened when it did. ((We have credit card debt to spare, but I took a check that came in the mail one day, for some freelance work I had done, and I turned around and spent it the next day. On an four-day, almost-all expenses paid TRIP TO PARIS. Hotel and flight and breakfast for under $500 per person. Absurd. An absurd deal!)

Anyway. After I held onto the secret of what I had done for three full days, I took my husband to a “French” bakery where we lived in Iowa, and bought two croissants. Then, smack in the middle of eating them, I asked the question that was going to lead to the reveal of what I had done.

Me: “Hey, Nic — do you like this croissant?”

Nic: “Yeah.

Me: “I know, dude! Can you imagine how good a croissant is IN…FRANCE?…??? Wouldn’t you rather eat one IN…FRANCE…??”

Nic: “Nah. I mean, I’m good with the ones here.”



It took him a minute to digest what I’d said, and to work his way around it, and he wasn’t angry, but he didn’t look overjoyed, and then I explained that I had used actual money to pay for the trip and not a credit card and then he got less scared and softened a bit, and then he asked the price, and then I told him, and then — THIS MAN LOVES DEALS — his eyes brightened and his eyebrows raised and he was like, “Wait — really? That’s a great deal!” And then we took a walk and I could tell he was thinking and I thought he seemed miffed but then he stopped us in the middle of the sidewalk and took my hand and he said: “I am excited. I never ‘wanted’ to go there, but I am excited. I have done so many things I would have never done because of you. So thank you.”

And then I spun on my heel and my walking turned to skipping, and I felt like the best kind of person and the best kind of wife and like the kind of person that was going to get to go to France.

But then we got there.

And – though I knew it wasn’t his ‘dream vacay’, and I know that he is not the kind of person that exclaims every feeling he is feeling, he just kind of walked around took it in like it was any other city. Like it wasn’t maybe the most famous city in the entire world. Like it wasn’t special. And after four days of walking around and waiting for him to proclaim that Paris represented perfection and that we were also perfect, (as a couple), I climbed back onto a plane, completely brokenhearted. I don’t say that lightly. I was the most sustained kind of sad I had been since entering into a union with this person. And I need to figure out why. And not just why — but — if your honeymoon breaks your heart, what does it mean?



Dear Kelly,

Wow! You are a piece of work! I’m going to recap this for you. You bought a trip to Europe for a “honeymoon” three years after your wedding without telling your husband — because Paris represents something TO YOU — and then, after he WENT WITH YOU AND EVEN WAS GRACIOUS OVER THE WHOLE BEHIND-HIS BACK PURCHASE — you weighed the way he behaved and came home broken hearted because it wasn’t the way you imagined or wanted??

Go back and read that paragraph again until your cheeks burn just a little bit and have a touch of color to them —  and then, after that — then you’re ready to read my response.

Kelly, dear. You should be a little bit ashamed of yourself.

Marriage isn’t a union in which you hide massive purchases from someone else. It’s a union in which you talk openly about your dreams, and the whys and the whens behind them, and you figure out how you can realize them together.

It sounds to me like you might not be totally sure that you are married.

Now. I don’t want to be too harsh. You did use actual money (though you could have made a payment on your credit card debt with said money duh duh duh I hope I didn’t really have to spell that out for you) to buy the trip and you did tell him shortly thereafter and you did intend it to be a thing of beauty for the both of you.

But you still did it with complete control. You still did it with the intention of making only your dreams come true. 

Listen. I know partnership is hard. Being in a committed partnership where you’re supposed to take another person into constant consideration is effing HARD. But it’s also beautiful. And it sounds like you like to try to focus on the beauty. Which is good, right? But also stupid. In short: you should have texted your husband when you saw that deal that day and asked him what he thought. Are you sure he would have said no? Yes? Well. Sorry. He’s allowed to say no. Are you scared that you’re not going to live your dreams because he doesn’t understand them and because they’re not the same as his? SO IS EVERYONE IN A COUPLE. But you have to walk through the fear and the vulnerability of all of that while holding their hand. What you did, sweetie, wasn’t that. You saw a sparkly, sparkly road and you ran towards it, and you sprinted ahead. And then you turned around, yelled, “HEY, BRO, I’M OVER HERE!” — AND EXPECTED HIM TO COME.

The fact that he came is the thing to celebrate. The fact that he forgave your purchase. That he turned to you on the sidewalk ten minutes after you told him he needed to get a passport for the first time at the age of 34 — that he turned to you and THANKED YOU FOR MAKING HIS LIFE BIGGER. That is the beauty. That is the dream. That is the thing. 

