If you’ve been reading my words for any length of time, chances are high that you know I’m a rape survivor.
Hi there!
I’m Adi - an accidental yogi, trail runner, and lover of words.
I’m Adi - an accidental yogi, trail runner, and lover of words.
If you’ve been reading my words for any length of time, chances are high that you know I’m a rape survivor.
I could keep going with more Dad-caused-a-ruckus stories, but I’ve got a few weeds to pull, and hopefully you’ve got some celebrating of your own fathers to do.
Community is funny that way. When you accidentally land in one, you notice it until you don’t - unless you’re Tiffany, of course, and noticing community is precisely and relentlessly what you do.
I slid the coffee table I love right up to the blue couch that I hate and let my fingers dance across the keyboard, like I’ve been doing all week, but this time with a little less pressure.
The next morning, I woke up to an email filled with post-conversation afterthoughts. If you’ve come to my classes, you know I like to offer little vignettes when I teach, and if you’ve come to my classes, you’ve probably heard me quote my friend. Please indulge me while I do so here. The man is annoyingly in tune, which is to say that his insight is pretty special.
In the past year, I’ve grown more vulnerable in my storytelling, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever done anything more than imply this: my mother suffered
Guessing a homeless person’s age is a great impossibility. A life on the streets adds wrinkles and scars that are otherwise shielded by the comfort, the protection of a reliable roof.
As one does when accidentally landing in a foreign world, I found a small pocket to slip nicely into.
Because my travel day is long, I chose a sweater and yoga pants. Once I win the war of pulling them over freshly showered legs, they’re the most sensible option for comfort whilst squirming about my airplane seat. I’m latching onto comfort in any manner available, as it would be days before my body feels soft, feels at ease again.
Guilt permeates me as I admit to this out-of-sight-out-of-mind pattern, right now.
And really, it wasn’t so much a neglected thought as it was a temporarily-abandoned-until-I-can-think-of-a-story-worth-telling thought, because thinking of a story worth telling is a considerable challenge at the moment.
These are the two rules I try to live by. Sometimes I fail.
the bridge connecting my precarious wobbling kitchen and my special hot buffet.
The idea of quarantine was moving from hypothetical to actual, earning the series the name “Quarantined-ish.”
I don’t know where my mom is because I’m ten and mothers like mine don’t answer to ten year olds. I don’t know where my dad is because I’m ten and dads like mine vanish at ten years old.
