What if it turns out that a life isn’t defined by who you belong to or where you came from, by what you wished for or whom you’ve lost, but instead by the moments you spend getting from each of these places to the next?

And he made love to her, offering his body in both tenderness and anger, unsure which was the best way to pass her bits of his soul so that she could patch her own with it

She wondered if this was true of every parent: if, prior to having children, they all used to be someone else.

There are two ways to be happy: improve your reality, or lower your expectations.

It's like the psychiatrists themselves are buying into that stupid belief that therapy is something to hide.

I know how difficult it can be when the image you've had of something doesn't match its reality; when the friend beside you turns into a monster.

Extraordinary things are always hiding in places people never think to look.