These words by Joan Didion summed up my twenties, but they also capture the predicament of my current midlife crisis. By Elizabeth Newdom
I arrive at the office. I mime professional. Am I a professional? For months my identity was pure and unquestioned: mother of an infant. By Janelle Ward
We asked, you answered. In three words.
The mental space freed up by not giving a shit? It’s delicious. By Sophfronia Scott
Our married life was no longer comfortable. There was no indulgence, no whispered promises of sweet dessert. By Hannah Grieco
“Oh, relax,” he says, ruffling my daughter’s wispy blonde hair. “We’re just playing.” By Lisa Norgren
My son’s teacher said he needed the gift of time. She was right.
By Jessica Smock