The male species was always mythical to me as a child. My dad was a loving presence, but largely silent: a creature entirely foreign to the category I assigned to myself, my sister, my school friends (all girls), and my mom. I didn’t have brothers, and my family was very puritanical in word and deed, so—unlike my own daughter who lives sans curiosity about the bodies and being-ness of the opposite sex, owing to the fact that she has a twin brother and parents with forthright answers to her questions and a penchant for sauna-ing naked in the backyard—I was totally clueless.

I fixated early and often on the objects of my affection. I had a new crush every year from ages 5-28. By middle school I was getting my hands on the teeny-bopper magazines featuring the likes of J.T.T. and Jonathan Brandis. I watched them onscreen, pasted them on my walls, fantasized about squishing my body and lips into theirs, like the people on the soap operas my babysitter watched. Once, when I was ten, the teachers at my after-school program pulled my mother aside to alert her of their concern that I had used cutouts of boys from Big Bopper to create my own little magazine (entitled The Boy Book), in which I had compiled all my favorite tween lust objects, along with factoids like their hometown and favorite color. Mom was not bothered, and, in fact, continued indulging me by allowing me to buy these mags at the supermarket.

Around middle school, the “P” volume of my family’s World Book Encyclopedia was the most worn in our collection, as my friends and I often pulled it off the shelf in my living room, clinically studying the male reproductive system.

I had my first kiss the summer after seventh grade, and, as my diary attests, the boy took my hand and guided it into his bulging lap, which only further deepened my fascination. I had my first serious boyfriend at 13, and we dated until we were 18, with many interludes of other boys in between. I had to know what they were about, all the way down to the bones. This was my sociological research. And so came the string of long-term boyfriends, each an equal and opposite reaction to the one that came before. And the pendulum swung, but the intensity of my fervor did not.

I was committed to penetrating the fortress of masculinity, and I needed to experiment with all types. I knew I was on the right track to solving the mystery that had been sold to me in various forms since I was born: that a man was all I needed to make me whole! A man held the key to health, wealth, and happiness! I just had to find the right one…or maybe the right combination of multiple different ones…

As an emerging adult, I began to notice that shockingly few of my female counterparts were ever this preoccupied with the male half of the population. I had been too high on pheromones to even consider that there was another way to be. But, now that my eyes were opened, I took a look around at my life and realized, as any addict might, that my life had become unmanageable. This occurred while I was trying to balance two distinctly diverse men that I knew were not for me, and then met and connected with a third man who I thought could be a wonderful partner…but didn’t know what to text him back. He’d think I was crazy if I told him the truth of my situation. And maybe I was.1

It was almost as if—but no.

Almost like maybe I was running from getting to know…no, couldn’t be.

But perhaps, I thought, if I took a break from it all, I could get some clarity.

So I did. At 28, I took a sabbatical from my research, and I consciously decided to de-center men for the first time in my life.

It was painful at first. It was a new way of living, and it taught me a lot about myself, which, in turn, taught me a lot about men. First I learned what men are not. They are not sculptural playthings to be stored on a pedestal and worshipped when not in use, not the missing piece to “complete” me with romantic salvation, not a species that is stronger or more “reasonable” than mine.

And as it turned out, I had been using them all along. All those years of obsession, of “love,” was (yes, of course it was!) actually just me evading the rabbit hole of my own inner space.

Changing the Mythology

My real insight into the complexities of men came only after I stopped using my desire for them as proof of aliveness, and paused to explore who I was without them. During my self-imposed chastity, I cultivated a skill of asking myself the hard questions, of facing the parts of me that I never wanted to believe existed.

This bitch was actually way more interesting than I had thought. And my ability to go deep and work on accepting all that I found was a skill I was eventually able to extend to others. So the next relationship I had was, in fact, the one I’m still in.

It’s interesting to me to listen to this song, because I had started writing it as an ode to that third man who became my beloved (whose name means “ocean), but as I evolved, so did the song, and it actually turned into an ode to finding my spark instead. (Kai is still part of that, of course.)

What I’m saying is, I’ve changed the mythology. And, as the protagonist in my own story, men have become more precious and interesting to me than they ever were as lust objects or white knights.

For one, I am now raising a little boy of my own. My son has many hallmarks of “man”: he processes everything by getting physical, he has amazing spatial awareness, he is very competitive. But what I didn’t expect was the sensitivity and the sweetness: he is so much more emotionally affected by the world than his twin sister. And his natural inclination is simply to love everyone. I have never met a person so demonstrative of affection, with his family, friends, and even new people. It occurs to me that maybe a great number of the most impenetrable, angry, or violent men I’ve known might have started out like him, too, before they were taught to deny themselves and build walls.

My husband is a case in point. He and our son are so much alike, but I’d never have known that without the past 13 years of witnessing him learn who he really is. So much of his goodness and softness were buried even from himself, and the fact that I’ve stayed to see it uncovered is one of the greatest (and most hard-won) gifts I’ve given myself. It allows me to see all men in a different light.

I so appreciate the friendships I can have without all that baggage. My bandmates, for instance, have been my creative partners for five years, and what I love about them has nothing to do with what I used to seek from men. I don’t care if they think I’m hot, or corny, or bossy. I don’t need to perform around them unless we’re on stage. Together, we’re all just people, with a love for music, a text thread full of terrible jokes, and stories that would make your hair curl.

City of Men

Once a tourist in the city of men,
I walked the neighborhoods,
appraising the architecture.

Called by a construction,
I’d slip past the facade
and light up
each button on the elevator, seeking
stomach drop. Short-circuited,
I’d run up the stairs
to find every chamber
laid out
the same.
I’d twist the knobs,
get wet,
use up all the hot, and
turn it off,
run down.

Circling blocks through the years
I closed in,
under-stood the character
I could make out
the forms and shadows:
behind each pane,
a myth,
always moving.

How beautiful, then
to see them standing tall
knowing as I do
of the delicate wires
bearing loads, conducting flows.
I find myself
open-mouthed
at the persistent heart
beneath the firm gables.

I cannot, knowing this exists,
resist the ridges
between the warm bricks,
the bricks
stacked and fixed
with tenderness,
unyielding to the touch,
but still
porous.
I tremble for that texture:
I bristle at those opposing
forces, me:
I have found a place among them,
moved
in. I’ve decorated,
until there is no room
untouched by color.
I’ve lit the fires,
flavored the air with savory scents and music.
I broke some things by accident,
and paid.

I still
do not own,
but it is open to me,
and here
I stay.

All of the events that made up my life felt like a show I was contracted to participate in, and the various parts of me engaged in their own ways. One part watched the whole show from the balcony. One was onstage, performing. One was in the mosh pit, getting slammed around in a slightly enjoyable ordered chaos. One left the venue every now and then to smoke weed in the alley.

The main event was my mom. She was dying and there was nothing I could do about it but exist, under the weight of this heavy acceptance.

Then there was this band I was in, on a tour we had planned all year. We traveled down the coast playing music as scratchy and whimsical as the tutus I wore on stage. My mom had told me to go, but the lightness I felt making jokes with the boys, howling my truths into a microphone, felt like guilt when I zoomed out.

I felt the wind rushing past the open windows. I laughed through tears as I saw the signs in yellow up ahead: YOUTH ENDING, PLEASE MERGE.

There was a magic taking place, rearranging all I thought I knew. In my mind, there was a timeline, and the portal, with its own gravity, was centered directly on my 40th birthday, though its effects tapered like a hallucinatory fog so that they could be felt for years on either side.

The week before my 40th birthday, my twins turned seven. As if that situation didn’t already seem impossible enough (weren’t they just babies?), I found myself baking them a cake in the kitchen of a daggone yacht, sailing around the British Virgin Islands. I had never thought I’d be living out such a lush scenario at this point in life, and yet the magic insisted (in the form of an invitation from good friends). I did not tell my ailing momma that we were going; she was always a prodigious worrier and would surely fixate on scenarios of drowning grandchildren. My concern was that she wouldn’t make it until I got back, and I wondered if I should stay on the mainland.

I didn’t.

In the turquoise water, I reached a new understanding of freedom. I saw new possibilities, worlds just as real as the one I’d known: colorful life that had always undulated beneath the surface, hidden to me until I snorkeled into a cave with my daughter.

“Spaghettification” is what they call it when a tidal force stretches you into an unrecognizable string of atoms.

This spaghettified new version of me sent my mom a message when we got back home, a few days before my 40th, with pictures from the trip. I wished I could call her; I missed her sweet voice. But she couldn’t talk on the phone, could only type replies on a screen with her shaky fingers. I’m glad you didn’t tell me until you got back, she typed. Then: The pictures are great, love that you had fun. Right now I am not doing good.

My birthday arrived, one week before hers. I felt the singularity, pulling with a force that made me quake. My sister called, crying. It wouldn’t be long now. She put the phone up to my mom’s ear and I sang to her. With my voice quavering, I sang “I’ll Fly Away” because that was one of her favorite songs. I imagined her lying there, eyes closed, breathing shallow, with my sister sobbing as she held the phone. I told her how much I loved her and hoped she could hear me. I told her that what came next was going to be so beautiful. There are worlds out there we can’t imagine until we arrive.

Then, she was gone.

A silence settled around me. My tours and my frolics were over, though my eyes were still convinced that the horizon was wobbling. Nothing moved, and yet I stumbled every time I tried to plant my feet on the floor.

I couldn’t see straight and yet here I was, the newly-appointed Boss. The Matriarch. The Bottom Line. No man cometh unto the father but by me. Gone was the plush buffer that had always caught and softened my cries. The sound would now echo on and on into the vast expanse of space, where I floated alone.

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Two years later, I am still unmoored, unsure of what I am becoming, and often in disbelief (not always unpleasant) at what my life looks like. There was a time I thought I’d land somewhere, get comfortable like I was before (Or—wait…was I comfortable before? Didn’t I once know who I was, at least?), but I don’t think so. What I find is that I continue to float. The scenery keeps changing and I adapt to suit it. Maybe at some point I’ll figure out all the stops I want to make and grab the wheel.

But for now, the liminal space is a place in itself, and I am here. Here’s a song about it. (A work in progress as usual, and this is called “Get Born.”)

I have about 11 half-finished drafts here waiting for me, but nothing seems urgent. Everything has been said or done.

I am bored with my old stories (I lived them already), and I have not had the drive to share whatever transformation is going on inside me at the moment because it is not tidy, not topical, and probably not palatable for human consumption.

“Well it’s hard to make art when x is going on in the world!” you demur. Well, that’s nice of you to say, but I’m not that noble. I don’t watch the news. I assure you I’m not depressed, not struggling to survive, and only marginally stymied by politics, war, and injustice.

Nope, I am in a privileged era of life right now, which I have been painstakingly curating with each new choice, each skin I shed, each step toward something that makes me feel good. And I do feel good most of the time. I went on a solo surf trip to Nicaragua in February, something I had been waiting to do for a decade, and felt like the New Me was cemented by the time I returned. My husband had installed a sauna in our backyard, so I now spend a half hour every day sweating out the demons with the smell of cedar in my nose hairs. I find myself now totally in love with that man, an emotionally supportive engineer and playful dad with a six-pack, who brings home the bacon and lays the pipe. My kids are angels who love to read Harry Potter on the couch with me and go on adventures. They bike home from school and we hang out 1970’s utopia-style with all the neighbors on our street many days a week. My bandmates and I recently got some new songs going, I designed some new merch, and this summer I get to open for one of my long-time idols. I have tons of different friend groups to choose from, and plenty of people to go deep with. I have built this life that I simply love existing in day to day. I feel free to be who I am and my nervous system has calmed down so much this year, and I am very content and grateful.

BUT IS THAT ENOUGH!?

Why do I still feel the low-grade thrum of “YOU SHOULD BE DOING SOMETHING IMPORTANT” vibrating beneath my feet? Why do I yearn to leave a mark on the world, even as I comfortably inhabit my place as Sisyphus of the Laundry Pile, constantly re-doing the same boring shit so that everyone in my house can smell good and eat well? Is a “purpose” really all it’s cracked up to be or is this just a lie I was sold in my youth?

External approval was once my drive, and I don’t know what to do with the fact that I don’t seem to care about that anymore. Without some tangible goal OUT THERE, how can I know that I exist?

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I don’t technically need anything. And I am raising two kids, participating in my community, substitute teaching a couple times a week. But something is missing, and I cannot decipher what. (Suggestions welcome.)

Ain’t I an ARTIST!? Why am I hoarding all the light instead of shining it on the disco ball of my mind and blasting that briliance into all corners of a world that could sorely, surely use it? I get tons of ideas (Write, direct, and act in a musical! Create a songwriting summer camp for tweens! Start that podcast! Lead a creativity workshop!) and I even plan some of them out. Some I work on for weeks, and then abandon them because they suddenly seem pointless and uninspiring. Just not the “thing I’m meant to be spending my time on.”

Is this the sophomore slump? Like after the scrappy indie band puts out their first record to great acclaim and then finds themselves in a plush hotel room with no “struggle” to write about? (And if so, what constitutes my freshman debut? The book no one read? The EP no one listened to? Am I bitter about not having a PR team to get my art out there? If the trees of my creativity fall in the forest and no one is there to get smashed by them, are they even worth planting?) Do I think that because I no longer have an external “struggle,” I have nothing more to say? Do I believe the artist version of me is better off eating clandestine bites of food off the plates of rich people I’m serving at some catering gig that pays me $10 an hour in between acting gigs? Wouldn’t I be happier spending my every spare moment feverishly stringing together metaphors like beads to wear around my neck so that people will say, “WOW! YOU IMPRESS ME! I LOVE YOUR CREATIONS! LOOK AT THOSE COLORFUL BEADS!”?

Or is it just that I’ve never belonged in this society where people are specialists and experts? Am I just sore because I’m one of the few at 41 who doesn’t have a “title”? Do I think life would be better if I was able to sum myself up in a sentence—“Hi, I’m Ginger and I’m a ____”—so that people would be able to nod and put me into the correct basket in their mind?

Am I in the process of letting go of that?

I don’t know, but I guess I’ll just start posting again and maybe with help, I’ll figure it out.

1. I’m going to post a recording of one of the songs I’m working on. The topic: my unreasonable desire to experience EVERYTHING, all the time.

2. After the song, I’m going in for a coaching session with my alter-ego, Ginjure. Ginjure is warm and funny but no-nonsense, self-identifying “badass bitch” who specializes in helping people with boundaries, creativity, and relationships.

The song

Here it is: “All or Nothing” in an early demo stage, as recorded and then video’d on my phone.

And now…Life-Coaching Myself:

Ginjure meets me outside, wearing her smiley-face sweater and a trucker hat, looking like she does not give a FUCK! The sun is FINALLY shining, and she hugs me warmly. We take a walk as we drink some very expensive decaf coffee together because we are both proudly no longer addicted to caffeiene.

Ginjure: Hey girl! I enjoyed hearing about all your…yearnings in this song.

Me: Hey! Thanks. It’s just an early version. I’ve been keeping all these songs to myself for years because I haven’t done a “real” version of them yet and—

Issue #1: Impostor Syndrome

Ginjure: What’s a “real” version?

Me: You know, like…going into the studio and getting real musicians to bring it to life and a real producer to—

Ginjure: What’s a “real” musician? You’re not real?

Me: Uh. Well, I guess I’m real. I just can’t play well and sing at the same time, so a lot of times I feel like I don’t have the right to call myself a musician in the same way some people can.

G: But you write the songs, using instruments…

Me: Yes.

G: And do you ever perform?

Me: I do, with my band.

G: When you’re on stage, do you feel like an impostor?

Me: No, actually. I feel really confident performing. I even get to sign autographs sometimes! I feel like an impostor just…all the rest of the time. (laughs) Every time I have ever done anything, I always feel like I’m cheating, or like I’m not “really” doing it the way everyone else is. I’m not “real.” People are just letting me participate because they—I don’t know—don’t want to hurt my feelings?

G: So you write music, play instruments, and perform successfully…but you still don’t consider yourself a “real” musician? Who is a real musician?

Me: Like, Dave Grohl? B.B. King?

G: Okay, but the definition of a musician is “a person who makes music.” Vocalists count. You don’t think Mariah Carey is a musician?

Me: She definitely is. She has such amazing control over her voice.

G: Okay I have a question. Have you ever sung, played, and performed at the same time?

Me: …Yes.

G: So you can do it. Do you ever practice singing and playing at the same time?

Me: (laughs) Not much.

G: Would you say that if you did practice, this is a skill you could get comfortable with?

Me: Yes.

G: So why don’t you?

Me: I guess…it’s just not as interesting to me as writing and recording the songs? Or even performing the songs. Hm. Never really thought about that. I love the writing and recording process, but I do not love playing the same song over and over to nobody.

G: So, on a level, you don’t actually give a crap if you play and sing at the same time!? And yet, you are using this as an excuse not to feel like a real musician? Even though you check all the other boxes for being a musician?

Me: (laughs) Yes.

G: It strikes me, based on the lyrics of this song, that what you like is feeling a sense of freedom to do whatever you want. You talk about all these seemingly contradictory things that you want to do: you want to be in a mosh pit, but also meditating for hours. You want to be a mom, and also “out of your mind.” You want to travel, but also be comfortable at home.

Me: I am a dopamine-driven person, yes.

G: But there’s also something I sense about you needing to be perceived as “accomplished.”

Me: *looks around for the answer*

I guess at some point in my past, I started correlating my worth with external excellence and achievement. When I was young I was a big fish in a small pond, and I got used to being “the best” at a lot of things. Then when I moved to L.A., where there were so many people who were more talented, beautiful, smart, and accomplished, I felt like I had been deluded and I didn’t measure up.

I guess there are a plenty of people who would say I am a musician.

G: So even when you meet your own “external validation” quota, it sounds like you are allowing your mind to make up reasons why you aren’t qualified. Do you know…our minds’ number one job is to keep us safe. If you are trying to put yourself out there in any real way, you are opening yourself to rejection, and your brain does not like that. So it comes up with limiting beliefs to protect you from the inevitable truth that there will be people who don’t like you and it might hurt.

But you know what else your brain wants to do? It wants to find the answers to any question you ask. So what if, instead of letting it run wild with negative stories about you, you ask your mind to come up with reasons why you are qualified?

Me: Okay. I am a good songwriter. I can sing and perform well. I can play instruments and structure songs and create music out of nothing, just using a phone app.

G: That is something! Can you see that you have this musician part of yourself who wants to be seen and appreciated and nurtured by you…but you keep her down by telling her she’s not ready or not good enough to be seen?

Me: Yeah.

G: So she hides. Until you can rectify this, you’ll miss tons of opportunities because your mind won’t be open to them. You won’t allow yourself to go all out, or take risks in this area of life. You’re probably always going to be wondering if you should just quit.

Me: Hm. Yeah. I’ve thought that. I’ve let the“reasonable” 9-5 type people get in my head.

G: Whose voice is that?

Me: Huh?

G: It’s not your voice. Who’s voice from your past is the “reasonable” 9-5 person?

Me: Probably my parents to start out with. They definitely supported me doing all my arts and music, but they didn’t want to see me suffer when I couldn’t pay the bills or whatnot. Mom always wanted me to get a stable job as, like, a medical coder or something.

G: And have you ever had a job like that?

Me: (laughs) No. I had a 9-5 job one time for six months. Never again.

G: So there’s something in you that feels like you are betraying your parents, your best interests, and your safety if you follow your artistic dreams all the way.

Me: Yeah, and also there’s societal norms. I’m 41. I look around at my “peers” and there are very few of them who are still pursuing such “unnecessary” goals.

G: And do you want a life like theirs?

Me: Hell to the no.

G: Aight then. So you have to rectify this incongruency in your mind. You could a) become the best multi-instrumentalist in the world (which won’t address the root of the problem. You’ll find some other reason to think you’re unworthy). Or you could b) change your definition of what a “real” musician is and just fuckin’ see yourself as one.

Me: I will choose B. I have too many other things going on in my life to become a virtuoso right now, so I think I will just go ahead and concede that I am a real musician. I guess if I want to keep making music, it’s important that I see myself that way.

G: YES. I want you to write down on a note card “I am a musician who is always evolving in my own way,” and put it somewhere that you can see it every day. And I don’t want to hear you say anything else that contradicts that from now on! K? There is nothing wrong with mainly being interested in writing songs and performing them, with or without simultaneous instrument playing! Have you heard of backing tracks?

And now that that’s out of the way, let me also ask: what is the reason you “want to do it all?” Is it fear of missing out?

Me: Maybe. Not of missing out on what other people are doing, but perhaps missing out on my purpose on this Earth.

