Eventually, carrying around the weight of the world took its toll on my back. Apparently it has something to do with parentification, years of public service, a pandemic and perimenopause.

I don’t actually care what caused the pain. At this point, I just want it to stop, for all of us.

You’re hurting. I hear about it every day. You’re scared, angry, lonely, worried, hungry, grieving, tired. Each story is different but the unmet need is all the same. We long for the reassuring comfort of unconditional, endless love.

Just like most of us, too much heavy stuff was slung around my neck when my body, mind and soul were too little to handle it. I know you can relate because you tell me every day in a hundred different ways.

Some of us get actual scoliosis. We’re anxious, angry, sad, sociopathic, suicidal, schizophrenic, hypervigilent, neurotic…pick a label. They all mean the same thing. We were separated from love and left with fear.

In every fairy tale, the good and perfect mother dies, usually on the first page. Dumbo, Bambi, Cinderella, Rapunzel, The Little Mermaid, Peter Pan, Psycho…ok, so that last one wasn’t a fairy tale but Norman’s mom was dead and he was clearly on the struggle bus.

The point is, why do we expect human women to be these angelic, all wonderful, all giving, all nurturing, endless fountains of selfless, thankless devotion to their kids?

I’m not out here defending child abuse. But I am wondering, at what point do we become responsible for crawling out of the fetal position?

There’s no doubt, western capitalism doesn’t make it easy. We live in an oppressive caste system that pits us against ourselves and each other. Rich folks are raised by the help so the help don’t have the time or money to raise their own kids. Who do we go after? Half of us wage war on ourselves while the other half wage war on everybody else. Is it really rocket science?

Anyway. I wrote a book with some theories on all this. Threw in some big words about intergenerational trauma, healing and divine Providence. The fact is, I don’t know who, why or what anymore than you do.

Yes, our lives are all fucked in the wake of wounded parents so we mourn who we might’ve been if only we’d had x, why or See.

I’m not the answer. All I do know is, at some point, in one of these lifetimes, we finally decide to hike through the dark as unarmed, motherless children determined to make the screaming stop.

Sweet dreams pumpkin muffins.

Here’s a little lullaby to rock yourself to sleep:

It’s been a wild time since I left Bend. I told you eventually I’d have thoughts and feelings again. Slow processor. I dream about her every night. It’s not that I still want to live there, just that I miss the stability of familiar places. All the rest is haunted. I miss the river trail, lodgepole pines, the skyline, sky liners, sound bath yoga, bikes, lies, Whole Foods, nature’s, crossing Portland to mirror pond and the salmon at Newport market. I miss everything that never was, Bub’s ghost and Bennie’s bark. I miss Mochi and Momo, cafe Sinatra and that stale, cold toast, snippets from the hull, bubble tea, vanilla, The Old Mill, golden hour, Milk, Bond and Wall Streets. Sometimes I miss you. Sometimes I miss me.