The day I received a letter with your name on it was one of the happiest of my life. Twenty-eight-thousand dollars per year, a title in my field. During the interview, I was grilled in your library for a lack of editorial experience, then cried the whole drive home, certain I’d never see you again. I didn’t know how much you’d cost.
At first, you were a point of pride. My own interior cubicle with tall gray walls beneath a fluorescent light that was usually out. Thoughtfully appointed with a stained chair and abused keyboard. The cabinets were packed with artifacts from predecessors—frantic notes, unwanted samples, outdated editing guidelines the boss revered as gospel.
“Baptism by fire” the editors echoed my first few weeks. But it took a few years before my manager had his “come to Jesus moment”—in your parking lot, scraping snow off a pregnant employee’s car at 3 a.m. That was some time after an executive emailed me the Serenity Prayer; I was headed to a mental hospital after burning out under your roof. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…”
You were my home before my home was my office. I’d dress up for you, commute at warp speed in rush-hour traffic. Your partitions provided visual barriers, but did nothing to block verbal edits. Mid-morning silence disturbed for a whole wing of writers because I made three spelling errors.
Sweating every syllable, I slowly moved up in rank from incompetent assistant to combat buddy. You were the war zone where we survived. Over hundreds of workdays, an editor who once gave scathing feedback started entering my cube with open arms. One night, he grabbed my face with both hands, drew it close to his and demanded I look at his eyes. Maybe they were twitching from the screen time, but I could feel his breath and turned away.
Long hours with you started making me sick. I blamed myself as pre-existing conditions I once managed became unbearable. Remember when I sprinted down your hallway and threw up, bent over in crippling pain? Turns out a diet of caffeine, NSAIDs and stress causes ulcers. I left you briefly for the dentist, who prescribed muscle relaxers for the teeth grinding. I can’t remember what the email said, only the pressure as I held back tears on my walk to the stall. I looked down, confused to see drops of blood splatter against your tiles: my first spontaneous nosebleed.
It was well after midnight in that same ladies’ room when I told a co-worker I couldn’t do it anymore—that I’d had a breakdown from not sleeping a few months prior. She couldn’t either. Now visibly pregnant, she’d requested we avoid late hours that cycle to no avail. She told me she’d recently miscarried after an all-nighter.
We were in your corner office, a bonafide room with a door, when I explained to a superior why I’d ended up at the hospital instead of our trade show. She said she’d seen another editor work (from home) until she collapsed. Your walls couldn’t contain it; burnout is highly contagious.
Leadership never questioned why your cameras showed us leaving in the middle of the night, nor the nonstop activity online. There were no witnesses until the day accounting found us, still working at 6 a.m.
For over four years, I was loyal to you. Since then, I’ve abandoned two employers and been fired by another—the publisher who bought the other mags you once housed. They offered $4,375 severance, but I couldn’t agree to their terms: “That I shall not make, directly or indirectly … any negative or disparaging oral or written statements about, or do anything which portrays the Employer or the Released Parties … in a negative light.”
I’ve come to recognize my memories with you as trauma. There was a time I turned off your lights most nights only to go home and keep working. I’d pull 72-hour shifts, work 80-hour weeks, pumping out copy as fast as humanly possible. Now I think deeper and work slower. I’m chronically nervous and behind. Every job posting has some red flag. “Must be able to thrive in a fast-paced environment”? Hard pass.
This entry will cost about $20. “The letter can’t … say anything negative about an identifiable person [even if you don’t use their name].”
Your owner let go of all holdings; the company no longer exists. The brand I helped build inside your walls went for $45 million alone. Yet protecting a name you once bore still seems worth more than our story. Last I heard, you were up for sale too. Can’t help but wonder what you’re used for now. You’re an asset, after all. Just like me.

An Open Letter to Hangar No. 13

Author’s Note: This letter is a tribute to my grandfather and our time spent building planes in Hangar No. 13. After his passing from cancer, I couldn’t bring myself to return, but when I finally did, the hangar helped me breathe again. It has been a place of healing, where memories and grief could coexist, allowing me to reconnect with both him and myself. This letter is my way of thanking it for giving me the space to remember and to heal.

