Losing and Finding

As of New Year’s Eve, I’ve lived in my apartment for five years. (For me, a woman who has moved and moved and moved throughout her life, that’s a long time. It’s not the longest I’ve lived somewhere, but it’s in the top three.) Early in my time here, I misplaced two things that are deeply precious to me: the charm bracelet my mother made for me when I was in high school and a beautiful piece of aventurine that was a gift from my best-beloved aunt many years ago. 

When I first realized my bracelet wasn’t where I thought it was, I thought immediately of the fact that its clasp and safety chain had been in need of repair. I wondered if it had fallen off the last time I’d worn it, which would mean it was truly, irretrievably gone. I didn’t want to believe that, felt certain that I’d have noticed it slipping off my hand. Still, it was nowhere to be found, so the possibility of for-real loss was there.

But I knew the aventurine had to be somewhere in my apartment. I had once almost lost it years ago. I used to carry it in my pocket to hold like a worry stone when I was out and about. After the near-loss, I’d stopped carrying it, stopped bringing it outside. So the aventurine had to be mislaid, not lost.

I’ve misplaced things in my home before. I mean. Doesn’t everyone? Those missing items have always turned up eventually. The charm bracelet and aventurine didn’t and didn’t and didn’t. Didn’t and didn’t and didn’t. 

I was sad about the losses in a wave-like way: sad all the time in a quiet, under-the-surface way and then bursts of frustrated-and-weepy sad. Neither item could be replaced. My mother had spent four years adding charms to my bracelet, each one selected to represent some bit of me – the instrument I played, the hobbies I’d enjoyed, my age. The one time years ago that I thought I’d lost my piece of aventurine, I’d bought another couple of pieces to replace it. None of those pieces had the color and glitter of my piece, and even if they’d magically been identical, they wouldn’t have come from Mildred, so the love I felt when I held that stone would still have been lost.

Last year,  I was reorganizing my clothing storage, doing a little bit of a Marie Kondo purge-and-refold. In a ring box in a bag that I thought held only jewelry I was either going to chuck or salvage for parts, I found my bracelet. I was ecstatic. As soon as I saw it, I remembered putting it in the box so that I could take it to a jeweler and get it fixed. How the box wound up in that bag of mistakes and messes, I don’t know. I shuddered, remembering that I’d twice almost tossed the whole thing in the trash without looking through it.

I took everything in my closets apart then, certain my aventurine must be there, too. I searched through places it would never have made sense to keep it. I looked in every storage bin and bag, checked the pockets of every dress, every pair of jeans, every coat. Nothing.

Since the start of the year, I’ve been slowly working my way through Apartment Therapy’s January Cure. I’ve done the Cure once in entirety and twice in unfinished fits and starts. I’ve been pushing myself this time around, determined to complete the house overhaul. The pandemic has made so clear to me how much I haven’t truly made my house a home in the five years I’ve been there. I’m determined to make my space work more comfortably for me, clear out the many oddbits I truly have no need or desire for, finally sort and organize my craft storage closet, set up a second WFH area in my dining alcove so I don’t only have to work in my bedroom.

On Saturday I gave myself 15 minutes to reorganize my journal storage. Used and new notebooks had been piling up haphazardly on a couple of shelves and frustrated me every time I looked at them, so I set about clearing the space so I could put things back in a way that made sense.

I found more than journals, of course. I found a folder of my writing that I’d forgotten about, and another folder of readings from the discussion group I co-facilitated when I’d worked in the Mayor’s Office. I found a small container of catnip, twenty dollars in singles and fives, some cute stickers a friend had sent me, some note paper I’d started using during the handwritten-letters portion of the pandemic, and some stamps I’d saved from a package that had come from Ghana.

And – under all the papers, shoved so far back in the shelf it was poised to fall out of the rear opening to be lost behind the bookcases I had no plan to move – was my aventurine. 

Yes, I cried. I cried. My beautiful stone from my beloved ancestor was no longer lost. No. I have no idea why it would ever have been on that shelf, how I would have piled papers on top of it. But it was found. At last. 

My senior year of college, I was out for a museum day with a friend. We took a cab from the museum to our chosen late-lunch spot, took another cab to Grand Central to head back to campus. In that second cab, my friend realized she no longer had the lovely silk scarf she’d been wearing. She searched her bag and pockets, talking about when she’d gotten the scarf and how much it meant to her. She was sad and frustrated to realize it was gone, that she likely left it in the first cab. 

