I’m about to go to my childhood home in Indiana/Kentucky for a visit this coming week. My wonderful grandma is turning 94, and I’m going to see my parents too.

Indiana this time of year (and Eugene, Oregon, these past few days) is sweltering. I love the heat, but I also love escaping into the cool AC of the house.

It can be strange to go back to my childhood bedroom, because there are so many reminders of a time in my life when I had only lived there, only known that home. It reminds me that there was a time that I didn’t know anything that would happen to me, or anything that I would do out in the world as an adult.

Going home reminds me of a time when I both knew things with certainty (school started at 7:42 and I had to go) and lacked any certainty (I mean, where was I going to go to college, and what would I do as an adult?).

Going home also reminds me that I still live in a version of this paradox. Knowing I need to work or buy groceries or teach a class, but wondering what my next steps will be or how I’ll choose to move forward personally and professionally.

To the Women Who Might Be a Pre Existing Condition...

I know you. I know what it’s like to go through your day unable to talk about the pain you’re enduring, silenced by culture or circumstance; stigma or men; or the fear of losing your job, boyfriend, or dignity. I know what it’s like to be unable to speak what has happened, and therefore, to not believe it’s really true. 

I also know the power of story, and how telling yours—even to yourself in the dark stillness of night—can help, can show you that surviving this is only a catalyst in your life, that the act of surviving means you still have life, still have a story to live out, and that you’ve already done something heroic by surviving.