It is 3pm on a Friday afternoon and I am thinking of you, Mama. I am thinking of your stub of a nose that resembles mine. I am thinking of the gold chain around your neck and how my sister and I wear ones identical to it with our own Chinese zodiac signs. I am thinking of how I rarely have any pictures of the two of us together past the age of twelve. I am thinking of the playlist I made for your birthday one year, how you listen to it everyday and say it is the best gift any

“It’s ridiculous. It’s taking you hours, practically a whole afternoon to get ready.” There was unconcealed disapproval in my father’s tone. He was scornful of women who primped and preened before presenting themselves to the world, scoffed about the wife of a colleague who took an hour to do her hair and makeup each morning before heading out to teach eight-year-olds. Mum wasn’t like that. Practical, sporty and tanned – a woman with a low golf handicap who could back a trail

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I used to think becoming my best self meant achieving perfection—pristine choices, ideal timing, a life tied up in a neat little bow. I...

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It wasn’t painful, there were no teeth, no pain, just pure darkness.   As I began descending, the sensation felt like an unexpected and...

My dad taught me how to ride a bike.  I was old enough to have opinions about how this all should happen—firstly, that I be well-prepared...