"To calm myself, I tried to think of something else, but the only other thing that came to mind was the despondent woman. I wondered about her and what had led her to make that decision. . . . I began to wonder if we all knew her. Maybe she had a cleaning schedule taped to her fridge. Maybe she also got tired of ironing underwear. Maybe she woke in the night and sat in the shadows, wondering if dawn would break like it did each morning. Or if, just one time, the moon would blanket the sun and the night creatures would bask in the continuing darkness. Or maybe that was just me."

We all know her, and we all are her, I think. And yet, when I sit here and think I know I'm not alone in having these thoughts—thoughts that sometimes life is too hard, too fast, too much—I do think, maybe it is just me, which is why talking about our mental health and our challenges is so important.

go to therapy, people

"Lu?" She was the only friend who called me that. "Get some rest, and I'm here—" "I know." And I did know. I knew she was nearby if I needed anything. I also knew that she had her own kids, plus dinner to make and a house to keep. We were all nearby one another, close enough to lend a hand, yet far enough apart to blanket ourselves in the illusion of isolation.

This line was so interesting to me: I know the struggles of women to "keep it all together" and keep up appearances was so much more difficult in the recent past, but I also see how we haven't come as far as we should have. So many people think they're a bother, or burdensome (me, it's me), if they dare to ask for help, or admit to even their closest friends that they're not okay and that they need someone. We all say we're here, but are we really? And how can I best let loved ones know that I really am here, ready, to help them through the challenges that are deeper than "can you bring a Jell-O salad"? Something I've been thinking about a lot lately, trying to be a villager instead of just wanting a village to appear before me.

"They say women forget, but we don't. We tuck away the throes deep in our bones, forever carrying the memories in the recesses of our bodies."

I know this line specifically is about the birthing process, but I think it applies to so much of women's pain. We're dismissed, we're told it's in our heads, to just forget it, so we bury it so that the pain is deep in our bones, and we still remember.

"I watched it all through the viewfinder as I snapped photos from a distance. All was in order. The guests seemed to be enjoying themselves and the food was a hit, but all I could see was the perfection salad in the center of the table moving, jiggling, swaying from side to side, looking as if it might fall at any minute."

And isn't that the thing? Everyone seems to have it all together, when we step back and look from the outside. When we see people's highlight reels online, when we see them from afar. But in reality, aren't we all just jiggly Jell-O perfection salads, ready to topple over at any minute?