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George Orwell warned against the use of euphemisms nearly 75 years ago, when he wrote that obfuscatory political language is designed “to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable.” Although many euphemisms are misleading, some may be necessary in their offering of a kinder, gentler way to present the truth; others may present the truthContinue reading “euphemisms for modern marriage.”

On my 14th anniversary, my husband called me selfish and cold, not to mention a lousy lover, wife, and mother. Granted, I had just told him that I felt like a little kid running to keep up with him, exhausted before we’d even gotten to the fun part yet, and that maybe I would beContinue reading “ethical egoism”

Thanks to Hillary Clinton, the Igbo proverb “It takes a village to raise a child,” is now almost a cliché in American society. A cliché we choose to ignore as we relocate our families, hide behind social media, and live stressful, antisocial lives (despite all the social media). And yet, it does–take a village. Not just to raise children, but toContinue reading “needing a village.”

We moved to the east coast because it held the promise of a life less ordinary than the one promised us in the midwest: landscape from mountains to oceans within a three-hour drive, much-needed distance from our overbearing families, and multitudes of like-minded friends. An unexpected boon was the milder weather the east coast offered;Continue reading “what drowning must feel like.”

Last year I was the sickest I have ever been: for an entire month, I fought a virus that depleted all my energy, obliterated my stamina, and drove me wearily to my bed each night as soon as, if not before my children were asleep. Not unlike the decade I spent crippled by migraines, IContinue reading “surrendering.”

I didn’t know where I wanted to go, So I asked you to take the wheel. You drove me to places I’d never been, yet they were nowhere I wanted to be. You offered me a five-course buffet when all I wanted was sustenance, and like anything else that’s overindulged, it left me feeling hollowContinue reading “falling asleep at the wheel.”

Last night, I wrote a novel in permanent ink. No eraser. The night before, I told my story to harsh critics with hopeful vulnerability. Their judgment bleached my pages clean. I wrote again, feeling words aching on the page, finding myself again with deliberate abandon. Days I am busy, a scattered mother of two, meetingContinue reading “spinning the truth.”

It’s nothing new to wake up one day and realize, shit, I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore. And then think, shit, did I ever know? I’m not the first woman to get married, buy a house, have a kid, sell a house, move a couple more times, buy another house, have anotherContinue reading “striving to be more, well, me.”

My whole life, I have been taught–whether directly or indirectly–that honesty works best on a “need to know” basis: as a teenager, life would have been easier if I’d only told my parents what they needed to know about where I was going, who I was with, and what I was doing. During my collegeContinue reading “lies of omission.”

When I was a (young) writer, I kept a daily journal. Part rant, part creative brainstorming, part drafting, and part self-exploration, I often wrote about myself as if I were a character in my stories. Distancing myself from the way I wanted to, but often couldn’t, react to my life’s experiences, was (unbeknownst to myself)Continue reading “giving myself permission.”