Relationships always sounded so physically painful: you fell in love, you broke a heart, you lost your head. Was it any wonder that people came through the experience with battle scars?

If history has a habit of repeating itself, doesn't someone have to stay behind to shout out a warning?

I would prove to you that being different isn't a death sentence but a call to arms.

Sometimes, all it takes to become human again is someone who can see you that way, no matter how you present on the surface.

Love was that way. You could not render it in black or white. It always came down to the strange, blended shades of grey.

Maybe a mother wasn't what she seemed to be on the surface.

That's the strange thing about being a mother: until you have a baby, you don't even realize how much you were missing one