How Writing Helps Me Hold What’s Hard

For almost 25 years, I’ve been writing about the girl who would become my daughter—trying to make sense of a parenting journey that has looked nothing like the one I once imagined. From the posts I sent to listservs during our Russian adoption process (back when the internet was barely finding its legs), to my WordPress blog, to my book, writing has always been the place I’ve gone to process and unravel life’s mysteries.

That need hasn’t gone anywhere.

My daughter, now 26 and living in a group home several hours away, has been here for the past few days. Each visit feels like a blini from her homeland—thin, delicate layers of personality, energy, and the complexity of her many diagnoses. Sometimes I get fifteen minutes of her energy and focus; sometimes an hour. The medications that keep her mental health stable and her other challenges at bay also drain her. Our visits typically start with hyperactive excitement, then taper into short moments of energy, followed by long stretches of rest.

This morning, I encouraged her to get up at 10 a.m. so we could walk to the beach, something she’d asked to do before the visit. But by the time we arrived—twelve minutes later—she was already tired. I gently tried to explain the importance of movement for her physical and emotional well-being, but she countered with all the reasons she couldn’t exercise. It didn’t take long to realize the conversation wasn’t going anywhere. She’s 26 chronologically, but depending on the day, she lives somewhere closer to 8–12.

Back home, she ate some cheese—her forever favorite, the reason we used to call her our “dairy mouse”—and then curled up for another two hours. She would have stayed there, too, if she didn’t want to see my parents again and paint with watercolors. While we created together, I was reminded of the many vocalizations that spill out of her naturally and the familiar stims that still flutter through her body.

After returning home and eating leftover sandwiches for dinner, she retreated to the guest room with her squish toy, her constant companion, and began processing the day in the only way she can.

And here I am, processing mine in the only way I’ve ever known: by writing. Grateful, still, for the outlet that has carried me through every version of this journey.

Parenting her has taught me more about surrender, resilience, and myself than any book ever could — and writing has been the thread that’s kept me stitched together through every season. I don’t always know how to hold the fullness of who she is or who I hoped she’d be, but when I sit down with a blank page, something inside me settles.

Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about helping memoir writers bring their stories of transformation into the world. I understand the value of writing these stories — and the value of reading them. I’ve lived it, and try to use my experiences to help others.

Perhaps that’s the quiet gift in all of this: the invitation to notice what’s here, to honor it as it is, and to remain grateful for the story we’re still writing together — even when the chapters look nothing like the script I once imagined.

Andrea Gibson, who once wrote about deepened gratitude for life while being treated for terminal cancer, shared:

“Remind me / all my prayers were answered //
the moment I started praying / for what I already have.”

I’ve been holding that line close.

Originally published on my Substack.