Mother, writer, dormant psychotherapist. Traveler, nature-dweller, wine-enthusiast, and perpetual swimmer in the tides of stagnancy and growth.

My days consist of writing fiction and prose, mothering my baby son, and resting in both the meaning and meaninglessness of these pursuits. My journey to this place includes many years pursuing and practicing psychotherapy, fewer years traveling and living abroad, creating and fostering a thriving marriage, and a long winding road of healing from trauma and the havoc it has wreaked on my body, mind, and spirit.

This is a blog to give a voice to the shadows of my experience: the female experience on the crux of middle age. It’s about having it all and having nothing. About identity and calling, barriers of glass, barriers of brick, barriers of fog, and barriers of our own emotional luggage, piled up along the highway like the belly of the Greyhound carrying all parts of ourselves had blown open, vomited, kept going.

It’s about motherhood. But what motherhood really means. What it adds, what it subtracts. Its floods and its tourniquets. It’s about where the ocean of motherhood fits into the dry land we’ve created–created based on ignorance and empty promises in a culture that fades us out–how it rises and falls, reshaping our shores. It’s about us, in our connection and our disconnection, our power and our helplessness.

It’s about how it all fits. Or doesn’t fit. And how that is a fit, of sorts, for it has to be. How we are flung and scattered like seeds, how the weather cracks us open, and how, well, we figure out how to blossom where we are, to thrive or perish.

And we do. We do it all.

– Daisy Moss, 2016