Restraint.

Smile.

Withdraw.

Meeting.

Podcast.

Email.

I am my mother.

Fear grips me, and I don’t know how to loosen it.

I wrote a piece today. It stayed with me.

Later, at the train station, I reached into my purse.

An email.

I saw just enough.

I was back in West Africa—sitting with women who ran small businesses, laughing, negotiating, moving through their days. I didn’t belong there exactly. But I was welcomed.

A version of myself I don’t feel very often lately.

Wondering about the possibilities.

The roar of the crowd is still with me.

Barely a glance at the souvenir I brought home.

At first, I noticed the yarn dangling from her bag.

Then her hands, crocheting without looking.

The train was crowded. She kept going.

I watched the whole ride.

He stood in the door.

He sat in the chair.

He stayed.

I checked my mail.

He stayed.

I watched two trains go by today.

Both would’ve gotten me there.

I waited for the one I knew.

I’m noticing I’m choosing what’s familiar again, even here.

I don’t love that I’m noticing it.

Monday.

The first Teams ping lands before I’m out of bed.

The weekend reprieve is gone.

The anxiety is back.

Written before coffee. Sent anyway.

Yesterday, somewhere between Chicago and DC.

Music loud.

No one listening.

Still singing.

Nine months.

Human’s most beautiful gift takes nine months.

An academic year is nine months.

Three seasons pass in nine months.

Things can change.

What does nine months mean for me?

Freedom.

Nine months.

Back in DC, I went to Andy’s for the game.

I asked the manager if the bartender I knew was working.

He looked at me and said, “You’re Tracy, right?”

After writing about choosing anonymity, I didn’t expect how strange it would feel to be recognized.

At a bar in New Orleans the other night, I met a woman I talked with easily. Small talk. Laughter. Nothing especially revealing.

When it was time to leave, she asked if we could be Facebook friends.

I’ve been thinking about that moment since — how sometimes we let an interaction end where it naturally would, and other times we decide, almost without knowing why, to keep the door open a little longer.

The grocery store was busy.

In my line, a backlog of groceries sat on the belt.

The cashier’s eyes rolled.

Her voice was sharp.

She kept looking past the customers and toward me instead.

I noticed where her gaze didn’t go.

I noticed the words the young Latina bartender chose when a customer called her out of her name.

Calm. Precise.

Nothing wasted.