Issue #2: Life Purpose FOMO

G: Okay. Let’s think about this. Is it possible to miss out on one’s purpose on this earth?

Me: …No?

G: You don’t sound certain about this.

Me: Well, I’m not. I don’t want to live a subpar life. It’s so short, I want to make sure that I get what I came for, you know?

G: You certainly cram a lot in “at the same time,” according to the song. What do you do with your life right now?

Me: I’m a very involved mom of 8-year-old twins. I’m committed to keeping my relationship with my husband fresh and healthy. I write on Substack—usually memoir essays. There’s the music stuff. Songwriting, the band. And I value my health and wellness—lots of energy devoted to cooking, eating, and working out. Then, hobbies: I’ve brought back practicing piano and Spanish (two skills I had let lapse). I love to travel and stay active in my community and friend groups. I make extra money by substitute teaching. And I’m always feeling like I should be doing more, or making more money, or adding value to this world in a way that is—

G: Homie! That’s a lot. Are you okay?

Me: I…think so?

G: How do you decide what to do on a given day? Do you ever get overwhelmed?

Me: I usually make a list, and don’t fully stick to it. Yes, I do get overwhelmed. One time a few months ago, there were two consecutive weeks when I lost the plot: I forgot to pick up my son from karate, and then I lost my car keys. A good friend rescued me both times. I felt horrible.

G: That is rough. But what I am hearing relates to what we were talking about earlier. There is a piece here that relates to identity. Do you agree?

Me: Yes. I feel like I just realized eight years ago (when my twins were born) how short life is. I have all this creativity that needs to get out, and I’m afraid if I don’t do all these things, I will miss my chance to honor all the parts of myself that want to be expressed! I still do want to be a rock star! (laughs) I want to be an author! I want to be fluent in Spanish and going on surf trips to Nicaragua and, of course, my number one desire since I have the most amazing family in the world is to be present for them before all of this. Which is what I usually do.

G: And I bet you feel like you’re putting yourself on the back burner sometimes.

Me: Yeah.

G: But let me challenge you to look at it another way. You don’t have to choose between these identities. If you zoom out, you can see that all you have to choose between is a timeline, temporarily.

Me: How do you mean?

G: Well, your kids are eight. They still need you for a while, in a way that they won’t in a few years.

Me: Trust me, I’m well aware. That’s another internal struggle; actually changing my identity from being a caregiver first. But I’m in that transition. They are becoming more and more independent.

G: Yes, and that artist inside you that wants to create at a higher level is not going to disappear if you decide to just drop into being fully present for this stage of life.

Me: Hmm.

G: You can still keep the creative fire burning by doing what you can, but you’re going to need some interesting goals in a few years when your kids are truly independent. You don’t need to do it all right now like your life depends on it.

Me: I won’t be too old?

G: Ginger! Really?

Me: Well…

G: I know you, and you are not someone who subscribes to the limits of “the way things are done.” If you want to be a rock star at 50, I have full confidence you could make it happen. And if you want to publish that memoir at 60, you will certainly have a lot more experience and depth to make it good. If you want to write that memoir on the beach in Nicaragua after going surfing, you can. But for now, what if your purpose is just to be deeply present for this beautiful stage of your life?

Me: (takes a deep breath) Yeah.

G: Repeat after me: I haven’t missed my window.

Me: I haven’t missed my window.

G: My story isn’t over.

Me: My story isn’t over.

G: I am still becoming.

Me: I am still becoming. But how do I prioritize what I do on a daily basis?

G: I would invite you to let go of the idea that you have to be “working on” something “productive” for all your goals every single day. That is probably what led to the exhaustion and mental overload that made you forget your son and your keys.

Me: Yeah. That makes me feel like a failure.

G: Remember what I said earlier about zooming out? Let’s do that. And think more in terms of seasons or weeks.

Me: That really does ease my mind just to imagine that’s possible. I don’t know why I’m always riding myself so hard about being, like, a perfect Renaissance woman every day.

G: Yeah. So on a daily basis, you can start with the non-negotiables. What does it look like to actually be present for your kids? Protect that. Then, just choose one creative practice as a daily touchstone. Maybe it’s just journaling, or playing one song, or, if you want to practice your Spanish or whatnot for a half hour. The key is, it’s not about advancing yourself and making progress.

Me: It’s not?

G: No! It’s about just maintaining your identity as a creative person who can do these things and has free will.

Me: Hm.

G: And you can have bigger pursuits that are monthly or seasonal, like gigs with your band or whatever. But trust that everything unfolds in time as it’s meant to. And if you try to do it all at once, you won’t enjoy any of it.

I got the tattoo mainly because my husband had cancelled his tattoo appointment, and I didn’t want to lose the $100 deposit. But the timing could not have been more prescient.

It was an image that had been calling to me: Metatron’s Cube. 13 circles, connected at their centers by straight lines. Within the “sacred geometry” of those lines can be found every fundamental shape in the universe. And throughout the darkest night of my soul, (having mo ved to a dead town with twin toddlers in a pandemic, with an emotionally unavailable full-time-student husband, right after my father’s death), I’d seen that symbol everywhere. It reminded me that somehow this, too, would pass. It whispered wordlessly: everything is everything, and you are connected to it all.

So, in a bid to find my center (and not to lose $100), I had it branded on my forearm like a compass.

If it was a prayer, the universe heard my appeal.

In the span of one week, two events changed my life. First: I received news that my birth father was not, as I had long worried, a deadbeat loser tainting my DNA, but actually a loving, exhuberant, intelligent man who was no longer on this earth. But his mother and sister, my new family, were alive and well, and had just learned of my existence. Second: I met the bandmates who would accompany me on a wild rollercoaster of ups and downs for five years and counting, ushering in a new era of creativity and confidence in my life.

The constellation of circles was forming around me, and the lines were being drawn to connect us.

First Intersections

I’d been messaging with my grandmother. She had received her DNA results and saw for herself my name on her family tree. “I can’t believe I am a great-grandmother!” She gushed over photos of my twins, asked me about my life and career, and sent me photos from every era of her son Daryl’s life, photos of everyone in her (my!) family, and photos of her own travels, many of which I had already seen as I stalked her online.

“I dragged my husband Steve all over the world before he died in September, 2014!” she wrote. “I LOVE to travel!” And she was still traveling with her daughter Dacia—Fiji, Australia, New Zealand, Italy, England, Ireland, Scotland—with no plans to stop. Having grown up in a town whose theme song is “You’ll Never Leave Harlan Alive,” I took great comfort in knowing I possessed my grandmother’s spirit. These possibilities were now mine to claim: I could still be a curious explorer, even into my eighties.

My aunt Dacia quickly warmed up to the idea of her late brother having a long-lost lovechild, and when I heard her voice for the first time over the phone, I recognized myself at once. She had a strong laugh, a positive outlook, and a charming chutzpah that allowed her to speak as freely as she pleased. She told me about her life, her friends and husband and beloved wiener dogs, and how devastating it was when her brother died of an aneuyrism in 2015. There was no wall up between us, no frost in her warmth, no pause to cause me to wonder if I was enough for her.

Her brother had been just as hearty and loving, it seemed. “Everybody thought Daryl was their best friend,” Dacia told me. I began to learn that firsthand, as many of his old friends began sending me excited messages. More and more lines of connection tethered into my center, lifting me from the hole of my depression like rescue ropes.

Finding My Edges

Life transformed around me as I began learning more about myself. Suddenly I was more than just a sleepless mom of two spirited 3-year-olds, living companionless in a boring town. Now, every Wednesday at band practice, I was rediscovering myself as someone in my own right. After years of coffee-stained loungewear and nursing bras, I had a reason to experiment again with actual style. I unshackled my words from their journal prisons where they got a new life as song lyrics. The silence on the drive to San Francisco was divine; for a blessed hour-and-a-half, nobody was asking anything of me, and I could breathe. And then I cherished the noise the boys and I made in that apartment; the stupid jokes, the hoodie hugs, the free-flowing IPA, and the entourage of new friends that began to grow around us.

We took breaks on the chilly back stoop. My bandmates smoked, I bounced around to stay warm, and we traded personal sagas. Each week they’d listen to the new developments in my adoptee reconnaissance mission. For the first time since L.A., I remembered what belonging felt like.

Each of the new connections bolstered all the others. Beginning to understand who I was ancestrally gave me confidence to show up and sing the words I wrote. Being the frontwoman of a band made me a better mom and wife. I was able to smile through the drudgery of cleaning up messes and wiping butts because I remembered I was still wild and free, and I was grateful for a husband who supported my exploration.

New Shapes Emerge

One day, I got a call from Ray, a.k.a. Salty, my birth father’s actual best friend. A retired journalist and cartoonist, he spoke to me lovingly, “I feel like you’re my godchild. I knew your dad better than anyone.” He told me stories of Daryl, or Pesty as he was known to friends. “We had a nickname for everyone our area,” he laughed, and sent me a few cartoons telling stories of their hijinx. “He pulled jokes on everyone, from exploding golf balls, fake burning cigarettes on the floor, fake dog poop, and my favorite, the rubber rattlesnake he used to put next the golf cart, and hit it with a golf club to give people heart attacks!”

Salty and I talked a few more times in the following weeks. He asked me if I was double-jointed in my arms like Pesty (I am) and if I had plans to meet Cherrie and Dacia, who he was still in touch with (hopefully soon). He also wanted to meet me as soon as possible, “we’ve barely scratched the surface!” he said. “I’m so warmed by knowing you, I don’t have the words to say how I felt about your birth dad. He will always be part of me. He never met a stranger. It was him was who taught me to be gregarious. So many of my friendships are directly attributed to him. He was a good man.”

Connecting the Dots

Just a couple weeks into our virtual correspondence, Dacia’s husband Tim died. It was cancer. I mailed her a card and a windchime, a gesture that had comforted me when my dad had died. On the phone, she thanked me and told me that she was keeping busy, and that she was relieved that he wasn’t suffering anymore.

Salty heard the news and called me to say, “They need you now. They have so much love for you, the kids, all of it. There are no coincidences, this was predestined.”

I found plane tickets to Florida where my grandmother lives, and Dacia made plans to drive down from Tennessee so we could all meet. My husband was so excited for me. He would pick up the slack with the kids, just like he did when I was with the band.

One of my bandmates called to give me support. “This is such a big experience,” he said. “Feel free to call me if you need to talk while you’re gone.” But I didn’t need it. I was so excited to be leaving the grey winter pandemic of NorCal for the warm and lawless Florida beach.

The plane felt like a teleportation device into a new life. I wondered how many new experiences would henceforth include Cherrie and Dacia, or at least include thoughts of them, talk of them, communication with them.

The Center Holds

I pulled into my new grandmother’s driveway in my rental car, and out they came, two blondes, smiling and hugging.
“I can’t believe it.”
We were all around the same height, same blue eyes.
The twang of their voices was as familiar as my own mother’s. Our conversation sounded less like a first meeting and more like they were just welcoming me home after a trip.

“Come on in. You can put your stuff in the guest bedroom and Dacia will just sleep in here with me.”

Grandma’s townhouse was light and bright with fun little grandmotherly what-nots on the shelves. A sunny yellow wall, a cozy recliner with the current book she was reading, a puzzle she was working on. She made what I now know to be her lunch specialty: chicken salad with grapes, on a croissant with lettuce, and we sat around the table chatting as we ate.

It wasn’t long before we three were on the couch, pouring over photo albums. I learned about my grandmother’s siblings and her husband, my aunt’s story of getting married late in life, more tales of far-flung trips around the world. I saw a lock of my birth father’s hair, pictures he had drawn as a kid: monsters and creatures that reminded me of my own son’s art. Through pictures, I witnessed him and my aunt growing up. I saw his relationship with Dacia. I even got to listen to the last voicemail he had left his mom. He sounded so sweet. I downloaded his entire lifetime into my heart and felt so much closer to whole than ever before.

When I went to drop my things in the bedroom, I found they had left me at least seven little gift bags full of souvenir shirts and soaps and toys for the kids. We FaceTimed with Kai and the kids. The little ones were only three, and they said “I love you!” My grandma was beside herself.

Grandma Cherrie took me through her house, showing me every collector’s item and every corner. She gave me things: an old perfume bottle, a sun hat. She even gave me one of her rings to keep.

“I thought we’d go down to the drum circle at the beach tonight if you want,” she said. As a musical, hippie surfer, I had never been so delighted at an invitation.

We sat on camping chairs and drank fruity drinks from a cooler on the sand while the steady thump of the drums surrounded us along with a tribe of colorful people. The environment was exactly what I needed, and cemented what I knew: these were my people. A little girl dressed in light-up butterfly wings danced in the rosy sunset as the light blue water moved into infinity behind her.

When I had gotten my tattoo, I had felt the truth in it: simple elements connecting to create complex and beautiful patterns. But now I had evidence of what these intersecting lines could mean. I was, in my own story, one circle nestled in the center of a repeating pattern, connected and held on all sides.

But this was just the beginning. Within a year, these circles would expand in ways I couldn’t imagine—and contract in ways that would break my heart.

If you’d like to read the whole “Being Adopted” series, you can start here:

A relationship with a narcissist, in fact, is the creative gift that keeps on giving. I’ve written songs of all genres and emotional states on this topic—all of them a result of my brain trying to figure out what the hell just happened?? Because if you’ve ever gotten close to one of these people, you will end up feeling gaslit, blindsided, and insane. No amount of rationalizing and rewinding can give you clarity on what you did to deserve the way they treated you, what you could have done differently or should do now, why you ignored the red flags, why you thought you’d be treated better than everyone else in their life? But you can write songs about it.

This is a song1 (only in the demo stage) I wrote for one such person. There are many stages you go through when dealing with a narcissist, and the first is feeling compassion and thinking, “I can fix them!”

Now, I don’t, as a rule, like to diagnose people, because I do believe that each of us, myself included, can exhibit ugly tendencies that one might classify as “narcissistic.” And even those who check all the boxes aren’t necessarily malicious. A person I’d consider a Narcissist might not want to be a manipulative, hurtful shit-sack, but because they have not been able to heal their own trauma, they continue the pattern that places them into that Cluster B of personality disorders, signifying that this is a person who is quite incapable of getting close to someone, of loving someone in a healthy way.

A couple times in my life, I have gotten close to someone like this. It starts and ends the same way. You give him a chance because, even though he might not be who you’d typically hang out with, he has an undeniable magnetism. He creeps in the side door of your affections by making you feel like you’re the coolest person in any room, like you’re a kid again and the world is your oyster. This could be a lover or a friend—either way, you find yourself sharing all the deepest parts of yourself because you trust him. He shares his trauma stories with you, after all! Stories about his sad childhood and how it has led to him being a perfectionist, a dramatic diva, and an emotional and judgmental person. He admits to these things, so he couldn’t be a narcissist, right?

This person will start relying on you, asking you for small things at first: a ride, a listening ear. You’ll keep giving because it makes you happy to help him. You can see he’s wounded and it just makes you care about him more. He makes mistakes—sometimes mistakes that you think are kind of cruel and heartless. You watch him totally drop family members, partners, and mutual friends that he’s loved for years, with no explanation. He abruptly blocks these people from his life and even social media, completely ridding himself of these once-special people, and this gives you pause…but maybe something happened behind the scenes; how are you to know, and who are you to judge? He’d never do the same to you, because you are so forgiving! You are the one who will make him see his patterns. If he is doing this because he never got enough love in his childhood, you will show him the meaning of love and friendship, because you are special and have a spiritual gift of seeing beyond what most people are able to see, and forgiving what most people wouldn’t forgive.

That’s what inspired this song, Black Box. It’s the first song I wrote about my last narcissist, and it’s a song of forgiveness after he turned on me (the first time) and started hating everything about me and blaming me for things that were not even his business. “Dude, I was such an ass,” he said to me when he called to apologize after that first offense. The conversation lasted an hour, and of course I forgave him. “I don’t know what came over me; I even blocked you from Facebook. I’m so embarrassed.” I told him it was okay. And I wrote this song, which he didn’t deserve.

I had thought I was ready for the full-uproot of my 11 years in Santa Monica: ready to live in an actual house where my family could spread out. But September 2020 was the worst time we could have moved anywhere, least of all this town that had turned science into dogma, treating propaganda as gospel, with mental health as the casualty. Kai was a full-time engineering student excited to transfer, but by the time we arrived at our new home six hours north, UC Davis had decided, like most other universities, to go fully virtual. Fear in my new town was palpable: people hid out in their houses, double-masked as they biked down a deserted road, and avoided any kind of contact—even eye contact.

I tried to find friends for my kids, but parents on the playgrounds hovered over their masked toddlers, worried they would interact with mine. I often drove up to an hour to take my kids to the playgrounds in neighboring towns where the children played freely. Everywhere I looked, signs mocked me in their friendly sans-serif fonts: “Stay home, save lives!” “Contactless payment available!” and other such horseshit.

My little ones were just learning to communicate, to read facial expressions, to have empathy. I was hellbent on socializing them mindfully, away from the unnecessary negative energy. And so I became a full-time twin mom in a vacuum, trying to be a source of joy, though my insides were a mix of fury and heartbreak. Meanwhile, my husband, the person who should have been my comfort, was not available to provide understanding; he, too, was angry, burnt out from full days of screen-staring with no real human interaction.

I was more alone than I’d ever been, now fluent in the language of grief. I missed my friends and family, and the extroverted artists of L.A.

One of my spiritual teachers says that you cannot experience “more” until you build the road for it to come in on. But during this life chapter, I learned the hard way that demolition is necessary. I didn’t know it then, but I was clearing ground—tearing up the old pavement of who I thought I had to be.

Toxic Bubbles Rise to the Surface

I was usually in the trenches of caring for the little ones, but when I wasn’t, the only thing I could do to cope was to imagine this as a self-imposed Himalayan Siddha. Acting as if I am choosing my circumstances is, I’ve found, the best way to take back control. This vacant town was now my meditation cave, and I began seeking connection in the only place I could find it—the quantum realm: listening, meditating, journaling, and honing my intuitive gifts.

With no external ties, I envisioned this place as the construction site where I’d have to build a new foundation, starting with excavating everything I’d buried. I unpacked and healed every wound, every love, and every emotion I had ever felt. I came face-to-face with every embarrassing or bad-natured act I'd ever committed, every rejection I'd suffered, every secret insecurity I harbored—and worked hard to address them one by one, facing them, feeling them, and forgiving myself.

But even with that massive release, something hot and sharp still remained. Beneath the strata of what could be polished and repaired, I discovered the hot magma of shame and self-hatred, burning steadily: the feeling that I was simply a bad person at core, a truth I felt I could never atone for.

Mine was an issue of identity. Even though I had met my birth mother and accounted for half of my genetic makeup, I was still in the dark about the other half of me. In the quarantine silence, this chasm in my self-knowledge began to widen, until it engulfed and became me. I was the gaping hole itself. I thought of what she had told me about my birth father, which wasn't much: he was unambitious and uninterested in my existence. He believed I was aborted. This was clearly more proof of my unworthiness. And what if there was more she wasn't telling me? What if he was a psychopath, a criminal, or a narcissist? What if there was something inescapable, something in my very blood that made me bad, and that's why she who had made me had been so afraid to meet me?

It was clear I couldn't talk to her about this. We were only just getting to know each other, and, though she usually seemed excited to hear from me, she was never the one who called. We had lovely conversations, but she deftly dodged most of my bids to get to know her on more intimate terms, which I understood to be a measure of self-protection. I didn't want to dredge up her pain if she wasn't ready to face it. So I called in upon an angel.

In the adoptee communities, I’d recently discovered through podcasts and online forums, I had read about Search Angels: volunteer genealogy buffs who helped adoptees find their birth families through DNA. I had done the spit-test back in 2016 and nothing had come of it, so I put my name on the list. Soon, a man named William emailed me. I sent him what info I had: the story my birth mother had told me, the stack of “non-identifying information” my parents were given at my birth, and my actual DNA codes. He got to work.

By February 2021, I didn’t feel comfortable in my new town, but I had cleared enough debris to see what I actually wanted to build: connection with people who understood me, creative expression, and answers about who I was. In the unseen world, I was undergoing a metamorphosis which I felt sure my 3D reality would soon reflect.

I Emerge

Nothing visible occurred for months, and then a day came when the cocoon split open and I escaped. Two things happened: online, a guitarist in San Francisco was looking to start a band, and I felt moved to answer the call. All aligned, and two others joined us in scheduling a four-way blind date to see if there was any chemistry.

That same day, I received an email from William, my Search Angel.

