Moving beyond the fairy tale narrative. — We walk along the sandy beach, the four of us. My biological father, his second wife, my husband, me. Low tide pulls Brewster Bay so far out, it looks like we could walk to the edge of the earth. I prefer calling him, Hal, my “first” father — he is…

Viktor Frankl, finding meaning, getting through. — I’m sitting on my bed, still groggy, under-rested, over-caffeinated; legs outstretched on crumpled white sheets and a grey blanket sprinkled with dog hair and gluten free pretzel crumbs. I want to be one of those people who never eats in bed, irons their sheets (has them ironed by someone else!)…

1972. I’m sitting on the padded peeling black leather seat, bumping up and down in the little yellow school bus as it traverses pot holes. My raincoat is translucent, crisscrossed with red plaid, my soft brown curls pulled into pigtails. The bus pulls into the Robin Hill Nursery School parking…

Lessons on love and letting go. 6:40 am. Scrolling the internet, sipping coffee, procrastinating packing. I’m visiting my daughter, 24, now living 3,000 miles away. An amazing weekend together. Laughing, talking, long walks in the park. “How about I stay a little longer?” “I would love that.” So here I…

Sometimes, it all works out in the end. — Jenny Mulaney was many things — kind, smart, generous — athletic was not one of them. She preferred a sedentary life, a sit-on-the-couch, drink cheap red wine, eat cheesy pizza life. She had no Olympic aspirations, no Tour De France fantasies. …

There’s no escaping the heat or the suffering — It’s 103 degrees. People file into the small sun filled backyard, music blares from hidden speakers. Middle aged men in cargo shorts and beer bellies carry cases of Bud or bottles of vodka. Best boys, key grips, camera operators. …

Lauri Carleton was a vital member of my community. — I’m sitting on my bed, early morning, before the sun and the neighbor’s yappy dog awaken, before storm clouds move in. I’m tracking Hurricane Hilary’s path from Mexico to my home in Los Angeles. Cool. I’m in the “high risk of flooding” zone. I open Instagram and see a post…

Adoption, art, and ways to find ourselves — I don’t know why I woke up in the middle of the night. Excitement, I guess, but I woke up and saw her text. She was not in Barcelona, she was in Madrid. Fuck, what? No. Shit. So right there on my phone, in the dark, trying not to wake…

We sat in the living room of his swanky Paris apartment, a tall blonde Slovakian maid in formal dress quietly delivered a silver tray with a plate of cookies and then discreetly disappeared. Andrew, my birth mother’s husband, sat stiffly in a chair, his ankles crossed revealing elegant navy cashmere…