
I'm 38 and I'm never truly happy and never truly sad — and somewhere in my early thirties I started suspecting that the flatness wasn't a problem with me, it was the muscle memory of a childhood where big feelings cost more than they were worth, and the body has been quietly dimming the dial ever since
I want to write about something I have been turning over for the better part of a decade, and that I have not, until now, found a way to articulate clearly enough to put down on paper.