Our driver, hearing and rear-view-mirror witnessing the discovery of the loss and the fruitless search, shared some driver-side wisdom: “We only lose the things we don’t really need, the things that don’t serve us or hold us back. The next person to find that scarf needs it, more than you.”

My friend was enraged and spent the rest of the ride haranguing that man. She refused him a tip when we reached the train station, asking for every coin of change back.

That … was a mess. From both sides. There may be a kernel of knowing in what the driver said, some deep, way-of-the-universe mumbo jumbo that could have served a purpose. But for-sure not in that moment, not when the loss has only just been discovered. And, too, would it ever make sense to put so much weight on a pretty piece of fabric? To say it was holding her back, not serving her? I mean, really. It was a scarf. It had served perfectly well until it was lost.

Had my bracelet and stone been truly lost forever, it’s possible that whoever found them would have been happy to have them, might even have come to cherish them to a degree similar to mine, though not for the same reasons. Had I lost them, the love that created the bracelet or inspired the gift of the aventurine wouldn’t have been lost, of course not. But I like my physical, tangible tokens. That’s a truth that stands between me and a future tiny-home life … and one that makes the loss of beloved objects painful, makes the finding of them joyous. 

That cabbie’s half-flippant dismissal would have set me off, too. Beloved possessions don’t need to have the power to hold us back or propel us forward. They just are. They charm us (no pun intended), connect us to memories. Losing them might not bring world’s crashing down, but the losses have weight, and we get to feel what we feel and don’t need strangers brushing our human-ness aside.

I’m glad this period of separation from two of my favorite things has come to an end, glad I no longer have to mourn the loss of either … and glad that they, like many of my most cherished things, are quite small, small enough to join me in my future tiny house.

I don’t subscribe to the notion that every loss is orchestrated by the hand of fate. Some losses are just losses. The finding, though … the finding often feels like a kind of divine serendipity, objects returning to you when you need them specifically or miss them most acutely. That’s a notion I can get behind.

It’s the 16th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
and see what the rest of this year’s slicers are up to!

Original Slicer - GirlGriot

In 2017, I took up Vanessa Mártir’s #52essays2017 challenge to write an essay a week. I didn’t complete 52 essays by year’s end, but I did write like crazy, more in 2017 than in 2015 and 2016 combined! I’ve kept working on personal essays, kept at my #GriotGrind. If you’d care to join, it’s never too late! Find the group on FB: #52Essays Next Wave.

Playing Catch-Up: Old Writing Made New

In my bio/intro yesterday, I mentioned that I often read at Big Words, Etc. It’s a favorite reading series of mine. The hosts, Stacey and Jess, have created one of the most welcoming spaces I’ve ever read in, and I’m always so happy to be part of a Big Words night, as a reader, as an audience member. Since the first time I read at Big Words in 2013, I’ve read work I’ve only just written. It’s a dangerous and crazy habit. For some reason, Big Words has always felt entirely right for testing rough first drafts.  

The last time I read for Stacey and Jess was at the end of August. The theme for the night was “The Subway (or Other Tales of Public Transport).” I found that I had far too many subway stories and couldn’t quite settle on what I wanted to write. I started writing the night before the reading and hadn’t quite finished by the time I arrived at the venue. I pulled together a conclusion during the intermission and read the essay below … or the original draft of the essay below. I made a few edits tonight to make it make sense in this context as opposed to the live-event, interact-with-the-audience setting in which I read it last year.

(So no, this isn’t a slice of life in the sense that I wrote it today. But today is when I realized that I never got around to posting the essay … and then I remembered that I haven’t typed and posted any of the essays I wrote during NaNoWriMo last year, so I’m playing a little catch-up tonight, and will maybe pull out my NaNo notebooks and post a few of those essays during SOLSC month, too.)

Don’t Sleep in the Subway, Darling

That’s the title of an old Petula Clark song, and also reasonably good advice. 

