Slice of Life: I Speak Trauma

Trauma is the language I speak best. I didn’t know any of its vocabulary when my son came to me three and a half years ago. He spoke to me in his language, and I spoke to him in mine. His words sounded like the words of an Amharic native speaker learning English, but they…

Slice of Life: Taking Pictures While Traveling

I have never liked to take photos when I travel. I think that’s because there’s always such a disconnect for me between what I remember from a trip—a sharp-dressed man wearing red sneakers, a pile of stones on the beach, a latte with an especially elaborate swirl—and what I think I’m supposed to remember from…

Stuck: A Parenting Slice of Life

He is stuck. Every day, we have a breakthrough. But by the next morning, he is back in the same place. His morning hug may be warm enough, but by the time he sits at the table for breakfast, the fog has settled over him. He’s back in it. Whatever it is. Wherever he is…