Hi Ginger,

I have news! Based on a 2nd cousin match, I find it likely that Daryl Shane Paschall (1961-2015) was your birth father. I realize that none of your birth file information matches Daryl or his close relatives, but he was living in the same city as your birth mother when she was at school. It could be that she had a close relationship with someone else in addition to Daryl and described only the other person. I recommend contacting her about this, and also contacting your (likely) aunt and grandmother.

He included the addresses, phone numbers, and emails for my potential grandmother, Cherrie, and her daughter Dacia. He also included Daryl’s obituary.

Daryl’s face convinced me within seconds. He had my chin dimple and a confident, friendly-yet-mischievous smile I recognized. And he was not an unambitious loser or a psychopath. He was a celebrated engineer, an apparently very beloved friend to many. His obituary read:

He never met a stranger, was known for his humor, was a master storyteller and was always upbeat in his life and at work. His generous heart, quest for fun, and big personality left a lasting impression. He had a true gift for making friends and cherished all of his friendships.

I exhaled with a relief that only certain guests on the Maury show could understand. This man didn’t even have the same name as the person my birth mother had described in her email all those years ago. This man had a kind and robust spirit. He looked like someone who would have loved the person I became. I already felt a new license to love myself freely. The cavernous pit began to close.

From what I could tell online, my potential grandmother and aunt were also lively people: explorers who loved to travel and have a good time. Adoptees live for the moments when they can see their own traits in another, and stalking the photos of these two felt like a lifeline to me. I drafted words for each of them, a “Hi! You don’t know I exist, but I’m your granddaughter / niece” email.

Dacia’s first reply conveyed interest mixed with a tinge of skepticism. “I know he loved the ladies,” it read, “but you can imagine how this might surprise us.”

Cherrie replied with stunned excitement. She had lost her husband in 2014, followed by her only son in 2015. For six years, she, Dacia, and Dacia’s husband Tim had been the end of that branch of the family tree. She was prepared to take any DNA test she could to prove our connection true.

Building Roads

It was February 2021, and all the invisible seeds I had planted were beginning to sprout.

When I met my potential new bandmates in San Francisco, it played like the opening credits to a feel-good movie. I had forgotten what it felt like to be at ease around people, to be working toward the same goal. Connected by wires and currents of sound, we laughed and joked, suggested songs to try out, and found that we’d all grown up listening to the same bands. We talked about work and found out we were all union people. For hours we fell into a flow state, just covering all the songs we loved.

I wrote the lyrics and melody to two new songs that week, beginning a years-long cycle of collaboration and performance that had begun with one fateful message and an open heart.

At the same time, I had been waiting for the results of my potential grandmother’s DNA test. Cherrie, Dacia, and I had been sharing stories and pictures anyway, and I felt an ease with these two that could not be coincidence. Soon, our hopes were confirmed: they were definitively my paternal line.

Every Wednesday I’d leave my meditation cave and drive to the City to be wild and creative with my perfectly irreverent new friends. The rest of the week, I’d exchange messages and photos with my grandmother and aunt, learning more about the man whose DNA I carried on.

The road I’d been building in the dark was finally taking shape. I just didn’t know yet where it would lead me next.

Me at My Worst

I am inside a dark hole. The hole is my mind. I have been here for 12 weeks, with a few escapes into the sunshine, thank God. We have an appointment next week for an ultrasound. That will be the beginning of the Second Trimester, which many people say is a big relief from a lot of the symptoms. I hope.

I’ve wanted a baby. A few months ago, a small voice inside me rose to the surface, surprising me. It didn’t get into specifics—it didn’t say, “Universe, please send us a baby when we are married and financially doing great and feeling personally successful and perfectly at peace.” The seed of a wish just showed up in my journal one day when I was sitting behind a booth at the Larchmont farmer’s market. The words appeared on the page without my permission: Kids are wheeling by in their strollers, waving at me. I know Kai is waiting until everything is perfect, but sometime down the line, I’d feel like I’d won the lottery to have a family with this wonderful man who has changed my life for the better in so many ways. Then I thought of it a few more times, joked with him about it, and now, surreally, here I am.

I am one of those people who is destroyed each month by female hormones. Every 28 days, I get very close to being -cidal (of the sui- or homi- variety), and it’s out of my control. I didn’t realize that pregnancy would mean these hormones are permanently pumping through my blood, punishing me relentlessly. I have worried. I have shaken with terror. I have cried bottomless toddler-style screams. I have lain in bed all day and all night on end, exhausted to the core. I want to be grateful, but all I feel is miserable.

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What is Wrong with Me?

The man who had “changed my life for the better” is now impossible to connect with. I want him to see me, to help me; my family is far away and he’s all I’ve got. Instead he stonewalls me, plunging me into episodes of crying, screaming “I hate myself.” I beg for mercy while he stands by, completely ignoring my suffering in a pointed way that feels cruel. My mind: He doesn’t love you. You’re not good enough. He regrets this pregnancy. He wishes he could find a way out. It runs over me like a train. I can’t save myself because my “self” is gone. Maybe that’s why Kai won’t engage: he doesn’t even recognize me.

I mourn the old me: the active, energetic, smiling gal who ran, surfed, hiked, skateboarded, biked, and loved the sunshine. What if I never see her again? She, who would try almost anything once. She meditated daily, did yoga often, wrote almost every day, acted in little films and commercials. She was loving. Friends of all ages called her fearless. She committed to things she loved and saw them through, unwound with a little weed or wine from time to time. She spent three years working on a novel and published it. She was free, unfiltered. Kids loved having her as their babysitter because she was one of them. Where has she gone? Will she be back?

I read somewhere that the first trimester of pregnancy is the hormonal equivalent of taking 40 birth control pills per day. Personally, I went off birth control years ago, because one pill per day was making me crazy. So where does that leave me now? In constant PMS-on-bath-salts, with no respite. All my worst qualities are multiplied by 40, and I’m trapped inside that person’s mind 24 hours a day. Self-hatred is my new M.O. I’m hating for two! Because what’s worse than feeling like an unworthy piece of shit? The guilt I feel for not “glowing” with joy. I’m an unfit mother in the making, heaping worry on top of worry.

My body is stuck in eternal hangover. In addition to sleeping an average of 12 hours per night, plus naps during the day, I wake up every morning feeling like I polished off a bottle of bottom-shelf tequila the night before. My head weighs fifty pounds and all I can eat without feeling sick is bland, white carbs, which leave me bloated and disgusting. My brain is a pile of mush. I have no energy or passion anymore because I feel like I constantly have the flu. I can’t write, which is the one thing that would normally bring satisfaction in the midst of a bad situation. I can accomplish approximately one thing per day. I take a walk and watch a movie and eat crackers and bread and pizza, hoping to feel better.

My partner isn’t always cold and callous. At times he tries to make me feel better, tries to understand what he can never understand. I thank him and summon all the appreciation that I can, but at least once a week, I go off the rails and begin freaking out, sobbing, and inevitably blaming him for all my misery. Which adds to the guilt-shame cycle, which adds to my self-hatred and feelings of being less-than, which makes me want to exit the planet since I see no way out, which makes me flare up with even more panic, since I feel guilty and shameful and sick and nasty all the time.

It’s the stuff of nightmares. Many new parents fear losing themselves. I’ve only got a fig-sized baby in the pit of my womb, and I fear I’ve already lost myself.

Now that I’m an incubator for life, I am desperate to be the best incubator I can be, and I am failing. I know this pregnancy thing has been done quite a few times by women less healthy, less intelligent, less capable than I am, but I can’t shake the suspicion that I am not cut out for this; that it’s all a mistake. Like never before, the mantra “what if” barges into my brain, and I choke on fear.

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Comparison + Overthinking = No Room for Joy

My sister is going through the same process at the same time, which should comfort me, but instead I compare myself to her and feel shut out, alone. She is not having the same experience. While I have cleaned out the library’s pregnancy and motherhood shelves, and while I compulsively consult three or four pregnancy sites and message boards to make sure it is okay to eat what I’m eating, do the exercise I’m doing, sleep in this position, or buy this baby gear—Holly just is. She is not fussing over her diet, reading how-to manuals, or feeling physically destroyed. She is not Googling every symptom with trembling fingers. She is living her life, going to work as a teacher every day, and coming home quite the same as she was before. She trusts the process. She listens to my cries about my never-ending low-grade nausea, complaints about my 40-week sentence without sushi, runny eggs, good cheese, or caffeine, my woes about the hormonal hurricane that is destroying my will to live. She consoles me, but she is cool as a cucumber, which obviously means that Something is Wrong With Me. Or the baby. Please, don’t let it be the baby. I worry myself sick, then, when Google alerts me stress damages the baby. I add that to the list of worries.

I will never again be just me. I am two: me, and this little being that I don’t know yet, but who they tell me I should be connecting with. I sit steeped in hormones, scrolling through photos of friends in cute outfits, showing up in the world, making a difference, accomplishing things. What have I done today? So far I woke up, talked with Kai, sorting out some things we had been arguing about, I ate some pancakes, and I read more about pregnancy, trying to find a balm for my worried mind. “You’re creating life,” my friends say, telling me not to beat up on myself. But I feel useless.

Every book in my stack keeps reminding me of the statistic that anywhere from 10-25% of pregnancies don’t make it past the first trimester. So until Week 13, I have to endure my own thumping heart and shallow breath, mostly alone. I’ve thought of how it would crush me to design some cutesy announcement and then five weeks later have to say “Nevermind. We lost the baby.” I don’t think I could handle that.

I have told my family and close friends. Not because I’m bubbling over with excitement, but to ease the isolation of living as a tired-as-fuck, sickly, emotional basket case who can’t join in the party or go on the ski trip or stay up past 7:30 pm. If people thought I was acting this way for no good reason, I’m sure they’d abandon me.

When someone I trust tells me what exciting new adventure they’re embarking on, they look at me, expecting to hear about mine. Usually I’d have something interesting to add, but now, this is my only thing. I look at Kai and say with my eyes, “Should we tell them?” and when he nods, I say, “We’re expecting a baby!” and wait for the mixed reactions. Some people squeal with delight, jump up and down, hug us and say, “You’re going to be the best parents!” and others proffer a vague, “Congratulations,” then go back to whatever they were talking about before.

I don’t want to mention my miscarriage fears to Kai because I’m afraid I’ll manifest them. But I think of it every day—think of my body being toxic to the life inside. I feel my belly to see if it still “feels” pregnant. I look for blood in the bathroom and have a fright every time I turn over in bed and feel a pain in my side. I worry about my relationship because I’m acting like a complete alien and I’m afraid Kai will leave me. And what would be worse than losing the baby? Losing it and then losing him, too, because what if he’s actually only with me because he has no choice? Or what if all my complaints and anxiety get me in trouble with the Universe? I’m afraid God is going to punish me for not gushing and glowing. I’m afraid it will be decided, “If you can’t even handle the first few months, you are not a worthy mother.”

I have an ultrasound appointment tomorrow. The second trimester is starting. Please let it be better than this.

“I have something kind of...surprising to tell you,” she says.

“Go on.”

“How would you like to be an aunt?”

I have never considered this option—she’s 29, but still my little sissy— and my eyes unexpectedly well up at the stoplight. “Are you serious?” This surprises me for three reasons: 1) If we have ever talked about her wanting children, the conversation was very brief. 2) She is in a relationship with a guy she’s frequently unsure about. 3) She is training daily to get her black belt in Krav Maga.

But I feel a surge of joy nonetheless as she confirms it to be true. “Are you happy about it?” I ask.

“I am.”

“You know what’s strange?” I say, realizing: “I am very attuned to my cycles, and I’ve been waiting four days for my period.”

“Wouldn’t that be weird,” she says.

“Yeah. But it’s probably just stress or something.”

I pull into the garage on Olympic Boulevard and make my way to the comforting nest of my therapist’s office. She’s a pretty young woman who helps me through the swamps of purposelessness I traverse behind the long line of artists with too many interests. Today, before I talk about feeling like I never measure up to the people I consider “successful,” and how I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, I discuss my sister and her news.

“Does that exacerbate your feelings of not measuring up?” she asks me.

“Not really. I mean—I don’t know,” I reflect. “I’m 32 and, until I met Kai, I was kind of grossed out by the idea of having children. But something did change when I met him. Two weeks in, I did have the thought, ‘I want to have his babies!’ And lately, when I work at the Larchmont farmer’s market, and all these families come up to my booth with their fancy strollers…I keep looking at the babies and feeling this yearning inside. I don’t know where it comes from. I’ve never had it before. But I don’t really think he and I are ready for that yet.”

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My boyfriend Kai and I have been together four years, and he’s one of those guys who has to have all his “ducks in a row.” We recently just moved back to Santa Monica after two years of taking care of a teenager in Malibu together, and our relationship has weathered a lot; it’s been ugly at times. To be honest, I’m not sure if we were going to make it; although, at the best of times, I pray we will.

I call him on my way home to tell him. “Holly is pregnant. I can’t believe it. I’m in shock.”

“Whoa. Does the guy know?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God. Is that good?”

“Yeah. I’ll tell you more when I get home. Do we need anything from the store?”

“Some lettuce. And kefir.”

I stop at Ralph’s. When I walk past feminine products aisle, I consider the four days sans period. Then, for the first time in my life, I buy a two-pack of pregnancy tests.

Back at our little one-bedroom with waves on the wall, I put the kefir and leaves in the fridge. Kai is sitting at the desk in our bedroom, doing homework for a class he’s taking at Santa Monica College. I peck him on the cheek, on the way to the bathroom with the First Response box in my hand.

I pee on the little stick, whose tip reminds me of one of those invisible ink markers from elementary school. I put the cap on it and set it on the sink, watching it from atop the toilet lid.

One line.

And seconds later—is it my imagination?—a faint second line starts to materialize.

A few more seconds and there are two dark lines. I refer to the box. Two lines = pregnant.

My heart stops. I don’t know how to feel. I do the other test. Same result.

I step outside the bathroom and set the positive tests on top of Kai’s calculus homework. Then I begin pacing. I’m still reeling from the shock of Holly’s pregnancy, and now this? I’m smiling, bewildered. The universe seems to know how much I love a good story, and always delivers.

Kai: “Is this a joke?”

Me: “No.’

Kai: “How did it happen?”

Me: “I don’t know! Sex?”

I flop face down on the bed. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. Will this make the problem worse or better? I worry for a second that he’s going to think I planned this entrapment. Technically I’m the one who is supposed to be vigilant with charting my temperature and making sure we use condoms accordingly. A happy terror bubbles up in me. I try not to show much emotion until I find out what his reaction is.

When I sit back up, a look of disorientation on his face gives way to a smile. “Well,” he says, “I guess we’re doing this.”

We hug each other tightly. I try to quell the inexplicable feeling that I should apologize. I take refuge in his gorgeous face, just breathing, not knowing what to say. Then I get up and pour myself a glass of water.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he says, “but I’m going to have to finish this homework before I can really process this.” He turns back to his books, while I take a picture of the positive pregnancy test.

I text the my sister with the photo. You’re never going to believe this.

More on not being creative and not knowing wtf to do with my life:

More on being in a rollercoaster relationship with this fine man:

I hear them calling from the top of the mountain: celebratory yawps. They’ve just reached a new height and man, it feels good. Me, I’m down here kicking up dust on the meandering path, full of switchbacks and circuitous routes. I’m heading upward, too, stopping to rub my fingers on the rosemary, sitting to take in the changing views, dancing to an inspiring tune in my headphones, then walking on. This is how I do it, and I love every little sensual experience. So why do their cascading echoes stir jealousy in me?

When a musician or actor I know gains “overnight success” because they’ve been indefatigably focused on one goal for a decade, I flog myself for not having done the same. When I hear about the regulated schedules and steady paychecks of my lawyer and therapist friends, I wonder if it wouldn’t just have been easier for me to have done what my mom begged of me as a teenager, and become a master at one thing, forsaking all other interests. I’m thinking of my high school boyfriend, who wanted to be a doctor since he was a kid. (His screenname on AOL instant messenger was DocMark22, for crying out loud.) He’s now one of the top doctors at one of the top hospitals in the nation. Thriving!

We were two of the highest achievers in our school, always competing despite our mutual adoration, and now, while he’s spending his days curing cancer, I’m sitting at a coffee shop typing this essay, sweaty in running shorts because I power-walked here in a weighted vest after doing a balance board workout to re-up my surfing skills for a trip to the beach next week (a workout that was interrupted by my playing guitar for 15 minutes because I had a song idea). Before that, I got my children off to school, stayed to oversee their class’s “Book in a Bag” program, then texted my bandmates about the photographer who is coming to our practice tonight. After picking up the kids, hanging with them and making dinner, I’ll spend the 1.5 hours on the road to band practice listening to someone’s inspirational autobiography or a self-help tome on creativity. I’ll let those words inspire thoughts for the silly little vertical videos I’ve been creating in the process of finding my audience for the coaching programs I’m developing. I will practice punk rock with the bros, pose for the photographer, and then use the pics sometime tomorrow (during my substitute teaching gig) in a curated social media post to advertise next week’s show.

ADH-Me?

I am aware that my life is probably DocMark22’s worst nightmare (I’ll have to catch up with him and find out). And in those moments of forgetting my own purpose, looking up the mountain and believing I should be somewhere I’m not, it can be my worst nightmare, too. Many times, the world has convinced me that something is wrong with me. I temporarily embraced the ADHD label, reading the books and watching the videos about people whose brains are wired like my own (all of whom are creative powerhouses and many of whom are successful within, and in spite of, our society’s standards). Those resources did help me find some “best practices” for navigating our current world in a more peaceful, productive way, and I’m grateful for that. Namely, I have learned to be kind to my future self by doing very sucky unfun things like cleaning the kitchen and setting my coffeemaker the night before, making schedules and trying to stick to them, and relying on lists.

But I’ve decided: I no longer claim the ADHD moniker. This acronym does not resonate. “Disordered?” Mothafucka, there is an order to what I’m doing. The order is what my inner fire dictates. Yes, I can be “hyperactive,” which means, I can accomplish ten times more tasks in an allotted time than you can, as long as I’m interested in them. And no, I do not have a “defecit” of attention. In fact, you should see me hyperfocus for hours when I’m in an artistic flow state; I am so focused I forget to eat! You’re gonna pathologize me for not submitting to the mundane, pedestrian crap that you, editors of the DSM-5, have decided I should be focusing on? Naw, I see through this: ADHD is a label created by The Man to keep the disruptors in our place, lest our creative solutions and innovative side quests derail your entire system. And come on…is it really a “disability” if, like, half of people’s brains are wired this way? Damn the man.

Nevertheless, my path of least resistance has caused a lot of resistance in those who don’t see its value. I remember one particular college (theater) professor refusing to write me a recommendation for (creative writing) grad school because he claimed that I was too “unfocused”—simply because I wasn’t interested in staying on the theater track. I remember the terror of scraping together rent money in my twenties because I elected to juggle three “fun” part-time jobs instead of taking the boring 9-5 I was offered. I remember multiple existential crises, weeping to partners and friends, convinced I was a loser and wasn’t playing this life game correctly.

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The Myth of Singular Focus

Each messy cry over my loserdom has had one thing in common: I have been comparing myself to a Michelangelo, awed by their dedication to one art form, swamped by the truth that I could never achieve the same without cutting out 75% of what I love on this Earth. I couldn’t spend three years on one giant, sexy David sculpture, or four years of extreme physical strain to finish the Sistine Ceiling. I’ll never be a Michelangelo, a DocMark22, a Michael Jordan, or a Steve Jobs. I want to do it all! I want to taste every flavor! I know this. I don’t want to sacrifice my physical fitness, romantic love, travel, and other artistic pursuits just to become legend in one subject! So why do I mourn a mastery of focus that I never had in the first place?

Because I want to be great, too, dammit. And they tell me that only this kind of unwavering commitment can leave a mark.

And then I realize: I’m discounting Da Vinci.

Leonardo Da Vinci wasn’t sitting at home whining because he could never compare in artistic merit to this single-minded youth. Da Vinci was too busy scribbling novel ideas and to-do lists backward in notebooks, studying all subjects that interested him, inventing flying machines, making music, and painting rich people’s wives with techniques he made up. He wasn’t focused on the end product, neurotic over what others would think. At least I don’t imagine he was; if he didn’t like the sketch he’d done, he’d paint over it. He was following his curiosity, wherever it took him.

So fuck off, Prof from 2006! I’m not “unfocused.” I’m a Renaissance Gal—a Da Vinci. I left the theater and got that Master’s in English without that recommendation letter, enjoying every moment. Normies thought this meant I was settling down to become an English teacher, but really I was just basking in the glow of the sweet, sweet poetry workshops and existential debates. When I graduated, I moved to L.A. and worked in the movies, sang with my band on the Sunset Strip, took care of a teenager, took up surfing, and published a novel, among 500 other less defining pursuits. I followed what sparked my interest, and when something no longer felt relevant, I put it on a shelf to focus on something else.