If you live in a city for more than a minute, you will accumulate a bunch of subway stories. Subways, buses, ferries … whatever mass transit you’ve got, those stories will start to pile up. In a 2019 Big Words reading, I told the story about riding the Paris metro with James Baldwin. There’s also a story about dancing on the trams in Budapest with my best friend’s brother, singing Beatles songs, and toasting each other with: “Up against the wall, motherfucker!” in honor of Amiri Baraka and James Simon Kunen. And a story about drinking red wine on the subway in Prague on the way to the cemetery where Kafka is buried, traveling with that same guy … and a bunch of people we’d just met.

Subways aren’t only about drinking and dancing of course. I have a not-about-me-but-I’ve-made-it-about-me-because-I’m-like-that story from when I lived in Washington Heights with my sister. One morning, she ran down into what turned out to be a no-longer-active subway station. She stopped short at seeing a group of men up to … something. One of them turned and said, “You don’t want to be here.” She thanked him and took off back up the stairs and into the rest of her life. I tell that story as an example of how not alike we are. She heard that man and knew she needed to leave. Had I been the one he’d spoken to, I’d have asked what they were up to, maybe made foolish small talk as I continued to approach, and they’d have had no option but to kill me because I’d have seen too much. It’s really the best example of who Fox is and who I am and how we’re so much alike while being so completely and absolutely different.


Subway stories. I thought I’d tell a few, and draw out a connecting thread to make some important-or-at-least-interesting point about mass transit and life and who knows what-all. 

But then I got on the train home from work last night and was reminded of the longest relationship I’ve had with transit. And I knew I should ditch that plan. But I’m stubborn, and I like my silly stories. So I’ve shared them … and now I’m changing course.


For years, I walked with a cane. For years after that, I carried a cane because there was always a chance I’d need it. Now, five surgeries later, I no longer walk with a cane and mostly never carry one.

That has been my relationship with transit: being the disabled passenger, the one who makes other riders uncomfortable or annoyed as they work through the calculus of whether they should or will offer me a seat. In July I had rotator cuff surgery and coming home yesterday wearing my sling, I suddenly remembered riding the train as disabled me. It’s only three years since the last of the operations that enabled me to leave my cane at home, and I realized that in that short time, I’d forgotten what public, visible disability feels like.

Wearing my sling is different from having a cane. The cane said I had a problem with standing and walking. The cane made a more forceful if still silent call for a seat to be offered. The sling says my arm’s got troubles, but I still have another arm, another hand. The sling says I can stand and hold on. The sling says it would be nice to have a seat, but maybe it’s not strictly necessary. The sling makes the calculus of the seated subway rider seem easier … but in truth, that calculus is still difficult because I am visibly impaired, and isn’t offering me a seat still the courteous thing to do? 

Please understand: I wasn’t often offered seats when I used a cane, and even less when I just carried the cane. Not never but nearly never. And I have yet to be offered a seat when wearing my sling.

In my cane years, I became hyper-aware of what my presence on the train meant. I was a constant call-out, a reminder to everyone in a seat that there was something they could choose to do that they weren’t choosing. Seated passengers spent a lot of time feigning sleep, staring hard at just about anything that wasn’t me. Standing passengers spent a lot of time looking with judgey faces from me to someone sitting nearby. Sometimes these people would make eye contact with me and shake their heads at the woeful lack of courtesy among the masses. Some would even offer up little monologues on the state of human decency, talking in exasperated tones, aiming to shame someone into “doing the right thing.” And that worked occasionally. Some embarrassed someone would get up, exclaiming that they hadn’t seen me, and of course I should take their seat. 

That’s nonsense, but it was also preferable to the people whose discomfort manifested as anger at me. A man once shoved me out of the way to get to the open seat I was trying to reach. When he’d settled in the seat, he looked up, saw my cane and went red in the face. He had a lot of options in that moment. He chose chaotic evil, saying: “Well, I didn’t break your leg,” then mumblingly calling me out of my name for the rest of the time we were on that subway together.

All of these responses to the moral judgment my body represented meant that I learned how not to look at people, to be aware of them without having to see them. Making eye contact was too fraught: Am I looking at you disdainfully because you haven’t offered me your seat? Am I looking imploringly because I really want your seat? Am I looking angrily because I’d like to crack my cane over your inconsiderate head? Am I looking knowingly because you’re standing beside me and I want some affirmation that human kindness has gone the way of the Dodo? Ugh. No eye contact meant not having to engage in any of that silent and annoying communication. I just wanted to get where I was going, not conduct a social experiment.


