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Pieces of Me

I broke a little in 2020.

Many of us did. For me, being broken looked like not being able to write for months and months (like, March until July). I also couldn’t concentrate enough to read anything, and I’ve pretty much been in the middle of reading something since I was five years old.

I spent my time wandering around my house aimlessly, or frantically trying to get and stay on top of my classes, or overseeing the kids’ remote school set ups… Plus wine and chocolate and sourdough and some crying.

It was not pretty.

Honestly, it was scary. I hadn’t ever experienced that type of total dissolution of not only society and life as I knew it, but the elements that I use to define myself. Reading and writing comprise a big part of who I am as an adult, and who I’ve always been as a person.

I’ve always been a reader. Like, forever. Since as far back as I can remember.