It took me a while, but I finally figured out what made me a Da Vinci and not just a schlub with ADHD.

When One Flow State Isn’t Enough

Brains like mine are the way they are because they need more dopamine than the standard model, and they get that from stimulation. This can be a disability or a superpower, depending on what we use to get our hit. I could have selected “eating cheese puffs and watching Beavis and Butthead” as my primary source of dopamine, but instead, I choose flow, which, I believe, not only gives me purpose, but does contribute to society.

My singular passion is concocting a big idea, then taking steps to create it. I’m always looking for that magical place where I can bend time, losing myself in a torrent of words I’m writing, music I’m playing, a piece of art I’m making for a friend. I can rack focus between them like a master prime lens. I can also find that flow by showing something new to my children, or having a discourse with one of my favorite people.

I used to believe what they said: that I needed to find the thing at the expense of all others. But now I understand, that’s not for everyone, and that does not preclude me from being a genius in my own right. In fact, the most interesting people are the ones with a hand in everything. Emerson, Thoreau, and Whitman knew it.

The genius lies in the ability to see patterns and make connections. I cross-pollinate all of all my chosen domains, allowing each to inform and enhance the others.

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How I Do it All

First, I have to be able to remind myself why I’m choosing to live this way, why it’s worth it to me. It all starts with my values: authenticity, freedom, beauty, and connection. I hold these truths to be self-evident: that I can only uphold these values if I am living in accordance with my passion, that I can only connect when I am looking for the beauty in everything, that I am only free when I understand that I have everything I need inside myself. Now that I’ve internalized that, I can take inventory of my limitations:

• TIME. I am not Hermione Granger with a time turner. I’m a muggle and time is finite.

• MONEY. This society rewards specialists. Art is considered an extracurricular in our current era, and getting paid without a traditional jobby-job is not a given.

• PEOPLE. They ain’t gonna understand. There’s going to be judgment, there’s going to be push-back from those who think I’m “not serious” or “unfocused.”

These are the reasons I sometimes find myself wishing I were a specialist. If I had a 9-5 and a one-track mind, time would all get dedicated to that one thing, for which I’d make money and get respect from people. But that’s not for me, so here’s what I have to do instead:

1. I make goals and a loose plan. I know all the long-term projects I’m working on and I have dedicated lists/notes for all. I set monthly, weekly, and daily goals for each, and see them as guidelines. Right now, I aim monthly for two YouTube Videos and an interview for my to-be-released podcast. I aim weekly for one Substack essay, one focus session on new music I’m making, and four weight training sessions. Daily, I try to get 10,000 steps, and also make a vertical video. Do I always achieve all this? Naw, but…

2. I commit. Since I know I’m not going to be “on” every week, it’s my commitment to my projects that keeps me going. For better or worse, I promise myself to keep breathing life into all my ventures, knowing I will take longer to finish than might be comfortable, and that maybe I’ll never “succeed” in the traditional sense. But the process is what blows my hair back. I can’t actually go hard on everything all at once; I’d burn out, and the quality of everything would suffer. And I can’t pull blood from a stone (or passion for something that I need a break from). So…

3. I go with the flow. Sometimes, like this week, my band and my family take center stage, because I have two shows and a vacation coming up. This means I fall behind on all other creations. But there’s still a pilot light burning for them; they are not forgotten: I record a little tune that wakes me up in the night. I type a note on a video idea that comes to me. I try to be as consistent as possible, but if I need rest, I rest, and if something feels awful to me, I wait until it feels good again.

4. I make money plans. Financial planning has not historically been my forte, but this year I’m focusing on building coaching programs that draw on all my experiences: my creative practices, my personal boundaries journey, and my relationship insights. Because people have started coming to me for advice, and because I have a unique way of viewing the world from all my diverse experiences, I’ve finally begun to realize that I do have a lot to offer. For the time being, I make money substituting high school classes that need so little supervision it’s almost like going to a coworking space. I get so much done, while getting paid! It’s something I’ve found through trial and error, and it’s working for now.
   

I Haven’t Figured it All Out

This is just my journey as of 2025: the journey of realizing that all these side quests are not distractions from my purpose; they are my purpose. We Renaissance people are the connectors. We bridge all the disparate domains, and this isn’t a flaw, this is the design. The world might not understand it yet, but I’m hoping to do my part to help.

If you want to know more about my scattered adventures, this is about my experience in the workforce:

If you want to follow me elsewhere online, here’s links.

If you want to listen, here you go:

I wake up early after a night of tormented half-sleep, to analyze the clothes in my suitcase and figure out the best way to present myself in a way that will not threaten or disappoint someone who has probably been curious about me for 35 years. We’re meeting at a casual restaurant, according to her message from last night, which said “We’ll meet you at 10:30.” We. I wonder if she actually is going to bring my grandmother! In that case, these cutoff shorts won’t do. I decide on a 60’s-inspired sundress and sandals, and apply just enough makeup to look alive and bright, without looking like I’m trying too hard.

It’s a 45-minute car ride, not on my turf. Interestingly, though, it’s about 2 hours from where my sister and mom live. This is the first time I’ll have ever traveled so close to them without paying a visit. It feels a little like betrayal, even though I just stayed with them a month ago when we laid my dad to rest, and then afterward they came to California to spend a week with me. I tell myself I have not forsaken them. I don’t need to feel guilty; it’s just logistics. I’m only here for one full day, and this day has been a lifetime coming.

Since I flew across the country, my birth mother is driving three hours to meet me. She’s chosen a public place, and I try not to be offended that it seems she wasn’t joking: she truly is afraid that I could potentially be some unhinged psychopath. I put on the GPS and a comedy podcast to distract myself. This adventure contains the same elements as a Tinder date, but on steroids. I want to be myself, but not show the worst parts. I want to be open to whatever happens, but I can’t deny my hopes and expectations. I want to honor the monumental gravity of this day, but not frighten her if she isn’t up for feeling too much. Green pastures roll by in front of fluffy clouds on a painted backdrop. Horses and cows graze, completely unaware of their place in my timeline.

Finally I arrive in this franchise parking lot and turn off the rental car, the engine popping and ticking in the summer heat. I check my teeth in the vanity mirror. Ever since I was pregnant, my left front tooth has inexplicably shifted just a millimeter further forward than its counterpart. I open the car door, step my feet onto the pavement, and smooth my dress. I walk up to the restaurant and pull on the heavy glass door. The cold hits as if I’ve fallen into a well, but it’s only commercial air conditioning. Lots of rural people are in line ordering burgers. Just a normal day. And then I see her.

She is familiar. In her walk, in her smile, as she moves toward me, seeing me for the first time. I know her. She’s dressed casually in shorts, beautiful, natural and sporty. Tears arrive in my eyes as we hug. It’s like hugging myself. She is my height, with my body type. My hand touches her hair and the texture feels exactly like my own.

Her voice next to my ear, trembling with my same tenor, though tinged with a homespun twang, says, “I didn’t think I was going to cry.”

“I knew I was going to,” I say. “I cry at everything.”

She pulls away and says genially, “I never do,” leading me to her table, where her husband—the “we”—stands up to his imposing height. He beams at me, then embraces me with a warmth that feels steady and joyful. I understand everything about him at once: her love for him, their bond, the perfection in the choices she has made for herself. Her life path appears on top of mine like a Polaroid double-exposed, and I feel suddenly confident in my own decisions, grateful for my own mistakes, satisfied with all that is and has been.

I sit down on the other side of the booth from them like I’m at a job interview, my armpits damp and my words pouring forth. We easily launch into conversation, and they both “get” my jokes and volley them back with ease. I tell them about my husband and how he wishes he was here: how he was the first in a long line of suitors who actually challenged me.

“He’s the same way,” she says, squeezing her husband’s arm, and tells me how they met and what their dynamic is like. “He keeps me on the ground if I’m feeling crazy.”

He corroborates and adds to her stories: “She can be mean, though,” he laughs. “Sometimes she’s like a little chihuahua you step on—just rowrowrowrow!”

“But I’m over it in five minutes!”

“Yeah, then she wants to cuddle in your lap.”

I laugh knowingly, as I also have a hair-trigger temper that I wipe clean with love. The way he just accepts her and laughs is fascinating…maybe I could just accept my own flaws, too, instead of hating myself for them?

They ask about my family, the way I grew up, my talents and interests, my relationships and jobs, my temperament.

“That’s just like me!” she says. Or: “You would love my dad.” Or: “Let me see your tooth. She has the tooth!” They put me at ease; they never leave me hanging. They tell me stories that mirror my own.

We talk for a full hour before even acknowledging we are in a restaurant. There is a collective exhale and I realize I felt seen, accepted, and relieved, though still nervous. “Do y’all want to order food?”

“Yes!”

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They pay for my order and I thank them profusely. I wonder if the people around me assume that I’m their kid.

We eat.

They are both still very close to their parents; both sets live right next to them, and they see them every day. “My dad is into everything. He goes barefoot everywhere,” she tells me. “My mom is a character. She tells it like it is.”

I am comforted by the way she and her family seem to know who they are, take care of themselves, and enjoy life. My birth mother works out every day in her home gym and makes time for fun, friends, and travel. I can’t help but contrast this with my own beloved family, who I’d describe as sturdy, no-nonsense worker bees. My own momma spends half her life worrying, denying her own needs in favor of everyone else’s. All my grandparents died when I was young. I can’t help but feel relieved to think joy and health run in my blood. I have been called self-centered throughout my life, but maybe now I can accept my own instincts. Maybe being self-centered, as long as you’re not self-obsessed, is the recipe for self-respect and a long, full, life.

I talk about my two-year-old twins and show photos, which they love. It seems they would like to meet them, so I file that away for the future.

Her husband is fascinated by my experience in the entertainment industry. He talks about seeing me onscreen in commercials and movies, and he thinks it’s the coolest thing. It feels good to get to talk about my work with excitement and pride.

Another hour passes in this marathon catch-up session, but I don’t want to leave yet. I ask if they’d like to take a walk.

We stroll in the sunshine—I notice he is wearing rainbow tye-dye sandals—and we come upon a little flea market, where antiques trigger more memories to share. He takes a photo of the two of us together, and I text it to Kai, who is astounded at how alike we look. I wonder if it will be the only photo of us together, or the first of many.

I tell her how I’ve been volunteering as a handywoman at a home for unhoused pregnant women. She tells me how she’s been doing home improvements for her friend who has cancer. I tell her how I hate going to comedy shows because I don’t like to feel obligated to laugh. She tells me how she also always feels she has to be “on” around people, how she’s the one person nodding and making eye contact with a boring speaker, just to make them feel good. We both agree that we’d rather be at home alone than exhausting ourselves in this way. The walk has been nice. I’ll be flying back to California in the morning.

“Would you guys like to go back to the restaurant and get dessert before we leave?” I ask, and they agree. They buy me a milkshake and we deplete ourselves for one more hour before going outside to say goodbye. They each give me a big hug.

She tells me how glad she is to meet me, tells me to give the babies a hug, and to drive safe.

“It was so good to meet you, girl,” her husband says. “We’re just so glad you’re normal.” We all laugh. “You keep being the fun person you are and make that a priority.”

The day is done. I drive back to my best friend’s house, windows down, smiling in disbelief. I pass the cows and horses. still obliviously grazing.

It couldn’t have gone better, really, for a first meeting. I still have questions about who I am. I’d still love to see old photos, meet the rest of the people who share my DNA, know who my birth father is and if I have any other siblings. I’d love to have a friendship with these two and be able to call them without wondering if I’m intruding. I’d love them to know my kids and come visit California. But I feel grounded in what I know, and this is enough for now.

Here’s Part 5 of my “Being Adopted” series:

I scroll through more of his videos, watching him confidently explain what women really want, listening to his tips and tricks for pleasing her, wondering at the legitimacy of his secrets to naturally grow your schlong. His real name is on the tip of my tongue. I think for a while—what is it?? Jake? Jesse?—but I can remember only the name Zeus, which he had jokingly told me to call him after our short dalliance all those years ago. I had done so, because it fit: I had saved his number in my phone as Zeus.

I rack my brain to think of his real name so I can look him up and prove to myself that, indeed, I did hook up with this internet-famous sex guru. I know I’ve seen his Squatty Potty and looked at childhood photos of him and his mom on the walls of his ultra-clean, hippie-chic Venice Beach condo. Could this be the same guy? This vertical video sexpert is in a totally different city from where I met Zeus, but it wouldn’t be impossible. I think of that evening, for the first time in many years.

For not even remembering his name, certain details come to me quite clearly: the circumstances were so very Santa Monica. I had just left a yoga class on Main Street, sweaty in head-to-toe Lululemon (bought at an employee discount from when I’d worked there one holiday season). I was walking down the sunny sidewalk to my Toyota with a doggy bag from Thai Vegan. This gorgeous guy passed me—6’2”, five-o’clock shadow, flowy hair and a tight t-shirt—and did a very obvious look-back, then jogged over to me.

“Hello. You’re beautiful. Can I buy you dinner?” he said. I felt sunbursts exploding inside me, along with a little skepticism. Was he trying to sell me something? He looked too straight-out-of-Men’s-Health to be into a makeup-free, sweaty version of little ole me.

“Aw, I just got Thai Vegan,” I smiled.

“Well, how about you eat it while we have a mushroom latte at Rawvolution? I’d just love to talk to you. Your energy is captivating me.”

I’m a sucker for someone who sees how good my energy is, so I stood by him with my plastic bag full of leaky yellow curry as he ordered me a Chagachino. He extolled its virtues to me (“You’ll love this. It’s full of anti-oxidants and boosts your whole immune system.”) while also chatting familiarly with the girl behind the counter, who seemed to know him. I wondered whether she was jealous of me, or if she was thinking, “Why is he with his ragamuffin?”

At an outdoor table under the palms, we sipped and connected on the mental and spiritual levels. He was engaging and engaged: an Aries who did in fact seem to embody the Ancient Greek ideals of perfect body-perfect mind. He listened well, and almost everything I was into, he was also into, except he seemed to me to have done it more and better—a result, it also seemed to me, of being rich and privileged enough to have had opportunities to study with the best his whole life, while all my opportunities had come from being merely scrappy and determined. He was into Transcendental Meditation and had surfed Pipeline. He was a natural health practitioner and a business man. He had an untouchable air (I’d sooner have died than fart in his presence), but still seemed more interested in me than anything around us. We talked for at least an hour, and when he asked if I’d be interested in coming to his place, I didn't have to think too hard about whether I wanted to also connect on a physical level. I wanted to smear this guy’s aura all over me.

“I’d love to,” I said, suddenly acutely aware of the sweat-wicking fabric still clinging damply to my body from the yoga class. “I’m kind of gross, though. Maybe I should go home and change first.”

But he knew, as did I, that if I went home, I’d probably not return to him. “You can use my shower,” he said, looking me in the eyes without the hint of a smile.

I followed behind his Audi south on Main, through the back alleys of Venice, where he pointed to a garage I could park in. I tried to stuff my self-consciousness down while I popped the trunk and rummaged through a trash bag of old clothes on their way to Goodwill. I grabbed a still-halfway-cute cotton dress to put on after my shower.

Up the stairs we ascended, into a gorgeous condo that looked like a Kundalini bachelor pad: white sheepskin throws and dream catchers, expensive leather furniture and meticulously cared-for houseplants. He showed me where all the shower accessories were and got me a towel. I thanked him and while he returned to the living room, saying, “Take your time,” I scrubbed myself with his Dr. Bronner’s peppermint castille soap. I even kept a toothbrush in my car for occasions such as these, and I used it while pondering how far I should take this. Should I emerge stark naked with my hair slicked back? Naw. I didn’t even get my hair wet. I put on the dress.

He was waiting casually when I exited the bathroom. “I like your dress,” he said.

“Thanks. It was on its way to Goodwill, but I guess it wanted one more voyage.”

Around his condo, he showed me who he was. He told me about his history, his old towns and college and family, even showing vulnerability, while eating up my words and ideas like a nourishing meal. We talked about health and hormones and music and hopes and dreams, until we made it back to his couch and finally his lips were on mine.

His chin was scratchy, his hands were sure. As the breathing increased in volume and speed, I made a quick judgment that he seemed the type who might lose interest once he gets what he wants, (“He won’t buy the cow if he can get the milk for free!” some older lady-relative’s voice sounded in my brain). I didn’t even know if I wanted him to buy the cow, but I knew one thing about myself: I would dissolve completely if he found his way in. I would let him suck me into obsession. This, was my pattern, my drug. I love, love, loved the feeling of complete surrender; not being responsible for my own actions because I was under the influence of an all-consuming feeling. Could there be anything freer, anything more exciting? It would be so easy, I thought, to obliterate myself with this one—to give everything to him like I’d done with so many others.

And then I decided. I stopped myself, I teased. I brought us back from the brink, pulling an old move from high school known as the “everything but,” and left it at that. It was intoxicating, but I knew this had been a test.

He continued texting me casually for months after, every week or so. I somehow stopped myself from giving in to seeing him again, knowing what the cost would be. I kept my texts light and friendly, telling him how much I did enjoy our tryst, but that I was pursuing something else at the moment. Then we lost touch.

Suddenly I remember it: his name! I Google it and see an old picture, which I compare to guru-dude. It has to be him! Since the doppelganger has provided his city in a video, I search his old name with the new city. I briefly wonder what is wrong with me, but conclude I am just curious, as anyone would be, and carry on.

There’s the proof: his old name, next to a business he owns, addressed in his new city. I’ve cracked the code!

“Tell her what she’s won, Johnny!!”

Well, absolutely nothing, of course, except another perverse inside joke with myself (I am a boner-fide dick-tective!), and maybe a little bit of respect for that young version of me that was finally starting to learn what would be good for her in the long run and what was not.

“I just got these DNA test results back and it changed my life,” says the old man. It’s 2014, and I’m picking lillikoi from the trees on his farm on Kauai. He is the grandfather of my charge, the teen I’m supervising on this trip, and to me, he is magical. He’s a celebrated spiritual author and just seems to know things that defy explanation. I’ve so enjoyed connecting with him. “I never knew who my father was,” he says, “and it really bothered me, but now I feel like my identity is sorted out.”

I have long since shelved the whole issue of my adopted status along with the emails from my birth mother, in a closet in my amygdala where they’ve been collecting dust next to the hundreds of colorful places, faces, and experiences that defined my twenties.

“Wow. I hadn’t really ever thought about my father, but maybe I would learn something from that,” I tell him.

“You should, Ginger,” he says. “It’s an amazing new technology, and knowing the truth about where you came from changes everything.”

I do submit my spit sample when I get back to the mainland, and the results tell me that I’m mostly English and Irish, but I don’t find any family members, least of all my father. It niggles me a little. It feels very vulnerable to contact my birth mother again, but I do still have her work email address from all those years ago, and I’m an adult now—surely less threatening to her now that I’m an established person?—so I decide it couldn’t hurt.

I draft an email, trying to make it sound as unintrusive and unbothered as possible. Somewhere in the third paragraph, I drop this question:

You told me a little about yourself as I recall, but is there anything you could tell me about the guy who fathered me? I understand that he doesn't know I exist, but I would love to know his name, just do a little light internet stalking, maybe to see what he looks like or see if I might have any half brothers or sisters.

I finish off by telling her what I’ve been up to for the past ten years, including the novel I’m about to finish and my IMDB page, because maybe if she sees I’m not a loser, she’ll write back.

She doesn’t.

I forget it again for a while.

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A year later, I’m 30, living in Malibu with my boyfriend Kai. I’m busy and preoccupied by this life of mine and this relationship of only a year-and-a-half, which has been fast-tracked since we are now co-guardians of the aformentioned teenager. Kai and I love each other, but we come from very different backgrounds and have very different attachment styles (a term I won’t learn for years): he is an island to himself, avoidant until he desires otherwise, which does not work for me, as I’ve historically been quite codependent in relationships. We don’t realize it yet, but we are participants in a Life Masterclass on compromise and understanding.

The fights gut me. I am not used to being with someone who puts “being right” above everything, including my feelings1. Even though we always eventually come to an understanding, there are so many times when everything in me says “run,” but I don’t. I stay for one reason: that he does always eventually try to understand, which means our union keeps providing crucial insights that help us learn and grow.

“You know,” he says after one grisly week of miscommunication when we are back on good terms, “Do you ever think you might have some issues that stem from being adopted? I just feel like you have this anger that doesn’t fit with the rest of your personality. It must come from somewhere.”