Let it go. Let it go that he didn’t run around Paris screaming, “OMG; OMG!” Let it go that he didn’t hold your face in front of the Eiffel Tower and tell you that you were the love of his life. Let it go that he didn’t tell anyone when he got home that it was the coolest place he had ever been. Let it go that the sight he was most excited to see IN ALL OF PARIS was a GIGANTIC TABLE OF HARIBO GUMMIES in bulk, that you could mix and match. Let it go that you guys didn’t renew your vows in Notre Dame, that he only held your hand once in the four days, that he often refused to speak small phrases in the French the two of you had practiced. The man that didn’t do all these things is the same man that took a day off work and ran between the post office and bank four times to figure out his passport. He’s the same man that asked his family to babysit your son so you guys could go to a place he had never even been curious about. He’s the same man that has followed you to the places your dreams took you solely because he loves you. 

You hit the jackpot, friend.

I hope you never forget it.


Q: What if I feel like I’m on the precipice of death? (i.e. Going back to work fulltime) A: — Found In: An Advice Column I Write to Myself, Letter 2

Dear Kelly,

Five years ago, almost to the date, I was working in an office in Chicago, when suddenly, I knew — I had to go. I gave a couple months notice, and stayed until we had hired someone, but my muscles were itching and twitching and I knew it was time to get out. I was waking with the birds, going to the gym, coming back and walking Béla, then heading to work until 6, and then walking Béla again. I had started staying up late at night to write a blog. I would sometimes fall asleep at the computer, but I was alive with drive to write. I had pinpointed where joy came from in my body — and it was as my fingers flew across the keyboard, and what happened while they were flying. I found truths, I expelled pain, and I connected with everyone who read my words. It was nothing short of exhilarating. When I decided to leave my job, I set one intention. I am going to figure out how to be a writer in this life. 

A writer writes. I know this. But exhibition and payment and feedback water the writing. They make it grow.

Sorry. Let me get to the point. I kindof actually became a writer. I went to a writing conference and I met other people who deemed themselves writers and I started submitting essays and then I started freelancing. All of this happened while I was working part time. It’s not that I worked way less than 40 hours (usually around 30) and it’s not that I wasn’t tired, but I consistently found jobs and schedules that left pockets of time I could fill with writing and pockets of energy in my body so that I wouldn’t fall asleep at the keyboard. AND I EVEN HAD A KID DURING THIS TIME! And still I managed it.

Fast forward: We have just moved to a new city, where the prices of daycare and the housing market are much higher than where we were living, and I am interviewing for jobs that start at 8 and end at 5 and that doesn’t include the driving time. I am staring down the barrel of the EXACT THING I KNEW I HAD TO RID MY LIFE OF TO THRIVE. And I keep trying to skirt around it, but there’s no more skirting. We can’t afford another setup right now. Or anymore.

I’m not just heartbroken — I’m RAGING. I feel like scratching and clawing my way out of this. And there are ways, right? Like a part time day job plus waitressing some, and driving a Lyft, and etc, etc, etc…but household costs actually require me to have a guaranteed motherfucking paycheck every two weeks. I need regular, stable, office pay-grade work again. I feel like I am dying. Like I am facing the death of me. Because my writing time is going to get depleted. I feel like running away. Which – yes – means running away from my family.

Please help. I need a different lens from which to view this.


Dear Kelly,

Good lord, you are dramatic! Do you know how many people work full time jobs and don’t equate them with death!? Do you know how many people are grateful to work!?

Okay — sorry. That wasn’t helpful. I can do better.

Let’s just revisit your memory. “Your office job and your life in Chicago was so, so draining and so, so hard, that you had to escape it to figure out ‘how to be a writer.’ “Right? Okay. Well. —–>

A.  CONGRATULATIONS! You said it yourself — YOU DID IT! You kindof actually became a writer! Which means you did. So dry your eyes and pat yourself on the back, little lady.

B. Your job in Chicago — while draining — gave you SO. MANY. THINGS. Let’s go back and have a look.

The gym membership! The dog food to feed that gorgeous creature that inspired your first shared writing! The bike that you rode to and from work! The cute ass clothes you used to wear! The trips you would take to see your friends! And most importantly: A culinary adventure every damn day in the streets of Chicago.

