Oh how I wish she would see that story, the one that casts the play before her eyes so that her core belief becomes a reality...

My dad’s mask was the loudest when it fell. “Spiritual Man” was written on his mask, for that was what he wanted it to say. “Compassionate Father” was written on his mask, for that was what he wanted me to see. So on the day it finally slipped from his face, I recoiled...

I saw a picture of them recently. My mom, dad, and sister. None of them looked happy. That isn’t to say they didn’t have smiles on their faces, but their eyes were filled with sorrow. “That’s my fault,” was the first thing that came to mind...

Once I saw you as my protector, my sanctuary. I felt so safe in your arms long long ago. What changed?

When I was very young, maybe three or four, my mom asked me to carry some glass bottles up concrete steps leading up to a neighbors house...

"How can you not say ‘Happy Birthday’ to your mother?" I used to be one of those people who judged those who had chosen to walk away...

I saw my dad for the first time as I sat across the booth from him at an Italian restaurant... I saw him for the coward he is, a man terrified of feeling.

For those of us who grieve the living – we grieve alone. My family looks lovely from the outside, with thousands of photographs to prove that we are "okay"...

I used to believe my family was normal. I used to think my sadness was just a chemical imbalance. Turns out, I knew the truth deep down all along...