Lindsay King-Miller

People talk about skin care like it’s fun — a way to relax. But for me, the very idea opens onto a black hole of self-loathing.

I never want my child to doubt herself the way I do myself. I never want her to feel the anxieties that weigh me down, though I know she already senses it.

I just tell my daughter the truth about my period: I have PMS, my back is killing me, and we’re going to eat a lot of chocolate.

For queer parents like me, meanwhile — although I know that my whiteness and my class affords me a degree of protection from scrutiny and interference — the threat of being deemed an illegitimate parent also serves to silence any discussion of mixed feelings.

Asking for help is the hardest part. The truth is that asking for help is uncomfortable, even when we’ve been repeatedly reassured that it’s welcome.