“No,” I scoff. “I literally don’t ever think about that.” Besides the Hawaiian-guru-inspired DNA test and the unresponded email I sent to my birth mother, I’ve only ever thought about my adopted status when I go to the doctor and have to fill out medical history forms. Has anyone in your family ever had cancer? I don’t fucking know. (I always cross it out or scribble “N/A.”) But he’s right. I do have an anger within me that, when triggered, can clear a room. Kai happens to be the best at triggering it.

He tells me that his friend, another beloved spiritual man with an otherworldly glow, has sent him a book I might be interested in. He offers gently: “It’s called The Primal Wound. I don’t know if you want to check it out, but I left it on the shelf.”

This embarasses me and I don’t know why. I don’t even pick it up for weeks.

Then one day after surfing, I’m alone, and I pick up the book. It talks about how adoptees, even when they’ve been raised by a loving family, still have a body-keeps-the-score sense of loss that lives within them, which can cause all sorts of issues. I don’t want to resonate with this, but I can’t help but see it in me. I see my big personality working overtime to compensate for my low self-worth. I see my deep need to attach to someone stable, my feelings of “otherness,” my difficulty with emotional reguation. I put it back on the shelf quickly, as if I’d just touched a hot stove.

Over the next couple years, I read many more books on the topic. Even if I’m not fully convinced that being adopted has shaped me in such a fundamental way, I journal, I do therapy, I write letters to younger versions of myself, and I integrate my shadow side, beginning a healing journey I never knew I needed. I begin to realize that if each person is here to find the answer to an ultimate question, mine is this: Am I worthy of even being alive?

A couple times I Google her—my birth mother—who is easy to find in newpaper articles and photos, since she seems to be a well-loved pillar of her community. I still do not need anything from her, nor do I want to sully her pristine image, so I do not reach out. It is enough to know she exists and is doing well.

I am (surprise!) pregnant with Kai’s twins. It is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. As I lie in bed, I think of her again: the woman who carried me for nine months. I am amazed that anyone would do such a thing as grow a baby inside them if they knew they weren’t going to keep it. I am 32, and I’m miserable. I feel sick all the time, I’m going through hormonal hell, and all I want to do is sleep. Anxiety and fear rule my life as I don’t feel prepared to be a mother—but at least I’m an adult in a stable relationship, with parents I can call who will comfort me. My heart breaks thinking of her at 19, grieving her brother, hiding from everyone like a fugitive, lying to her friends back at school, wishing for comfort from her parents that did not come.

Every person I meet, upon hearing I’m having twins, asks, "Does it run in your family?"

The anger rears its head. How do they not know this is a personal question? How can I answer this without evoking pity or having to give my entire backstory? Why can’t I just have the same fucking rights as everyone else on the planet, and know where I came from???

The newborns enter the world, tiny and pink. They are laid on my chest, and I am broken open as I’ve never been before. My heart has been birthed along with them and sits now outside my body, unprotected, trembling with everyone’s pain, wishing I could make it all okay, helpless because I cannot. My little boy and my little girl are, I can see, fully-formed people. They already know everything important, and this is very clear.

The books all make sense now. I see myself as a newborn, in a plastic box, waiting for someone to pick me up and love me. I hold myself—my babies—to my chest and tell them I will never leave them. They are only satisfied when they are with me, getting the nourishment that was created especially for them.

My babies are two years old. Now that they’re becoming unique little humans, I am bowled over by this fact: these are the first people I’ve ever met on planet Earth who are blood-related to me. These two sets of blue eyes are the only ones to ever meet mine with recognition that we are the same. The emerging personality traits that make up this little boy and girl are mirrors of my own, and as I see the perfection in them, I begin to consider the possibility that nothing is wrong with me. I am not broken, not the only one of my kind. I was born to be the way that I am, just as these beautiful creatures were; I am no longer “other.” I deserve to be here.

This realization brings gratitude for my birth mother, who gifted me this life, and therefore the lives of my children. I don’t know how she’d react to knowing about them, or if she even has the same email address, but I chance it once again and write her.

I tell her how amazing they are, include pictures, and tell her

they are a quarter Japanese…and also they are a quarter you.

I send little prayers of gratitude your way, because I cannot fathom how strong you had to be to get through that time in your life. And I hope that you give yourself credit for that kindness and strength and resilience.

I never had to become an adult until my late twenties (because life had been smooth sailing until it imploded for me at 28--long story), but you were a decade younger than that when life gave you all these trials. And because of you, Aya and Taika came into this world with big, loving hearts, and they are already impacting everyone around them for the better. So even if you never did another good thing in your life, you have already made this world a better place; I'm sure of it. And I just wanted you to know that I feel that, and you are appreciated and loved.

I don’t really expect her to respond, but she does:

Wow. That’s about all I can say (and that makes me feel pretty inferior due to your way with words). You have just uncapped about 34 years of guilt and shame. Thank you for sending this email. I feel so much better. Those two are, by far, the most adorable humans on the Earth. Thank you for sharing the pictures.

Speaking of the right time…I would love to meet you and Aya and Taika at some point in my life. I wouldn’t expect to stay with you (because that would just be weird) but would just love to meet you one time. I can tell that you are intelligent and funny and I like to think that I can sometimes be that way also. Just wondering what you might think of that.

I realize that somewhere deep, I’ve been waiting for this invitation. Of course I want to meet her. How could I ever know myself otherwise? I figure it’s best for me to go alone at first. She and I write back and forth about feeling nervous and excited—she admits to these feelings, but then steers away from them quickly with jokes about the possibility of me being a serial killer—and when summer is on the horizon, I get tickets, and I make plans to stay with my best friend, so that, even if it doesn’t go well, I’ll have Julia’s company.

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A month before I’m set to fly out, Kai comes through the door of our apartment and hugs me tight. I know what he’s about to say, and then he says it: my daddy has died. It hits me like a train even though I’ve been expecting it. Cancer has taken him away before he ever got to take my kids fishing, but at least he did get to spend some time with them over the past two years. I need to grieve, but also, the trip to meet my birth mother is coming up and I’m knee deep in parenting two 2-year-olds. I have to fly back to my hometown for Dad’s funeral, just one month before my planned trip to meet my birth mother. There is so much going on, I can’t settle long enough to feel all these feelings. I make it across the country to the funeral, and I’m hugging all the people at the funeral as if I’m comforting them. I’m out of my body, watching the body of the only dad I’ve known get lowered into the ground.

Then, suddenly I’m back home, and my 2-year-olds are requesting to nurse. I’ve been considering stopping for about a year; they don’t need it anymore, but it comforts them. Kai puts his hand on me and says, “Babe? Maybe now’s the time to stop? They have been fine without it all weekend.” And that’s the end of that. Even though I’ve wanted this day to come, it comes with its own grief: another part of my timeline, neatly severed.

A month later, I’m sleeping worse than usual. I’m again feeling like the comforter and not the comfortee when it comes to the impending meeting with my birth mother. I sense her fear. She had written that she’d like her mother to meet me, but now she’s not responding to questions about that. I tell her my dad died, and I feel like the old soul suddenly, as both her parents (my grandparents!) are not only alive, but riding motorcycles and traveling to play music in out-of-state jam sessions. I marvel at the personalities she has described, as I’ve never known an old person like that, and yet, it’s what I hope to become. I, a musician with a motorcycle license, imagine how awesome it would be to meet them, knowing that I came from somewhere.

On the plane, I know I’m about to pass through another portal that will alter me forever. I arrive at my best friend’s house and we pass the day joyfully, though as the hours tick by, anxiety comes. I’m supposed to meet my birth mother tomorrow, and I’ve emailed to ask for details on where and when, but she still hasn’t replied. If it was anyone else, I would call her, but we’ve never heard each other’s voices, and I am afraid doing so will scare her off. And so begins the exhausting, stiff dance in which I ask with my ungraceful steps, “How close am I allowed to get to you without feeling more like a reject?”

I brace myself for disappointment, as she seems skittish, and decide to email her again. I prepare for the possibility that she might cancel, which would be understandable for someone who has spend half a life burying the truth and planting flowers over it just to survive. But I hope for the best, because I have questions that need answering: not the questions one can put into words, but the ethereal, ineffable question of who I am. I hope that on the other side of this portal, I will be grounded with more understanding, and she will be comforted. Finally she does reply with a 1-liner, telling me she’ll figure out where and get back to me.

Julia and I see a movie, check out a distillery. My knees are shaking when it’s bedtime and I still don’t know where I’ll be driving to tomorrow, if anywhere.

“Goodnight, Ging,” Jules says. “I love you. Hope you hear from her soon.”

At last: a text on my phone that gives me the name of a town and a restaurant. I get into the fetal position on my friend’s couch and try to drift away to sleep.

It is the summer between my sophomore and junior year. I am in my eastern Kentucky hometown, and, having just gotten back from a life-changing semester abroad in London, these hills do not deliver excitement at the pace I prefer. At least once an hour, my mind rehashes the email I sent to my birth mother, rethinking certain turns of phrase, wondering if I should have written things differently or not at all.

I work my two jobs—one as a newspaper staff writer with a byline and a weekly column, and the other as the grave shift cashier at the local gas station. I wonder if she thinks I’m an idiot or a creep looking for money, or if I’ve completely upended her life, or if the message just went to her spam folder and I should just get over it.

One evening before bed, I’m dialing u p my college email account on the Compaq Presario in my sister’s room when I see it: she has replied. Instead of just leaving the subject line as

RE: suddenly

like any mere mortal would do, she has changed it to

not so suddenly

revealing a hyper-attention to detail and tone that makes me feel like I’m reading a note from myself from the future. I slurp the ten paragraphs down so fast I get brain freeze. In the movie of my life, the 1980’s-tinged Brazilian techno music swells1 and I sit stunned in a solitary sugar frenzy, no one with whom to share this who could fully understand. She is real and alive and had her hands in the dirt earlier today, planting trees in her yard before writing this! She knows I exist and approves of me, at least a little:

You do not know how excited I am to feel your personality coming out of your writing.

I print it out, so I can take it in my room to analyze it while I fall asleep. Someone else might judge her style as glib, but I recognize it as playful and smart. I have spent my entire life not recognizing myself in anyone, feeling like a stranger in a strange land, and even in the cadence of her email, I am comforted to know that I did, in fact, come from somewhere. She begins by ribbing me about my own choice of words in my email, and I notice she has taken the time to thoroughly reply to each statement I made and each question I asked, because, as she says,

You deserve it!

She tells the story of the events that led to me—a story that begins with heartbreak and despair. Her big brother, her idol, was killed in a tragic accident. After losing him, her sunny disposition turned nearly suicidal and she could hardly function. Her parents’ own grief meant they weren’t able to be there for her at all, and because she was so alone, she relied on the one person who was (sometimes) there for her: an on-again off-again boyfriend of a couple years who, from what I can glean, was a bit of a loser. But he had to be “the one,” she thought as a young person: he was all she had at the time.

O.K. blah, blah, blah, I wound up getting pregnant just five months after graduating from high school. I did not tell my college roommate who was a friend from high school. I took a job in another city to make things look legitimate. I did not even begin to look pregnant until well into the sixth month. Therefore, I was only there without a visit home for about two months. In this interim I got my mind back on track. I realized what a doofus I had been and quit feeling sorry for myself. After all, my brother would have kicked my butt and told me to pull myself together had he been there to do it!

Here is what I’m sure you want to know. Why did I give you up for adoption? Well, embarrassment…fear…feeling that there was no way that I could raise you like a loving couple who actually wanted a baby. I suppose one of my biggest idiosyncrasies (actually, it is just a plain flaw) is the expectation to be perfect. I felt like having a baby out of wedlock would show a character flaw and I held myself to a higher standard. I am a workaholic with an ambition that won’t quit. I knew that a baby would be ignored in that scenario. (By the way, after seeing your writing, I can tell that I made the right decision.)

The email goes on to say that she now has a wonderful husband she married right after college. They chose not to have children because

neither of us really wanted to be responsible for what we might create

but they enjoy life and don’t take things too seriously. She affirms that she would indeed be afraid of people in her life finding out about me, but she does want to know more about me and see pictures.

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I keep reading and rereading her words over the next couple months, analyzing them for hidden meanings (Me? Is it someone like me that you wouldn’t want to be responsible for creating? I, too, have the same character flaw of feeling I should be perfect. Am I as unlovable as I sometimes feel, or was that just another one liner?), and memorizing her story—my story—like the Bible verses I learned in my childhood. The Gospel of Ginger.

I am 19 now, just like she was when I happened to her. I don’t have any need to meet her just now, but I enjoy the back-and-forth. There’s no straining to find common ground; I feel a connection without effort. I send photos and tell her stories, and she tells me some, too—such as how, when she was pregnant, she was staying with a Catholic lady, a volunteer who housed young pregnant women. The lady tried to con her into selling me to some rich people for $10,000. What a different story I’d have had if she had let them. But even at that young age, she had the wherewithal to stand up to these people because she cared who would be my parents. She “told them where to stick it” and moved out that very day.

Such power and principles are foreign to me at 19, maybe because no tragedy has yet struck. No externally-imposed bulletproofing of my spirit has taken place yet. Maybe expressly because she, at 19, made sure I was not bought like chattel, but delivered into the arms of people who she thought had the right kind of love to give me.

My view from age 19 is a shallow one. This experience of getting in touch with my birth mother feels as if I’ve wandered into a secret landscape and I’m sitting on a dock beside a picturesque pond, feeling the sun warm me, taking in the beauty of the day, wrapped up in the excitement of being here—but mostly, I’m smiling at my own reflection in the water, because this is the clearest I’ve ever been able to see myself. I have dipped my toes in, but with no concept of the life teeming under the surface, no real awareness of the cause-and-effect, the births and deaths, the Darwinian cycles taking place just beneath the surface.

I’m back at college for junior year, galavanting around campus with my friends and an unboxed bladder of Franzia merlot. I’m stuck in a loop of hedonism and narcissism on repeat, and in between, I sometimes send her an email. For a while, she writes back, and then without fanfare, she does what I always do at parties, and slips quietly out the back.

At this point in my life, I usually take things as they come. Like she was at my age, I am head-over-heels for a loser—the “love of my life”—who is leagues away from being worthy of me, and I’m too busy letting him bring me down in every way to worry too much about the end of my brief stint as pen pals with the one who carried me in her womb. I know that someday, when the time is right, we will find each other again.

Part 3 of my “Being Adopted” series:

I may just look like a regular person, but I come with lore. I never tire of my own choose-your-own-adventure story. I am a puzzle that I’ve slowly been putting together since I was young, like Harry Potter, still waiting to break into the Department of Mysteries to find out the prophecy. I live cinematically and with a purpose: to learn, integrate, and share the lessons, in a movie where the mystery being solved is me. It’s no wonder I’m so self-interested; it’s been a juicy story from the start.

At four years old, I nuzzle my mom’s soft neck in the La-Z-Boy while she tells me, once again, the story of when she went to “pick me out.”

“We wanted a baby for so long,” she says in her lilting Appalachian, “and one day in August, after waiting years and years, they finally called us.” She’s been telling me this story as long as I’ve been able to understand words, but I listen as if it’s the first time.

“I went right out to Belk’s and got you the prettiest little white dress, and we drove a few hours to meet you. There was a glass window with so many little babies behind it, and I saw one that was the prettiest baby of all. I said to your dad, ‘Glenn, I hope that’s her!’ but I doubted it would be. They led us to a room and told us to wait, and then they brought you in. You were the one I had wanted! And you were so tiny I was afraid I might break you. When we brought you home, there were people lined up around the block wanting to hold you. It made me sad, because I hardly got a turn!”

She keeps rocking me, and sings me “Down in the Valley” while I fall asleep.

I continue believing I’m that special baby who came with a mission, which leads me to distress when I fall short. I do not consider any alternative spin on this story, the way some adoptees do. I never feel discarded, only chosen. Yet, there is something in me that always tells me I need to prove myself. I strive to be exceptional in everything, like the school spelling bee, where I, a second-grader, win a trophy against fourth graders. For a moment on that stage, I am as far as I can get from any deep-down dirty feelings of not fitting in anywhere. I am not thinking of my frizzy hair that my mom can’t tame because I’m the only one in my family who has it. I’m the smartest kid on this stage, and everyone is clapping for me.

These are the facts. I am celebrated by my teachers and loved and cared for by my parents. I play with my little sister, who looks up to me. She came from my mom’s belly and we look nothing alike, which doesn’t bother me at all; I love her so much. We have aunts and uncles and cousins who all love us equally, though our personalities are very different. She is a tomboy, super tough and active. I’m a sensitive creative who goes off on my own and makes music and art and lives out fantasies. All of this is supported.

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I am nine years old when my best friend at school, Brooke, is boasting about how much she looks like her mom. “You kind of look like your mom, too,” she says.

“Oh, really? I’m adopted,” I say.

She points an expression at me that I’ve never been given before: Pity? Disgust? “I’m sorry,” she says. It’s a negative reaction to a statement that, to me, is a simple fact. I wonder if I should feel bad; I suddenly feel like I’m not a real person.

“Why are you sorry?” I say. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Who’s your real mom?”

“My mom is my real mom,” I say.

I tell Mom about it when I get home and she says, “Next time anybody says something like that to you, tell ‘em, ‘Your parents got stuck with you. Mine picked me out.’”

On my sister’s birthday, my mom gives me a present. She does the same for Holly on my birthday. “I don’t want either of you to feel like I love the other one more,” she says.

I’m 11 years old and middle school is horrible. Brooke has abandoned me as a friend and, along with her new sporty friends, she treats me terribly. I wonder what’s wrong with me, and don’t feel at home in my skin. The cheerleaders are the pretty girls, the basketball players are the cool girls, and I am…not. I have two friends who are kind, because they, too, are super intelligent dreamers who love to do plays and write poetry like me. I am interested in boys and love watching shows about high school and romance. I wish someone would “get” me like Zack and Kelly get each other. I go to my mom’s office after school and draw. One day she brings me a copy of this poem, printed on rainbow paper.

Legacy of an Adopted Child (author unknown)
Once there were two women who never knew each other
One you do not remember, the other you call mother.
Two different lives shaped to make yours one
One became your guiding star, the other became your sun.
The first gave you life, the second taught you to live it
The first gave you a need for Love, the second was there to give it.
One gave you a nationality, the other gave you a name
One gave you the seed for talent, the other gave you an aim.
One gave you emotions, the other calmed your fears
One saw your first smile, the other dried your tears.
One gave you up, it was all that she could do
The other prayed for a child and was led straight to you.
And now you ask me through your tears
the age old question through the years,
"Heredity or environment, which am I the product of?"
Neither my darling, neither,
Just two different kinds of Love.

I like the poem. It feels true to me. But I don’t hang it up, even though it’s in a frame. I just put it in the top drawer of my dresser and I see it once in a while.

I reinvent myself as someone bright and colorful and confident. Brooke has been trying to be nice to me again, because she sees my power, but I’m not interested. I’m 12 years old, at a school Christmas assembly where my choir is performing. I sit at the piano, accompanying the choir in front of the whole school. My hands dance all over the keys; it’s muscle memory.

Mom was able to leave work and come see. She’s so proud of me as I join her in the bleachers. “Nobody else in our family could carry a tune in a bucket,” she tells Brooke’s mom, who is stunned by my abilities.

“Why did you decide to put me in piano lessons?” I ask her later.

“They told me your birth mother played the piano. That’s why I went out and bought one when you were little. And even when you were four years old, when I was singing to your sister in the rocking chair, you would go over and pick out the songs on the piano.”

In my history class when I’m 13, we’re talking about genealogy. “My ancestors were from the Cherokee nation,” Katie says.

“My great great great grandmother came over on the Mayflower,” says Jennifer proudly.

“I’m Irish and Scottish,” brags Stephanie, showing off one of those Celtic rings.

Why does it matter? I think, almost hostile at how much they care. We’re supposed to do this whole family tree project and I can’t understand the point. I don’t think my family could trace their lineage any further than “across the mountain”—not that it would apply to me either way. I’m a blank slate, I guess. I’m nothing.

I’m 16, hiding out in the corner by the TV at my grandma’s house while about eight of Dad’s twelve-or-so living brothers and sisters are milling about with their kids, eating chicken-and-dumplings. I could not feel more like an alien. I am so vastly different from everyone here, in my looks, in my desires, in my bones.

I guess everyone has felt this way, but this “sore thumb” feeling is something that follows me wherever I go. I have absorbed it and spun it into a life philosophy of trying to stand out on purpose. This makes me very popular at school, where I wear outrageous clothes, and carry a video camera everywhere to pretend my life is a movie. I’ve had a boyfriend for almost three years, and we are so close. We are the top students in the sophomore class.