What do you love more than anything? Food. What is the fuel of your dreams and your desire to travel and so much of your writing? Food. And honey, you ate your heart out all over Chitown. You ate the cheap foods, the middle-of-the-grade, and you even ate at some of the best restaurants in the city. Over and over and over again. Week after week. You gallivanted around with your pals, and ate, and you knew how many times you could keep eating that well, because you had a paycheck with the same amount on it every two weeks. DIDN’T YOU HAVE SO MUCH FUN???? 

So. So now you need some stable paychecks to fund a life in a new city with your sweet Bela and your sweet husband and your semi-sweet son. You need money to rent a place with a backyard and money for organic strawberries because you are terrified of pesticides and they cost like $6.99. You need money to keep visiting friends.

Do you, by chance, remember how life felt right before you took that job, there in Chicago? How you had just enough left to pay your next month’s rent and nothing else in the bank and how you were getting real scared and then how you knew that that office was going to offer you the job and you kept praying praying you wouldn’t have to take it?

And then — after you did take it —  how your breath evened, when you knew you would be able to pay the rent. How your hands steadied when you knew your 17th cavity wouldn’t be the end of you, financially. Those things are worth a lot, too.

Your husband needs his breath to even out. Your son needs to be allowed to have a cavity that doesn’t run his parents into financial ruin. You have to remember those parts of the equation. You simply have to.

Also, strawberries are delicious and you should definitely buy the organic ones because strawberries are part of the ‘dirty dozen.’ And also, you and Nic and Ollie should go out on the town and buy some dinner. Eating out is fun as shit.

If they call tomorrow, take the job. And by the way, money aside, it sounds like you have a pretty amazing life, filled with love and memories, and opportunities. Honestly, it sounds like you are one of the richest bitches I have ever met.

You will find time to write. And when you do, the writing will be as rich as you are.


Q: Kelly, What if I think I’m a total piece of shit? A: — found in: An Advice Column I Write to Myself, Letter 1.



I have long been the person my friends turn to when they are seeking advice. Friends I haven’t heard from in some time will suddenly show up in my text string, saying, ‘Girl – can you help me?’ And I never, ever, ever resent it. I straight up LOVE IT. I love giving advice. I’m good at it! I often hear these real jewels and gems just slide out of my mouth while I’m talking to them, and I’m like WTF HOW DID I KNOW TO SAY THAT — AM I SERIOUSLY THAT SMART — AND HOW HAVE I NOT CAPITALIZED ON THIS????????

But I have. Of course. Because I am a friend that friends turn to when they need advice. And I do have a couple people I turn to, too. But sometimes I don’t want to be desperate in someone’s text string. I don’t want to dial their number, whilst crying. So I am going to give a go at writing my own damn advice letters to myself. I need one today. Here goes.

Dear Kelly,

What if I think I’m a total piece of shit?

I mean – I can shed more light on the why. For one — just because. Because I have never had great hair (it’s so thin you can see my scalp from like a mile away) and because I’m so anxious I jump when things fall to the ground and because my temper is a boiling pot of water that is always threatening to boil over. But also because I’m turning 39 and I still, still, STILL have not found a way to make a living off of the actual talents that I know I possess. Did you know that I am really funny? People have told me I should do stand-up! Did you know that I sing fairly well? But the sound of my voice coming out of my body makes me feel vulnerable, so I hide it unless I am feeling very, very, very safe — which is a state I don’t find myself in often. Did you know that I write? I’m sure you did. But I don’t send my writing to any of the places I want to. Because the places I want to are considered ‘good’ and who would I have to think myself to send them there? I would have to think of myself as good. And though I toy with the label sometimes, what I really think, deep down in the pit of my person, is that I am a piece of shit. And this belief is stopping me from my labors of love more than any other thing.

I’ve just moved to a new city for the 75th time in my life (*small exaggeration, but feels spot on) and I am once again, scrolling Craigslist and Indeed.com for jobs that feel like empty vessels of void. Administrative Assistant, Kennel Cleaner, Cashier. The ones that feel most right pay just around $9 an hour, but I have this child now, and a partner in life, and a dog and all of us have to eat like 3 FUCKING TIMES PER DAY, and those wages aren’t cutting it. Never mind that the real work I want to do is paid like $0 per hour. I want to rescue dogs. From horrible situations and comb their matted fur and sing to them and kiss them more than they have ever been kissed and find them safe, warm homes. I want to travel around, rescuing ALL OF THEM because the only proof of God on the Earth I have yet to find is each of their sets of four paws. I also enjoyed some freelance writing for money last year, but every time I think of something I want to write, I think of how unqualified I am to write it — or how silly and empty and trite my stance is.