Dear Hangar No. 13,

You used to breathe like something alive, if you recall.
Not in the way that buildings creak and settle, but in the way the chest expands before speaking. A ribcage, you were, of corrugated steel and reverence. And inside of you were real, working lungs. Lungs that pulled in prairie wind and sawdust which swept through your proud open doors and hushed out the hum of the propellers and warmth from the pilot seat he used to sit in (courtesy of his chronic IBS).
Those funny little two-seater planes he built made him think he could just…fly right out of you and carry himself away with all your air in his lungs. He was full of you and you were full of him. He built those planes not because he knew how flight worked but because he believed in flight. He believed in you. Or, rather, the power of you and the freedom you offered. Faith in motion, he’d say.
When he stopped breathing, so too, did you. You sealed off your lungs as though the right to inhale died with him. And instead you filled yourself with the kind of dust that settles to stay. Thick, patient, watchful dust that cloaked the wings of the planes and settled in the rafters. You just let it hang there.
And I’m sorry for leaving you alone.
I told myself I couldn’t bear to see you like that—hollow, quiet, empty of laughter and stubborn radio static and the sharp sound of socket wrenches biting down. But maybe the truth is I couldn’t face the version of me that still existed in your bones. The girl in lopsided pigtails who sat on the concrete floor cross-legged, passing him tools with greasy fingers. The one who knew how to read the look in his eyes when something wasn’t quite balanced in the engine, or when he was holding back tears because those birds could finally fly.
He was my life and I was his. We were our stories.
But time flew anyway and took you with it. We both felt it. We both sagged under the weight of missing him.
And it wasn’t until I showed up with that broom that the ghosts in the corners flared themselves and began to dance.
Maybe that’s what caught me off guard—the way we startled each other back into breath. I hadn’t expected the rush of stagnant spirit to flood me so suddenly, like a wave breaking over the edge of a dam.
And suddenly everything inside you seemed to breathe with me—like it had been waiting, just as I had, for the moment when we could begin again. You breathed me open. You gave me back the space to feel what it meant to breathe again. To feel it in my whole body, not just in the small, tight way I had been moving through the world for so long. You didn’t change me—not yet—but rather you started to. You started to remind me that I still knew how to live inside my own skin, how to fill my chest with life in the way the sky fills a plane’s wings. How to expand and stretch into the air.
We’re built for flight, you and I. And the ghosts of our past are getting hungry for their mini-pretzels and peanuts.

