I am driving my six-year-old daughter to the pediatrician.
She’s in the backseat, breathing fast, labored.
I’ve been up all night watching her chest rise and fall.

In. Out. In. Out.

A strange new wheeze rattles in her lungs.

I am paralyzed by mom-anxiety. By trauma response.
Will she stop breathing?
Every other minute I decide to take her to the ER.
No, she’s fine.
No, she isn’t.
Is she fine?

I have medical training. And I still don’t know.

Traffic crawls. We reach a three-way stop.
My daughter huffs behind me.
I grip the wheel.

A young guy in an SUV cuts through the intersection,
scruffy beard, early twenties.
He raises his middle finger, mouths, “F*CK you!”

I flinch. Grip harder.

I am bargaining with a God I’m not sure I believe in.
Please, please let my daughter be okay.

Can’t this guy tell I’m drowning?

Watch me swim.
Watch me drown.
Why are people so angry?
I miss my mom.

_______________________________________

The next day, I walk along the Manayunk canal,
trying to clear my head after another sleepless night.
I’m staring at the water, not the path.

A biker zooms past and shouts,
“Hey! It’s walk right, pass left, idiot!”

But I am not an idiot.
Just a human—floundering.

Why is being a human so hard?

Watch me swim.
Watch me drown.
Why are people so angry?
I miss my mom.

_______________________________________

I bolt awake.
I’ve dreamed of my mom but can’t reach her.

Mom!!!
Mom!!!
I need you.

That part doesn’t stop.
Over two years later, the wound is still raw.
Please, please—just wake me up.

_______________________________________

Both my kids are sick now.
And the puppy got her shots this morning.
In a week I’ve gone from a mom barely needed
to a mom needed for everything.

I’m not good at taking care of small things.
Puppies and babies make me miserable, even though they’re cute.
Because I am needy.
I need my own space.
Being responsible for someone’s every breath, every bite, every mess
makes my skin buzz.

But didn’t I get a dog for company?
Wasn’t I just sad how no one needed me?

Why is it that whenever I get what I want,
I want something else?

Watch me swim.
Watch me drown.
Why are people so angry?
I miss my mom.

_______________________________________

I sit cross-legged on the carpet, stroking the puppy.
And suddenly it hits—clean, sharp. Merciless.
For the rest of my life I will never again see my mom alive.

Fear clamps.

Then rage.

Watch me swim.
Watch me drown.
Why am I so angry?

Because we had a deal.
I’d live close. She’d help with the kids.
I kept my end.

Now I sit here,
in a house that smells like my son’s vomit and my puppy’s pee, alone.

_______________________________________

Look closely.

Watch my stroke.
Seems graceful?

Look deeper.
My arms are barely treading.

My head bobs just above the surf.

_______________________________________

So, why are people so angry?

Maybe…they aren’t.
Maybe…it’s a mask.

Used to hide layers of
pain,
and shame,
and quiet suffering.

We are all open wounds.

Sometimes floating.
Sometimes flailing.

So you can scream at me while I silently thrash,
but maybe, that’s just the only way you know to say—
“I am drowning, too.”

And if you are,
here, friend—take my hand.
Let’s head for shore.