My mom asks me sometimes, “Are you ever curious about where you came from?”

I answer, “no,” not meeting her eyes.

“Well, if you ever do want to know anything, I will tell you everything I know,” she says. “I have some papers I can give you that might answer some questions.”

But I wasn’t kidding; I never think about it. Maybe someday I’ll be interested.

When I’m about to turn 18, I am suddenly a little curious. I ask Mom for the files she talked about, and she opens a safety deposit box in her closet, handing me a yellow folder packed with stapled documents.

“Tell me if you have any questions,” Mom says. “They weren’t supposed to use her name at all, but they left it on one of the pages.”

I sit on the floor and pull the stack of papers out of the folder.

First is a “Presentation Summary” that refers to me as “The Child” and describes me as “an unborn child. Anticipated delivery date June 24, 1984.” The pages are typed on a typewriter, copied by a ditto machine. It looks like a screenplay. I picture myself once again not as a real person, but as a character.

I devour the next few sections which tell about “The Birth Mother.” I take in phrases: “of English and Irish heritage, age 18,” “an extrovert, who gets along very well with people,” “a very talented young lady who enjoys reading.”

I’m not as interested in “the child’s” birth father, but that’s just as well, as he was not interested in me either. It says, “the birth father was told of the pregnancy but his reaction was that of total indifference. The birth mother then advised the birth father that she was having an abortion.” At this point, this stirs no emotion; it’s just a story.

“It is planned that the birth child will be committed to the Cabinet for Human Resources by the Circuit Court.” I picture them taking the baby to the court house and putting it in a cabinet.

The rest of the papers are of legal nature: a birth certificate, which lists my mother and father as the two I grew up knowing, and lists my birth town as their hometown, even though it wasn’t. There’s an adoption petition that describes my new parents, who “are of good moral character, of reputable standing in the community, and are able to properly maintain and educate the child.” This petition has my name at the top, but I see what my mom was talking about: it doesn’t say “Pennington” for the baby’s last name. It has a different surname. That of my birth mother.

Since the internet is a tool I use a lot now, and public records are easy to find on any government site, I search that last name, along with my birthdate and the city I was born in. I find my birth record, and her first name. Figuring she might be married now, I search her first and last name in marriage records. I find a record, so now I know her current first and last name. I search that combination, along with the city I think she might reside in.

Up comes a photo, along with an email address, since her job is a public-facing one. I have no doubt it is her. The eyes are mine. My heart thuds, and I save her email address, telling no one.

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It’s years before I think of it again. I’m living my life. I go to big acting competitions which I win, start bands, perform in music festivals, break up with my boyfriend, go off to college, get a new boyfriend. Soon I’m in creative writing classes and acting workshops that prompt me to ask all the hard questions, and the gaps in my own story begin to pull at me.

One day when I’m 19, I dig up the email address. I probably won’t even send anything. I’ll just leave it in my drafts folder for when I am brave. I just want to hear her story, to add it to my story, so I can figure out my purpose, get closer to the meaning of it all. I type out an email with the subject line “Suddenly.”

Hi Mrs. Cline,

You don’t know me, but (not to sound creepy) I do know you. I apologize for doing this, as I feel ridiculous and rude intruding on your inbox out of nowhere, but lately I have been very curious. My 20th birthday is coming up on August 3rd—this year I’ll be a junior in college—and the fact that I am still ignorant to where I came from has started to plague me like a little quarter-life crisis. I’ve always been happy, so the issue had only crossed my mind on a few occasions, but in a moment it slipped away again. Once, when I was in high school, I did some random internet sleuth-work and found you. They left your name on my papers by accident.

I know you’re married and have a life of your own, and thus I would never dream of complicating it by asking to meet you; I just wanted to see if you’d mind telling me about yourself so that I could personally weigh out this heredity/environment issue and determine where I obtained all my idiosyncracies.

There is so much about me I can’t explain, and as much as you have the right to withold this information from me, I also feel I have the right to know what you’re like. And what your family is like now. I’d also love to tell you about myself. I have, thus far, led a very intersting and accomplished existence, I think.

I wrote this thinking I wouldn’t send it, but it seems easy now just to click the button. Hmm. If I do, I’d really appreciate a response, even if you don’t want to include any details. Thanks anyway. I would have attached a picture, but I figured you might think it was a virus.

Ginger Pennington

I shakily hit “send.”

Part 2 of my “Being Adopted” series is here:

If you’d rather listen instead of read, here you go:

Indoctrination Not Found

Bid Day had been anticlimactic, but I maintained a positive attitude. I said nothing of my disappointment as I sat in a circle of well-behaved, excited new Bad News Bears Pledges, rehashing what fun they had meeting their new sisters: “It felt like I was running home, into the arms of my new family,” said one girl, and the others agreed. I felt no such thing, and I would have felt completely out of place in this moment were it not for Sari and Jess, my two good friends from my Freshman hall. Even though they were quiet and conscientious while I was over-the-top, colorful, and loud, we had bonded over so many late night talks, and they made me feel seen and loved for being myself, while I felt some of the other good-girl pledges eyeing me judgmentally. I hoped I’d find more steady, true friends like Sari and Jess in BNB, which is why I was still here in this basement, attending this New Member Education meeting with our pledge class, finally learning a few of the secrets of the secret society that was the Bad News Bears.

“You guys have to be well-versed on this stuff by Initiation night,” said our New Member Coordinator. “There will be a test! And after the ceremony, you’ll be a full-fledged member…If you make it out alive!”

“I’m scared!” Jess whispered to me, laughing nervously. “What do you think they’re going to make us do?”

I’d heard all kinds of stories about people having to get naked, or drink blood, or sleep in a coffin or something, but I didn’t want to scare Jess, so I just said, “I don’t know. But I doubt it’s that bad.”

The secrets we were learning, however, were far from Skull-and-Bones-caliber. I had taken the culty bait when BNB identified me as a target, love-bombed me, and then dangled the prizes, so this was a bit of a let-down. Why were they letting up on the cult tactics? We were supposed to be at the “Indoctrination” stage! I was supposed to be deprived of sleep and not allowed to use the bathroom, getting broken down and then rebuilt with the dogma of this secret society! But that was not so: there was no brainwashing to speak of, only memorization. What we were learning was less of an all-encompassing new life philosophy and more like a history lesson mixed with the kind of official stuff middle schoolers make up when they start a club.

We read and took notes on the story of the original chapter: the colors, the mascots, the motto, the creed, and the values it all stood for when it had been started in the 1800s. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this was a little tame. We were added to the group email list, where every member seemed to be required to sign off “Love and loyally.” I held out for Initiation, which loomed large, just as Pref Night and Bid Day had.

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Isolation Not Forced

If this had been a real cult, I’d have been forced into isolation by now—no talking to outsiders! I’d have needed my sisters because they’d be my only option for friendship, and by and by, our perceptions would get more skewed. But the cult antics were truly junior varsity, seeing as how I was still hanging out more with my Bi Arty Players friends than my new sisters, not being policed at all on what we discussed.

Through a mouthful of Oreos one evening in my BAΠ pals’ room during a commercial break from Joe Millionaire, I asked, “Are you guys having to, like, study, for your initiation? We have all these facts and mottos and stuff we are having to learn,”

“Haha yeah, we have study groups,” my friend Beth piped up from the giant beanbag, “But it’s not super serious.”

“Man, there are some intense people in my sorority,” I said. “I like my big sister, and Sari and Jess, but a lot of them are so serious about this stuff, and I just can’t take it so seriously.”

“Yeah, you know how I went to Pref Night at BNB?” said Raina. “The girl they partnered me with made me clutch one of their pins like it was a lifeline. I think she might have prayed? I was like, BYEEE!”

“Oof. Makes sense,” I laughed.

“Yeah,” said Carly, who had also gone to BNB’s Pref Night. “It was so emotional at their Pref. I really questioned going there instead of BAΠ, but I’m so glad I didn’t. It felt kinda gross. No offense, Ging. There are some cool girls in there, but the one I got that night wasn’t one of them.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

Leveraging Loyalty

A really juicy cult like NXIVM will get you to pledge your loyalty by branding you or providing blackmail fodder like nude pics. A cult like EST and its future iterations leverage loyalty by getting members to share harrowing details of their lives so they can later use it against them. Even fraternities haze their members in freaky and demeaning ways, because trauma creates bonds. The BNB Initiation was being built up as a ceremony we’d never forget, so I was prepared.

The night came, and we weren’t allowed to talk. We had to dress all in black, and, like Pref Night, the sisters who greeted us at the house seemed stoic. They silently brought us to the basement, where we were blindfolded and taken in small groups through a labyrinth made of curtains. I wondered how Jess was doing back there, and if it would hurt when they pierced my hand with the tip of a knife.

Once we reached the end of the maze, they guided us to kneel on pillows, and the blindfolds were taken off. Above us stood the officers in angelic white robes, smiling and speaking in antiquated language, as if dubbing us into knighthood. We signed our names in a book, they sang a little a capella chant with our Greek letters in it, and we got our pins. That was it; no blood or nudity. The only collateral that was asked of me was the signing of my name, which signified the pledge I was making to the sisterhood. Oh, that and a couple hundred dollars per semester.

Sari and Jess and I all laughed about it back in the dorm, doing creepy impersonations of the little song while we studied.

Keeping Control

All the hardcore cults keep running smoothly because they know how to maintain control. There has to be a regimented path you’re all walking together—a shared goal. Ideally you also want to offer the members something they can’t get elsewhere.

After Initiation, we were no longer “the babies,” we were full-fledged members, so the gifts and overzealous treatment abruptly stopped, replaced with mandatory meetings every Sunday evening at 6. My friends and I walked en masse to Greek Row, where we split off into our respective sorority houses for the weekly meeting. It was very dull: officers taking turns speaking, votes with “aye” or “nay,” discussions of “standards” and upcoming events.

I noticed Sari and Jess had found some new, real friends within the walls of our organization, and I had not. I look back now and realize, they had classes or other clubs with a lot of these girls, which is probably how they got to know them. I, on the other hand, was usually in the theater, or with my gross degenerate boyfriend, which left no time to even get to know anyone that didn’t live right next to me.

When the meeting ended on Sundays, we resumed life as usual. I met up with my non-BNB besties at the campus restaurant, where we inhaled pints of Ben and Jerry’s, gawked at boys, and made plans for our next punk show, speaking nothing of sororities.

Just when I was wondering if I should leave because it wasn’t a good fit, Jess and I were invited to live in the coveted house on Greek Row, right between two fraternities. Housing in college is not usually so posh, and I did love Jess—one of the most genuine, kind, low-key funny people I knew. I jumped at the chance. The house was in a great location, where we could look out the window and spy on the other sororities and fraternities. It was clean and had a fluffy sectional with a big screen TV in the basement, as well as a kitchen and elegant living room that nobody ever used. The President and other big dawgs didn’t live in the house. In fact, the eight girls who lived in the house were all really nice, despite the fact that I only ever saw them in the hallway. There were silly rules like “no boys in the house,” but I didn’t follow them, and none of my housemates ratted me out.

Recruitee Becomes the Recruiter

All in all, this diet lite cult was proving to be nothing to write home about. It changed nothing in my life except having to attend meetings and giving me access to a nice room. I was quite content until a new year rolled around and it was time to focus on recruiting a new pledge class.

Suddenly I was confronted by a new season: a season of meetings centered around pages of printed photos. Under each photo was a name. These were the “Freshmen Women,” our prospective members, and it had become our ongoing job to surveil them and asses whether or not they were BNB material. Some of them I knew from classes. Each week in the meetings, we were asked for intel on what they were like: how did they present themselves? What kind of students were they? Who did they hang out with?

In an orderly fashion, we judged each girl as if she was onstage at a pageant, even though it was possible none of them even knew we existed.

“Keep in mind: we are looking for more members who are visible on campus.”
“We really need some athletes! Jen is a great candidate. She’s funny, too.”
“I don’t like how she hangs out with the football fraternity. Don’t you think that’s a little hoe-y for a freshman?”
“Cassandra has resting bitch face, but she sits next to me in Anthro and she’s nice.”
“Has anyone ever talked to Jennine?”
“She’s more Daddy’s Little Diamond material, but it’s probably worth getting to know her.”

I don’t know why I was so shocked, but I hadn’t ever thought about what the recruitment aspect would actually look like from this angle. It felt like betrayal to imagine that last year, the Bad News Bears were sitting here with a photo of me, writing little comments in the margins like, “In the fall play. Kind of weird, but likeable. Will probably go with Bi Arty Players.” I remembered how last year, I had abruptly gone from feeling invisible to the “sorority women” to feeling like the object of their affection. Now I knew they’d been watching my every move.

We had to prepare for Rush, which meant we had to make up little musical skits to convince the girls we were cooler than we looked, and that our sisterhood was real. It turned out that I was a musical secret weapon in these displays, called upon to sing silly parody lyrics to well-known pop songs, written and strummed by my own “Big Sis.” I started to feel like a show pony, a shill for something I didn’t fully believe in. I was about to head to London for study abroad, but I stayed on campus during the four days prior for my mandatory participation in Rush. During each day of festivities, from the Open House to the Pref Night, I did my best to feel eager, to shush the voice in my head that said this was creepy and unnecessary.

When it was all over and the hard work was done, we got our list of “the babies” who’d chosen us: the ones we’d been stalking all semester. Our President read the list of names one by one, pausing after each to glance meaningfully at the member she thought would be the most excited. She saved our group favorites for last. The whole group clapped and hooted after their names were called. My big sis was particularly gung ho about the new additions to our small enclave of atypical sorority types—more rebels to aid in the quiet resistance. I felt kind of bad for bringing them into this, but I didn’t have to think long about it. I was heading to England where I could ignore the whole situation for a semester.

No Questions; No Exits

When I returned from abroad, I found it harder to give a fuck about the Bad News Bears. I was no longer living in the house, and after months of freely wandering Bloomsbury alone, I was finding the old meetings and rules stifling.

In my absence a new member had been added to our little group-within-the-group of non-followers. There were about five of us now, smoking weed behind the warehouse and complaining about the bullshit rules being enforced by the pearl-clutchers. One of us was constantly getting singled out like the bad kids in elementary school, for wearing the letters while partying, or letting a boy in the kitchen, or illustrating our event banner in a way that was deemed crude.

When I decided to quit, these girls were massively disappointed. They found out along with all the others, and I’m sure they were upset that I hadn’t told them, but it had been a spur-of-the-moment choice and, to be honest, we never hung out outside BNB.

All week I’d been slaving over three huge assignments, which were due in three different classes on Monday. (I might have been rebellious, but I prided myself on being a good student.) Sunday came too quickly. I spent all day in the computer lab trying to knock out the last essay. 6pm rolled around—meeting time—and I was nowhere near finished. I emailed the top BNB officers to ask if I could miss the meeting. I knew they’d understand, as scholarship was one of their top concerns. However, this is the email I received in return:

Dear Ginger,
As you know, all members must attend weekly chapter meeting. Acceptable excuses for missing events are: 1. Illness (A doctor’s note is required) 2. Death in the family or other family emergency 3. Religious observance 4. Scheduled class conflict 5. Graduate examinations 6. Participation in pre­scheduled University sports/ clubs, excluding intramurals.

Since your absence will not be excused, you will be fined for missing the meeting.

Love and Loyally,
President (Name Redacted)

It was time. I’d had it with these mothafuckin’ rules in this mothafuckin’ group that I didn’t even want to be in. I blazed back a reply to say that I would like to quit the sorority, effective now.

What followed was unexpected, since they’d been so lite on the cult attributes of late. I received a reply email that may as well have been penned by the Mafia for how willing they were to consider “letting” me quit. The President went full cult on me once again, using every trick in the book to try to get me to stay. She told me in no uncertain terms that I would not be able to deactivate. That doing so would require me to go to an executive board meeting and present my case, that I would have to have a meeting with Standards, I would have to pay a huge fine, and I’d have to write the entire chapter a letter, which I’d present along with a return of my pin and any sorority paraphernalia.

Luckily, I didn’t give a crap. “So what are they going to do to me if I refuse to do any of this stuff?” I said to my roomie. “Are they going to kick me out?”

I replied that I would not be paying a fine, because I was no longer a member. I would be henceforth retiring from all events, and it was not my problem. I finished my essay around 3 a.m. and slept, free at last.

It Just Wasn’t for Me

So yes, there were many cult tactics used, but that can be said of a lot of organizations. I can’t pretend it harmed me, being in this group. I can say that it was boring, inconvenient, and largely a waste of time. A lot of people enjoyed it, though. Their experiences were valid, and those who wanted me in it probably did just want my friendship. But for me, the whole thing felt forced and I felt caged. If we had met in more casual circumstances, we might have developed a real friendship.

Still, knowing that I always learn best from experience, I am not too angry at myself for the time I spent exploring what goes on behind the closed Greek doors. Sure, it was inconvenient and ended up pissing some people off. But I am someone who is always learning to negotiate boundaries, and this was one of my first really big boundary wins in the end, even if I could have exited far sooner and with more grace.

I’m still actively friends with my Bi Arty Players girls, and I still occasionally correspond with Jess and Sari. I wonder, after 20 years, what the rest of the Bad News Bears would say about me, the defector…but I don’t wonder enough to ask.

I sat in the dim basement with fifty other college girls dressed all in black, a sacred little pin gleaming atop our hearts. I exchanged glances with the “back row rebels” while the President—a senior whose thighs were the same circumference as her ankles—spoke to us like a pissed-off third grade teacher at a podium in front of a banner that read “WE LIVE FOR EACH OTHER.”

“It has come to our attention that certain sisters have been forgetting to act like ladies on campus,” said the Pres. “This is not good for visibility, especially if it gets back to the Panhellenic Council. One of you let a boy into our kitchen Friday evening, which is strictly forbidden. That person is hereby called to a meeting with Standards, and we will evaluate your member status moving forward.”

The person was me. It was the beginning of my junior year, and to accessorize my “Pin Attire,” I wore a candy necklace and sported a punk rock pixie cut, black in the back and bleached in the front. This was technically my third semester as an active sorority member, and I was becoming increasingly disenchanted with this whole system, which I felt duped into joining.

My Cult Personality Profile

I was certainly not someone you’d associate with sorority material. My fishnet shirt and spiked collar, while not a direct result of having grown up in fundamentalist Christianity, were certainly ripples of its disempowering rules forbidding participation in the “wicked ways of the world.” That rhetoric never made me feel close to God (I’m pretty sure it wasn’t meant to). Once I was out of its physical range, it no longer had any pull on me. My upbringing had taught me never to question anything, yet at college I was being asked to question everything and to write essays reasoning it all out. I had been taught there was only one way to get to Heaven, and that I must fear Hell at all costs, but through my studies of world religions, through visits to mosques and temples and synagogues and in-depth study of the Bible, I began understand the story of it all, to take what I needed and understand the rest to be man-made tales invented to control me. Me, the uncontrollable.

I still had characteristics that made me a cult target, though. Namely, I had a hunger for experience and an interest in all types of people. I did things my own way, but I was open, and I was experimental by default. This sometimes got me into less-than-savory situations, which is how I ended up a pawn in the “Greek” system at my college.

Step 1: The Target is Identified

I came into freshman year with my Punk-o-rama CDs, Chuck Taylor hi-tops, an electric guitar, and an open smile, eager to meet kindred spirits. I didn’t have money and I didn’t need friends. My freshman hallmates were the best friends I could ask for. Two of them were artsy punks who accompanied me on every adventure, and the other two were studious weirdos who I stayed up late talking to. I was totally myself around them. We spent all our time together, including most weekends, when we often dressed in minimal Lycra, tottering in cheap stilettos, dancing basement to basement on Greek Row until the wee hours. There, we were welcome interlopers. Nobody but other freshmen really engaged us, which made me feel uptight. (It didn’t help that I was a rare non-drinker in deeply unhealthy binge culture.) Sorority girls, by contrast, were easy, playing beer pong with the frat boys, effortlessly laughing like old friends, then disappearing with them upstairs. I clocked the power in that.

September through January, they walked in gaggles to the dining hall in their matching shirts with Greek letters across the chests, hanging up homemade butcher paper signs advertising their latest “philanthropy” event. These girls all looked the same to me: mousy, “normal,” no distinguishing characteristics. The only intrigue they held for me was their closeness with the fraternity boys, who comprised more than 90 percent of the males on campus.

Spring semester came, and with it “Rush Week,” or recruitment for new Greek members. Suddenly, sorority girls were paying attention to me. It was never anything deep, just warm little chat from a Tri-Delt I had class with, a joke to make me feel included from the Kappa co-star in the play. There was much buzz around Rush Week; all my hallmate besties were planning on doing it “just for shits and giggles,” and the mainstream girls who lived next to us were already certain of the sorority they hoped to pledge. (“Pledge” is what you become when you accept their invitation to join.)