Yours,

Dear Grandmother Collective.org
It is somewhat serendipitous that I found you. I had finally made my decision. It was time to transition from 20 years as a nurse entrepreneur and identify as a writer and a storyteller. Just a few months away from the five-year mark as a breast cancer survivor, I am ready to be a thriver! Big changes mean big decisions. What personal and professional resources and skills could I call up to move into this new and exciting future? Besides being a septuagenarian and a nurse, I was also a mother, grandmother and a great grandmother. Surely those experiences would be valuable resources. I would need to learn the craft of storytelling and creative writing. I would be free to explore new genres, like STEM fiction for young adults, historical fiction, and share legacy stories that have accumulated over my life and career.
I felt like I hit the jackpot when I discovered the Grandmother Collective website and learned about the changing image of grandmothers.
I never knew my grandmothers. One died in childbirth with her fourth child and the other died of complications of a stroke before I was born. Today improved healthcare has extended life spans and allowed our elder years to be more vibrant and productive. At the same time grandmothers have stepped up to provide childcare so their daughters could take jobs to supplement the family income or pursue their life mission. After the grandchildren are grown, many grandmothers like me still have more future to fill. They go back to college, pursue another career opportunity and revive abandoned pastimes.
It was refreshing to learn that grandmothers are now being recognized as a valuable resource to communities. In times of stress or instability grandmothers draw on their life experience and add perspective to problem-solving. They provide cultural continuity, advice and spiritual guidance.
Through my work in 7 countries on 5 continents, I learned that grandmothers can be a powerful force for building community, addressing societal challenges and advocating for the environment, the education of children, and human rights. Grandmothers are the keepers of the culture, and their power is usually demonstrated through oral storytelling and writing.
Turning 75 this year, I was ready for another big change. My next chapter needed to be more than a bucket list. It would be bigger than a career change, rather a life change. I wanted to join the ranks as a changemaker.
I found relevance and encouragement through The Grandmother Collective. It is more than just a collection of grandmothers. Your mission to project a more realistic and positive image of grandmothers, is important. I like this “movement” and the people I’ve met. I feel valued for my life experience and evolved wisdom.
Not everyone in the Grandmother Collective has birthed children. Some are “aunties” or anthropologists from agencies or organizations which serve older women. We don’t share political views, religious beliefs or our grandkids’ newest sports trophies. We are serious older women who have “been around the block” a few times and have valuable lessons to share or ambitions to pursue. We celebrate our grandchildren and ambitiously look for ways to make the world a better place for them.
I joined the monthly coffee chats and quarterly visioning sessions on Zoom. It is inspiring to hear what other courageous women are doing, saying and organizing in the intercity and in other countries. Some grandmothers must get up in the wee hours to participate in the Zoom sessions. Their commitment inspires me.
I discovered there were others who were interested in writing their stories. One thing led to another and now I lead a writing group of grandmothers. We call ourselves The Wabi Sabi Writers in honor of the lifestyle that values simplicity and more than tolerates imperfection. No pressure – our writing can be perfectly imperfect and worthy of sharing with the world. I also attend the monthly Storyteller Circle where the ancient art of oral storytelling is kept alive. I am so grateful for the opportunities you provide, the connections you facilitate and the recognition of grandmothers as a dynamic force in addressing the issues of our world. I feel like we share the power to change the world in small but meaningful ways. My grandchildren and their grandchildren will surely benefit.
I also write for a neighborhood magazine. This allows me to connect with neighbors as I help them share their unique stories.
Like other modern grandmothers, I am a changemaker!
Sincerely,
Nancy Haberstich

The house where everyone is welcome
With the typical leave with your bellies full & endless laughing
Yet I’m the one always eager to leave
I cannot endure any longer
My feet, my poor feet that bleeds
From the eggshells on which I’m walking
High on the clouds where my thoughts are always roaming
I may as well be as high as the 3rd floor
Yet my room is away from all others
It’s the only way I can get peace & quiet anymore

Even my nervous system is dysregulated
The world is dark
Wanting to paint my walls black to match
My insides tainted black & blue blue & black
I’m looking on the wrong side of the fence
Yet this house is far from that white picket it seems we’ve all dreamt
With so much angst
And so much depression that surrounds
The creaks in the floor might as well make no sound
There’s crying
There’s yelling
Yet this house holds a silence that’s never escaping
With a big backyard & a pool so befitting
Or sitting in my room alone
I’m actually a poor swimmer
So to say I was drowning in chaos I do intend literally

What makes this house a home
Is it that brand new kitchen
The one where a meal is shared
Yet eating in company I feel sickened
I should be grateful
With this marble table
and shiny new appliances
With the kitchen being the soul of the home
Yet I heat up my food
& it never seems to not be cold

The basement has seen games & laughter
As has the rest of this house
For me it’s trapped in the memories thereafter
I can’t remember when I’ve last seen it empty
How odd, how opposite
What would’ve resembled the emptiness inside
Is mirrored back with the piles of clutter
Clutter here, there
Oh the trouble we get in
From it never being clean
Yet somehow items getting bought
Buying & buying

A clean home is said to give you mental clarity
For when there’s mess all around
It may be because it’s reflecting mental organization that’s not to be found
Sadly, I’ve learned to detach from this house
Here clutter, there clutter
If it was clean, I wonder would I then feel any better I wonder

