Featured Stories Straight From Our Pages
Laughing Together
My stomach sank a little every time the numbers changed on the outdoor temperature screen. I was excited about the trip, but I was dreading leaving the air-conditioned bus. My boyfriend and I were heading south to meet with friends for a weekend of camping and swimming, a tradition stretching back more than 20 years that I was determined not to miss. At least that was the plan.
The white and yellow houses announced our destination, a village on Alentejo’s coast. I stepped out of the bus, and the hot dry air filled my lungs and burned my skin, triggering a hot flash that radiated to my now crimson face. We were in the middle of a heatwave, and it was my first post-menopausal summer.
Sleeping Snakes and the Lake
It was a warm June afternoon. I was in my new therapist’s carefully curated, sunlit room. It was our first session. After I had given her an outline of my cancer story, and she asked me when it was, I had started to feel well.
I groped for an answer I knew wasn’t there. I stared at the window, as if the answers to this question were hidden somewhere in the white venetian blinds. They were not. The truth, I quietly realized, is that I had not been feeling well, had not been living well. When I went back to work full time two years ago, I gave everything I had—and more that I didn’t, to my work, grateful to be alive. Ignoring my body. I had recovered enough to function. But four months ago, I started having debilitating panic attacks at work.
Shampoo Commercial Dreams
I don’t like a lot of things about myself; I’m one of those people who intrinsically dismiss their value and worth due to a less-than-optimal and abusive upbringing. But there’s one thing I do love about myself despite a long and tangled history: my thick, naturally curly (though often worn straight), shiny, healthy, unique auburn hair.