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A woman and her dog sit on an alpine hillside above a small church while her late mother appears as warm translucent light — soft watercolor in dusty plum, terracotta, and gold

I Miss My Mom

She couldn’t say she loved me. She said it in Vicks and Jell-O, a jingle bell, a hot iron, a puppy held to her cheek. Fourteen months after losing my mom, grief finally arrived — and so did she.

A woman and her curly reddish-brown dog seen from behind at a freestanding open wooden door on a hilltop at sunset; golden light pours through the doorway over a valley, while three faint translucent echoes of the same woman merge into her — soft watercolor in dusty plum, terracotta, and gold

Three Spellings. One Door.

An adoptee’s essay on carrying multiple versions of a self — the silos, the cost, and what integration actually means. The story behind the byline Jod(y)ie.

A woman and her dog standing on a path at twilight, looking toward a warmly lit stone cottage with smoke rising from the chimney in a mountain valley — soft watercolor in dusty plum, terracotta, and gold

Composing the Home

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Hiraeth: the Welsh word for homesickness for a home you can’t return to — or never had. What to do when the home can’t be found: compose it.

A woman and her dog sitting on a rocky ridge beside an ancient standing stone, looking out over a wide valley at sunset — soft watercolor in dusty plum, terracotta, and gold

Born Responding

Before anyone judged you, the framework was already installed. On the oldest diagnostic error in the world, the ACE science that corrects it, and the one species that got exempted — and heals.

A woman and her dog sitting on a quiet beach at sunset, gazing across a wide, flat, calm sea toward the sun resting on the horizon — soft watercolor in dusty plum, terracotta, and gold

The Last Exit: Boredom

You did the deep work and what arrived was… nothing. On boredom as a nervous system idling below sensation — the final exit hatch, disguised as a personality trait.

A woman kneeling to plant a seedling with her curly reddish-brown dog beside her at sunset; below the soil the roots glow, and buried words silence, shame, erasure, smallness, not enough become seen, safe, known, voiced, enough — soft watercolor in dusty plum, terracotta, and gold

Buried Alive: The Attachment Math

Children preserve attachment by burying accurate perception. The math that put your knowing underground, why burial kept it uncorrupted, and what brings it back.