Sometimes we don't know we're dreaming; we can't even fathom that we're asleep.

Motherhood is a Sisyphean task. You finish sewing one seam shut, and another rips open. I have come to believe that this life I'm wearing will never really fit.

And I remembered something else that makes us human: faith, the only weapon in our arsenal to battle doubt.

Rest easy, real mothers. The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one.

There should be a statute of limitation on grief. A rulebook that says it is all right to wake up crying, but only for a month. That after 42 days you will no longer turn with your heart racing, certain you have heard her call out your name. That there will be no fine imposed if you feel the need to clean out her desk; take down her artwork from the refrigerator; turn over a school portrait as you pass - if only because it cuts you fresh again to see it. That it's okay to measure the time she has been gone, the way we once measured her birthdays.

My whole life was about her, what if her whole life wasn’t all about me?

You might have to lose control before you could find out what you'd been missing.