Finding Lightness

I stared at myself in the mirror in Tuscany, wondering, “Am I too old to experience butterflies?” My first trip post-divorce, I felt unsteady, almost nauseous. The only man I had been intimate with — 13 years my senior, whom I married at age 18 — turned out to be a stranger. I thought of our children and my younger self. I refused to give up my own happiness. My friend laughed that I was about to sleep with a man half my age, but I knew my true adulthood was about to begin. Ready to walk a new path, I took a deep breath. — Vanessa Gordon

The Beautiful Sound of Breaking Glass

When I was pregnant, a friend gave me a plaque: “Cleaning the house while children are growing is like shoveling the walk while it is snowing.” On Christmas Day, my adult son was whirling my granddaughter in his arms when they knocked the plaque down, breaking the glass. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” he said. But I’m not sorry. The cracks just make it more perfect. May chaos always buzz in my home. — Sally James

Rupture to Revive

I came out at 34 when the rupture of meeting Emily left my heart beating on the floor. It was a risky operation in identity. My heart collapsed, arteries crumpled like paper straws. I collected it off the ground and presented it to her with blood on my hands, overcome as she gently blew air into its valves. People called me brave; there were complications with a transplant so late in life. But when someone resurrects your heart, breathing new oxygen into your blood, there’s no need for bravery. You only need to let your heart follow its newfound beat. — Meredith Callan

Beyond Polish and Luster

I’ve come to the nail salon seeking more than a few coats of Rose Palais shellac. Cindy takes my hand. She skillfully files, tends to neglected cuticles, threads her fingers through mine. As she wriggles, massages, nurtures, the deepest part of me remembers why I came here. “Your nails, not easy,” she says, her grip firm, but her touch soft like that of my mother, 1,200 miles away. Caring for four boys, my hands are an afterthought, mistreated, depleted. Cindy understands this. Though she’s never had her own children, she mothers me. Gratefully, I let my hands melt into hers. — Angela Yazbek

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