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Dear Jolene,
I keep promising myself a quiet evening. Then I reach for my phone, and an hour disappears. By bedtime, I know what everyone else has been doing, but I can barely hear my own thoughts.
I was born on May 8, 1989, at 7:42 a.m. in Portland, Oregon, USA. I used to be a woman who lingered over small things: a pot on the stove, a new leaf, a blank page. That woman is still here somewhere. Lately, even rest feels like something I’m supposed to get right.
I miss her, and those unhurried evenings. How do I find my way back without turning it into one more thing on my list?
Warmly,
Emily






