“I’m still in postpartum clothes, stained and stretched. I’m still wearing my hair whichever way is easiest, messy and practical. I’m still anchored at home, under him and on top of nothing.”

“I’m still in postpartum clothes, stained and stretched. I’m still wearing my hair whichever way is easiest, messy and practical. I’m still anchored at home, under him and on top of nothing.”
“She asked us to be Elijah’s parents over a meal. I was scared but determined as I wrote my cell number down on a scrap piece of paper and pushed it across the wooden table.”
“A week before their flight, the worst happened. ‘How am I going to tell them?’ I didn’t feel him moving.”
“I had a massive panic attack while feeding him. His latch pierced me with pain. I had nightly terrors one or both of us were left dead on the hospital table. My doctor asked, ‘How are you doing?’ I just cried.”
“’Are they trying to turn us off to being foster parents?’ My anxiety was through the roof. The judge made eye contact with us both. ‘Wow.’ We could not hold back our tears.”
“My friend encouraged me to make a dating profile. ‘Find 3 guys you feel a connection with, give 2 your number, and go on a date with 1… ‘ I found myself driving towards Applebee’s, my heart racing. I just wanted to get ‘this’ going or over with, then my phone rings. ‘Ashton – Cute Tinder Guy’ flashes across my phone screen. Time and my breathing stop.”
“He will be the last thing on your mind when you go to bed Saturday night, and the very first thing on your mind when you wake up Sunday morning.”
“I waited until I heard my dad come home to sleep. I took off his shoes after he passed out on the couch and put my finger under his nose to check his breathing. I learned to love his scent—grass, sweat, and booze.”
“After my tonsils were removed, my mom woke me up to check on my throat and give me some water. I was completely unresponsive. They didn’t know if I’d be able to breathe, talk, walk, or think ever again.”
“It looks like feeding your baby on the couch for an hour and leaving a dent in the cushions when you leave, if you leave. It looks like ignoring the mess around you and somehow always making more. It looks like constantly being poo’d and spewed on. You may not feel alive right now, but you are keeping someone else alive.”