White fragility and interracial coupling do not go hand in hand — On our third date, the man who would become my husband told me, “You get it.” The “it” he was referring to was racism. At the time, I was flattered to have a Black person acknowledge my wokeness. …

It doesn’t mean they have to be ours — Confession: I’m not really what you’d call a “kid person.” I don’t actively dislike children, but I have my limits. …

Not literally speaking, of course — I don’t talk about this much, but I’m a recovering supermom. I never aspired to be a supermom. I never signed up for the job. But at some point, that’s what people started calling me. I guess it was meant as a compliment — at least, I initially took it…

On the tension between holding our kids close and letting them go — Mechanical failure. Those are two words you never want to hear in reference to an airplane that is carrying your seven-year-old child. Particularly when it happens to be the first airplane on which your child has ever ridden alone. My son was excited for his first solo plane trip, felt…

Let’s put down our phones and knock on more doors — There is a strange intimacy to the overnight stay in someone else’s home. In the hours that elapse between dinner and breakfast, you get a peek into your hosts’ rhythms, routines, bathroom products. Do they wash dishes after dinner or leave them in the sink? Do they drink tap water…

It started with reclaiming my body, my space, and my own sense of self — When the man who would become my life partner walked into the bar, he flashed a smile that revealed his two perfect dimples. They were like pinpricks at each corner of his lips. My knees buckled slightly. …

Aren’t there more productive ways to spend my time? — The year 2020 marked a “before” and an “after.” In the early months of Covid, some people said things would never be the same. I rolled my eyes. I thought they were being melodramatic. What I didn’t realize at the time was that Covid was just the first loose end…

What saves us time also costs us — The restaurant was little more than a collection of picnic tables, their legs submerged in sand. Behind them, the ocean sprawled — that vibrant, pulsing Caribbean blue. Bright and achingly beautiful. My parents had read about the restaurant in a guidebook, and we had come prepared. We’d brought playing cards…

It was something tangible and positive I could do — It’s summer, which used to mark the time of year when I exhaled. I grew up in San Francisco, where summer meant wind and fog, but it also meant the end of school and 10 precious, stretching weeks of freedom. When I discovered that most working adults don’t get summer…