The Left AirPod Never Fully Recovers
A broken AirPod that never fully repairs becomes the only honest metaphor I have for what's left of a marriage that ended without me noticing when.
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Explore 164 essays spanning 27 years of writing
A broken AirPod that never fully repairs becomes the only honest metaphor I have for what's left of a marriage that ended without me noticing when.
Some mornings the machine is broken and I find out how much of the walking I was never actually doing.
Some mornings the machine is broken and I find out how much of the walking I was never actually doing.
Standing inside caves carved by hand centuries ago, I felt embarrassingly small, and I mean that as a compliment.
I chose being alone over being with you, and I'm still not sure it was the right trade.
At my son's wedding, one old nickname was enough to unravel decades of my own marriage in my head.
I watched him cook dinner with effortless grace and spent the rest of the night quietly measuring myself against it.
The stains in our old carpet turned out to be the only honest record of our family's history.
I keep chasing that same rush of anticipation, even though I already know how the letdown feels.
A bottle shattered on my kitchen floor and, oddly, pulled me straight back into the present moment.
I stopped needing applause to believe my life meant something.
I've started to believe love and loss were never really separate from each other.
The plane shook so violently I genuinely thought that flight might be my last, and I still think about what almost happened.
I watched the flames take my mother, and somehow, in that moment, I finally felt at peace.
Every morning I try, badly and repeatedly, to put yesterday's regrets down before I pick them back up.
I keep believing in love stories that, so far, have mostly ended in me being alone.
My son calling out "Appa" stopped me cold and pulled my own father right back into the room.
Every day the river renews itself, and I keep wondering if I'm capable of
I wasn't looking for anything more than friendship, and then, somehow, I
I married in the '90s and had to learn, fast, what trust actually means.
My own family reacted so differently to the same lockdown that I started to see each of them clearly for the first time.
I keep going back, in my head, to a version of love that was simpler than I knew at the time.
My mother and my aunt taught me what strength actually looks like, and I'm still leaning on what they built in me.
There's a presence that shows up in my quietest moments and somehow makes them feel less alone.
I just want someone to actually hear me, not just listen.
I lost myself completely in one dance, one moment, with you.
I keep chasing outside approval when life has been telling me all along to look inward instead.
I watched the rain and the strangers around me and lost track of which thoughts
I keep finding new moments in the day to remind you how much you mean to me.
I keep trying to understand what "letting go" actually requires of me, moment
I miss the version of us that had nowhere better to be than a rooftop.
She was standing right at the edge of something new, and yet she was not sure if she was ready.
Leaving India as a young adult taught me that choosing the unfamiliar path is a habit, not a one-time decision.
The diagnosis came, and so did an anger I didn't know I was capable of.
I keep wondering what mark I'm actually leaving behind, and whether anyone will notice it.
I watched an entire train car of people stare at their phones and realized I probably looked exactly the same.
There's one moment I keep replaying that never quite resolves itself.
My toddler's mischief today reminded me how much joy there is in not taking any of this too seriously.
Watching the sunset, I could have sworn I felt you standing right beside me again.
We're bound together by circumstance, and somehow that's not the same as being close.
She looked in the mirror and had to make peace with everything the lines on here face were keeping score of.
I woke up to a relationship I almost didn't recognize anymore.
The anticipation leading up to that trip turned out to be its own kind of magic.
I watched my parents' marriage end as a kid, and I'm still sorting through what that left behind.
Everyone else could see it before I let myself admit how far gone I actually was.
I was more nervous than my kid was on their first day of school, and I'm still not over it.
I still set two cups of coffee out of habit, long after only needing one.
At nine months old, apparently, I already had opinions about everything.
I keep getting pulled back into people and places I thought I'd already left