There is no one truth. There’s only what happened, based on how you perceive it.

Maybe knowing where you belong is not equal to knowing who you are.

What being home-schooled has taught me, more than anything, is what a waste of a life high school is.

Heroes didn't leap tall buildings or stop bullets with an outstretched hand; they didn't wear boots and capes. They bled, and they bruised, and their superpowers were as simple as listening, or loving. Heroes were ordinary people who knew that even if their own lives were impossibly knotted, they could untangle someone else's. And maybe that one act could lead someone to rescue you right back.

When you're a parent you find yourself looking at the unknown that is your child, trying to find a piece of yourself inside her, because sometimes that is what it takes to claim.

If it is possible to die of grief then why on earth can't someone be healed by happiness?

I found plain truth very interesting.