My mother had me at 19. I still, all these years later, can’t fully fathom that. I say that not just because she was so young, but because she was so wise. Deeply charismatic, whip smart, an intuitive reader of people. Her bullshit detector was flawless. And more than anyone I know, she understood how to make a way out of no way at all. Any opportunity I’ve ever had, any forward step I’ve ever been able to take, came only because she had the vision to imagine a life for me bigger than the one she’d been allowed to live. And she still made a remarkable life for herself. She understood that history does not have to be destiny. Even during her illness, she time and again outflanked the cruel disease, triumphing over the unconquerable - for a while at least. Most days, if I’m being honest, I was certain she’d win – she always did. I am heartbroken to lose her, but nothing could better prepare me for these dark plateaus of grief than having been able to watch her in action, awestruck, for all these years. I have seen magic happen. I believe in belief. To anyone who’s shown me a little bit of grace these past few weeks, months, years, I remain endlessly grateful. To be caught and cradled while the world cracks beneath you is no small thing.