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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, sitting close together on a hillside at sunset over a valley; the dog leans warmly into her, and beside them a second dog appears as a faint translucent presence of light and memory — soft watercolor in dusty plum, terracotta, and gold

The Knowing One

An AI archive built at the bottom of my life painted a dog I never asked for — my Vanna, gone in April. On memory, co-regulation, and what a clean release of grief feels like from the inside.

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.