I’ve gone back to this house
The one where it does not feel like home
It’s now foreign to me
Yet it’s the place I’ve grown up & known
I’ve felt myself in a trance
For a while could only see those unfortunate flashbacks
I don’t want to live here again
It seems that fun, innocent childhood I could’ve had has come to an end

Leaving the front door for the final time
I never looked back
As we get older & reminisce
We want to own our childhood home
A feeling I’m afraid I will always lack

It was a hot sunny day in Lynchburg Va. I had just got my fiancé, Alfreda ready for her doctors appointment. Our spirits were high as she was only going in for a routine checkup. While in the hospital, Lynchburg General, we were notified that she had a stomach infection and that she would need to be admitted. Still, we had no worries as we figured she’d be released in a week or two after taking a round of antibiotics. Unfortunately, we were wrong. After a months time, my fiancé was still in the hospital. On Mother’s Day, i went to take her her Mother’s Day gifts just to find her unconscious in her bed. I called for a nurse and after about twenty minutes of them trying to revive her, they finally transferred her to ICU. I was livid as to how she could have been left alone in her room alone in such a dire situation with no one watching her. After this, we asked for her to be transferred to another hospital which they refused. My fiancé came out of that situation okay but by this time she had been in the hospital for two months. I ended up getting barred from the hospital and was unable to ensure my fiancé was adequately cared for in my absence. During this time, they performed surgery on her stomach. It seemed as she had came away unscathed. However, later that night she fell into a coma due to internal bleeding due to them unsuccessfully stitching her stomach back together. My fiancé sat in a coma for two weeks and they still refused to let me see her. She eventually awoke but I couldn’t speak to her as she was on a ventilator. My fiancé ended up incurring a stage four pressure ulcer on her buttocks, VRE, gangrene in both legs which required amputation as well as sepsis. But I was still barred from visiting her. Only way I was able to see her again was if I agreed to have her placed on hospice and I would have to watch her die at home. My fiancé was a dialysis patient and on hospice she can’t receive dialysis meaning she would die within three weeks without dialysis. It was a hard decision but it was either let her die in hospital alone and never see my fiancé again, or let her come home for a few weeks until she ultimately passes. So, I brought her home. She wasn’t the same, but at least she was home and I could spend her last few moments with her. My fiancé passed thirteen days after coming home on hospice. Lynchburg General changed my life forever. They robbed me of the love of my life. I love you,sweetheart. Goodbye, Alfreda.

The unknown boardwalk that holds the story of my life. 

   I grew up on a small island outside of Puerto Rico; Vieques, or ‘‘Biekes, the true name of the island given by the Tainos, the first to settle in this place and call it home. When I was a young child, my biological father was not in my life for the most part, but in his way, he left a legacy in my heart. I remember he would always take me to the beach, specifically “El Malecón” in Vieques, PR, a boardwalk used to transport sugarcane via train, submarines, and the major source of income for most families of local Viequenses. We would have the beach all to ourselves most of the time, he would teach me about living with nature, the stories of our people (Taíno descendants), and how he could hold his breath long enough to get lobsters by hand. By the time I was old enough to understand the world around me, I never realized I was the product of a long, bloody, and hostile takeover; From 1939 until 2003, the US military stole our land, made us lose our identity, closed and contaminated our soil, our water, our spirit, and our souls. “El malecón” was the only place they never touched, after some convincing and understanding, it was our sacred place away from the chaos, the war between natives and “gringos. It gave us a standing ovation every morning when the sun came up to kiss our skin with the warmth of a new day; At night, the sky and sea would combine and give the Milky Way galaxy the entire stage to shine brightly and clearly. It became the only place where everyone was equal, all looking for a cold drink to settle the heatstroke of the hot Puerto Rican summers while forgetting all their troubles. War, hunger, inequality, division, and race were not topics of conversation. The oppressor and the oppressed could share their pains of being puppets to the Grand Master’s mind, dressed in an Uncle Sam costume, could not find out anyone’s true identity when the night took over in “El Malecon”, when the artificial lights would turn on along with loud salsa music playing every corner, we are all the same soul longing to find a home. 