Twenty-five years with a cane. A quarter of a century … and in three years I forgot the physical persona of almost half my life. 

Having all of it come flooding back yesterday was weird. Yesterday wasn’t my first subway trip since surgery, but I stepped onto the train last night thinking very specifically about the subway, trying to think my way into something to write for this reading. I boarded the train and noticed half a dozen people look away from me quickly, close their eyes, and put their heads down so they could unsee me and avoid castigating themselves for not offering me a seat. A seated pregnant woman stared hard at me and away, back at me and away. I glanced in the direction of her shifting gaze and saw a seated middle-aged man studying his phone intently. And I was reminded to look up, to feign interest in the string of Fresh Direct ads.


And scene. I don’t have an ending. This return to living in my body as a disabled person is still too new … and, too, it’s temporary, and I know it’s temporary, so I’m not sure what to do with it, what conclusions to draw from it. 

Instead, I’ll tell you my favorite subway story.


During that same stint of living in Washington Heights, a Czech rock musician friend of mine came to stay with us. He immediately fell in love with the City, which is understandable, but also, his time in the City had been all crazy, not-even-a-little-bit normal experiences that made New York seem like some magical dreamscape and not … well, whatever it is when it’s not a magical dreamscape. 

Then one night he was mugged on the 1-train. He was so sad and surprised when he told us about it. My sister and I, while happy he hadn’t been physically harmed, also hoped being robbed would help him see that New York wasn’t exactly or at least not only a wonderland, help him see that he needed to approach living here with more caution or awareness or something other than the drugged haze he wandered around in.

Several days later, the three of us were on the 1-train around two in the morning, headed home after a party. A growlingly-angry man got on at 137th and stalked through the car. He spotted us and came up quickly, stopped in front of Karel and extended his hand for a shake. When Karel took his hand, all the anger fell off the guy’s face. He looked sheepish and sad, like a kid who’s been caught in a lie. He apologized to Karel for mugging him, said he hoped Karel was okay, said he’d been in “a really bad place” that night and he wished Karel could understand and forgive him.

Of course Karel forgave him. I mean, you would have, too. Really. He was that penitent. Even today I’m not jaded enough to begrudge the pureness of that moment. At the time, however, I was also frustrated. That apology hurtled Karel right back to his rose-colored perception of the City. The mugging had sobered him a little, but that impossible apology washed the bad taste out of his mouth and flipped New York back to being the shining city on a hill. 


And so here, in our dreamy, magical, tarnished hellscape of a city. Where every subway encounter requires some kind of rapid-fire calculus, the result of which could leave you just about anywhere. You pays your money, you takes your chance. Stand clear of the closing doors.

It’s the 16th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
and see what the rest of this year’s slicers are up to!

Original Slicer - GirlGriot

In 2017, I took up Vanessa Mártir’s #52essays2017 challenge to write an essay a week. I didn’t complete 52 essays by year’s end, but I did write like crazy, more in 2017 than in 2015 and 2016 combined! I’ve kept working on personal essays, kept at my #GriotGrind. If you’d care to join, it’s never too late! Find the group on FB: #52Essays Next Wave.

A Little Shock

As I sat on the end of a bench waiting for my subway to work yesterday, I heard someone coming down the platform coughing loudly and wetly (yes, that sound is definitely on my “least favorite” list, especially since the coming of Covid). I glanced back and saw an unmasked man (of course unmasked) pushing a shopping cart full of trash. He was white and a little rough looking – disheveled, hair all over, mumbling to himself.

He stopped beside the bench, almost parallel to me, and turned to look at me. After a few seconds, he resumed his walk down the platform with his cart. As he passed me, he muttered, “Nasty dreads. Need to cut ’em off, burn them, burn them all off.”

Folks who read my woefully-occasional posts may remember a troubling one from last year about an angry and disturbed Black man at my station who took an instant, enraged dislike to me. He, too, spat out some hate as he walked past me. In that case, it was very obviously directed at me. In the case of this morning’s ugliness, it’s certainly possible the man on the platform yesterday was simply opining in a general way, continuing aloud a conversation he’d been running in his head about the merits or not of locs. I mean, it’s possible, but fairly unlikely. And, as I was the only person near him and the only Black person with kinky hair done in twists and the person he had so pointedly turned to look at, it was pretty clear his comment was a response to me, was meant for me to hear.

