Raising Mothers published a piece I wrote exploring my choices about speaking Arabic in a racially charged society. I wrote this piece because it crunches my heart. It’s publication came in time with an Islamophobic attack on a friend of mine right here in my town which is to say, it may seem like things have calmed down when it comes to open-faced aggression against Muslims and Arabs. It hasn’t. It has just slid under the cover of normalcy. I hope you’ll head over and read the rest of my story. Maybe
It’s always a little scary to write about my journey with mental illness. Stigma Fighters invited me to write a piece for them after reading my description of what anxiety feels like. I have long enjoyed Stigma Fighters and the work they do, so I was happy to put a piece together. I hope this resonates with some of you. A big part of ending stigma is discovering we are not alone. I’m anxious all over. You can’t know me without seeing it. You don’t really need to know me to see
I want to tell you how hard it is to know why I am this way. How hard it is to self-advocate. Admit I need to walk away. Tell you why I am this way. Tell you I am this way. Tell you I am triggered, or having a panic attack, a flashback, or any other trauma response.
My children struggle to fall asleep. We have followed every lead when it comes to creating a relaxing bedtime routine. For weeks, this included my husband and I handing over our iPhones so our sons could listen to guided meditations. We would then creep back in their rooms to retrieve our handheld devices. This led to many jokes about iPhone fairies and even more stress because neither Nathan nor I can be categorized as stealthy. There was always the possibility we would wake the boys back up. When I heard
I can’t tell you how excited I am to have my work included in the empowering collection Jennifer Pastilloff has put together on The Manifest-Station. The voices there are compelling, brave and unerringly honest. To have my work accepted is a BFG (big freakin’ deal), especially considering this letter is a list–a form not often selected. It is incredibly rewarding to find my piece in such a far-reaching forum. I hope you’ll hop on over and read. “The Letter No One Wrote My Mother” is the piece that brought me
“You’re the last person in the world anyone would talk to about a problem. You know that. I know that.” Susie pushed her upper body away from the floor by leaning on her elbows. She picked various pieces of dirt and lint off the floor. “I know.” Susie’s mother harrumphed and slumped down, preparing herself for the inevitable depression that would result from an adult chat with her daughter. Susie’s mother strongly resented the way Susie tried to coach her in parenting. Susie didn’t even have any children! Susie steeled
Dinner was a shocking success. No tears over spills or claims that you are the worst mom ever because you prepared something nasty. That they would vomit right there if they had to take even one eensy bite. No. They swarmed the table like locusts, eating everything and asking for more. And when it was done, truly done, the serving dishes bare, they sprang from the table and pattered away like a sudden Summer rain. You sit alone. There are only the remnants on plates: small bits of rice and
Most of my work ends up frozen forever in the limbo just before the final draft. I never seem to take that step of polishing a piece until it shines, all its complications in place for the reader’s pleasure. I have a fear of commitment. If the story is done, the time has come to send it out to people who are not my friends, from whom honesty is not so easy to accept. I have several writing goals this year. Among them is actually submitting my work. I don’t