Out on a Limb

Our souls were tied a long time ago, I think. We’re just finally admitting it to each other.

You are my soul’s purpose, Win. To know you, to love you, to build a family with you, to spend every day taking care of you, to watch you shine and get all the good things you deserve out of this life.

It’s so much easier to communicate insecurities when you don’t need to communicate them at all. Isn’t that all we ever want? To be seen and heard? Validated, even when we’re not able to ask for it.

I can tell life has not been easy or always kind to you, but you haven’t let it turn you hard. Not like a stone. You became like water. You move with it all. You’re soft… but powerful.” I

I love you, Win. I love you so much it makes me feel like I’ve hated everything else in my life up until now. Nothing compares to what I feel for you. Not even close.

You can’t change anything by hiding it. You’ll just look back on memories and realise you tried to erase yourself. And how sad that would be.

Perhaps that’s all Bo and I are. Two people leaving behind the worst, looking forward to the good to come.

I, like most women my age, have learned to hate myself just enough to appease others. If you’re too fond of how you look, you’re told you’ll be unlikeable. Labelled as self-involved, egotistical, or stuck-up. But it’s purposeful—pinning us against one another. Consumerism demands we remain unsatisfied with our appearance. If we all liked ourselves, dozens of industries would crumble like Babylon. We have to want a solution to whatever or however many problems plague us in order to keep those factories running. To keep money in men’s pockets.

Everyday we seem to talk about nothing and everything all at once. Every thought, every feeling, every memory recounted until we run dry. We continue to pour all of ourselves out to each other. Until our histories and stories started becoming more of a woven tapestry than a blank slate. And the nothing too. The insignificant observations and the silly anecdotes that no one else would care to hear. Those are just as important.

It’s horribly cliché, but his smile is beaming—far brighter than the sun. I feel myself bloom with it, as if it’s my own personal version of photosynthesis.

They go for my leg every time. I don’t know if it’s because it’s shiny and they like that, or if geese are just little ableist fucks, but they’re always trying to attack me.

I’m going to friend the shit out of you, Freddie McNulty.

I wanted to write a book for anyone who’s let fear of failure slow them down. Not just for those of us who choose to have kids, or those of us who are disabled, but for anyone who’s been thrust into something new that took them so far out of their comfort zone they no longer recognised their past, afraid self.

So you don’t know who the dad is?” “It’s a bit of a Mamma Mia situation, I’m afraid,” I answer. “Here we go again,” Bo mutters under his breath

I have a bachelor’s degree in how to take people canoeing for their mental health, essentially.” “Don’t do that,” Bo says sternly. “What?” I blink at double speed. “Dismiss yourself like that. That sounds really fucking cool and important to me. Don’t trivialise what you accomplished.” “Oh, uh, well… thanks.

There’s no guarantee for any of us. We just have to do the best with the time we’ve got.

A deeper part of me realises, too, that I needed Bo. Someone who, from the moment I stuck out my hand, has understood me at a fundamental level that many people cannot. Someone kind, compassionate, hard-working who believes in me.

Where love is shown to be validating, kind, considerate, joyful, patient, and gentle.

She’s wearing bike shorts and a cute, oversized sweater with the word Velaris written across it. I think that’s from a favourite book of hers, but if I ask, we’ll never get out of here on time.

The disabled elite, if you will. The surfer with one arm, the mountain climber with no legs, a drummer with one hand. And, deep down, I knew I should be proud of them. They were my community, and they were only working to erase stigma for the rest of us. But I didn’t feel proud. I felt bitter. Jealous too. Angry that they weren’t just great surfer, record-breaking mountain climber, and successful drummer. To me, they were a reminder that the world will always view me differently—put me in a different bracket—even if I landed myself on a pedestal. I didn’t want to achieve despite myself. I didn’t want to defy anything. I just wanted to feel ordinary. To not overcompensate every day. I wanted to be bad at things and have people laugh at me because that’s life. I didn’t want pity.

That’s the question I was going to ask tonight,” Bo interrupts. “Who in this world matters the most to you?” “You,” I answer simply, pleading with him to hear me. What I said and all that it means. “You,” he repeats. “It’s you for me too. With a very close second,” he says, his eyes on my belly.

I miss feeling young and carefree and naive. I wasted so much of that time wishing I was older. Waiting impatiently to get out and live my own life. But that never really happened. I just got older. And now look at me. Nothing to show for it.

Comic books,” Sarah says, snickering. “I’ve seen what you read on your Kindle. You’re in no place to judge.

But… but you left.” “You said you wanted casual, Win.” “You really need to stop listening to me,” I say, tears springing free again.

I don’t try to force my body to be something or deprive it of pleasantries. It just is. And I like it, enough, as is.

Win, if you walk out of that room sturdier than me, I won’t be happy.

I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispers, his mouth tilted into the crook of my neck. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold him too. “I said I would be,” I whisper back. “Did you do all of this?” he asks, his voice less strained but not quite right. “Yeah.” He sighs out, his breath warm against my throat. “Thank you.

I keep thinking that, as of my birthday, I’ll be older than my mom ever was. I hate that.