Essays
Personal essays on faith, deconstruction, mental health, and the slow work of unfolding. Some begin with books. Some begin with questions. Others begin with something ordinary that simply would not leave me alone.
Lose the Script
I passed my dissertation proposal defense. Then my committee told me to lose the script. They could hear that I knew my research when I stopped reading and answered their questions. I believed they meant it. What caught me off guard was how hard it was to believe it about myself.
Whatever Purity Meant
A few minutes earlier, I hadn't known how to hold a steak knife. Now I was old enough to promise what I'd do with my body for the rest of my unmarried life.
The Man Against the Wall
We had been given just enough information to become furious and nowhere near enough information to understand what we were furious about. Looking back, I wonder if that night was one of the first cracks.
One Wild Life
There was something healing about it. To let joy stay joy and freedom feel alive even when sadness brushed against it. To look out the window in awe without demanding that everything inside me be settled first.
Thirteen
At thirteen, I knew how to be respectful. I knew how to listen to adults. I knew not to cause a scene. What I didn’t know was that fear could be enough. That I didn’t need permission to pull away. That my body was allowed to know something before I had words for it.
Weightless
I was a good swimmer. I knew how to keep myself above water. But somewhere along the way, I had learned that being good meant carrying a weight that was never mine to begin with.
Permission
As a child, I disappeared into stories where girls were loud, curious, brave, and fully alive. It took me years to realize I wasn’t escaping into someone else’s life. I was catching glimpses of my own.
Interpretation
After the Zoom window disappeared, the words from the conversation followed me down the stairs. Somewhere between the black screen and the kitchen, I could no longer tell which judgments had been spoken aloud—and which ones I had been carrying for years.
Commuting
I drove an hour and a half each way, every day, through the Dallas sprawl. Somewhere in all those miles I started to notice how much of what I was wearing had never been mine.
Undertone
We don't all learn the same first language. Some of us grow up speaking words. Others grow up speaking subtext.