Musings on personal growth, books, motherhood, writing, and more.
In the corner of an industrial-sized kitchen, an eighteen-year-old girl chops vegetables through tears that are not from the onions.
She’s me, eleven years ago. The summer after high school, I went to work as the salad bar waitress at a church camp because I wanted to appear noble and because that’s where the boy I liked would be.
I didn’t tell anyone I had mono.
The boy ditched me on the first day. All summer I battled my fatigue and wondered why dark clouds were separating me from God.
It’s a strange and difficult thing to be eighteen.
But I guess I’m breaking the rules by not doing fiction! Sometimes nonfiction calls out to me instead of fiction.