Kelly Burch

“How many time have I asked you….” I say in frustration, and then it hits me. The real question I should be asking is how many times I’ve uttered that phrase.

By introducing my father’s illness as a fact during a time when his mental health had no negative effects on my life, my parents enabled me to live without stigma, which in turn empowered me to advocate for my father’s treatment when his health took a turn for the worse my freshmen year of college.

As my own home ownership dreams were delayed, I was able to look back on my parents’ decision to rent with a lot more understanding. My parents sometimes struggled to keep the electricity on, but they always made sure that the rent was paid, and that my siblings and me had a wonderful home, no matter whose name was on the deed.

Just like kids who kick the seat in front of them and middle-aged women who get drunk and chatty on long flights, crying babies are a fact of life.

“Her face is beautiful. Beautiful,” Tiegs said.

Posting about my miscarriage on Facebook was the most cathartic thing I could have done for myself. It allowed me to validate my feelings.

“You have nine new messages.”

Last week, as the U.S.

My mom and I are extremely close. Some would say we’re a little too close, but since she fills two roles in my life — mother and best friend — I think it’s fair that she get a double slice of my love and attention. I was completely devastated when she announced that she was moving to Dubai. But now, my mother has lived abroad for more than two years, and I can see that her move was a good thing.

I’m one of those bigger girls that confuses the medical community by being entirely healthy. My doctor body shamed me and lied to me about tests she ran.