Our Resident Advisor was a “Rho Gamma”—an upperclass sorority member who has taken a leave from her chapter to become one of the recruitment helpers—and she hosted an informational meeting to tell us what Rush Week would be like. “Tuesday,” she said, “is an open house, where you can just go visit each house and meet the sisters. This is informal; you can dress however you like and there will be snacks. If you made a good impression on a certain sorority, you’ll get a card under your door from them that night, and you’ll be invited back for the following night. Wednesday you’ll need to dress up a little more if you’re invited back. It’s called Philanthropy Night, and it will be a little more intimate. You’ll work with a couple of sisters on a craft while you learn about the philanthropy that is associated with that sorority. Again, if they think you’re a good fit, you will get another card slipped under your door to invite you back for Thursday, which is Pref Night.”

Here she got all reverent, placing a hand over her heart. “This is such a special night, you guys. I still remember how special my Pref Night was, and how I just knew my sorority was the place for me. I won’t spoil Pref Night for you; it’s a really big deal to get invited, and this is how you’ll make your decision for where to go. Now, I will be here to help you through the process, and I have to warn you: do not discuss your impressions with your friends. Everyone is going to have a different experience, and you need to choose what’s right for you, not them.”

This whole idea fascinated me. I had never been inside the sorority houses, as only the fraternities were allowed to hold parties. I wanted to see how these people lived, and understand if there was any kind of non-sexual motivation to walk around labeled with letters from a foreign alphabet, so I decided to join my hallmates and attend night one of rush: open house.

We all walked together down to Greek Row, laughing and making fun of ourselves for this stunt. I entered each of the four sorority houses with a smile, assessing their living room decor while I indulged the tens of sisters who seemed strangely excited to be chatting me up. Unlike the fraternity houses, these houses did not smell of piss and beer, but of candles from Bath & Body Works. These were not scattered with video games and tattered leather furniture, but decorated by an interior designer, with aesthetic mirrors and faux flowers in vases. Ten lucky students got to live in this impressive house, rather than sharing a moldy dorm room like I was. I mentally categorized each sorority as I met the ladies of each house: one was for the stereotypical white, blonde, rich, and popular type: I’ll call them Daddy’s Little Diamonds, or ΔΛΔ. One was for the sporty party girls who were also very popular: I’ll call them the Sporty Drunks, or ΣΔ. One was comprised of more theater and arty types; they were cool and could take or leave the boys: I’ll call them the Bi Arty Players, or BAΠ. The last sorority had only just been chartered at our campus two years ago, though nationally they were the oldest. I saw them as the underdogs; the Bad News Bears (BNB) of chapters, since they were decidedly not the ones going upstairs with the frat boys at parties.

I had not gone out of my way to fit in at any of the open houses; I looked like a Hot Topic poster child, per usual. Yet, at every house, I was being treated like a VIP. I hadn’t anticipated feeling like everyone was so interested in me. I ate it all up. That night in our dorm, my roomie dared to break the rules of Rush, telling me how much she loved BNB. I thought they were nerdy but endearing, objectively the least attractive and most studious (though there were a couple gorgeous and/or cool outliers). They seemed like they really prided themselves on being “classy,” and didn’t party outwardly like the others did. I still didn’t see myself joining any of these groups, but I definitely wanted to continue this anthropological study.

The next morning, I was the only one on my hall to wake up to invitations from all four sororities. My hallmates were tight-lipped, but they indicated they were quite certain about which house interested them. I was surprised that even my most alternative friends were truly considering joining the Bi Arty Players.

Step 2: Love Bombed

As the week went on, we returned to these houses every night, dressing fancier and talking to different members each time. Back at the dorm, our Rho Gamma would have a mandatory debriefing meeting for anyone in our hall who was participating in recruitment. She would console girls who were upset because they didn’t get invited back to their dream sorority, telling them that another would be the perfect fit. She would assuage those who were crying because they hadn’t gotten invited back anywhere at all by telling them they could try again next year.

By Pref Night, my hall friends and I had split. My two fun punk friends were only going back to BAΠ, and my two calm sober friends were only going back to BNB. As for me, I had continued getting invited to all the houses, and was still intrigued by the experiment. The Bi Arty Players were talking to me like I was already one of them, as if it was a given. The Bad News Bears, however, were especially aggressive in professing their love. A junior member, Cass, took a special interest in me: she did not fit in with the rest of the “classy” nerds, nor did she have the physique or demeanor of a stereotypical sorority sister. She played guitar and had a great sense of humor. I had never noticed her until she began to seek me out especially, looking deep into my eyes and saying things like, “We need more people like you,” and telling me about other “punk” / interesting / funny BNBs who I would just love. She introduced me around as if I was a celebrity, and the other Bad News Bears fawned accordingly.

“You can only pick two to go back to for Pref Night, because it’s a long night and they can only invite people they are really serious about becoming pledges,” our Rho Gamma said that night, back on our hall.

Since I still had all four to choose from, for the sake of experiment, I picked the two that befuddled me the most: the Daddy’s Little Diamonds and the Bad News Bears. The other two, I felt pretty sure of. The ΣΔs were silly and fun, nothing deeper; and the BAΠs felt more like me, some of them I could see myself actually being friends with.

Pref Night was insanely serious. At both the ΔΛΔ house and the BNB house, the sisters all waited for us in a line, all dressed up and wearing their most meaningful smiles. We filed into the dim living room where our names were called one by one. At this point, we were paired with an older member of the sorority who led us with awkward ceremony to get a dessert (though they did not), and then sat down with us at a candlelit table. It was hella uncomfortable: one foot away, as if we were on a romantic date, an older, desertless, girl I hardly knew was forcing intimate details of her sorority story on me while she watched me scarf tiramisu. The Daddy’s Little Diamond girl was a gorgeous pre-med, and I think she sensed I was just here as an observer. At the BNB house, though, the sister I was paired with was Cass, who gazed longingly into my eyes as I horfed cheesecake, giving me the most emotional hard-sell I’ve ever been witness to, actually tearing up as she told me of this amazing sisterhood and how, “You are a BNB. I know you are. We couldn’t believe you came back to our Pref Night. Everyone was so excited; they thought for sure you’d go to the Bi Arty Players. If we don’t see your name on our list on bid day, everyone in this sorority is going to cry.”

Back at the dorm after this heavy evening, we were handed our “Bid Cards” by the Rho Gamma, who was policing us, lest we share any impressions with our unpaid, authentic friends. I met the eyes of my two sweet nerd friends, who said with their eyes that they were choosing Bad News Bears. I looked to my favorite weird girls, who somehow let me know they were joining the Bi Arty Players. At this point, I’d be the only one on my hall not participating in the next few weeks of membership activities! I was already this far in; I figured I’d just go ahead and join one to see what it was all about. I’d go with my artsy girls; that felt natural.

I turned in my Bid Card, and Rho Gamma said, “BAΠ? But you didn’t go to their Pref Night.”

“Yeah, but I already know them. I just wanted to see what the others were about, and you said we could only go back to two.”

“Well, you probably shouldn’t choose a sorority whose Pref Night you didn’t attend. They most likely won’t have you on their Bid List!”

“You didn’t tell me this before,” I said.

I thought about it. I was always going to be friends with my cool artsy friends, because we hung out every day. The Bad News Bears seemed super sincere. Maybe I should give them a chance. What could I lose besides a couple hundred bucks? Maybe it was fate; maybe they saw who I really was, and maybe they knew we would be best friends. That’s why they they wanted me SO badly! Well, they were going to get me. I turned in my Bid Card with them at the top.

Right off the bat, it felt like a square-peg-round-hole situation. But the lovebombing that continued kept me wondering if these relationships would eventually yield returns for what I was paying. Every day that first week, I’d get special notes slipped under my door telling me how loved I was by these people who had only just met me, how they couldn’t wait to get to know me better, how awesome Bid Day was going to be, how much I was going to love being a pledge. I’d get packages in my post office box: little homemade trinkets with our sorority letters on them, hand-me-down shirts, or candy. They loved to give candy. My favorite art-punk friends next door now had their own language, and I didn’t like feeling ostracized. My roomie and I also had our own new language, based on symbols and sayings that meant nothing to me. While the BAΠ experience felt from the outside like friends irreverently sharing some tongue-in-cheek rituals, our sorority was full of wide-eyed devotees to every acronym, rule, and creed established by our 1851 founders.

Step 3: The Prizes are Dangled

They kept building up Bid Day as this amazing experience, so I waited gamely. When the day came, I was greeted with a gloomy white sky. I felt like a fat, gross, misfit, separate from my cool artsy friends who were going to be with their own kind. My two fellow Bad News Bears hallmates were excited, and I tried not to kill their buzz. We walked together to join our new sisters.

Greek Row was abuzz. The frat houses had speakers blaring and college boys roving around in different states of inebriation, even at 9 a.m. The front yards of the sorority houses were filled with girls doing synchronized dances, wearing their letters along with silly hats and feather boas, taking photo after photo with different combinations of smiling sisters doing custom hand gestures. My two BNB hall friends jumped right in. I tried to look excited as these people I didn’t know threw their arms around us, saying, “The babies are here!! The babies are here!!”

Everyone I talked to kept telling me how great the next thing was going to be. How awesome it was that we were about to go hard on our New Member Education, learning every secret of this secret society. Random sisters approached me as if we were lovers in a past life.

“I can’t believe you’re here!”

“You would not believe the crazy cheers this morning when we found out you were on our list!”

“I can’t wait until Initiation. You are going to love the ceremony. It’s so amazing. I swear it’s not scary.”

“Our first formal is going to be so fun with you guys as the littles!”

One thing we were supposed to be super excited about was finding out who our “big sisters” were. As you probably guessed, mine was Cass, the doting Junior who had teared up while watching me eat cheesecake. She said “We’re family! You’re going to love your Grand-big—she is so cool.” But then we didn’t really have much to talk about after that. When I finally met my “Grand-big,” she was indeed so cool. So cool that she lived off campus, listened to MXPX, and didn’t participate in much relating to this group. Everyone else was getting lavaliers (necklace with the letters on it) from their Grand-big, and no matter how much time passed, I felt like a stranger in my “family.”

I started to notice how my “family” interacted with the other prissy rule-followers of BNB at events and meetings: they didn’t. They seemed more like mascots for the group: ignored on serious matters, but deployed to sing or be funny at campus events to showc ase how “cool” BNB was. I did like the two sisters I was assigned to, but I started to think they had wanted me here for one reason and one reason only: they knew I was also not going to enjoy this experience, and they wanted another person on their small team.

But It’s Not a Cult!

Yeah, yeah. It’s not. You can leave. There’s nothing inherently dangerous, I guess. But at this point, I’ve done enough independent research to know that, just like multi-level marketing schemes and controlling relationships, sororities employ culty tactics, which is why I ended up staying for a year and a half in an experiment that I wasn’t even enjoying. And I’m not blaming anyone but myself, really.

Secrets will be revealed, along with more cult tactics…in PART TWO!

More from my college years:

This is the sequel to my post Rich-Adjacent, which explains how I came to live in Malibu for two years, on a hill near Ed Harris, Mel Gibson, and one of the Real Housewives—in a house that recently burned to the ground. What follows is the story of my time there.

I have been T’s person for a year, and we’ve just gotten back from a trip to Kauai (unbelievably, I got paid for that, too) when her dad makes me the offer: “I’ll move you to salary instead of hourly. I’ll pay the rent, and I’ll give you a credit card for incidentals and food. You choose the house. We’ll have to go to the school together to enroll her, of course. I won’t live there, but she can come to me on weekends.”

I am gobsmacked with the prospect. Me, a Malibu resident? Living in a house, with no expenses to worry about? I could pay off my college loans and credit card debt! I could write my novel, and get paid while doing it! But no. No. I am not fit to take on this kind of responsibility; I am only 29, still shaky from aftershocks of my Saturn Return. Not to mention, I just moved in with my boyfriend Kai six months ago. This would spell defeat for our relationship. No.

“You don’t have to answer now; just think about it.”

I drive home and tell Kai. He blinks and stutters, trying to process it. We have been together for a year. “I don’t want to stop living together. How would you feel about moving to Malibu?” I say.

“Would he be okay with me moving in there, too?”

“I’ll talk to him. And if you do, you’ll have to help me with T, equally. It would be weird otherwise. I would split the money with you.” We discuss this at length for two weeks, soliciting our family members’ advice. At their suggestion, we draw up a contract for T, laying out our expectations about homework, friends, drugs, and such.

T’s dad agrees to our demands, and T signs the contract. We look for a house within the monthly price range he’s willing to pay, which is five times what we’re paying for our apartment in Santa Monica. The fancy condos on the beach at Point Dume are close to the school, but we don’t want to live 26 miles from civilization with only one road in and out. The houses near 3rd Point are too expensive. The trailers at Paradise Cove are too insular. We find an option up on a hill above Carbon Beach; the house is ugly and plain on the outside, but it has a lot of land and a beautiful view of the ocean, framed by a line of Cypress Trees. It’s clean, with plenty of bedrooms and a simple layout.

It just so happens that Kai’s brother has recently visited us and decided he wants to move to L.A. We sublet our old apartment to him, so we don’t even have to worry about moving large furniture, and we still have something tying us to our beloved Santa Monica.

The Overlook

On the first day, we all go in excitedly. T’s dad helps her get moved in, takes a cursory glance around, and drops her off, never to return to this house during our custody of his daughter. I don’t judge him for this; he knows this is a strange arrangement, so there’s always an elephant in a room that we share, but he also knows he’s doing the best thing within his power for his daughter right now. She chooses her room: the one furthest away from us, and we move in her bed and dresser and things. We don’t have living room furniture yet, so we sit on skateboards around a table made from a cardboard box, and all eat pizza from D’Amore’s. It is the beginning of a new era, and it feels promising.

School starts soon, and already, it’s nice to have a schedule. Every morning, Kai and I take turns driving T the 15 minutes to school. She never wants to wake up and get going, but she obliges groggily, often still wearing her fishnets-under-jean-shorts outfit from the night before. She seems like she’s grown years since I first met her, and she certainly seems to have some secrets.

More and more of her friends start to become fixtures in our house. I haven’t been around teenagers since I was one myself, and it’s cute when they want me to take them to Sun Life Organics after school for Acai Bowls. They eat dinner at our house and talk to us freely about doing shrooms, about the musical genius of The Strokes, about their alarmingly broken families. We meet some of their parents, and, even though they drive slick cars and live in fancy houses, and are even nice people, none of them seem very happy. I don’t know what the kids are doing behind T’s closed door, but they burst out laughing sometimes, and that’s nice to hear.

I’m almost embarrassed at how seriously Kai is taking this job: fully embracing a “Dad” role. He is completely comfortable telling T “you have to do your homework before you can play video games,” and making her eat real food. I use him as the bad cop anytime I need to enforce something, because it would be totally destabilizing if I just changed my entire personality to an authoritarian after years of the “fun older cousin” dynamic. As time goes on, he also begins to show her affection that I had never known I was allowed to express. She laughs, red-faced, then makes fun of him for giving her hugs and saying “I love you,” but I can tell she loves it. She even comes with us for a week in the summer to visit my family in Kentucky, and they treat her like family.

Dreamland

We are eating like kings. The grocery stores here—Vintage Grocers and Pacific Coast Greens—are like museums, and we want to cater to T, whose favorite things to eat have expanded from pizza and plain pasta to include Kobe beef steaks and sushi. I cringe a little at the price as I swipe her dad’s credit card and ring up the steaks, along with all the freshest vegetables, and why not some Maca Powder and Goji Berries and Hemp Hearts, some single-origin ethically-sourced coffee, and anything else that has been out of our financial reach up until now, while we’re at it?

One byproduct of my rich new lifestyle is that I’m healthier than ever. It’s magic: I get fitter and fitter without trying. I’m not slaving away trying to squeeze in boring workouts, nor am I starving myself. Having money simply allows me to buy the best foods, and having time means I am surfing most days. We meditate 24 minutes every day, and I get my uninterrupted beauty sleep with the best sound machine in existence: the echo of the waves, bouncing loudly up the mountain and through our sliding screen door.

My boyfriend is going hard on his acting career, treating it like a corporate ladder he’s trying to scale. There is something about it that smacks of all work and no play makes Kai a dull boy, but he doesn’t seem interested in my opinion on that. He is able to find a manager powerful enough to actually submit him for real roles, and I jealously realize that the manager is gay and flirts with my man shamelessly over the phone. He actually gets a few small roles on network TV. I am getting a lot of commercial photo shoots, which I love, but I’m spending most of my days while T is at school working on a novel based on the most debased year of my life—the rock bottom I was at two years ago.

Rorschach Blots and Mirror Reversals

I’m starting to see how this place can feel like a prison instead of a paradise. My relationship with Kai is suffering. We’re isolated up here, without the community feel that Santa Monica afforded us. You can’t just go outside your door and talk to whatever neighbor is outside. You can’t just walk to Tacos Por Favor or ride your bike to yoga class. I do get to commune with the most spectacular sunsets every evening that give way to the brightest stars, but when I take a walk, I rarely see anyone, and if I do, it’s someone so rich and/or famous that they don’t want to meet the eyes of anyone beyond their gate. Academy-Award-Nominated Actor Ed Harris does say hi to me once or twice, walking his dog with his wife Amy. He points me to a secret passage under the road to the beach, which is kind of creepy and maybe dangerous, but it becomes my new go-to walk.

We get new neighbors that seem like a nice couple. She’s a successful artist, elegant in a Meryl Streep kind of way; he’s a CEO/producer, and their son is in his early twenties, a Malibro in training. Our houses share a property and a big wrought-iron gate. Until they lived here, we just left the gate open, but they insist on us keeping it closed all the time, and now we have a code we have to give to people when they come visit. We go over to theirs for dinner a couple times, and they invite all sorts of fancy people who are out of our league. I sense that our presence is a little too authentic in this company; The Artist didn’t tell us it was going to be a masquerade ball, but I’m getting indications she wants us to keep the truth of our situation on the downlow so we can all pretend we’re much more important than we are. It’s a breath of fresh air to have someone next door, though. Even if most of our conversations take place at the trash cans, complaining about our shared landlady who is a Mommie Dearest brand of insane.

No matter how sequestered I feel up here, the ocean heals me and offers me an unobstructed view, full of possibilities. Surfing has become one of the great loves of my life, even if I’m not “good.” There I am free and powerful and one with nature, trading waves with a girl named Kate I meet at County Line. I’m a salty badass, trespassing to the secret spots past the beach mansions and down the hidden staircases. I’m learning to listen to my gut, because when I don’t and go out anyway, with our neighbors’ son and Kai on a foggy white day at Third Point, a fin slices my ear half off. Another day, alone, my foot is cut open on sharp rocks at Sunset Point. I climb back up the hill and hobble to my Prius as cars whizz by me, blowing my hair, blood pooling in my flip-flop. But the price of admission is low. To stay in the water so late on a summer day that my fingers wrinkle and everyone’s gone and the whole ocean turns pastel blue, with the sun setting to my left and the moon rising on my right, it’s all worth it.

The Shining

T comes back after a weekend with her dad and she has beautiful blue hair that shines like a sea creature and smells expensive. She looks radiant, and over the next few months becomes a popular presence on Instagram. She also has some new pet rats in a cage, with a bed of shredded paper and little tubes for them to play in. One of them she dyes green. “They’re both boys, right?” Kai asks, and she assures us they are.

Some weekends she just stays with us, and her friends come over. Sometimes they take Ubers to other friends’ houses, which we don’t feel comfortable with, but this is one of those issues we can’t really control, because her dad has given her the power of unlimited funds on the app. Mostly, it’s okay. They’re just hanging out at another girlfriend’s house in the canyon. We think. T is not interested in drugs, it seems. We do find out later that that behind the closed door, she and her friends have been giving each other stick-n-poke prison tats with pens and needles: temporary nicknames now permanent fixtures on teen ankles.

We still talk in the car. She’s still in a half-relationship with that little jerk who has been treating her like a dirty little secret for two years, and she now knows how I feel about him, so she downplays their closeness. His parents are even worse than he is. His mother Roxy is such a manipulative, despicable lunatic, she actually calls T a “slut” among other things, but then turns on a dime, buying T gifts, inviting her over, buttering her up, and dangling her own son like bait whenever she wants to go on a free trip that she knows T’s dad will pay for.

