Writing has been more of a private medicine lately.
I’m not working on anything grand—except my life. Circumstances, feelings, side-effects, realities. Things I can’t always process honestly with an audience.
What I want is still unclear. Every time I try to name it, I end up bending toward what would make sense for everyone else. It’s instinct, really—because some part of me believes we’re all connected.
So lately I’ve been asking: What do my instincts tell me?
Not my anxiety.
Not my dopamine-seeking ADHD.
Not my intellect.
Not my influencers.
Just instincts.
And listening without arguing back is harder than anything I’ve done yet. But I’m not giving up.
(P.S. My instincts never waver on treatment. I’m 44, my kid is 14, and there’s still a lot of living left to do. Brain MRI tomorrow. What I believe they will see: nothing more—and nothing less—than my beautiful brain.)
I made this visual to get an idea of what my bleeding tumor likely looked like right before surgery last October. Bodies are wild. Neurosurgeons are astonishing.