“El Malecón” was and will forever hold a special place in my heart; It watched me grow, held my ancestors’ blood from battle, and carried my dead among the waves and open seas. My Sunday afternoons consisted of walking along the long white sand, the warm salty water and the beating yellow ball on the back of my neck, I stole shells from the shores, I have taken bounties from the great Lord Poseidon and fed my family multiple times, my heart met her death one starry night in the Malecón and I thought I wouldn’t be able to survive and see another day… but here I am, standing again between the sea and the land, the burning sensation of sand under my bare feet, the salty smell of my once home, it strangely welcomes me. I feel the sense of longing for the island I once knew, I sense a fear from not recognizing how the waves crash anymore, the land and the sea don’t speak to me like the used to…the air feels strange, a smell of old gunpowder, iron and sweat covers the mile long path of clear blue waters. The lobsters don’t come to shore anymore, they are hiding. Am I hiding, too? Am I just waiting for the universe to show me the path to find my way back home? Do I have a home? I can feel the breeze grace my cheeks as I stare at the empty boats waiting for their people to drive them into the middle of the “Mar Caribe.” I stare at the night sky, which never fails to amaze me. I thank this place, tho it is small and many will never see it, they never will hear about ‘El Malecón’, my island and my people’s stories, yet this is my home, I am home, it will forever be my home, it doesn’t matter how many fighter jets fill my skies, doesn’t matter how many people leave, until the last seashell is gone from the shores, until I am buried amongst my own. 

When I was a junior in college, I had the chance to study abroad. I was an International Business student, minoring in Spanish, so I chose Madrid. The program mandated students to stay with a host family, which is something I would not have chosen myself, but was open to. Other than college, this was my first significant time away from home. I was secretly terrified, yet exuded the swagger and confidence only a 20-year-old can. From what I’d heard, study abroad was for socializing and partying, not for worrying about grades or the daily struggles of regular student life. I anxiously awaited the travel and new friendships I would make during my six months. This was 2007. The beginning of Google Maps and Facebook. International travel meant buying a local SIM card for cell phones; texting or calling, especially while in transit, wasn’t easy. I landed in Madrid with an address scribbled on paper, relying on eight years of classroom Spanish to direct my taxi. Forty-five minutes later, I arrived at an apartment building in Salamanca, a charming, friendly barrio. My host mom and her 13-year-old son greeted me. Neither spoke English, and to my surprise, I barely understood Spanish. They spoke fast, with local slang and the distinct Madrid “th” lisp on their ‘c’s and ‘z’s. The apartment was a modest three-bedroom with a lovely balcony. The foyer held books, self-portraits, trinkets, and a hamster cage in the corner. My room, a small space off the foyer, featured a twin bed under a large window, old armoire, colorful marble tiles, and a desk piled with Spanish literature. This would be my home, and they, my family, for the next six months.My host mom cooked and did my laundry. She was often stressed but knew how to unwind, frequently hosting friends and engaging in lively conversations about books, movies, and politics. While she tried to make me feel as comfortable as possible, I often felt awkward and a burden. She and her son had frequent, loud arguments. From what I could make out, they were seemingly typical mother-son clashes over a teenager’s desire for independence versus a Spanish mother’s protective instincts. She owned a pet grooming business and watched her clients’ dogs on weekends, and every weekend we had a different dog staying with us, which brought me comfort. Madrid felt like Spain’s New York City—bustling and hardworking, yet adept at relaxation and leisure. I tried my best to speak Spanish, but felt deflated when people responded in English. Weekdays involved an hour-long metro commute to and from school. My class schedule was more intense than expected; Full school days, mostly in Spanish, and certainly not “blow-off” courses. I was envious of a group of American students in my program, mostly living in a house together, having a much more typical study abroad experience…a fun one. I longed to hang out with friends after school, not feel on edge around a new “mom” I couldn’t communicate with. Yearning for home comforts, I would spend afternoons re-watching DVDs of Friends I had brought from home (remember, no Netflix yet) and walking past twenty cafes just to find a Starbucks for a vanilla latte, seeking a familiar comfort. It was a kind of loneliness I had never known. I waited to settle into a rhythm, for the homesickness to subside, hoping to be swept away by my journey instead of counting the days until I returned home, but the language barrier created a profound sense of isolation. My lack of confidence prevented me from looking like the fool I needed to be in order to truly speak learn the language. I called my parents weekly for as many minutes as I could afford. Looking back, I spent much of those calls complaining about the cultural differences, the food, and my host family, when the truth was I was simply lonely, missing home, and unable to articulate it. I felt excluded, admiring this culture from the outside, but not truly feeling a part of it. Unsettled, yet still feeling immense intellectual and creative stimulation from the city I was in. On my loneliest days, I began forcing myself to leave my Friends DVDs and my small bedroom. I would walk the city streets, observe people in the park, and absorb the city’s sounds. I started to embrace being solo and enjoying the aspects of the culture I loved: the languid days, the siesta, the botellón, the tapas and bar culture, the architecture, museums, old bookstores, and the general way of life the Spanish people lead. Looking back nearly two decades later, Madrid didn’t change me in the ways I expected. I didn’t return home speaking fluent Spanish, nor did I leave with a host of new friends. Madrid taught me how to be with myself. It showed me that to escape the deep black hole of loneliness, you must literally get out—out of your home, out of your comfort zone, out of your head. To look foolish sometimes. Madrid, you are where I learned I don’t have to be lonely being alone. 

