The Family Inside
Sometimes I think I live in a boarding house. Not a nice one, either—more like the kind with flickering lights and burnt coffee and doors that don’t close all the way. All kinds of characters drifting in and out of rooms. Some slam things. Some just cry. Some rearrange the furniture in the middle of the night.
Your Inner Child is not broken
Little Girls with Big Eyes
There’s a kind of ache that never goes away. Not really. You learn to live with it, like a crooked tooth or a limp you pretend isn’t there. Most of us carry around some younger version of ourselves. Little girls with big eyes. Boys with backpacks too heavy. Kids who waited at the window for someone who never came. And we carry them—into jobs, into relationships, into our art.