Let’s set aside the sad fact that I’ve never gotten my act far enough together to grow locs. I accept that many people don’t really know what locs are and can’t see that my two-strand twists are definitely only two-strand twists and not locs. Let’s also move past the fact that no one should be saying “dreadlocks.” In this man’s case, given his obvious distaste, he’d be exactly a person who’d say dreads instead of loss.

So, setting all that aside … what the actual fuck? Hating a hairstyle is one thing. Wishing to see hair cut off is admittedly a lot and pretty disgusting. Wanting to burn off someone’s hair? That’s about 78 levels beyond.

In that post about the other Stacie-hating man on the train platform, I talked about my Spidey senses, about how I’ve learned to trust my fear, trust my sense of danger. I didn’t have as much fear of the man I saw yesterday as I did of the man in the first situation, but I had enough fear, enough that I knew not to pretend I was safe near him, knew to keep close watch on where he moved on the platform. Which is why I noticed that he came off the train at the same transfer point I did, why I made sure to position myself away from the platform edge in case he felt inspired to push me to the tracks.

In 2014 I was in San Francisco. It wasn’t my first trip, but it was the first time I was pushed to be aware of the outsize number of angry, unwell people who seemed at all times to walk a tightrope between keeping things together and exploding with violent rage. I’ve lived most of my life in New York City, often in neighborhoods that are considered sketchy, and I’ve never felt as constantly close to danger as I did on that trip.

And no, I don’t feel constantly close to danger in my city today, but the fact that I ever feel close to danger here is new and entirely unacceptable. The fact that, since midway through the second phase of the pandemic, I have had that feeling again and again is new and entirely, unsettlingly unacceptable.

Nothing happened yesterday. The man wheeled his cart past me and on toward the elevator. My connecting train came immediately and drove me away from him. Done and done. But I am still unsettled.

Still unsettled, feeling as though something has been stolen from me, that my city isn’t as much mine as it has been all these years.


After work, I stopped at the grocery store on my way home. I opted for a person rather than the self-checkout, and the cashier was a young-young man. When I handed him my customer card, our fingers touched and we got a shock. We both flinched back from it. I apologized and we laughed … and the checker from the next aisle said when she was a kid, girls believed that getting a shock from a boy meant he would be your husband one day. (Was that ever a thing when you were a kid? Definitely wasn’t for me. What a wacky portent to attach to static!)

My cashier looked aghast (the first time I’ve wanted to use that word to describe someone’s expression). I told him not to worry, that I was old enough to be his grandmother, so not at all interested in marrying him. The woman cashier laughed, and I added: “If you need a granny to knit you a sweater, though, I’m the one.”

The look on my cashier’s face! His eyes widened and softened and he looked about ten years old, looked like a boy who needed and really wanted a granny who would knit him sweaters. My heart melted. It was all I could do not to actually offer to knit for him. I smiled, paid for my yogurt and veggies and took my mushy-hearted self home. A much better random encounter to end my day than the one that started it.

When I wrote the first part of this essay, I was going to title it, “Burn Them All Off.” But then I had that little shock at Foodtown, that reminder that the city is still mine most of the time, that there is danger but there is also light and sweet-faced young people who want to be cherished by their elders. It doesn’t erase the morning’s unpleasantness, doesn’t erase the reality that my world has changed and I need to be more wary than I’ve ever needed to be in my life. But I welcome the spoonful of sugar.

In 2017, I took up Vanessa Mártir’s #52essays2017 challenge to write an essay a week. I didn’t complete 52 essays by year’s end, but I did write like crazy, more in 2017 than in 2015 and 2016 combined! I’ve kept working on personal essays, kept at my #GriotGrind. If you’d care to join, it’s never too late! Find the group on FB: #52Essays Next Wave.

To pause before, between … a musical interlude is needed

There’s a beautiful, melancholy Johnny Mercer song about the end of October and the memories that time of year calls up. “When October Goes” is one of my favorite sad-and-lovely songs. I kind of want one for the end of November, too. This moment just before December catapults us into the big year-ending flourish of Christmas and the new year, this limbo when I’m in the emotional sugar crash of coming home from a holiday with my family … it needs some kind of wistful, musical pause. I need some hand-holding into the wild ride that’s about to start.