I’m in pain. I can’t seem to get up off the floor and figure out how to make my life as beautiful and full as I want it to be. Can you help me?




Dear Kelly,

I can’t. Really. I mean, I kind of can, but I can’t —  but you can. Here. Listen.

I can remind you of the things you have done and just URGE YOU — BEG YOU — to find the person within you that did them. Get back to her again. She is not a piece of shit. She is bold, and brave. Do you remember that you once ran A FUCKING HALF MARATHON? You. In fact — that it was the first organized run you ever ran? You were sitting on your couch one day and you were like, ‘That has to be an amazing feeling…’  — to run THIRTEEN POINT ONE MILES — and you were like ‘I want to feel that!’

And then you picked a beautiful place to do it in. You called up your friends in San Francisco and you said, ‘Should we?’ and they said ‘No way.’ and you said ‘But we should.

So you trained and even when you had shin splints so bad you could barely walk, you went to the gym and watched One Tree Hill (what a bore) on a treadmill (bc lower impact than the street) and you walked/ran for two hours at a time to get yourself ready. Every Sunday.

And then you ran the damn thing — even though you walked a couple times and thought you were at 8 miles when you ran into a sign that said you were at 3 (worst moment of the whole run and you made a vow to not look at ANY MORE MILE MARKERS NO MATTER WHAT UNTIL YOU WERE AT THE FUCKING END.) And when you were at the end…you were on the heels of other runners, and someone on the sidelines yelled, “GOOD JOB, RUNNER…!” and you looked around to see whom they were yelling at and it — honest-to-God- took you like a full 180 seconds to realize THEY WERE YELLING AT YOU.


Also – you flew to a country after college where you DIDN’T SPEAK THE LANGUAGE and you took dance classes in that language, when you could ONLY UNDERSTAND THE NUMBERS BECAUSE THEY CORRESPONDED TO THE BEATS — and you also walked into THE OFFICES OF VOGUE ITALIA wearing a FUCKING BOWTIE and told them they should hire you, because you had your finger on the pulse of fashion and a pair of balls that would aide you.

Maybe they didn’t see you like you saw yourself that day — maybe they suggested instead that you babysit their daughter — but GIRL, REMEMBER HOW YOU SAW YOURSELF THAT DAY. 



I don’t know.

Did those work?

I hope so. Because you are capable of what you dream. But you might have to TRAIN. You also might have to convince both yourself AND other people. And it won’t be fun. And I don’t know how to draw the line for you of what your path will even look like.

But beyond that, I need to tell you this.

Even if you end up never doing stand-up and never singing, and never writing a thing that anyone loves or gives you money for — and you work a couple hours in an office and a couple hours at a coffee shop and a couple hours cleaning dog kennels and you piece together a shitty wage and you keep using your credit cards to buy groceries —

Acknowledge that your life is still beautiful — right now. I think I know you know that. But be diligent in your acknowledgement.

Béla’s chin hairs. Ollie’s amazing little feet. The way Nic makes you laugh every second you are around him. The tiny ass apartment you guys just moved to. Yeah, it’s too small. But it’s warm. Warmth is a gift.

Also, get some therapy. It’s really bad to think oneself a piece of shit. I know it seems super natural and has been a self-identifier for a long time and sometimes doesn’t even feel totally true when you’re having a great day — but it’s bad to call yourself and think yourself a piece of shit. SOME PEOPLE DON’T EVER DO THAT. There are literally SOME PEOPLE THAT DO NOT BELIEVE THEY ARE PIECES OF SHIT.

Those people don’t let their jacked sense of self-worth get in the way of finding work, or curating passion. They just LIVE.

So do all of those things I told you to.

And for what it’s worth — I think you’re amazing.



The Ever-changing Shape of Home

When I was eighteen, I walked into a tattoo parlor with a friend. We were going to get matching tattoos on our wrists. Tiny little black birds – an outline, merely – of wings – this was what we sought. I didn’t believe in tattoos – I have never believed in anything so permanent. But if permanence, then this. An exhibition of our ability to take flight. An exhibition of the impermanence of our presence.

I had my wrist splayed open for him, when I looked up and saw the back of her head. She was walking out of the front door. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t do something that permanent. I stood up, shocked. This was all her idea, at least in my head. I apologized. I left.


