The designated devil's crime was not cruelty or failure or rebellion. It was witnessing. She was in the room. She remembers what was said. She noticed the distance between the family's narrative and the family's actions, and she made the error of not forgetting. She holds the archive the family needs destroyed.

I'm cataloguing my recipes for Keith, the one person growing up on my experiments. No one taught me to cook. I refuse to follow recipes for reasons I can't explain. My creations wouldn't please most people. But Keith eats what I make. Maybe someday he'll wonder what his mother was thinking at the stove.

Florence Nightingale was burning. On my Day 1 that became triage. We are told to put on our oxygen masks first. But what happens when you're the only one who knows where the masks are?

When did amateur become an insult? From the Latin amator: lover. Someone who does something for love of it. The professionalisation of food culture has given us access to knowledge, but it's also made us feel like impostors in our own kitchens.

My son spent six years learning what Adrienne Rich called "the geography of fear"—bullied, developing an atlas of avoidance. Then something unexpected: he began reaching toward leadership roles with persistence that baffled me, practicing courage against all his training.

Perhaps what I'm describing is simply the movement from romanticism to realism, from the aesthetics of intensity to the ethics of attention. Perhaps it is only that I have loved and been loved enough times to know that the experience bears little resemblance to its representations.

We have no generous vocabulary for pauses in adult life. We never call them necessary, never sacred. But what if our lives, like fields, need seasons of rest? What if the gap isn't empty but essential? The rest between notes that makes music music.

After thirty years, I've learned journaling isn't about capturing life but about the practice of presence itself—and I'm returning to share that uncertainty.

Our biology insists on honesty even when our psychology does not. The flush rising in our cheeks, tears springing to our eyes, our voice breaking when we speak of what matters. We are, whether we like it or not, transparent.