I’m in the middle of eating a Chipotle burrito bowl, when the thought hits me. Months later, the world would mourn the passing of Toni Morrison, but at the moment I’ve begun an entirely different grief journey.
I look in the rearview mirror of our Yaris, thinking back on what my therapist just told me: “You won’t be able to work again until you’re stable.” “And when will that be?” I mutter through tears.
Rather than provide me with a concrete timeline, something I now know is impossible, she encourages me to view my brain as a complex organ that needs healing.
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