Mass shootings, a looming pandemic, nearly 800 million starving people in the world, and here I am, well-fed, housed, healthy, safe... and sad. It’s hard for me sometimes not to be angry at myself for my anxiety and bouts of depression when I know that there are people out there suffering so, so, so, so, so much more than I ever will. I feel somehow unjustified to feel bad. I feel guilty for being joyously grateful that my life is so good. But that’s not fair. That’s not a he

A few days ago I got a notification on my phone that my memory-cloud-data-whatever (can you tell I’m not tech savvy?) was nearly full. So, to make some space I started going through my old photos and deleting unimportant images. At first, seeing photos from the last year or so made me smile. It was a pleasant walk down memory lane: photos of my adorable twin nephews, good times with my friends last summer, beautiful shots from my birthday vacation last winter... However, when

For a long time, I hated hugs. As a child, I hated being instructed to hug adults I didn’t know, I hated classmates greeting me with air-hugs that felt forced and fake, but I also didn’t even feel comfortable hugging my own family and close friends. It took me a while to realize it was because physical touch had been used as a form of control when I was a young child. My stepfather would use his hand on my shoulder at church to hold me still, a captive at the pressure of his