Dear Odyssey,

On December 13, 2021, you became a part of my life. A symbol of independence and the beginning of a long healing journey. This journey would many ups and really dark downs, but it has shaped me into the person who I am today. I would not be that person if I did not take that first step on that December day to purchase you.

Around 8:45 AM on that day, I was declared free from my abusive marriage. It had taken years to become free, which also involved having to relearn how to be independent and what it meant to love myself. With leaving the courthouse, I had to lose the van that I knew as mine because my now ex-husband’s name being present on the title of the van, and given the SUV, which had my name on it. With the overwhelming feeling of defeat as I watched my favorite van drive away with what was my life for five years, I knew I needed to get a fresh start, and fast. I went straight to a car dealership with my now-poor credit and praying to be approved for anything, and then I saw you. A black van that had the same space as my previous one-not nearly as nice, but it would be one thing that the other van could never be-fully mine. With some miracle, I drove off the lot with you, gleaming with pride and the hope that I could do this on my own-that quickly changed.

With just getting out of this abusive marriage, I did not realize what other abusive relationships I had involved myself in. Where I was currently living-the main reason I needed a van to begin with- was not the best place to find myself or work on healing. If anything, it created many more small wounds that built up to the demise of you and I. I was mainly taking care of three children from the start of the morning until they fell asleep. I would drive them to appointments, events, the store, and even take them every Sunday to where their parents could have an entire date day to themselves. One kiddo also struggled to fall asleep without being driven around for a minimum of thirty minutes, to sometimes ninety minutes. This became my favorite part of the day-it was my chance to escape. I could roll down the windows and let the summer air in while listening to my music for a change. I would get to feel my emotions that I bottled up from that day and from continuously being a pawn. It got to the point I began dreading the drive to the house because I knew our time was up, and I would get lectured passive-aggressively about why it took so long to get the kiddo to sleep. I was so tired of the fighting. Eventually, I would find any reason to get out of the house-even if that meant taking all the children with me. This continued to lead to more and more fights, creating more self-hate for not being good enough, and eventually led to a dark time.

