'37 was the year the fear left.'
One day I'll write a beautiful, sunlit, stirring piece of prose, to which this would be an anchor.

In which I'll also distinguish between fear (which I pray, hard, is truly gone for good) and anxiety; burnout; sadness. But the latter alternatives are fully human to me and coexist somewhat peacefully with living out loud and fearlessly. In fact, not being afraid allows me to allow the less shiny emotions to take their time, to wash over, to sit with me a while, and then shift out of focus again.

Fresh parsley smell, when chopped, all crunchy and full of spring, transports me instantly to grandparents' dacha - orchard, or small garden - where my quiet, boring summers were spent. To this day, my most coveted, most memorable meal is a memory of small, whole boiled potatoes, minutes out of the ground, roughly mashed, with nothing but salt and butter; and the simple salad of cucumbers and tomatoes, sometimes with herbs, also just removed from the vine. No restaurant ever will knock this out of its first place on my meals-to-die-for list.

Things to not covet ever doing again? Changing sheets on the top bunk of a bunk bed.

It is possible to feel literal toxicity of not having enough alone time. No amount of dutiful reminding myself that I should appreciate the hustle all around me of a healthy, loving family is sometimes enough to offset the drowning urge to hear silence and to relinquish simmering expectations of small daily upcoming crisis or someone needing you or someone calling your name. I'm so much healthier mentally when I can soak in solitude.