Marisa Donnelly

You don’t, at first. You fight it because you’re human, because you’re used to the world and the way it is, because you’re terrified.

Graduate college, they said, It’ll be fun, they said.

You believed in me. Me—in my brand new dress pants and pressed shirt and clean cardigan and matching flats, but a nervous hint in my steps—you trusted me.

You love these little guys. Not because they are your own and you have to, but because it comes naturally. You don’t have to love them, but you do.

This is what you need to know about me: I’ll love the hell out of you. I’ll care for you. But I’ll be damned if you think I’m the woman that will sit silently next to you that will do everything for you, pick up after you, be your mother. That’s not me.

There is something about the music and the heat and the thousands of jumping, laughing, singing, dancing bodies all around you that are celebrating music, celebrating life.

You teach her that it is not her body that makes her who she is, but her mind, her soul, the way she carries herself, the way she laughs, the way she loves, the way she listens.

Stage #1: I’m a boss.

You are not the words this person says. Remind yourself of that daily, until you believe it.

You are continually looking for ways to be even more self-sufficient, to carve your own life path, to do what you want. But you also love. And love terribly, beautifully, fully.

Slang words, for example (but definitely not limited to): ‘cuz’, ‘chillin’, ‘hangout’, ‘legit’, and ‘aint.’

But this is what you do when you are broken. You pick yourself up, piece by piece. You re-learn the strongest parts of yourself and fight until you break through.