That was twenty years ago. The tattoo hasn’t haunted me, but impermanence has. I keep flying in, sticking a landing, collecting things – and then, almost silently, lifting my wings back up again. I have moved twenty times in those twenty years. My wings are so tired.


I started watching HGTV when I got to Iowa, four years ago, with a fervor previously reserved for food. I stayed up late watching renovation shows and first-time-home buying shows and tiny home shows. You know what I never watched? Vacation home shows. I wasn’t interested in the temporary nests. Much to my own shock, I was interested in the stuff that lives were made out of.

I told the man I met that I wouldn’t be staying here. Staying was not what I did. I was prepping to fly again. I wanted him to know.

But I was falling in love. I was rooting down when I couldn’t even see it. I folded my wings and started planting my feet. Iowa became my friend. Iowa was the place that grew him – this man I had met. He, in turn, grew me. Into a different person. And then we grew a little one. Our baby.


Home can mean a million things. Our mothers. Our fathers. A nook in the world that knows us well. A city. A food.  A structure with walls. An idea.

Home is now split in my mind into two things. Nic. And Iowa. Can a place that changed you by way of love ever not be home?


It came to me in a flash. I saw it, there, on my wrist, in a vision. It surprised me, but it was mine.

The wrist that had waited for a bird to land so many years ago, now outlined with the shape of a state. A state of grace. Of understanding. Of the welcoming of love. The outline is rectangular in shape, and permanent in my heart. The shape of Iowa.



Last night, I was surrounded by a bunch of Nic’s family in a hand-built, antique-filled, aluminum and wood-outfitted gorgeous house in the middle of open fields and wide skies and there was so much love and laughter and generosity of spirit. Deep into the evening, I looked over and saw the matriarch of the family, the one whose four sons and their kin had exploded all over the room in red and green — shaking. Her hands were shaking as she was bringing them to her face and then I noticed her dabbing her eyes and her cheeks and I realized the shaking was that borne of a cry. I should have gone to her straightway, but like a coward, I passed the task to someone else, fearful I could not due it justice, not being her blood relative. I asked Nic to go immediately to the table, to see if she was alright. He sat across the table from her and began to speak.

Moments after sending him, I had to make my lack of action right. I pulled up a chair next to her and placed my hand across her back. I rubbed her back like I had the power and the right to calm her nerves, ease her pain, erase her fear. She looked into my eyes and explained her state. “I just don’t know how much longer I’ll get to see all of this. I don’t know how much more time I’ll get to be with all of these amazing people in this room.” She shook her head back and forth, in joy and wonder of her beautiful, giant family.

“But — You made them all. You’ll be in this room for all of time. Because you literally created the entire room,” I said.

She looked into my eyes, pride beaming from hers. “You’re right,” she replied, and then she squeezed my hand and thanked me for reminding her.


I can feel Oliver’s body extending itself right past mine. When I transfer him from our bed at night to his, his feet keep hitting lower on my legs. He’s elongating. He’s making full sentences and becoming too cognizant — this morning he found a piece of candy from last year’s stocking at the bottom of it and almost convinced me he hadn’t found a thing, by way of his genius body language alone. When he opened a present this morning, he bellowed, “Ta-da…!” before stacking it up on the floor. He is two parts unbelievably annoying and three parts wonder and joy. He has made me feel like I’m suffocating and swimming with ease at the same time. I know a period is coming when I won’t feel this way anymore. He and I will distance ourselves from each other, per the natural course of time.


I thought Bev was crying last night because of loss. She has lost her husband fairly recently, and she has lost the home she was in for so many years, and she has lost going to sleep in a house where all four of her boys were sleeping at the same time, too.

But she wasn’t crying over loss. She was crying over privilege. She was overwhelmed at the privilege of sitting at a table surrounded by the beauty of her family. She was insanely proud and insanely honored and so happy to be present that her body shook from it all.


Of course, she is scared, too. The same way I’m scared. Loss and privilege are two sides of the same coin. They are the left and the right side of the pendulum. They replace each other — keeping time — over and over and over again.

Non é finto.


We have two plastic candy canes on our Christmas tree. We have to keep telling Oliver they are fake. “Finto,” I say — in Italian. They are fake. I know they look real and shiny and glossy and good, but they are fake. Don’t eat them. Don’t crush them. Just let your eyes gloss over when they fall upon them. They are nothing more than a mirage.


I thought images of families in living rooms laughing were mirages. Until I became one of those people, there on the soft floor, giggling like someone just said the funniest thing in the whole world. Someone did. It was: Look. You’re happy.


