Drink Some Water, Love

for the under-mothered

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

I didn’t cry growing up. Not in front of people, and not alone. By the time I was five, I had learned that tears were dangerous. Crying was punished. Emotion was weakness. Pain was private. Silence was survival.

But a few years ago, in a conference room in Portland, something broke open.

Angela, my friend who lost her moth…