Notes on growing up as a glass child — the sibling whose needs went quiet.
Enter the journal →For years I had a feeling without a name. Then I read two words — glass child — and something inside me finally exhaled.
Naming an experience doesn't fix it, but it ends the loneliness of thinking you imagined the whole thing.
I learned to be helpful before I learned to be happy. A look at the years I handed over without being asked.
The bill for growing up too fast doesn't arrive all at once. It shows up in small, surprising places.
Get new posts by email — gently, when they're ready.