I share images from my life compulsively. Impulsively. Round the clock. Joyfully. And though I share them with you — I’m really saving them for me. So that when I am walking down the street alone, or sitting on the couch, and I’m tired or sad or angry or confused, that I can look down and see Vivid. Proof. That I am not alone, or sad or angry or confused — well — not really. Momentarily, yes. But not really.

But I am uncomfortable. I am uncomfortable nearly every day, that I play happy. That I play mommy. That I play family. I am constantly uncomfortable in this happy, happy life. Because I thought this was a mirage until I infiltrated it. My old eyes don’t like being fooled and my new eyes seek their old way of seeing, sometimes.


This morning, I posted a picture of Oliver. And then another. And I shared an Instagram story, and I watched other people’s images and stories and I reveled in all the **ddamn love. And then I felt a fool — like it’s been going on too long and I should shut it down or shut something out or just stop inviting everyone in — to my mirage.

I disabled my account.


Iowa is the place where I first started believing families on soft floors laughed and really meant to. That they wanted to be on those floors to begin with. That not everyone who refurnished their hardwood and reproduced and drove roundish vehicles hated their lives. Some people are genuinely happy in little square-like numbers like four. 


When Oliver and Nic are out on the highway, I wait for texts that say they made it safe and that they both love me, and that they’ll be home soon, and that I’ll get to keep this happy picture we have painted.

But I also wait for a phone call. A notice that I don’t get to keep it. This bounty. This feast. This lovely image we created.

If they were both to leave me, I could light this life of mine on fire and finally dance around the flame, again. I could really thrive, high on loss and pain. Wouldn’t that be comfortable. 


We are moving in three weeks and I am scared. Can I leave this land and remain who I’ve become? Can I walk across a state line and stay this person?

Who am I? Was it fake? Was Iowa a mirage? Do I get to be happy? Do I get to keep them?

the magic of children

I remember when my niece was born, that I used to catch my dad holding her on the couch, tears seeping out of the tops of his cheeks. No one could hear him; he didn’t produce sound. He just silently wept, overcome with what he was holding.


My friend had a baby and she let me kiss it when it was six days old and I couldn’t believe the privilege. I kept telling everyone. I texted my sister. I texted Nic. “I kissed a fresh new baby,” I told them. I got to get close to something that precious. I held her on my chest for a moment and the sheer rhythm of her breathing calmed my entire body down.


Yesterday, we took a walk in the woods. It was late in the afternoon, with a warm winter sun. When we came across our first bridge, I told Oliver that he should look for the trolls that live underneath of them. He grabbed a stick and began hunting, his intensity honestly a little surprising. He was angry at those non-existent trolls, and he was going to get them.

We passed many people while we were out. The weather was mild and people were enjoying the day. In order to downplay his angry stick-wielding, we divulged his task. “He’s hunting trolls,” we told them. “Don’t worry; we’re on this. The trolls won’t be bothering you today.”

Closing a roundabout, we came upon a family we had already seen at the onset. Two children and their parents. I watched the children dart ahead, after they saw us come though a clearing. And then, I heard them. “DON’T YOU DARE STEP ON OUR BRIDGE, CHILD!” They yelled. “GET OFF OF OUR BRIIIIIIDGE!” Oliver ran towards the bridge, desperate to take out his trolls. Then – I saw their arms reach out to grab him. They were fully committed to their act. They did not back down. Oliver ran screaming, back towards us. Their parents called them off task.

I could not believe it. 

I still can’t.

A child’s commitment to a child. A child’s commitment to another child’s fantastic vision.


I bought a hardboiled egg-with-eggplant (what?, I know) sandwich today and as I was picking it up, I watched a woman with dark skin and tired, wise, dark, crinkled eyes swipe her hand across the head of a blonde-haired child that wasn’t her child, and wasn’t her grandchild – but was most certainly hers. She didn’t even swipe it fast, for fear that the mother would see. She almost held it there, above his head, crowning his head with her palm, mid-air.

I felt a rush of air on my face, like an angel was swatting me in the face gently. I had to look away fast as I blinked, blurring the tears in my eyes.


These damn kids. These damn magic kids. My life feels insanely small now. And insanely big. I am sobbing — trying to understand what happened, and how to make sure none of it ever comes undone.

We are – at our root – every bit as beautiful as all those people crying and swiping heads know us to be. Our children are magic. We were once magic. Go back with me.