Hello!

Some books write themselves. They appear fully formed in the author’s head, gift-wrapped offerings from literary gods, and writing these books is nothing short of Elysian. It’s a high so all-encompassing that it supersedes the desire for base necessities, like food, water, and bathroom breaks.

For the past few months I’ve been dealing with a postpartum medical mystery. It’s been infuriating and debilitating and, at times, terrifying, but we’re finally getting a handle on it. Today, I was in good enough shape to write about it, so buckle up for a story.