The other day, my son complained about feeling left out as the youngest kiddo in the group. I found myself commiserating, telling him that I’d always been the youngest, too, and had also felt left out. As soon as I had that thought, a part of me stepped back and asked if that was really true. Have I really always been the youngest? Have I always felt left out? True, I am the youngest in my family, and growing up, I was the youngest kid on the block. But was that the whole of the story? It wasn’t until I sat down to write about it that I saw just how much I’d allowed this old, unexamined story to inform my life choices. After all, Ken’s a few years older than me, as are most of my closest friends. But I also have friends who […]

Read More

As Mother’s Day approaches, I feel an old, familiar dread. My mother died two years ago and no, I’m not over it yet. Worse still, I may never be.   After the second anniversary of her death, I assumed I’d finally be all right. At least I’d be over the worst of the grief.   But the grief continued to rise and fall in unpredictable patterns. At first, I blamed it on external events: another holiday season, the 22nd anniversary of my father’s death, my 45thbirthday. Or perhaps it was perimenopause, I told myself. As if the peaks and valleys of my grief were simply a side effect of my hormones.   Then I found myself thinking about acceptance and surrender after reading about a man struggling with the news that he might lose his leg. Instead of acknowledging the severity of his situation, […]

Read More