In the Dalmatian hinterland village where I was born, there was no word for "fun." There were words for work. For bread. For grit. For silence. There were even words for hunger and sorrow. But not for joy without purpose.

Losing my mother to Alzheimer’s disease feels like my teeth are being yanked out slowly, painfully, one by one. Our favorite things to do together wither away along with her brain cells. I try to cook with her, but her culinary skills have dwindled to putting the pickled beets on a relish tray. 

I was 36 and feeling perfectly fine about my post-baby body the first time a saleslady suggested I invest in Spanx.

I was driving to an appointment with my periodontist when I glanced down at the gas gauge and discovered the tank was almost empty. I panicked. As a newcomer to driving, I had zero idea how to “gas up.”  Just learning how to go down the road without killing myself or someone else was in itself a major accomplishment. 

There is a feeling I get when I travel alone. The moment I get to my destination—a hotel or Airbnb—when I walk in the room, roll my suitcase into a corner, and close the door, it hits me. I am hopeful on every trip that I won’t feel it this time, but I always do. My chest and stomach get tight. I can’t catch a full breath. There is a sense of dread and impending doom. And emptiness so loud one might think it is the thing I’ve come to visit. As if it lives right there in that room and has been waiting for me since the last time we saw each other.