When I was a little girl, I had these hand-me-down shoes that I loved. I wore them everywhere. Anywhere, really. I don't think I cared whether they were appropriate for where I was going. If those were the shoes I wanted to wear, then those were the shoes I was wearing. And when they became too small, I still didn't want to let them go. I would squeeze my feet into them and somehow convince myself that they still fit. I imagine an adult looking at me and thinking, Child, these shoes are clearly too small. Please take them off. But I loved them. And I think about those shoes sometimes when I hear us talk about things like seasons, letting go, releasing, creating room, moving on. Usually, when we talk about letting go, there is something wrong with the thing we're letting go of. It has become toxic. It doesn't serve us anymore. It is holding us back. We have outgrown it. We need to make room for something better. And yes, sometimes that is exactly what letting go looks li...
There are things we do not grieve, because we learned to live without them too early. Not because they were unimportant, but because the world rearranged itself in a way that made their absence feel normal. February asks us to speak about love loudly — romance, desire, grand gestures. But this is not that kind of piece. This is about something quieter and more foundational: our capacity for ordinary human closeness. The ease of speaking to a stranger. The courage to suggest coffee without pretext. The ability to sit in someone’s presence without agenda or performance. I think often about how entire generations adapt to the worlds they inherit. Not consciously. Not philosophically. We simply learn what is required, and shed what is not. When I watched a documentary about Hasidic Jewish communities in New York — particularly those who choose to leave — I was struck less by the act of leaving, and more by the origin of the structure they were leaving behind. After the Holocaust, survi...