It’s very hard being an adult when you were once a child that made herself quiet, that folded in her thoughts and waited for the occasion to express what she guessed the adult might want to hear.

It’s very hard to carelessly put words down when you were once the child of a person who found comfort in imagining importance in false-mystical interpretations (to which you did not detain the code) because banality contained for them too many occasions for pain.

It’s very hard to believe that the practice you invest in yourself is worth any time and any justification, when once you were the daughter of someone whom you could not convince of being worthy of love.