This past summer, my 4-year-old turned to me while watching a parade with disgust all over her face. There was a man, on stilts, without a shirt. “Why is that man naked, Mommy?” She asked. I told her, without thinking “because boys don’t have to wear shirts”.
There are certain pivotal moments in this life.
For me, one of those was the night I messaged you over Facebook shortly after my daughter was born, desperately seeking out someone who could understand what I was going through. It was late, and of course I was crying. I was seated in the brown armchair in my living room, struggling to entice a screaming newborn to settle enough to latch while my fiancé slept peacefully in our bedroom. I was full of rage and despair.