T’s dad offers to get us a cleaning lady and we say no. What kind of people would we be if we did jack shit all day besides surf, make art, and spend money, and also refused to clean our own house? Instead we institute chores, and for the first time, T has to clean her room, which frequently smells of rat droppings now.

One day, T lifts up a little plastic igloo in the rat cage, and under it are about 22 “pinkies”: little hairless things, cuddling in a pile. I look at T, whose eyes are huge. “The pet store told me they were boys!”

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“I have some friends who will want some of them. And the others I can sell back to the pet store.”

One day, my friend Lynn is visiting, and T takes her in her room to see her rats. “What the heck?” I hear T exclaim.

In her room, she has lifted up the little igloo, and all the pinkies are gone. Turns out they have grown big enough to see and walk, but still small enough that they can fit through the bars of the cage. We can’t find them anywhere.

A couple weeks later, our oven starts smelling every time we turn it on. Kai takes it apart and finds 22 cooked rats and their excrement, hiding in the insulation. He makes T help him clean it up and it is truly gross.

The Wasps’ Nest

Now that I’m perceived as “rich,” it’s hard to convince others that we are the same. People put a pane of glass between me and them when I try to connect. They talk to me as if through a little slot at the bank’s drive-up window. “Hey! How’s your day?” I say to the grocery store cashier, and I can’t connect as equal humans, because she lowers her eyes “Very good, ma’am,” with a reverence that says, “I understand my place.” I want to tell her about growing up in Eastern Kentucky, or talk with her about all the shitty restaurant jobs I’ve had, but I just take my three bags of expensive organic food and head for the door.

Then there are those who see me as an opportunity. I have lots of friends in the “biz”: writers who want to collaborate with producers and actors, actors who want to meet casting directors, etc. and when they find out where I live, they want to have a table read there and invite people they want to impress. It’s a nice time, even if they spend half the time commenting on the view, and talk to us like we’re important. When they leave, we have many promises of involvement as actors or producers on upcoming projects.

Our nearest and dearest still know us, at least. We are able to have brunches, get-togethers, a big Thanksgiving feast with two long tables packed with food and people, and a wild Christmas party with everyone dressed up and dancing. The house may not be much to look at, but it has become a character.

For Christmas, T’s dad gets her the most epic special effects makeup artist’s kit, the kind you’d find on a big-budget Hollywood set. She’s always been an amazing artist and horror aficionado, and now she is creating lifelike boils, cuts and gashes. It’s perfect timing, because one of our talented auteur / director friends has come up with an absurdist 1990s horror-comedy series, and he needs a place to film it.

There is an extra room in the house that has its own entrance, and is connected to this big, creepy hallway that goes to nowhere. Nobody uses this room, so we agree to turn it into a dungeon-like set, and we get T to be our official makeup artist. Kai and I act in it, and we have a delightfully exhausting time over the next couple weeks. I cast the whole thing with awesome actors from my class . T does an amazing job creating believable nailbat lesions, bruises, axe gashes, and stab wounds. Everyone loves her, and I think I detect a boost in her confidence.

Night Thoughts

Despite the obvious advantages of living in Malibu and the opportunities we wouldn’t have had otherwise, there is a dark presence that seems to hang over the whole city, and it’s starting to get a hold of us. I am 30 and Kai is 28. We’ve been together two years, and we are in therapy. Our sex life is stop-and-go. We have developed this old-people problem of never getting out anymore, and we fight half the time about how to parent our teenager. Mo’ money, mo’ problems.

T has just turned 16 and wants to learn to drive. She gets her permit and I let her take my car out on the hill and around the backroads at her school, though not the Pacific Coast Highway just yet. It’s a little scary, but I know how to encourage her and not scare us both. I am more scared of what’s happening with my relationship.

I am sure I’m still the same person I was when Kai fell in love with me (and even better), but nothing I do seems right in his eyes; it’s like he’s got a hammer and he’s just looking for nails. I’ve become almost OCD, walking on eggshells trying to appease him. He does not support my driving tutelage of T, and it becomes yet another point of contention to add to all the other reasons he is finding of late to disdain me.

I so don’t want to lose him. I so don’t want to start over, yet again. But this place is starting to feel like the Overlook Hotel in The Shining, like a malevolent force is guiding things. It gets so bad between us around this time that I see no recourse, and after coming to terms with it and crying all my tears out over the course of a whole weekend, I know I have to choose myself, even if it means I’ll never find lasting love. In that Malibu kitchen while T is at school, I am gutted as I give him a somber and stern ultimatum which I assume will be our demise.1

Shadowland

Life is an exercise in duality, however, and the cave I’ve feared to enter ends up holding the treasure I seek. The ultimatum does not send him running (or axe-murdering, thankfully), but instead somehow breaks the spell, and his eyes soften. He truly sees me for the first time in a while, and he can finally see himself, and the situation clearly. Over the next few days, his urge to castigate me disappears completely, and he lets go of the hammer. He goes back to loving me, and relief washes over us.

Together, we start to notice that everyone here has a desperation or a resignation about them. T’s friends’ parents who we’ve come to know since we are always schlepping their kids? They are all in evil legal battles with their exes. The people we see out and about are beautiful, but upon second glance, their smiles fit into the “Black Hole Sun” aesthetic. T is staying up all hours on computer games just to hang out with that awful kid, and her grades are failing. Without permission from us, the kid’s psycho-bitch mother has conned T into caring for her brand new puppy (with no pay), who craps all over our house while Bitch is gone on vacation. Even our nice neighbors are acting unhinged: they’ve gotten mad at us for “breaking the gate,” even though it was an accident caused by T and her friends. In a very weird bid to show us who rules this hillside, The Artist has taken to walking her dogs right into our yard at 7 every morning, two feet in front of our bedroom where we sleep naked on the other side of a screened French door. It’s such a strange move we don’t even know what to say about it.

We take turns escaping whenever we get a chance, driving the 25 minutes to go to Santa Monica. We say hi to Kai’s brother and the old neighbors. I hit up the farmers market, a yoga class, the Promenade—just to be among people who seem happy. Kai says that it’s almost more painful to visit our old life; like it’s a dream and he has to wake up every time he comes back to the hill. It’s like I can feel an explosion coming, but I don’t know how.

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Matters of Life and Death

Kai and I are about to go to Kentucky for Christmas, but before we go, T’s dad wants to have a meeting. I drive to his palatial business on the hill, and his assistant lets me in to his office.

“So,” he says, “I am going to be moving back to Malibu.”

“Great!” Maybe he can be more present in T’s life on the weekends.

“I got a new house, and T is going to come live with me.”

“Oh.” I’m still smiling, but my stomach drops. “Okay.” It’s spooky—as if he could read the energy of the situation all along. He doesn’t involve emotions, however; he’s a businessman through and through, talking to me just like I’m another employee.

“I won’t leave you hanging or anything. I’ll give you all of January to find a new place. And I’ll still pay you through then.”

I’m suddenly worrying about who will take T to school, who will talk to her about boys, who will help her with homework, and who will make sure she feels like she’s part of a family. He doesn’t mention the fact that we’ve been there for her for two years, or how we will proceed in her life. I’m not sure if he even realizes that we consider her our “child” of sorts—that we are invested in her and love her.

During the holiday in Kentucky, we feel bamboozled and relieved, like maybe there’s hope for our relationship and future. We sail through the holiday in a fugue state, talking to everyone in my family about what’s happening, integrating what we’ve experienced and contemplating what we are about to embark on.

We return to Malibu and help T dismantle her room. She leaves behind a lot of furniture, which becomes ours, along with some makeup and art supplies here and there. She takes the framed art I made her. She is moving into a fancy house, equipped with maids who will do the driving until she gets her own car in a few months, a pool with an outdoor kitchen, a chef who will make all the meals. It feels like Annie leaving the orphanage to go live with Daddy Warbucks, but also like we are abandoning her.

The last night I get to be her person, we take her to the boat one last time. She rides in the backseat and we let her pick the music: Lana del Rey. We try to chat about inane things; we try to smile. I’m holding back tears looking out at the ocean. She says she will still see us. I get out and give her a hug and grab her backpack from the backseat. She’s grown so much, but she is still holding her stuffed bunny. The poem ends as softly as it began. I get back into the car and burst into violent sobs as soon as she is out of my sight.

We drive back to Malibu, empty.

“She’ll be okay, won’t she?” I ask.

“I hope so,” Kai says.

The house on the hill is quiet. In her room, there is one Converse sock, a drumstick signed by Travis Barker, and a few scraps of paper left behind, plus some doodles on the walls she’d drawn with a sharpie. I shut the door on it.

We don’t stay more than a week into January. The Malibu house feels like a ruin, spooky and empty. Kai’s brother quickly finds an apartment across the courtyard from our old place in Santa Monica, and we move right back into our 1-bedroom, which feels super small now (especially to our cat, who pulls a Homeward Bound and leaves us in search of her old Malibu home). Our old neighbors all welcome us back, and we are suddenly right where we started, a young couple of artists, gigging for a living, except now without debt, with family nearby, and with a new appreciation for our simple, cozy life.

Epilogue: Eight Years Later

T and her friend Mary are at our house in Davis, making art with our 6-year-old twins. They’re 25, and, unlike me at that age, they seem to have put their wild days behind them. They speak like psychologists or bodhisattvas, and they never blame others when they get “triggered.” I am so impressed with who they’ve become.

“Remember how I lost my virginity in your house?” Mary laughs.

“Ugh. Yes,” I say, and we talk about all the others who shared our space during those years. “We made it out!”

“I only made it out because of you guys,” T says.

“We love you, T,” says Kai.

“I love you guys, too.”

I kissed her little cheek and replied, before quickly turning the phone off and shoving it under a pillow, “I was just on here trying to figure out what to write about next.”

“You should write a diarrhea story!”

My kids adore poop jokes, but Aya had gotten this idea, I think, because she had overheard me telling my husband about last week’s band practice, in which Tyler told a story about having to call in sick on the first day of a job with the true excuse of “Uh, I’m so sorry, but I shit my pants on the way here.” This was followed by Nico telling a story about doo-dooing himself on a public bus, and then Alex regaling us with a port-a-john horror tale. I also told a story, though mine thankfully didn’t include dirty pants.

“Everyone loves poop stories!” Aya said. “There’ll be thousands of comments!”

I laughed and tickled her. “What a great idea,” I said. “I’m going to post that and see what people think of it.”

And, of course, she was right: you sickos exploded with a mighty flow of puns and responses, and so I thought—why not?

I warn you: the story that follows is not for the faint of heart.

A Kink in the Hose

Nobody tells you that when you get pregnant, every organ in your belly just scoots somewhere to make room. For me, it was twins, so just imagine how squished everything must have been—and worse, when the babies vacate the premises, they leave behind a cavernous space that, before it deflates, leaves room for everything to slosh around, getting tangled like fingers in old-timey telephone cords.

I don’t know what the fuck was going on in my guts for about three years there, but I know this: something occasionally got twisted, or stuck behind something else, and when this happened, I’d get constipated for days. But that wasn’t the worst part. After a few days or so of stuffing my gullet like normal without the relief of emptying, whatever kink that was in the hose would suddenly and forcibly straighten out. There would be a sharp stomach pain that demanded I fold in on myself, moaning. Then, I had exactly four seconds to run to the closest toilet, where I would detonate a bowel bomb that demanded no less than three flushes. I’d leave, ten pounds lighter, and then just go about my business until the next time this happened.

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Baby-wearing Myself Out

From the second those little twins entered our world, all they wanted was to get back to the bliss of being carried. They demanded it ‘round the clock. I was psychologically in soldier mode: always alert, a bundle of raw nerves in a strange land, hallucinating from lack of sleep, going insane from the constant wails of babies, but committed to my job of giving them the best care I could muster. This meant I was rarely not wearing a baby.

I had three different babywearing devices. One was a wrap made of stretchy fabric, for feeling close, when they wanted to nap on me or nurse without anyone knowing. The second was the Weego, which held both babies in two large pouches next to each other on the front: a back breaker, but good for a plane trip or something. The last and best was the TwinGo, which distributed the weight evenly, like a backpack with one twin on the front and one on the back. It could even separate into two carriers if you and your partner wanted to each carry one. I wore this thing out, even hiking in it, for three years—it was my go-to for shutting them up and getting steps and fresh air.

Shit Happens

Having twins in a one-bedroom apartment would have been miserable anywhere but Santa Monica. Whenever things felt overwhelming, I just stuck them in the TwinGo and headed out into the 70-degree sunshine. There were so many places to walk—the beach, the parks, the cemetery—and once we reached a destination, I’d let them loose to explore.

It was a weekend, so this time I walked to Santa Monica College’s campus, knowing it would be empty. We spent a peaceful hour, the kids toddling around the grass, climbing on the maintenance golf carts. I hadn’t gone #2 since Wednesday, but I wasn’t thinking about that. It was a beautiful morning!

I was holding Taika out over the fountain, letting him stick his hands in when it hit me: the familiar gut-stabbing sensation, accompanied by the sound of slop gurgling through old plumbing. I looked to my left and to my right. The bathrooms were far away, and even if I made it there, they’d be locked, as it was a weekend. I was three blocks away from my house. Maybe I could hold it in and make a run for it?

“Guys, we’ve gotta go,” I said, like a person being chased by an assassin. I snapped the carrier around my waist, stuck a kid in, and turned it around.

“Mommy! No! We are having fun!”

“WE’VE GOT TO GO! MOMMY HAS TO POOP!”

I manhandled the other kid, sticking her in the front as quickly as I could while they laughed their heads off. I started powerwalking, as smoothly as I could, so as not to shake loose the one rock that was holding back the dam.

I was almost off the campus, when I knew. I knew that I would wind up with ten pounds of turd in my pants if I tried to make it home. My eyes darted all around, and I saw no one was near.

“Oh man,” I whined. It was going to come to this.

I ran to the side of a building where there was a rectangle of lovely landscaping. “Guys, this is not good. The poo poo is about to squirt!” I whispered. The agony stabbed me, unrelenting. “I’m going to have to go over here behind the bush!”

I squatted down, balancing and hovering behind the boxwood hedge with fifty pounds of children looking over my shoulder at each other and laughing at me. As soon as the pants were down, it was all over.

“Mommy? Are you poopooing on the ground?”

The relief came as fast as the outpouring of hot stank. Luckily the TwinGo had a zipper pouch where I kept baby wipes, so my booty skin and my clothes were spared. The landscape, however, was irreversibly defaced. I used woodchips to cover my sins, and sent up a prayer for whoever the poor soul was who might stumble upon this pile of manure, this plague on the house of academia.

When the deed was done, I ambled away innocently, engaging my kids in nonsense talk like any other upstanding Santa Monica mother who did not just take a dump on a public college campus.

A young couple passed us, holding hands. “Hello!” I said, a little too loudly over my giggling son who wanted to let them know “Mommy pooped over there.”

“Hello,” said the girl. “So cute.”

I looked back at them, two lovebirds on the path to a bright future, strolling unaware past the woodchip-covered monument to my shame.

I’ve known Grief for some time now. Five years ago, when my dad died, Grief and I got to know each other on a first-name basis. He surprises me sometimes: I’ve lost boyfriends, a husband, good friends, other family—whether to death, or just tragic removal from my life—and each time, Grief took out his blade and inflicted a pain that felt like someone reached in and ripped out one of my vital organs. He said it was for my own good. I started to understand Grief—not to enjoy his visits, but to tolerate him. I’ve learned that ignoring him doesn’t ever work. You have to invite him in and unpack his bags, or else he will follow you around like a shadow, not caring who he offends.

I’ve made the mistake of ignoring him before, and he came to sit next to me in meetings and dentist appointments, whispering terrible things that sent sobs to take me over, forcing me to endure awkward therapy sessions with masked hygienists scraping my plaque. So I no longer ignore him. I’ve found it best just to lock myself up in a room with him at the first knock (which usually manifests as a flicker of heart pain). Together we listen to the saddest song I know—anything that reminds me of the lost person, place, or thing—and I journal while we watch a slideshow of photos. The liquids that pour from my face are an offering to him: the more I can wail and groan, the more puddle-like I become, the faster he agrees to leave.

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Each visit from him has been different and surprising. There were certain losses when I didn’t expect to see him at all, but he came anyway and hung around far longer than I thought he would, flashing his knife, torturing me in ways I couldn’t have expected. When I asked why, he said it was because I loved them more than I had ever admitted, or he said it was simply the shock of their exit that warranted a visit. Grief is honest, at least. He tells it like it is.

Grief has also surprised me by ambushing me with a mask that looks like Anger, putting it over my head when I wasn’t looking. It always takes me a while to get it off, and even longer to realize Grief was the culprit all along. He’s a real trickster.

This time around, with my mom, he came to visit repeatedly for a whole year before she left us. He said he was not sure when she would die, but he was sure it would be soon, so he kept anticipating whether to come and stay with me or not. He’d call me over and over, leaving me messages in everything I saw. Then he’d come to stay: sometimes these “anticipatory” visits would last for a day, and sometimes for a whole week.

Every one of the four or five times I visited my mom in Kentucky this past year, Grief showed up as I was hugging her goodbye. He wrapped his arms around both of us, whispering that this goodbye would probably be our last, and then he rode beside me on the plane home, demanding my offering of tears. He would then jump on my back and I’d have to carry him for two weeks at a time, while I played Uno with my kids, or took the stage with my band.

One surprising thing about Grief: as sadistic as he can be, he does understand love, and he understands beauty. He’s really into art. I don’t really mind him helping me write songs. I kind of like how he reminds me of my memories: loving, funny, or sad.

My Mom began to lose the voice she once had, making it difficult for us to understand what she was saying. When she started to find it too uncomfortable to talk on the phone, Grief started coming everywhere with me, brandishing his weapon so I could almost feel it tearing me apart. My conversations with Mom had to move to Facebook messenger, where we’d type, or I’d send her voice memos or videos and wait for her to respond with text.

I was surprised when I saw he could take on different forms. He started to appear as the three dots that indicated my mom was typing. The dots would appear, then disappear for a long while. They’d appear again, and I’d just watch, wait, and cry, listening as he told me that the three dots were all I had left of her. I longed for her to step in on my behalf: to replace those three dots with words; to tell Grief he was making me uncomfortable, and that he needed to let up. She did her best, but Grief was always with us during those last conversations.

And I hated when he would bring in Guilt. In fact, he didn’t even open the door; instead he would always somehow convince me to invite Guilt in. He would tell me how much Guilt loved a good time. Grief said I owed Guilt, because she had traveled ages to get here and look—I was doing something joyful—shouldn’t I invite Guilt in to share the joy? So I would open the door for her.

But Guilt was such an awful party guest. She would always say, “It’s pointless, all the stuff of life! How silly you are, at karaoke, singing ‘None of Yo’ Business’ on your 40th birthday! How dare you take your family sailing in the British Virgin Islands! You should be visiting her again, or at least have the decency to be at home crying!”

I’d call my sister, who was Mom’s caretaker, and ask a sort of permission. My sister always said to me, “Don’t put your life on hold. Mom doesn’t want you to,” and for a little while, Grief and Guilt would go somewhere else. My sister made me feel like the best choice was to go on living, so I did. But the duo came back every so often to remind me that my sister was stuck with the minutiae of in-home hospice, feeding, and bathing my Mom, who had stopped being able to swallow her food.

So, it happened. My mom was gone. By then I knew Grief as well as I knew myself. When he stays as long as he did, he gets a nickname: Mourning. I couldn’t believe it, but instead of plunging his knife in like he had threatened, he withdrew it this time, and just sat beside me on the funerary bench in the town where I grew up, in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky. And he stayed at the funeral home throughout that trip, so that I could go out alone and enjoy being surrounded by so many familiar faces who had loved me for so long.

I wasn’t sure if Mourning was coming back to California with me, or if he was done with me, but I soon found out.

My momma, who had once been there to witness every new milestone, was no longer present on Earth to reply to every video and photo of her grandchildren. On the twins’ first day of second grade, this hit me hard and I broke down in the parking lot in the arms of another mom.

And then, another week later, Grief brought me a filing cabinet labeled Nostalgia. As he opened the drawer, I felt a gaping in my guts. “Here is where you put all the pain of loss. Go ahead, find the correct folder and put Mom in there,” he said. “Anytime you want to look through it, I’ll bring it back.”

But while it was open, he bade me to flip through the rest of the files, so I did. I took out a folder called Home—so many pictures of the life I had left behind in L.A—and Grief wanted his payment again, so I cried for that, too. “You can keep that for a week,” he said. “I’ll stay.”

“What?” I said through tears. “I thought we were done. Haven’t I dealt with enough? Why do I need to address this again?”

“Don’t ask why, my dear,” he said. “Just trust the process.

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