Years ago during a family vacation to Dublin, my mother, sister, and I took a day trip a couple hours out of the city. The tour company we chose had drivers who were known for singing on the trips. We didn’t know that until it happened, and I’m glad we didn’t. If I’d heard anything about singing drivers, I’d for-sure have chosen another tour company … and I’d have missed one of my favorite experiences from that excellent trip.

On our ride back into the city, our lovely driver, Jimmy Doyle (yes, really), began to sing “Dublin in the Rare Oul Times.” His voice was low and mournful, and it so fit both the song and our moods as we watched the countryside go past after a long touring day. We weren’t melancholy exactly, but we were, too. Our trip was almost over, everything was beautiful and would soon be left behind and so yes, a pretty, melancholy serenade from a gruff bus driver with a gorgeous voice was beyond perfect.

That’s what I want to draw things to a close before I start playing all my Christmas music. Because yes, I have lots of holiday songs I can’t wait to start singing. I have an advent calendar from Diamine Ink that I can’t wait to start opening (can’t wait!). I have Christmas cookies to bake and swap. I have presents to wrap. I’m not trying to sink into any kind of melancholia, but I want to honor this, this little moment in between. I want Jimmy Doyle singing me from one space into the next.

Ring a ring a rosie as the light declines / I remember Dublin city in the rare oul times.

Standard Operating Procedure

I had shoulder surgery two weeks ago. Today I went to get my stitches out. It’s a simple thing, really, but important. The PA who took them out was a nice young man who was chatty and had a good bedside manner. He did a great job: careful, caring, gentle. All of that should go without saying, right? Except that it doesn’t. I’ve had PAs rip out my stitches as if they were tearing threads from an old sofa, not dealing with a sentient being. It takes so little — so very little — to treat others with care. And yet it seems to get harder every day.

I told Nick — the PA — what a great job he was doing, and he seemed genuinely surprised that I would have had any experience different from the one I was having with him. And that’s as it should be. If your SOP is to treat others kindly and compassionately, you can’t imagine any other way of treating people.

I’ve had some decidedly unpleasant written communications with people lately. Okay, with one person in particular. This person started our friction with an insulting email chock full of misogynoir. At the time, I decided not to stoop to their level in my response, and it seems that decision has invited them to continue to write to me from a place of disrespect and pettiness. Swell.

Unlike PA Nick, this colleague doesn’t have a baseline behavior of treating other people with kindness and compassion. They use all the right words, the words we expect to hear in “brave space,” “safe space,” “inclusive” spaces. Meanwhile, their default response mode is to lash out first and then slip back into friendly SJW language, attempting to gaslight others into thinking they’ve imagined the rudeness. Except the rudeness is in print. It takes but a moment to go back and check, to confirm that the obnoxious comments you thought you’d read were truly the obnoxious comments you’d read.

I am slowly regaining the use of my arm, and Nick’s gentle stitch removal is a nice part of my move forward. I don’t feel as though I’m regaining my ability to be in cordial conversation with this email-writing colleague, however. I thought I was, thought I’d made clear that rudeness and disrespect weren’t acceptable. The message didn’t land. Now all I want is to slap this person upside the head, something I know I can’t do (and know that I wouldn’t do, even it were an acceptable response and they were standing in front of me right this minute).

What I need to do is remember. I need to remember how long it took to come back from this surgery when I had it done on my left shoulder … and that wasn’t even my dominant arm and hand!

I need to remember how to move slowly and carefully. And that’s what I need to do with this colleague, too. Slow and careful feels frustrating when I want to be quick, venomous, razor sharp. But patience is what wins here. I had to start working my arm with no weight, and then with the one-pound weight, and then with two pounds. It was painstakingly slow, just like Nick’s painstaking care removing my stitches this morning. Fast and sharp would not have been my friends then, and they won’t be my friends as I draft my response. I need just as much care in my writing as Nick used on my shoulder. So much care that, when he ran into some trouble and said, “I need to get a scalpel,” I didn’t freak out because I knew he would continue to work slowly, carefully, and gently.

I don’t feel a pressing need to be gentle with this colleague. The slow and careful is for me, not for them. Slow and careful means I can get through to the other side knowing I did my absolute best and put thought into my words, not disgust and anger. It’s all for me, for taking care of myself.

We’ll see how I do.

It’s the 15th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
and see what the rest of this year’s slicers are up to!

Original Slicer - GirlGriot