There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
We ache to know our own unknowable value.
…I can picture you getting on the floor, eye level with them as toddlers…
It’s the kind of fortitude and okayness that come only from soaking up the outpouring from a ripped open heart.
Love is a mess of romance and compassion. Compassion can remain.
Therapeutic tunnels promising greener grass succeed when they dump us back on the brown patch where we began.