A woman with blonde hair tied back wearing a light blue shirt and dark jeans, seated on a chair with a fluffy white cushion, holding multiple books, in a cozy, brightly lit room with plants and art on the wall.

Writings

Writing is one way I discover what I think and feel. I sit down not knowing and let the sentences reveal what's been moving underneath, the thing I couldn't quite name until it was on the page. It's less a record of what I've already integrated than the integration itself.

What Moves In The Dark
Grief, Interdependence Lucy Mae Sunday Grief, Interdependence Lucy Mae Sunday

What Moves In The Dark

For two springs, my dog Juniper has traded a bone back and forth with a coyote neither of us has ever seen up close. It's a small, wordless negotiation between a domesticated wolf and a wild one. But it's also where I found language for something harder to hold: the grief of a baby I haven't had, and the strange truth that no self, no longing, and no loss exists independently of everything else.

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