I found different ways to cope with the pain that I was going through-drinking, self-harm, and eventually, adultery. I had become so numb that I was no longer thinking about consequences but how to get rid of the pain this very instant. One night, my best friend’s husband, who I was staying with, made a pass, and I did not stop it. This became a new way to cope with the pain- I mean, I already thought I was a piece of shit, so why not? On January 27, 2023, my best friend found out about the affair. Rightfully so, I was told to grab a trash bag, put whatever belongings it could fit, take the car seats out of my car, and never come back. I felt the consequences of my actions in trying to numb immediately. Not being able to see the now four faces of those children that I have loved and losing everything was a major wake- up call. But it was you and me-it was what I had been asking for all along, right? So we drove to a grocery store parking lot, grabbed my favorite bottle of vodka that I could chug, and were ready to end it all. I found my trusted knife that has helped me numb the pain for the past few years and was ready to say my goodbyes. Since I only had one friend left, the goodbyes would not take super long, so the chugging began. After a few hours of talking with that one friend, he showed me that there was more to keep fighting for, so we did. I lived with you for a few days until a got to courage to reach out to my sister to stay with her. Everything was looking up again, and then you took a turn for the worse.

A few months after moving in with my sister, issues started, and I could not save you. It took me some time to find the right time to say goodbye to you, and I did not realize how much of an impact you had on my healing journey. You were there to show me I could be independent. You were there for me through the high times and the low times. Now, as I am watching you go onto the back of the towing truck, hurt is all I feel. Like I am losing a part of me when, in reality, you were the last thing that I was holding onto from my past. So, even though this goodbye is difficult, it is necessary for me to continue to grow. So, thank you for everything you have helped me through. I never thought a broken, over- looked van would be what helped save me, but they always say broken things are beautiful too, and I now understand that.
Love,
Ashley

Style Score:100%

Dear Labor and Delivery, The day I found I was pregnant, I was sitting in this pastel green room in the back corner of the pediatric doctor’s office I’d been going to since I was a baby. I remember gagging at the sight of what I assumed was a slimy cheese puff handprint on the wall next to me when the nurse entered the room. Timidly, she looked down, unsure of my reaction as she quietly said, “You’re pregnant.” 

As her words met my ears, it felt like I was being pulled into a time loop of the past nineteen years of my life. Over and over, they played in my head. Reminding me that I was not ready to be a mother.
 
Honestly, I wasn’t even sure of who I was. My identity was lost in the shadows of my childhood. I was still the little girl who tucked the edge of the blanket under her feet each night to keep the monsters away. How was I going to be responsible for protecting someone? 

I was terrified. 

But what I didn’t realize then was that the fear I felt wasn’t something for me to stumble over. It was a stepping stone toward healing. 

 As the nurse wheeled me down that long hall toward those brown double doors, my heart began to race. I entered that delivery room still that same scared little girl—the girl who hadn’t really lived much. The girl who held so much hurt that she couldn’t count on her fingers how many times she thought it best if she weren’t alive—a girl who had the same thought that day. 

So, Labor and Delivery. 

I want to thank you for saving my life. 

Not because I almost died that day, but because my son was not the only one in the room who was being born. 

 I want to thank you for the warm welcome. It was a feeling I had never felt before.  

I want to thank you for grounding me. 

I had always felt out of place, but the second his bright blue eyes locked with mine, I knew exactly where I was meant to be. I knew I belonged. 

I want to thank you for teaching me to value my life. 

I used to be one to wish my days away. Searching for something to make the time go by faster, even if it was just for a second. Now, time just slips away from me, and I can‘t ever seem to have enough. When they said that the years go by fast, I didn’t think I’d ever find myself wanting them back. That was until he took his first breath. 

I want to thank you for showing me that love conquers all. 

I still tuck the edge of the blanket under my feet to keep the monsters out. But now, there are little feet cuddled up next to mine. I read him bedtime stories and sing lullabies. I am still scared, but that won’t stop me from protecting him.  

So, thank you, Labor and Delivery 

Thank you for helping me labor and for delivering me from who I used to be to the mother I am today.