“Why did you leave?” His voice is low and calm. She’s quiet for a few moments, searching for the right words. “If I’m being honest, I was afraid to stay,” she hesitates for a moment before continuing. “Sticking with things I might not be good at isn’t exactly my strong suit.” Saying the words out loud feels like plunging into a pool of dark, freezing cold water.

Her siblings rib her endlessly about her competitive streak—it’s funny and tender-hearted coming from them, but the truth of it pierces her nonetheless every time. She knows that a sharp, merciless streak runs through her core, like a bright silver ribbon.

My phone buzzes with a message from my mom—she’s sending me an article by Leandra Cohen in her Substack newsletter. It was sent to her by a friend (hi Zoe!), who is the sort of person whom you’d want on a hiking trip with you for hours of conversation: funny and thoughtful and curious about everything. Leandra’s piece is written as a letter to her daughters. In it she writes: “I had been thinking that here, on the occasion of your first birthday, I had this chance to sensationalize how profound and electrifying and intense it had been to be your mom. And it was all those things! It is. But it has also been remarkably tedious and frustrating and boring and at times, even soul-crushing. This has shown me something significant.”

There’s so much to say sometimes. Sentences that I want to write keep popping into my head at inopportune times—like when I’m riding my bike or taking a shower or trying to carry 3 boxes of seltzer into the kitchen or assessing the feasibility of changing a diaper on an open ferry deck full of people without baby wipes and without touching any public surfaces. (Spoiler alert: It’s possible but extremely challenging and yes, I’m basically a wizard of parenting.)